Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.

Note from the Author: Takes place after TSbyBS.

Dedication: Written as a themefic for Mackie on the Sentinel Angst list.

Lost & Found
By Jael Lyn
February 2000

"Well, that certainly went well." Blair crossed his arms and stared at the door to the loft. He imagined it still vibrating from the slam Jim had given it. He faintly heard the truck fire up several stories below, and tossed himself into the corner of the couch, allowing a good, old-fashioned, truly childish pout to grace his face. No hope of smoothing this over quickly, and he didn't exactly have luxury of time. How had this blown up in his face so totally?

He tried to replace the sick feeling in his stomach with the elation he had felt such a short time earlier. Talk about the stars and moon coming into perfect alignment, it had seemed to good to be true! Here it was, the start of a rare, three-day weekend, followed by a two-week vacation. Not that lowly Officer Sandburg was eligible for paid vacation, but someone named Ellison was. Simon was reluctant to have Blair separated from Jim so early in his "official" law enforcement career, and had arranged leave-without-pay for Blair. Over two weeks with no actual responsibilities to the department sounded like a heaven on earth. Considering the partners' frantic work schedule and the traumatic events of the last year, they had leaped at the opportunity to recharge. Without getting into specifics, they had arrived on a general plan to get out of town, ASAP, with the intention of filling in the blanks later. Jim had one last session in court. Blair had been sent on ahead to the loft. He had intended to prep the loft for impending departure - clean the fridge, stop the paper and the mail, etc...

Of course, the phone was ringing as he hit the door of the loft. Dropping keys and coat, Blair had scrambled to the phone, half expecting Jim with some last minute instructions. He couldn't have been more wrong.

"Sandburg speaking."

"Hey, Blair. Good to hear your voice. This is David - David Franks."

Blair sank into the nearest chair. "Uh, Davey - well, hi. I'm surprised to hear from you, I guess." Now there's an understatement, thought Blair. David Franks had been one of first his anthro TAs when he arrived at Rainier, a lifetime ago. Franks had just been finishing up his Doctorate. They had become close friends. When Davey had earned his degree, they had kept in touch as the older man had bounced across the country through a couple of post-docs and finally, an assistant professorship in the Midwest. He was one of the many people Blair never expected to hear from again after the press conference trashing his career. Announcing yourself as a fraud and public disgrace tended to put a damper on those relationships.

"Yeah, well maybe I should have called earlier. Look, Blair, this may be awkward for both of us, but I have a proposition to make. I have a disaster on my hands. I'm running a mid-semester undergraduate expedition to the Yucatan. We have permission to join an established work site at a recently discovered Mayan site. The site has been opened; we're bringing in willing hands to get the maximum accomplished while its available. I had a pair of grad students going with me - husband and wife. Two weeks ago she found out she was pregnant. You know - unexpected, but no crisis. Well, it just became a crisis. She miscarried today. Her travel is out of the question, and Michael won't even consider leaving her. Truthfully, I wouldn't expect him to. I either have to go through the nightmare of canceling the trip or find someone with experience to help me manage 20 eager but ignorant prospective anthropologists. I'll pay your expenses, but you have to meet me in Mexico City sometime tomorrow."

Blair could have fallen off the chair. "Davey, maybe you haven't heard. I'm not exactly in academia anymore. I can't possibly..."

"Blair, of course I know. Who gossips more than academics?"

"Then you cannot be serious. I would be about as welcome as an ax murderer. Any other considerations aside, your university would never allow it."

"Blair, buddy, listen to me. It must have been hell for you, and I'm the first to admit that I haven't been the friend I should have been. Don't you realize that some of us know you too well to take this at face value?" David's voice softened into surprisingly gentle tones. "Jesus, I could kick myself for not calling you as soon as I heard. You don't have to tell me what happened - obviously this was a pretty hairy situation, but the Blair Sandburg I know and trust didn't falsify so much as a comma on a term paper, much less an entire dissertation. As far as the university goes, they trust my assessment of your character and experience. Your master's degree alone is more than sufficient for this type of responsibility."

Blair was silent. He just couldn't answer.

"Sandburg, are you still there?"

"Uh huh."

"You had a great reputation as a student and a teacher. People all over the country have heard you speak at meetings or know you personally. The word on the underground from your colleagues at Rainier is that this had more to do with university politics than your integrity. I saw Dr. Stoddard at a conference not a month ago and asked him point blank. His answer was that you were the finest student that he had ever taught, and anything else was just baggage. Hell, Blair, even serial killers get parole. Did you really think there would be no redemption at some point?"

Tears streamed down Blair's face. "Eli said that? David, not a soul from Rainier has even acted like I'm entitled to the air I breathe. I can't believe that anyone would stand up for me."

"Well, they probably should, but you've got to know that it's easier off campus than on. Was this whole thing more administrative as opposed to departmental?"

Chancellor Edwards' angry words raced through Blair's memory. "I guess you could say that."

"Take it from somebody who's been in university politics a lot longer than you have. It's no picnic to buck your administration. Courage under fire isn't a universal virtue. Be honest, it's pretty tough to join the fray on someone's behalf when they go on national TV and claim to be totally guilty. I'm sure you had your reasons, but I don't believe a word of it. Your closer colleagues may have felt there was no reasonable avenue for recourse at Rainier. Now, maybe they should have picked up the phone and told you that. Maybe they shouldn't need to be in another state to speak out. Like the Bible says, the flesh is weak. We're flawed creatures."

The silence stretched as Blair fumbled for something to say. "Man, I would give anything to believe that you're right, but, it's been, I just can't tell you. I couldn't have been shunned more completely by the university community." Even sitting there, Blair could barely force himself to contemplate the blackness of the rejection he felt, or the depression that haunted his days and nights. Hiding it from Jim required him to hide it from himself. This was a raw, gaping wound. In his loyalty to Jim he had moved on to a new life and left it unhealed. A time bomb in his soul couldn't have been more destructive.

Blair, I wish I had the time to coax you into this and give you time to process, but I don't. By 6AM tomorrow I need to call the whole thing off or have you well on your way to Mexico. I mean this literally. Get your passport, your boots and a pair of jeans and go to the airport. We can buy a toothbrush; we can buy a wardrobe. I don't know what your employment situation is, but can you get two weeks starting tomorrow and come? I mean this, all I need from you is a "yes" and transportation to the nearest airport by midnight. We've been friends for a long time, Blair. Even leaving my total, and I mean total, desperation out of the equation, it sounds like you need to do this for your own well being."

Two weeks, I have two weeks. I could do this. God help me, I want to do this.

"Blair, I am gong to hang up. I am going to call you at exactly 9PM your time. You will tell me "yes" or you will say "no", and the world will continue to rotate and we will still be friends. Do whatever you need to do. If you can forgive me for not being the friend I should have been to you during this time, I can live with any answer you give me. Say, goodbye, Blair."

"Goodbye, Blair." He couldn't stop the grin. Some old patterns never change.

"Still the one with the smart mouth. Nine tonight. Be there." Only the dial tone followed. Somehow the phone returned to its correct position.

In the stillness of the loft, Blair was lost in his own thoughts. He was overwhelmed. He had tried to convince everyone, including himself, that he was at peace with his decisions, happy with his life as a cop, and especially as Jim's partner. Now he didn't know. He wanted to do this. He hadn't planned it or sought it - certainly that moved things out of the touchy area of betrayal. He and Jim had walked that road too many times already. Time slipped by as he chased his thoughts in spirals that went nowhere.

"Chief, you look like you're lost."

Blair jumped and looked up in shock. Before he could gather his thoughts, he had just blurted everything out. He was so involved trying to spill his surprise and need out that he couldn't, or perhaps didn't, read any reaction from Jim. It was almost a physical blow when Jim's angry voice penetrated the fog. Angry, then shouting, then furious. He had tried desperately to soothe his partner, to explain. He needed Jim to be part of this decision, not a bystander. Wait, wait, and wait...

But the door had slammed and Jim was gone. After 30 minutes, Blair dialed Jim's cell phone, knowing he had it in the truck. No answer. He tried over and over again.

Nine o'clock. No Jim. The phone was ringing. The answer was yes.

2 weeks later:

A very tanned Blair Sandburg slumped in the backseat of the cab, head leaning back against the seat. He should have been here at 8AM, but there was a delay out of LA and he was a few hours late. What a great trip. David had prepped the students about his situation before he connected with the group in Mexico City. Despite a little initial awkwardness, the students had accepted him and made him feel welcome. They were eager to learn, and Blair had dropped back into teaching mode without really realizing it. The days had been productive and exciting; the nights back at base camp busy with cataloging, analyzing and writing. He and Davey had the basic outlines for two papers finished with a minimum of effort. The trip had been half over before he realized how totally immersed he had become. Blair also had an epiphany of sorts - he really missed Jim and Major Crimes, and wanted to come back. For the first time in months he wasn't running away from, he was returning to... and it felt great.

He hopped out of the cab and hustled into the lobby of Cascade PD, dragging his loaded backpack with him. He had left messages on Simon's phone and at the loft. Actually, he had called the loft at every possible opportunity and had left messages, but had never spoken to Jim. Blair had left him a long letter before leaving, but at the moment he felt ready to burst. He desperately wanted Jim to know that a huge burden had been removed from his soul, and perhaps, from their partnership. Hopefully, his friend had enjoyed whatever plans he had finally come up with and would be in the mood to listen.

Forsaking the elevator and racing up the stairs, Blair headed for Major Crimes and Simon's office. With a quick wave to Rafe and Brown, he knocked and was already talking frantically when Simon bellowed at him.

"Where's Ellison?"

Blair stopped dead in his tracks. "Like I know. Isn't he here?" According to their original plans, Jim was scheduled to return two days earlier for court. Blair wasn't supposed to be back to work until today. "We weren't coming back together. He had court."

Simon stormed around his desk. "Of course he had court. He wasn't there. No one answered at the loft. I assumed he was running around Central America with you."

"Simon, we didn't have firm plans, and this came up at the last minute. We - uh missed each other before I had to leave. I don't know where he is."

"Damn, no games, Sandburg. I'm serious. Is this some weird sentinel-guide twilight zone you're dragging me into? I'm ready to kick his butt for being missing court. I'll put you both on meter reading for the rest of your natural lives. Quit messing around."

"Simon, I'm being straight with you. I haven't talked to Jim since the night of the last Friday we worked. I really don't know where he is. He should be here."

The color drained out of Blair's face as Simon processed this information and reached for the phone. In terse, official tones he began the process of putting out an APB on Detective Jim Ellison. He paused for the briefest of moments. "Get Megan. Go to the loft. Call me."

Blair entered the loft cautiously, Megan at his side. It was dark and cold. A quick survey seemed to indicate that if Jim had returned after Blair, he had left minimal impact. A few calls revealed that the paper and mail were still on hold. The only messages left on the machine were from Blair or increasingly frantic ones from Simon. The truck was gone. None of the neighbors had seen Jim. While Blair searched Jim's room for missing articles, Megan phoned Simon.

Blair's frustration and apprehension grew as he searched. Jim was organized to the point of driving everyone crazy. There were none of the usual signs of an Ellison trip like notes, phone numbers or to-do lists. One small duffel bag Jim used on short trips seemed to be missing. It seemed like some winter clothing wasn't where he had last seen it, but Jim could have simply put the items away. The whole exercise seemed fruitless.

Blair settled in with his cell phone and Jim's address book. Thirty minutes of calling revealed nothing. Jim had made no contact with anyone Blair could uncover. It was as if Jim had vanished. Megan headed off to the grocery the partners' frequented, carrying a list of fast food places and shops where Jim had a habit of shopping. Blair took the Volvo and headed back to the station.

Simon had more disconcerting news. An uniformed officer had responded almost immediately to the APB. Jim's truck was sitting in the PD parking garage, and had been there for some time. The officer had joked that he had assumed Ellison had traded in his apartment and was sleeping on a cot in the building somewhere - the truck hadn't moved in days. He was a bit vague on the time frame, but to Blair's mind it was as if Jim had parked the truck and abandoned it. Nothing inside or outside the vehicle seemed unusual.

By mid-afternoon, a worried Major Crimes group gathered in the bullpen. Not a one of them could think of another direction to take the investigation. Jim Ellison had simply evaporated without a trace. Twenty-four hours later, in an act of final desperation, Simon Banks notified the media and made an extensive statement to the press, hoping to get a lead. Blair was hopelessly awash in guilt.

2 weeks earlier:

Jim squinted as he peered through slapping wipers of the truck. Even sentinel vision wasn't totally up to driving on a night like this. Torrents of water poured across the windshield. He edged his speed down another notch. This was truly ugly weather.

Ugly weather to match an ugly mood. He had vacillated between anger and hurt for nearly an hour now, driving aimlessly. He hadn't consciously chosen this deserted loop of road; he had just needed to put some distance between himself and Blair. The truck was now crawling along a steep slope that was fully exposed to the incoming storm. Somewhere below, the rocky slopes gave way to the edges of the sound. This winding, two-lane road was a delightful summer drive, but a lousy choice at night. For another moment the wipers were overloaded, and Jim again lost sight of the road. If this runs true to form, you're going to end up nose to nose with some cedar in a ditch.

Truth be told, he ought to start composing his apology right now. He'd had no right to blow up at Blair that way. Jim had been so excited. Court had been a torture, but he'd run into Barry Lightfield. Barry. What a shock. Ten years ago the guy had been hauling grenade launchers through the jungle with him. Now he was a successful lawyer in Cascade. Neither had any idea that the other had settled in the same community. They had enthusiastically adjourned for a quiet beer and some catch-up time.

One thing led to another, and before Jim could quite figure out what happened, he was in possession of the keys to Barry's wilderness cabin. The Methow Valley in the Cascades was known for its beauty and cross-country skiing. As luck would have it, Barry was just canceling his get-away plans for two weeks of R&R to attend to an upcoming case that had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. The cabin had already been supplied and was all ready for a winter arrival; it just couldn't be Barry taking residence. It sounded perfect to a tired, frazzled Cascade PD detective. Quiet, serene. Blair would love learning to cross-country ski, the winter equivalent to hiking in the woods. The incoming storms, one of which Jim happened to be driving through at the moment, would leave tons of new, fresh powder. Jim had allowed himself to be convinced. Barry seemed genuinely pleased. It seemed a shame to let the arrangements go to waste, and who safer to fill in than an old friend who was also a cop? Armed with driving instructions and a short list of ski equipment to rent, Jim had headed home, ready to spring the great surprise on his partner.

Jim never got the words out. Blair was completely wound up and just wouldn't stop talking. His initial disappointment had given way to anger. Before he knew it, he was raging out of control. What was wrong with him? How stupid! Blair had no way of knowing that in the space of a couple of hours he'd planned the perfect vacation for them. If Jim was honest, that wasn't really the problem. It was the look in Blair's eyes, like this trip was his last shot for salvation. Jim felt so guilty - he had allowed his Guide to convince him that all was well; allowed him to paint the illusion that he was happy. Just moving on to a new life, no regrets, big guy. Well, he couldn't believe that now. The fact that Blair obviously ached for his academic life had ripped through Jim. How like the old Jim Ellison to lash out instead of listening and showing some minimal understanding. So much easier to storm out, leaving an emotional disaster in his wake. How pathetic! He had ignored the phone when it rang, guessing it was Sandburg trying to reach him. That was Blair, always the conciliator. It had taken an hour of driving before Jim could swallow his irrational anger and face facts. He was just about to turn around and go back the way he had come when the truck shimmied violently and slid across the pavement. Bringing the truck under control and back to the road's edge, the slap of rubber told Jim he had a blown tire.

What a night to change a flat. He might as well go out naked, because 3 seconds in this weather and he would be soaked to the skin, no question. He smirked at himself. This was usually Blair's role - a broken down vehicle. Served him right for being such a jerk. Grabbing a flashlight and the other needed tools, he forced himself out. Rain immediately streamed down his neck. To quote Blair, "Cold and wet is my world."

No question what had happened here. The downpour had loosened a shower of rocks from the hillside. The roadway was covered with chunks the size of melons. Jim had missed seeing the blobs of basalt in the dark conditions. Even sentinel sight had limits, especially when you're not paying attention. He knelt by the rear tire and went to work, trying to balance the flashlight so it actually did some good.

He had no trouble hearing the faint ringing of the cell phone from the truck cab. As he lunged up, part of the bank slid away, taking three of the lug nuts into the stream of water sluicing from the road. Lunging after them, Jim gave up on the phone. The risk of being stranded, unable to remount the tire, was too great a risk. He scrabbled in the icy water, chasing the nuts with his hands before they were carried too far away down the slope. He quickly retrieved two of the three, but the last did slither down the hill in a torrent of rainwater. Slogging through the soft ground on hands and knees, Jim pursued it, perched precariously on the sharp slope. Meanwhile, the phone had stopped ringing. Cursing his misfortune, Jim marveled at Sandburg. Bizarre stuff like having your lug nuts wash into the ocean happened to Blair on a regular basis. Yet he rarely lost his temper, and usually had the energy to worry about everyone else instead. Jim's sensitive hands ached from the cold water and the sharp gravel as he continued to sift and dig. He slid another couple of feet down the slope. Finally, he fumbled upon the errant piece, only to find that going back uphill was not going to be an easy task. He made several attempts, each time losing his footing and sliding back down the slope. There was just too much runoff in this particular spot. He detoured about 20 feet before he found a spot with enough brush and small trees to give him a handhold. Each step had taken him further down the slope, so he had a long struggle back up to the roadbed. Flopping down by the tire, he tried to steady his shaking hands and finish the job. He was flirting with hypothermia here. The conditions were potentially dangerous - the temperature was just above freezing, and at this point he'd been out for a long time. He briefly contemplated getting in the truck and warming up, but decided it was better to force himself and finish the job. Getting warm only to come back out into the rain was a lost cause.

Finally, the tire was place. The cold metal of the tire iron almost burned his fingers. Standing in the rain, Jim pulled off as much of his soaked outer clothing as he could. Scrambling in, he started the engine. Rummaging around, he came up with a dirty T-shirt of Blair's, a pair of wool socks, an old sweatshirt and a blanket. Using the T-shirt as a towel, he tried to dry off and pulled on the sweatshirt. He chucked his boots onto the floorboards and with considerable difficulty, peeled off the wet socks and his jeans. He eagerly shoved his feet into the dry socks and wrapped the blanket around his legs. He could drive in his stocking feet. He flipped the heater to high and was grateful when the air became warmer. With his physical discomfort under control, he hit the speed dial for the loft on the cell phone. No answer. He checked his watch - after 11. His heart sank. He'd wasted almost two hours floundering around in the dark fixing the tire.

Well, Ellison, stay under the speed limit. Somehow, a discussion with one of your brother officers about your new outfit would be the put the finish on an absolutely horrible day. Carefully, Jim backed out into the road and headed for Cascade.

It was well past midnight before Jim gently eased the door of the loft open. He had made two detours around road washouts on the return trip. He carried a load of wet clothes in his arms, and was still wearing the blanket like a sarong. Getting back into the wet jeans was a lost cause. He already knew Blair wasn't at home. With the benefit of minimal light, he went to grab something from the fridge, but pulled up short when he noticed Blair's handwriting. Not your usual gone-to-the-store-be-right-back note. Jim read it carefully once through, then started over from the beginning. He ended up on the couch, any appetite forgotten, hands in his lap, gazing at the darkened ceilings of the loft. Blair had gone. His childish tantrum and the stupid tire had cost him the chance to make amends before he left. Ellison, you had better hope to God he comes back. Please, let him come back.

Taking stock the next morning, staying in Cascade for the next two weeks seemed pretty unappealing. He may as well go ski, and try to keep his mind off his messed up life, much less the havoc he had created in Sandburg's life. Jim skimmed the list he had gotten from Barry. He grabbed a parka, a couple pair of heavy socks, some gloves and a hat. Everything else he'd buy on the way. A few calls later, he had rented an SUV for the trip and made arrangements for the ski equipment. The truck wasn't the best vehicle for deep snow. The SUV was being delivered to the PD, so he'd leave the truck safely in the parking garage. He thought about leaving Blair a note, but there was no point. He would be back days before Blair returned. Besides, he needed some time to sort out what needed to be said to Blair.

It was still raining steadily when Jim pulled out of Cascade, headed east. It would take most of the day to cross the pass, reach Wenatchee, and then head north back into the mountains. By the time he reached his backcountry destination, the snow was flying. Barry maintained a storage building for vehicles and equipment. He planned to leave the SUV there, safe and secure. Two snowmobiles were stored to one side. He had keys to the larger one, but had already decided ski the last three miles to the cabin. Supplies had already been ferried in by snow mobile, so there was nothing to pack in. Barry hired a newly retired neighbor to take care of the logistics.

Jim pushed off. He opened his hearing to the soft scrunch of snow, and tried to let the surroundings soothe his tangled emotions. He had a lot to think about.

While Sandburg scurried through his two weeks, surrounded by energetic students, in the heart of the jungle, Jim passed his in a silent world of pristine white. The cabin was heated with firewood. The loudest noise Jim heard was the sound of ax to log. He skied miles into the backcountry by day, and passed his nights reading. Barry had an amazing library that ran up one wall all the way to the vaulted ceiling. In all the years he had known Barry, he had never seen him read so much as a newspaper. Here, he had hundreds of books, from poetry to non-fiction. Although lanterns were available, Jim read by the light of a fat pillar candle that he carried from place to place as he moved around the cabin. Stretched in front of the wood stove, sipping hot chocolate, he tried to make some sense of his last year. How could he have misread Blair so completely? Was he really so selfish that he had subconsciously seen only what he wanted to see? He hadn't mistaken the desperation he sensed in Blair that night, or his hunger to be welcomed back into a world he had supposedly left behind. It was so like Sandburg to make the sacrifice, but obviously things couldn't be allowed to continue on their current path. Jim had allowed his own anger and hurt dictate on that night, but he had felt his partner's unrelenting sadness. Jim remembered his own time of black despair, when he had agonized over losing his men in Peru, searching for resolution that always seemed just out of reach. He could not leave Sandburg dying by inches. He needed to find a way to give Blair back some essence of what was important in his life.

Three days before Blair's return, Jim needed to be on his way. By 1PM the next day, he'd be in court, in a suit and tie, answering questions. He decided to take one last ski out to a point he had discovered. The trees opened up to a beautiful mountain panorama. Jim wanted to take some pictures back to Blair. The route covered a lot of uphill terrain, but it felt good to push his body a little.

He realized that a lot of new snow had fallen the previous night. He floundered in the powder a few times, but nothing serious. It just took a little more energy than usual. He was pushing up the last 100 yards, with the final clearing in sight, when the world seemed to give way. The deep drifts had shifted. He tumbled end over end down a gentle slope, almost as if he was rolling in a snowball. He felt weightless, with no sense of direction. The moving hillside of snow kept him from catching his balance.

To his horror, he was suddenly in midair. His slow slide had taken him over the edge and now he was truly falling. He bounced off a series of boulders, snapping his head back sharply. This slope was too steep to hold much snow. He was hitting one bare granite boulder after another. He bounced hard off his left ribs, then dropped another twenty feet. Excruciating pain shot through his leg, just above the ankle. He didn't need to look. The crunch of bone would have been obvious to normal hearing.

The break was just above his light, flexible cross-country boots. The skis were shattered wrecks. No matter, he wouldn't be balancing skis for awhile, and one ski in deep snow was nearly useless. From his slightly upside-down position, he tried to place is location. He would need to struggle out of this gully, and then cover about two miles back to the cabin, then another three miles to a vehicle.

His clamber up the gully wall went relatively well. He could inch up, pushing off his one good leg. Once back on the flat, he was in serious trouble. When he tried to stand, he sank almost to his hip. It would have been hell to walk, even on two good legs. Without the skis to distribute his body weight, he was constantly buried in the deep drifts. When he tried to crawl, his arms broke through. He would find himself face down, buried to the shoulder, struggling to breathe. The two miles back to the cabin might have just as well been 2000.

After a few aborted attempts, he pulled himself up on the bole of a tree. This was beyond risky. In his condition, the tree well could be a death trap. He had no choice. Tearing off the branches he could reach, he lashed together what he could with drawstrings pulled from his coat. If he was going to crawl, he needed something to balance on. Success was dependent on staying on the surface of the drifts. Each time he plunged into the snow, it sapped his energy to struggle out.

Jim had spent to many years in the military to not make a highly accurate assessment of his chances. No rescue was coming. Even if someone beat their way into the cabin, the snow coming on the next storm would quickly conceal his whereabouts. He would have to balance the energy needed to crawl with the limited time he could survive out in the elements. Grimly, he wallowed out of the tree well. He had a long, long way to go.

Blair shoved himself back from the table in the conference room. Tossing his glasses on the table, he rubbed his eyes. Fatigue was beginning to wear on him. A seemingly endless stack of folders covered the table surface, along with a couple of printouts. He and Joel were cross checking recent parolees with Jim's case records, hoping for a hit. So far, their reward for hours of work was a big zero.

"I didn't find anything. Joel, there's just got to be some kind of a clue somewhere."

Taggart turned a concerned gaze in Blair's direction. The young man looked on the verge of meltdown. "Maybe we should just take a break. Forensics looked at the mud caked on Jim's truck and suggested it come from one of the roads north of town that run along the sound. We could take a drive up there, take a look around." At least he could keep Blair busy. Get him out in the fresh air.

Blair shook his head. "Tomorrow. If nothing else turns up. There's really nothing up that direction. Jim and I went day hiking there last spring. Unless the trees are giving interviews, it's a waste of time. Not that I don't appreciate the offer. Do we have any other possibilities?"

"Megan checked out anyone and everyone involved with the court case he was supposed to be back for, including the presiding judge. Other than offend everyone, which accomplished nothing. Rafe went through the duty rosters the day the truck appeared in the garage. No luck so far, and I think he's worked through the whole list. Look, I can't face another file. Let me drive you back to the loft, and I'll go over it with you."

"Don't think I don't know what you're up to. Maybe a little dinner, tuck me in bed. You do mother hen almost as well as Jim." Blair stood and grabbed his glasses. "Come on - I can't do the files anymore, either. Maybe you'll find something I missed."

Joel did cajole Blair into a stop for a few basic groceries and some take out. Slowly, methodically, they went through the loft, but had to admit defeat. Joel started assembling some sandwiches while Blair picked up the mail. Standing in the kitchen, he sifted through it. A light bill, Jim's Sports Illustrated, some junk mail, a few other bills. Taggart watched him toss the pile on the counter. Right now even a ransom note sounded like a godsend.

Blair, is this your Visa bill or Jim's?"

"Jim's. I have MasterCard."

Realization dawned on the two men simultaneously. Joel was closer, and frantically ripped open the envelope. Skimming through the billings, he searched for the dates that matched Jim's disappearance. "We've got gas in Wenatchee, and Foster's Ski Chalet in Cascade." He looked up. "Since when does Jim ski? Blair - come back here!" He scrambled to catch up - Blair was already headed out the door at a dead run.

The Ski Chalet was a busy establishment, but Joel flashed his badge and hurriedly gathered the staff, explaining the urgency of the situation. While the bookkeeper dug out receipts, Joel described Ellison to the other clerks. They made progress. The owner remembered waiting on a quiet, well-built man early on a recent Saturday. He recalled helping him pick out cross-country equipment, and discussing the Methow as a destination. As he handed over some brochures advertising the area and lists of accommodations in the area.

"These might help, but I could swear that he was talking about borrowing a place."

Blair shook his head. "I can't remember Jim ever talking about it - I don't think he ever even mentioned that he skied. If you can remember anything else, please contact us right away."

"Scott, I found the receipt that matches. We've got skis, boot, and poles on rental. They should have been back 3 days ago. Do you recognize this merchandise number? Is it a book or something?"

The clerk eyed the number, then looked toward some displays of printed materials. "No - I think it's a map." He pulled one from the display. "Here, this one. Take one with you. Maybe it'll help."

Back in the car, Taggart called Simon with the news. Blair seemed lost in thought.

"Joel, this does not add up somehow. I left Jim at 3 on Friday afternoon. He, we, had no plans. He goes to court, he comes home, we sort of argue about me going to Central America, and by 10 the next morning he's renting ski equipment with a destination in mind. When does he throw all this together?

"You're sure he just hadn't told you yet?"

Blair frowned. "We were batting so many ideas around. It seemed like he would have said something." He turned to face Joel across the car. "This is so embarrassing, but we had a really awful scene. I felt so bad afterwards. I was all agitated and just started talking without letting Jim get a word in edgewise. What if he was doing the same thing - got this great idea on the fly and just went with it, counting on me to be just as psyched?"

Joel nodded. "Now there's a scary thought. Blair Sandburg, agitated. No offense, but that sounds like both of you. You know, this sounds kind of familiar. Jim's so private, but I caught him once in a bad moment, when Carolyn had just shot down some dinner he was going to surprise her with. I mean, all relationships have those moments, but I was shocked at how vulnerable big, bad Ellison seemed. So let's run with this. Assume this great plan gets hatched between the time you leave and he's back at the loft. Who or what does he see in that 3 or 4 hour slice of time? The state of Washington north of Wenatchee is more than we had before, but we need more. I can't think of anyone at the station who talks about skiing in the North Cascades."

"Court, Joel. It has to be court."

Upon returning to the station, Joel began working the phones, using the brochures from the ski shop. Simon notified all local law enforcement agencies in the area. Blair hunted down Megan, and together they left to repeat her courthouse inquiries.

It took several stops, but they soon had a listing of all cases being heard during the time frame in question. Simon's announcement to the press was paying off. People on both sides of the justice system pitched in willingly to create lists of people Jim might have come in contact with. One of the clerks volunteered to hold a phone line to coordinate information. The concern and assistance they were getting touched both men. After a frantic three hours they had worked there way down to a list of 14 names. One of those names was Barry Lightfield.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg. Mr. Lightfield is in Olympia all this week. I can try to reach him if it's urgent."

"You understand the situation. Does Mr. Lightfield ski, or has he ever mentioned visiting in the North Cascades?"

"Actually, he owns a cabin. I don't remember having Detective Ellison on his appointment book, though."

"Are you his secretary, or would there be someone else we could ask? A wife, or other family?

"I left the Olympia information on his desk this morning." Blair couldn't stop himself from following the young woman into an adjoining office. As she rummaged on the desk, his eyes drifted over the room, with the usual framed degrees and certificates. A series of photographs caught his attention.

"Is Mr. Lightfield a veteran? Is this him?"

"Yes. He was a captain in the army. He does a lot of pro-bono work on veterans' issues. Why do you ask?

"Miss, I really need you to get Mr. Lightfield on the phone. One of the men in this photograph is Detective Ellison."

"Simon, are you getting all this?"

"Taggart, I'm confused, not deaf." Simon covered the phone. "Rhonda, is that fax coming through?" Returning his attention to the phone, he picked up the conversation again. "Why do we need a 4 wheel drive for Sandburg?"

"This place is off the edge of nowhere. You know how much snow got dumped in the Cascades this last week. All the passes have been closed at one time or another. Sandburg would have that stupid Volvo stranded before he left civilization. You really want to look for both of them?"

"No. I suppose we can't get Sandburg to leave this to the locals?"

"You jest. He was out of here like a shot. He went to grab some clothes - I told him I'd handle the logistics. Just get him something suitable to drive, or we'll never get either one of them back."

"OK, fax just came through. I've got numbers for the caretaker, driving directions, a map from a storage area to the cabin. We have to snow mobile in? That does it, I'm driving with Sandburg. The kid has the directional sense of a compass with no needle. I'll get Darryl to bring down some gear. You're acting while I'm gone. How long before you're back to the station? Great - see you."

By the time Sandburg returned to the station, everything was falling into place. Brown was completing the last of several calls to local agencies that would be responsible for mounting a search if it became necessary. The department's Expedition was loaded for the trip, along with some basic equipment for searching the area. Communications gear was standard in the vehicle, but additional communications gear was stored in a backpack. Lightfield had made it clear that the cabin lacked any form of telephone. Blair was pacing nervously, and looked like starving refugees had outfitted him. He was in no mood to discuss the finer points of winter wear. With visions of the younger man freezing in a snow bank, Simon was about to lose patience when Taggart returned. Before Simon had a chance to dress him down for taking so long, he quietly handed over several bags from Foster's. Inside were waterproof gear, boots, gloves and headgear. Joel was a perceptive man. Guessing that Blair would set off without regard for his physical comfort or plain common sense, he had made a stop along the way. The crew at Foster's, genuinely concerned for Jim's well being, had provided everything that might be needed. Blair gave a grateful nod, cut off Simon's torrent of instructions to everyone in the place, and shoved the larger man toward the elevator. They had more important things to do.

Jim rolled to his side, gasping for air. His left leg was on fire. He had no way to splint the broken bone adequately. The constant movement and jarring was taking its toll. He had broken one of the shattered ski poles into sections, and tried to brace the break, but he really couldn't tie it securely enough to provide real support. Even trying to regulate his senses was of little help. He was exerting himself to the maximum, and was covered in sweat. His hands were freezing. Constant dunking in the snow had quickly soaked his gloves.

Trying to catch his breath, he tried to gauge his position, how far he had come, and how far he had left to go. It was nearly nightfall, and another storm was picking up. He was at best halfway. Several realities were painfully clear. He would be spending the night outside. He had no shelter, and was already wet. He would not be able to continue crawling through the night. As risky as it was, he needed a place to hole up, to rest and wait out the worst of the night and the storm.

"So where's the St. Bernard when I need it?" thought Jim. "Or a bear cave." He really had very few options. He wasn't mobile enough to do a lot of construction. Someplace out of the wind would be a big plus. He remembered clambering over a recent windfall not far from here. He'd eaten lunch there one day, perched on the enormous log, enjoying the view. He could burrow into the snow, sheltered from some of the wind, and hope for the best. If he could hobble or slide along the downed tree trunk, maybe he could rip off some branches to provide some insulation and get him off the surface of the snow. It was the best he could hope for.

"Simon, can't you drive any faster?"

"Sandburg, in case you haven't noticed, this is not I-90. The weather's lousy. This road is a goat path. Besides, according to the map, we're almost there. Not that you can help me read it."

"You're just as bad as Jim. Always dissing my ability to navigate." Although their tone had been joking, Blair choked up at the mention of Jim's name. "I'm sorry, Simon. I should be grateful we at least have a direction to look in. It was great of you to drop everything and come. I keep hoping it will be something simple, like he got snowed in or lost track to the days. What if he zoned while he was up here alone? It's my responsibility to watch out for him. I really blew it."

"Blair, I don't claim to understand how you and Jim balance your own individual lives with the sentinel thing. I didn't understand what happened at the fountain, and I didn't understand when you traded a lie for your career at the university. But I am certain beyond a doubt that whatever brought Jim up here, and whatever happened, he would not lay at your door. I hope you can accept that." He slowed, and pulled off next to a metal building just off the main road. "Come on, I think this is it. Three miles past the last turn off. We can do philosophy later. And give me those snow mobile keys. If you think I'm going to let you pilot one of those, you're crazy."

Jim pushed himself off the snow. This was the last hurdle. A twenty-foot slope to the bed of a small creek, back up the other side, then maybe half a mile left. By some miracle, he'd survived the night. Before collapsing, he'd managed a bed of fir branches. Wrapped in a space blanket that was always stashed in the back storage pocket of his coat, pushed half under the giant log, he'd burrowed in for the night. The foot of fresh snow had been a blessing in disguise, providing some insulation from the rapidly dropping temperatures. He'd nibbled on granola bars and dried fruit, and drained his water bottle. Now it was clearing, and very, very cold. He'd crawled for most of the day, but the deepened snow had made progress increasingly more difficult. His stops were getting longer. His last stint of movement had barely lasted 50 yards.

The creek was a serious problem. Jim sensed that his body temperature had already started to drop. There were better places to cross, but they were not in a direct line to his destination. Jim would be fortunate to make it back at all. He didn't have the energy to spare picking out alternate routes. Going this way, he might be able to force out one last, extended effort that would get him back to shelter. The real hang-up was that he would be wet, drenched more like it. The creek was not deep, but it was active and the ice was thin. He was certain he would break through and get soaked. He would be balancing on the razor's edge to get back quickly enough before his wet gear incapacitated him with hypothermia.

Sacrificing what little comfort he had, Jim pushed himself off sideways and deliberately rolled down the slope. It hurt, but it took less effort. At the bottom, he tried to maneuver to larger rocks, trying to stay out of the icy water. One hand slipped off and quickly broke through, then his right leg. His ski suit was waterproof, but water flowed in over his boot tops and soaked his sock and inner clothing. He finally gave up on finesse and sloshed across. Everything had to be sacrificed for speed now.

Struggling on with the last of his endurance, Jim pulled himself up on the porch rail. It had been hours since he had struggled up the opposite bank of the creek. He had gone beyond shivering and was in serious trouble. It was a fight to concentrate. He had caught himself drifting off a couple of times when he stopped to rest, almost forgetting that he had to keep going. He had pushed on frantically, realizing that he was fast losing the battle with the cold. Leaning back against the walls, Jim tried to pull himself together. He could freeze in the cabin just as easily as outside. The wood stove would have burned out long ago. He was going to have to stay with it long enough to bring in wood, build a fire, get out of the wet clothes and, hopefully, eat.

He grabbed a small armful of kindling and hopped towards the door, using the wall for support. Once inside, he tossed the wood in the general direction of the stove. There was a broom just inside the door that became an impromptu walking stick /crutch. Kneeling painfully, he fumbled with the matches. His hands just wouldn't cooperate. As the fire caught, he was torn between soaking up the warmth, or forcing himself up. The fire would be short lived without more fuel. He needed to bring in plenty. He had a feeling once he went down, that would be pretty much it. Hobbling back out, he tossed chunks of wood towards the doorway. He would actually carry the pieces as little as possible - he didn't have the balance or the strength.

Once the task of bringing wood in over, he stoked the fire to roaring. Tearing off layers of clothing, he grabbed some available food. There was some fruit, some cans of juice, bread - anything with calories and minimal effort. He stood by the stove, munching food, fighting to stay awake. He forced himself to the bedroom. He was down to underwear before he gingerly peeled off the wet socks. His skin was mottled red and purple. Some spots had no feeling at all. Layering on what he could find, energy spent, he returned to the stove, dragging some blankets. In moments he was asleep on the floor. It was the most he could manage.

When he awoke, the fire was out and the cabin was dark. He built up the fire again, allowing the warmth to soak in. It would take hours to truly feel warm again. He leaned his back against the couch. His leg felt bad and looked bad. There was obviously a lot of internal damage. Using some elastic wraps from the first aid kit in the kitchen, he tried to immobilize and support the break. The swelling was awful. The injury was far beyond his ability to tend.

He had lost track of the days, but he needed to make some decisions quickly. Medical attention was a must. He either needed to fight his way back out to the main road, or hope that someone came for him. Considering the circumstances of his arrival, rescue didn't look too good. Major Crimes would miss him, but they didn't know where to look. Barry was out of town, and probably wouldn't sound the alarm. He cursed his decision to ski in rather than take a snow mobile. Still slumped on the floor, he tried to retrace the journey that would get him back to his vehicle.

It was at least as far out as he had come to reach the cabin. He questioned whether he could mount and sustain that level of effort with his injury and overall condition. Still, waiting for a rescue could mean days of watching his broken leg go septic and slowly kill him. Jim Ellison had always been more comfortable taking action than waiting. He mentally began to sort through what he could take or wear. Despite the risk, he would leave with first light.

Preparation didn't really take that long. His choices were pretty meager. His thoughts drifted to Blair. Had he even come back? Jim had given him plenty of cause to give up on their little partnership. Before settling down to prop his leg up and wait for dawn, he rummaged around, looking for something to write on. Jim let the awful scene at the loft run through his mind. That may have been his last chance to talk to with his Guide. For those few brief moments Blair had let his guard down, and Jim had a clear view of his friend's wounded soul. The least he could do was try to straighten some things out with Blair in writing, since he had failed so miserably to do it in person.

Simon and Blair were doubtfully gazing around the storage area. They were not expecting both snowmobiles to be there.

"Maybe he didn't come here after all."

"So, who does the SUV belong to?

"Well, good question. Jim doesn't own it. I would have asked to ride in it if he did."

Simon threw him a warning glare. Squinting through the tinted glass, he tried to see inside the vehicle. "There's a big wad of what looks like rental car paperwork. That would explain why the truck's back in Cascade. I think we should go up there to be sure."

"Then let's take both snowmobiles. I know, Simon, you don't trust me, but we can't get three back on one of these if we do find Jim. I'll be careful."

The deep drifts caused them to be especially cautious. If it hadn't been such a critical moment, they might have enjoyed it. Blair hoped Simon really was as good at maps as he said. So far they had seen no sign of activity. The snow seemed trackless in all directions. As they crested a small knoll, Blair caught sight of their intended goal. His optimism wavered. The place was completely dark, and looked deserted.

Simon had keys, but the door pushed open. While Simon dug around in his gear for a flashlight, Blair inched his way inside. He realized that his fumbling hands had run into a counter, and candles. Someone had been using candlelight. By feel, he identified matches were at hand. With Simon was still fussing behind him, Blair went ahead and struck the match. In the dim light, he took in the lofted ceiling, kitchen, and living area. The wood stove that Lightfield had described was a hulking dark mass in the center. Just beyond lay a mound of blankets and clothing, cast in shadow.

"Simon, it's Jim." Blair flew across the room. He dropped to his knees, gently trying to uncover his friend. When Jim didn't rouse at his touch, he felt for a pulse. Jim's heart was beating. "Simon, he's alive."

Simon struggled to find more light. "Damn, Sandburg, its cold in here. What's wrong with him, anyway?"

"I don't know. He must have come over to the fire to keep warm. It looks like he tried to undress and didn't make it - all this stuff is wet. Simon, get over here."

Blair had worked his way down Jim's body, finally arriving at the bandaged and splinted leg. He unwrapped it gently. The bruising and swelling was awful. Simon hissed. "I wonder where he was when this happened? Or how long he's been this way?"

"Do you think it's broken?"

"Probably, judging from the way he tried to splint it."

"We need to get him out of here. Right now, Simon. He could have been like this for days - he's cold, probably dehydrated, in shock."

Lighting more candles along the way, Simon dug around in the kitchen. He returned with some bottles of juice. "Try to get some fluids down him. I'll re-light the fire and bring you some dry blankets and clothes, if I can find them."

Pulling Jim into his lap, Blair cradled his head. He dripped tiny amounts of juice into his mouth, at first without success. Juice trickled out of the sides of his mouth. Then Jim's lashes fluttered, and he swallowed. Blair raised him up a little further and continued. His hands shook. "Come on, Jim. Just a couple more sips. There you go. Come back to us, big guy."

Simon returned, and worked on the fire. "How's he doing?" As the flames caught, he turned his attention to the remains of Jim's clothing. "He must have been outside to get this wet." A set of keys clanged out of the jacket pocket. "Must have been trying for the road and didn't make it." He continued to stoke the fire. "You keep working on him. The comm. gear is outside. I'll see who I can raise. Get an ambulance up here to meet us." He gave Sandburg's knee a shake. "Hey, ease up. We got here in time. He'll be fine. Just fine."

Blair let Simon mange the logistics. After several more swallows, he set the juice aside. They couldn't transport Jim while he was in wet stuff. Shifting his friend's body so he was in direct line with the stove's warmth, he carefully worked through the remaining layers, trying to keep him bundled up as he went. Underneath the back Jim's shirt, next to his skin, was a strange looking folded sheet of plastic. Simon returned as he was extracting it. Blair shoved it in his direction, and turned his attention back to covering the bare shoulders and chest with fresh shirts and a sweater.

"Simon, can you help me with his lower body. I don't want to wrench his leg around. Simon?" Blair stared - the original tough guy was blinking away what looked like tears.

"Sure, you just hold him steady." Before moving to help, Simon gently laid what was in his hands on the floor near Blair. "You might want to take a look at that later."

Blair focused on what Simon had unfolded. It appeared to be the side of a full size grocery bag. Then he noticed the small, careful script, instantly recognizing Jim's handwriting. It was covered, completely covered on both sides with writing. Rotating the sheet in his hands, he caught the words, "Dear Blair."

2 weeks later:

"Blair, if you don't quit hovering, I am going to scream. I'm on crutches, not in a body cast."

"Right, just out of the hospital and you have 'jail break' written all over your face. Like I don't know what you have planned as soon as I turn my back. Up the stairs. Around the loft. Maybe tool down to the bakery. Try to drive the truck. Fat chance, Ellison. Consider me your personal leach for the duration."

"Nice imagery, Sandburg. Leaches. Great."

"You got it. A giant, immovable, medicinal leach. Impossible to distract something with the brain of hangnail. Did you know some species have hooks as well as suckers? Got the picture? Now quit whining." He plopped down in the opposite chair. "So what would you like to do now. A little educational television? No ESPN - it would be too much of a temptation. How about a nice little foreign language film?"

"I will kill you, Sandburg. I will unstuff your futon. I will make you pay." Jim scowled across the room, but his twinkling eyes give him away. "Would you check the mail? I'm expecting something."

"What? Love letters? Vacation tours to the Arctic? Snow shoeing in Siberia, living out of a plastic bag?"

Jim laughed. It was great to have things feel 'right' again. Blair had barely left his side. Simon had joked that he'd nearly managed to sneak into the operating room while the shattered bone ends had been repaired. Jim had taken advantage of the captive audience. His makeshift letter, penned when he thought he might not have another chance to see Blair, had only been a start. They had worked through a lot of raw hurts and misunderstandings as Blair sat by his bedside in the hospital. "No. Just check the mail. You're interfering with my recovery."

To Blair's surprise, there actually was a large manila envelope, addressed to Jim. He froze when he saw the return address. "Jim, you want to tell me why you're getting mail from Eli Stoddard? And wipe that cat-with-the-canary look off your face. What exactly have you done?"

"The good Doctor and I have been exchanging ideas. Even came to the hospital once when I managed to get you out of the way. Perceptive guy, your Eli."

"He isn't 'my Eli' any more, Jim. This was all taken care of. I have a new life now. You have no right to interfere."

"Well, I may not have the right, but I do have the obligation. May be a bit slow on the uptake, but even us big, dumb, police jocks get it right once in awhile." Jim pulled the contents of the envelope out into the open and leafed through them. "Eli was pretty intrigued with my description of the Sentinel Temple. Real interested, as a matter of fact. He's taking a small work force of carefully selected students and experts to formally examine the site for 2 months. Your former dissertation committee has agreed that the fieldwork could be suitably combined with all the work you did before you met me. Of course, you have to approve the workforce."

"Jim, you idiot, we can't risk this. This is a wonderful gesture, but..."

"Eli's the project supervisor. You're the noted expert. How risky can this be? The cat's already out of the bag with Eli; that was my choice. He's a good man. I should have done it in the first place."

"Even a general survey of a site requires a workforce. It's too many people. Out of the question. This is not going to happen."

"I'm surprised at your lack of creativity, a flexible, educated guy like you. Just look at the paperwork, Chief. You get to approve the selected students. Keep am open mind."

Blair frantically leafed through the papers. "And what are you and the Cascade PD going to do while all this is going on? I'm sure Simon's going to be just thrilled with this idea. Get real, Jim he had better be in a padded room when you spring this on him." He went back to the beginning of the stack. "Damn it, Jim I can't find a student list - we...uh, you...can't just trust anybody. Like this is actually going to happen, anyway."

"Have faith. Second to the last page."

"Oh my God." Blair's eyes flicked up to Jim's, and back down. "Oh my God."

 

Project Supervisor: Stoddard, E

Assistant: Sandburg, B

Student Volunteers: Ellison, J

Banks, S

The end