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.

Summary: Narcotics Detective Jim Ellison is under a cloud of suspicion. Will a chance encounter save him?

Author's Note: Consider this an AU. This story stands alone, independent of any others I have written.

This story went through several evolutions, and I'm grateful for all the invaluable help that came my way. This version benefited from those who generously shared their time and talent freely; pointing out errors, suggesting improvements, providing encouragement. Even when they decline to be recognized, their influence shines through. They've made the journey, and sometimes the struggle, worth it.

That said, I owe a special thanks to Fidus Amicus, who not only saved the plotline but has an eagle-eyes for errors, and Delilah, who had the patience to beta the thing one last time.

For K, who suggested the original idea.

 

Pursued
By Jael Lyn

When he pressed against the wall, rough brick scraped against his face. The dumpster and assorted boxes in the alley weren't much cover, but they were all he had. He peeked warily down the alley. Baxter and his buddies couldn't be far behind. He was certain his little dodge down the fire escape hadn't lost them. They'd be spreading out, covering more escape routes. If he didn't move soon, they'd run him to ground. If they did, he was a dead man. He'd lost his revolver in the struggle to escape. His backup piece, still in the ankle holster, didn't have enough ammunition to make a stand.

He curled his fingers more tightly around the wicked gash in his upper arm. A torn T-shirt didn't make a good field dressing. The cotton was almost completely blood-soaked. He twisted the lumpy creation, trying to shift dry cloth toward the worst of the bleeding. The last thing he needed was to leave a blood trail for his pursuers to follow. That wasn't his only worry. Not only were they drawing the noose closed, he was losing way too much blood to continue this game much longer.

The sound of scuffing feet put him on alert. They were getting closer, nearly cutting off the route between him and his transportation. In his present condition, he couldn't count on being able to outrun them and get to his vehicle. Time for Plan B.

The only other option was the residential area a couple blocks down. They wouldn't expect him to take off that way, but didn't necessarily solve his problem. Suburban neighborhoods were a lousy place to hide. He'd run enough suspects to ground to know. Still, it was an older neighborhood. The aging Victorians were packed in tightly along the narrow streets, most of the gardens overgrown and shadowed. Right now, ducking under some shrubbery sounded like his best bet. Definitely sounded better than waiting for the goons to uncover him hiding behind the garbage dumpster.

He shoved himself away from the wall, and nearly crashed to the ground. He had to catch the edge of the dumpster to steady himself. His head was spinning. Drawing in a lungful of air, he checked over his shoulder and headed for the end of the alley. Three blocks, he told himself. He could manage three blocks if it meant staying alive.

&&&&&

Blair Sandburg took a long sip of his iced tea. How was this for living a cliché? Parked in a lounge chair in his own backyard on a summer evening, cold drink in hand, reading a book. Okay, so he'd only owned the house for a week, the back porch sagged, the lawn was ratty, and the thick Anthro text wasn't really typical reading, but this was a close to the white picket fence as he was going to get.

The sun was filtering through the huge maple trees that populated his narrow backyard. It had been a warm day for Cascade, but the breeze was picking up nicely. All the upstairs windows in the house were open, but it was still too warm to be inside. If he was lucky, the breeze through the house would cool it off enough for a comfortable night's sleep. Maybe a big ceiling fan in the bedroom would be his first home improvement project. Or he could go for a little landscaping. He didn't really care about a lawn too much, but maybe some herbs for cooking, or fresh veggies. He chuckled to himself as he picked up the book. Naomi would have a fit if she knew what he was thinking right now. Home improvement projects, indeed. Naomi would be building a veritable bonfire of sage over that one.

He settled into the chair. The inside could wait for a rainy day. In moments, he was lost in his reading.

&&&&&

Jim tripped and went to his knees. He lay there, panting, struggling to stay conscious. Ducking through the last two yards had thrown them off, but pulling himself over the fence had strained his wounded arm. Bright red blood gushed through his fingers. He couldn't keep running much longer, and he'd be leaving a clear trail in blood that any idiot could follow.

He could hear the voices of his pursuers behind him. He forced himself to his feet and lurched across the deserted street. The house directly across from him looked tired and neglected. Huge overgrown shrubs lined the foundation. He needed a place to hide, and he'd run out of other options.

&&&&&

"Where is he? You lost him, Tamar!" Casey Baxter glared at Tamar. This stupid wild goose chase should have never gone so badly awry, and he needed better help than the hapless Tamar. "Work around the other side of the block. Jared and I will go this way. We tagged him a good one. He's bleeding, man, and he can't call for help. He won't get far. Now move, and keep your eyes open. He's around here somewhere."

The next block was deserted when they got there. Baxter slammed his palm against the trunk of one of the trees. "He couldn't climb, could he? We haven't been looking up."

"If he can, we're sunk. This place is like a jungle - too many places to hide," Jared said. "I can't believe you tried something like this without me. Doing a cop? Casey, this is serious shit."

"It'll be okay, man. I just know this stuff isn't your style. You're the brains, remember."

"Not if you don't talk to me first."

"Yeah, I'll remember." Baxter shook his head. "The man is way too lucky. The way Maurice cut him, he never should have gotten out of the alley. I know we almost had him, and he just vanished. Maybe all that bull about Ellison's army days weren't just blowing smoke."

"This'll be real bad when we report in, man," Jared hissed. "This guy we're dealing with - I don't like him. He's bad news, Casey. I've heard things."

"You stay out of it, J," Baxter snapped. "I don't trust him, either, but I can handle the higher-ups. Come on. We can still keep this bottled up. Best we find Ellison's sorry ass, and finish the job."

&&&&&

Blair looked up from his book and nearly jumped out of his skin. A tall figure, smeared with dirt and blood, loomed in front of him. "Where did you come from?" he stammered. "What do you want?"

The man stumbled backwards, nearly falling. He caught himself on the porch railing. "Just stay quiet. I don't want anything from you." He took two steps and crashed to the ground with a groan. Then he rolled to his side and squirmed under the back porch.

Blair sat frozen in his chair, textbook still in his lap, too stunned to move and unsure of what to do. The guy was obviously hurt. He looked like the rebirth of some ancient warrior, but he seemed too messed up to cause him any harm. More footsteps drew his attention to the opposite corner of the house. What was this, Grand Central Station?

The new face turned shock into genuine fear. Casey Baxter, and some guy he couldn't put a name to, were standing in the alley running behind his backyard. Baxter was a major supplier in the college drug scene. Rainier Campus Security had issued warnings to the faculty, but they'd never been able to catch him in the act and make an arrest. Blair had run him out of Hargrove between classes just last week on reputation alone. It had been an ugly confrontation.

"What the hell are you doing on my property, Baxter?" Blair barked in the most hostile voice he could manage. His bloody visitor and Baxter showing up within seconds of each other couldn't be a coincidence. Whatever their beef was about, it wasn't something he needed to know, and he didn't want to be in the middle of it. To stay clear, a good bluff was all he had to rely on at this point.

A sneer crossed Baxter's face. "Well, if it isn't Professor Sandburg. Just looking for an - associate."

"Well, no one's here. Besides, if it were one of your cronies, I'd have called the cops. Anyone who hangs with you isn't welcome around my home." Blair hauled himself out of the lawn chair, not that his height or fierce looks were going to intimidate anyone like Baxter.

Baxter snarled in response, pulling a knife. "Keep shooting your mouth off, and we can do you right now." Blair bounded around the lounge chair and picked up a rake, the lone garden tool he owned. It wasn't much, but at least he had something in his hands. The other man's advance stopped when his friend grabbed him by the arm.

"We'll settle with you later, Sandburg," Baxter said. "Lucky for you we have other things to do." The two men stalked away from his yard, headed for the next block. Blair stared after them until their heads disappeared beyond Mrs. Filler's fence.

As soon as he was certain they were gone, he flew over to the porch. "Come out!" he hissed in a low voice. "They're gone. I'll call ..."

A bloody hand fastened around his wrist. "No! You call anyone, and I'm a dead man." Blair pulled back, but the man never lost his grip as he struggled out into the open. His unnamed visitor was panting, clearly in pain. Even crawling out on his knees, the iron grip never loosened. "Just give me a minute and I'll leave. You don't want to be involved. Forget what you saw."

Blair took a good look at the pale, exhausted face. "Shit, I don't know what you're mixed up in, but you won't make it ten feet. You're a mess, and those guys are drug dealers. I'll call the cops." The man shook his head violently, the intense blue eyes going wide. "At least let me get an ambulance," Blair protested.

"Can't. They set me up. They'll find me." The man used the porch to pull himself to his feet. Just as suddenly, he collapsed.

Blair had barely enough time to break his fall. He eased the stricken man back onto the grass. The guy was in bad shape. Blood was oozing from strips of a cotton shirt tied around his arm. Blair looked nervously up the alley. Baxter and his buddy didn't show any sign of returning. He didn't know what to do. On impulse, he searched the man's pockets. What he found rocked him back on his heels.

The badge read:

Detective James J. Ellison

Cascade Police Department

Narcotics

*****

Casey Baxter watched the headlights snake their way through the darkened parking garage. As per his instructions, all lights in this corner of the structure were out. His hand strayed to the .357 tucked into his waistband, trying to create a confidence he didn't feel. The last guy who'd screwed up on an operation had been disposed of in pieces. Casey knew - he'd helped. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. At this particular moment, he was having second thoughts about his choice of business associates. The other car pulled to a stop. Baxter left his own vehicle and climbed into the back seat of the new arrival.

"What happened? This had better be good. This was your responsibility."

Casey felt a trail of sweat run down the center of his back. "Everything went according to plan. One minute Ellison was standing there like a sitting duck, the next he was on the move. He smelled the ambush. The guy's psychic."

"He's no such thing. One of your people screwed up."

Baxter shook his head. "No, they didn't. Everything went exactly according to plan. He had to have been tipped somehow."

"He wasn't. I'm sure of it." A fist slammed into the black leather upholstery. "The man has lives like a cat."

"Look, we had him cornered. One of the guys damn near cut his arm off before he gave us the slip."

"So how did he get away?"

"He's good, all right? Bottom line, he's got to get help somewhere, or he'll bleed to death and we'll have nothing to worry about. I have guys at every Emergency Room and after-hours clinic, plus more around his place. We'll find him."

"I don't have to go into the consequences of Ellison getting to someone who will listen to him."

Baxter leaned back with a smug look on his face. "So what has changed? If he wasn't tipped like you say, what can he tell? To him, it was just a bust gone bad. One of those things. Happens all the time. Besides, he dropped his gun. You'll appreciate what we did with it. You're worried over nothing."

"That's not for you to decide."

Baxter waited. Maybe he'd bought himself a little time. He could barely keep himself from reaching for his own gun and making a run for it.

"Get back on the street. Find Ellison and kill him."

Baxter nodded, and slid out of the car. It was a supreme act of faith to strut toward his own car like nothing was wrong. Any moment he expected a bullet in the back. When nothing happened, he tracked the engine noise of the other car as it left the parking garage, his fist tightened around the handle of his own car door. Without turning, he leaned his head against the cold metal of his vehicle.

He was lucky to be alive, and he needed to find Ellison in a hurry. It wasn't smart to tempt fate with his volatile boss more than once.

*****

The room tilted to one side. Jim closed his eyes and tried again. His second attempt wasn't much better.

"Hey, you're awake. Don't move around, okay? I had a real tough time getting you in here and settled."

The indistinct blur in front of Jim coalesced into a face. "Where?" he managed to ask. To his own ears his voice sounded wrong - the words slurred and fuzzy.

"I think they used to call it a parlor. Sorry, I couldn't haul you upstairs to a bed without making your arm worse. It's bad enough already."

"Got to - leave." Jim struggled to sit up. A firm hand pressed him back.

"Forget it. You wouldn't even make it out the front door. Don't worry, no one can see you in here, and I have the house locked up." The face disappeared. Jim was vaguely aware of footsteps across a hardwood floor.

"I'm going to prop you up a bit." A hand slipped behind his shoulders, and Jim did his best to cooperate. He hissed as searing pain tore through his arm. "I hate to do that, but we need to get some fluids down you." The voice was quiet and reassuring. Jim gulped down the liquid; water first, then some kind of juice. He was unbelievably grateful. The first splash disappeared down his throat like a raindrop into parched soil.

"Thanks," Jim mumbled. Remembering more of his predicament, he asked, "Did you - call - anyone?" It was hard to get the words out.

"No. You were pretty clear on that before you crashed. So, James Ellison of the Cascade Police Department, mind telling me how a cop ends up being hunted by a lowlife like Baxter? While you're at it, I wouldn't mind an explanation of why you're as afraid of the cops as you are of the dealers."

"Slow down." Jim tried hard to focus on the face in front of him. Things kept blurring out.

"Sorry. Actually, forget the explanations and just drink more of this."

Jim complied, and his vision started to clear. "They might come back."

"They might, but they don't really know where to look. My place is no more likely than anyone else's. If you're with it enough to help me, let's get your shirt off. I need to look at that arm." Jim winced as his rescuer removed the blood-soaked remnants of his shirt. Fresh blood began to trickle, then roll, freely down his arm. "Damn. That's really deep," the man muttered.

Jim anticipated the next question. "No hospital. They'll all be watched. I'd rather bleed than be dead."

"You may be both. I'll do what I can. This is gonna hurt, man. Hydrogen peroxide is all I have for a disinfectant."

Jim clenched his teeth during the first gentle probes. It hurt, but the guy knew what he was doing, and was trying to be careful. He looked around and saw a surprisingly good array of first aid supplies.

The other man apparently read his thoughts. "I was going backpacking next week and bought a new kit. Lucky, huh? I don't think I can do any more to disinfect it, so let's try to get it closed up. Can you roll to your side a little bit? I think you'll be more comfortable."

Jim complied, groaning as he turned. "How did you know my name?"

"Found your badge. Sorry for invading your privacy. I didn't really know what to do, and I was kind of spooked that you had a gun or something."

Jim shifted slightly, rubbing one leg against the other. The gun in his ankle holster was gone. "Where is it?" he asked.

"Your weapon? I put it in a safe place," his rescuer answered vaguely.

"What's your name?" Jim asked, trying to keep his mind off the fire burning through his arm

"Blair Sandburg. I teach at Rainier. I just moved in here a week ago." He tipped his head toward the boxes that littered the room. "I haven't really unpacked yet. Okay, I'm going to use every butterfly we've got. This really needs stitches."

Jim leaned his head back. The room was spinning again. Sandburg deftly layered on the sterile pads and was winding gauze around the dressing.

"Pretty good job," Jim said.

"One of those skills you pick up before you go into the field, if you have any brains." Sandburg smiled. "I'm an anthropologist. My last expedition was in Borneo. The nearest doctor, if you could call him that, was two days away." Jim could detect a small grin. "You were more likely to get a chant than an antibiotic."

"Is there an ace bandage in there?" Jim asked, fighting to stay focused.

"Yeah, there is. For sprains I suppose."

"Wrap it around the dressing, as tight as you can. It will keep pressure on the wound." Jim waited until the final clips were attached to the bandage and managed to sit up. He felt dizzy and weak.

Sandburg was watching him with a worried look. "I want to take you upstairs. I can make you more comfortable up there. Down here on the floor isn't where you need to be."

Jim grabbed a corner on one of the nearby boxes and staggered to his feet. "I'm grateful for the help, but I'm not getting a civilian caught in the crossfire."

He started for the door, and didn't make it. His last conscious memory was of Sandburg's arm around his waist, guiding his footsteps up the stairs, completely ignoring his protests.

*****

Baxter was seething. It was nearly midnight and still no trace of Ellison. The man was wounded; he had no transportation. Had he gotten someone in the neighborhood to drive him somewhere? Doubled back on them? Was he hiding in a basement or shed, just waiting for the middle of the night to give them the slip? Grown wings and flown away?

Giving up wasn't an option. If he intended to keep breathing, Ellison needed to go. His boss had been crystal clear on that point. Too much depended on Ellison taking the fall, not just for today, but for a whole series of carefully arranged incidents. If their meticulous planning paid off, his business relationships would be assured. Expansion was a foregone conclusion. Jared was the perfect second-in-command. Together, they would take Cascade by the throat.

The only choice was to start going from house to house. If one of the guys got caught searching, it would be easy enough to make it look like a simple break-in.

*****

Blair checked his guest again. He'd roused Ellison every hour for a while, forcing fluids down him along with Tylenol. This time he seemed to be sleeping soundly, and Blair decided to let him rest. No fever, at least not yet, and his color didn't look too bad. Blair loosened the bandage and lifted it gingerly, careful not to disturb the man sleeping in his bed. The dressing showed a little blood, but it wasn't soaked through. So far, so good.

He'd triple checked all the doors and downstairs windows. None of them were very substantial. Now a man's life might depend on a few decrepit locks. Why hadn't he at least put safety chains on the doors when he had moved in? Not that he'd ever worried about protecting anything before. Student poverty had its virtues. Obviously this home ownership thing was sort of a paradigm shift. He'd turned on lights downstairs, and the radio. If the rooms looked occupied, maybe it would discourage any unwanted visitors.

Even if Baxter didn't come in the night, what about tomorrow? That was the real question. Getting Ellison out of harm's way was one thing, but the man acted like he was on the run. Didn't cops take care of their own? What was really going on?

He flicked off the small light sitting on the plastic crate that passed for a nightstand. The anxiety was keeping him wide-awake. He moved a chair over to sit in the darkened window, relishing the cool breeze as it gently billowed the curtains into the room. It was comfortable, and gave him a good view of the neighborhood, just. It seemed prudent to keep an eye on things.

He was worried by Ellison's refusal to contact the police, but in a convoluted way, it made sense. He must have been undercover, and something had gone terribly wrong. Was he a cop on the take, or one of the good guys? Baxter certainly wasn't looking for him to engage in casual conversation.

Ellison had to be a little bit panicky; he was injured and probably scared to death. He just wasn't thinking straight. In the morning, when things were calmer, Blair was sure he could convince him to contact the proper authorities and get some decent medical attention. There was no real harm in waiting out the night. The whole thing would resolve itself in the light of day.

*****

"No luck on the last block, Casey. A lot of these places are empty. They're student rentals during the school year. The rest are mostly old people."

"Shit, Jared. Not a trace?" Baxter raged. "No blood? There's got to be something!"

"It's dark, man. We couldn't find it earlier, when we could still see. We're not owls. No one's going to follow a blood trail in the dead of night. You want to keep going?"

"What choice do we have? Send the guys to the next block over. You and I can take this one."

Jared noticed where they were standing. "Hey, Casey, isn't that Sandburg's house?"

A slow smile spread across Baxter's face. "Yeah, it is. Maybe the night's looking up, my man. We could...."

"What you're thinking? Forget it," Jared interrupted.

"Come on, Jared," Casey wheedled. "He needs to be taught a lesson. Mix a little business with pleasure." As an outlet for his current frustrations, a session with Sandburg was a serious temptation. They stared at the brightly lit windows while Baxter considered the possibilities. Someone was up and moving in the house. "Look's like the prof is burning the midnight oil. We can take him. No problem. Just throw a little scare in him to show him what's what. We can look around the place and make sure the cop isn't hunkered down somewhere, just to make it righteous."

Jared shook his head. "You saw Sandburg when we set foot in his precious yard. If Ellison had stumbled in there, he would have raised a stink, and we would have known. Let's get moving." Casey wasn't listening to him like he used to, and his newly found lust for violent encounters was becoming a problem. Tonight it would be suicide. Their employer killed for mistakes far smaller than allowing Ellison to escape. "Sandburg will wait for another time, man. Ellison's the one we need."

"You're right," Baxter said reluctantly. "We settle this first."

Jared wondered how long he'd keep winning these arguments.

&&&&&

Blair froze. It was nearly two in the morning, and that had to be Casey Baxter standing right across the street. He scooted his chair back, so he could watch out the window, and still be hidden from below. Now a total of six men were huddled with Baxter. He threw a worried glance at the man stretched out on his bed, deeply asleep. They had to be looking for Ellison. No other explanation made sense.

Most of the group melted off into the darkness, moving down the street. Damn - they were going house to house. He could call the police and catch them in the act, but that might be even more risky. Baxter and another man stared at his house for a long time. Blair frantically considered his options. What could he do if they came? Hide Ellison? Where?

He breathed a sigh of relief when the two of them moved on. Maybe his little ruse with the lights and the music had worked. Another long hour ticked by with no sign of disturbance. Suddenly, he realized how bone tired he was. He pulled two big floor pillows from the living room up to the top of the stairs and stretched out for a little rest. No matter what Ellison's story was, no one was coming up these steps without him knowing it. Ellison was his responsibility until morning.

&&&&&

"Gregg, it just doesn't make sense. I know Ellison has always had an attitude, but he's as straight as a cop can be. You make it sound like you're certain he murdered his backup and took off." Simon Banks shoved the APB back across the table. Other faces around the conference table looked equally doubtful. "All I'm saying is there might be another explanation. If the meet went bad, maybe there's a reason he can't make contact. He could be injured. The man is still entitled to the benefit of the doubt."

Gregg Welch, Captain of Narcotics, shrugged. "What can I tell you, Simon? No matter how much we wish it otherwise, IA concurs with my assessment. Ellison's a dirty cop, running drugs on the side. It just shows you never really know."

"Two officers dead, another missing? It's a huge stain on the whole department." Chief Warren looked around the faces of his captains gathered at the table. "Frankly, the PR's terrible, no matter how it turns out. That's why I called all of you in this morning, so we have no misunderstandings. This comes from the top - talk to your officers. We want Ellison brought in."

Simon knew it would be politic to keep his mouth shut. Ellison wasn't his man. Even his own captain wasn't coming to his defense. Still, in his gut, it just felt wrong. "Excuse me, Chief, how much of a presumption of innocence is Ellison going to have if we supplement the APB with a press release. 'Citizens of Cascade, call us if you see this cop. Oh, by the way, he might be innocent.' I just don't think you treat a man with Ellison's record that way." Gregg Welch glared at him. Simon noted a few others around the table seemed to be in agreement with his own position. At least he wasn't the only one who was uncomfortable with how this was being handled.

"I'm sorry, Simon. I think it's imperative that we get Ellison in here, using whatever resources we have. The public is a resource. The media is a resource." Warren gestured to the others around the table, appealing for their support. "Besides, if we include the media from the beginning, we avoid any accusations of a cover-up." No one spoke. If anyone had objections, they weren't willing to buck their boss and a fellow captain to do it, Simon Banks included. Warren nodded, confident that everyone was onboard with his decision. "Now, Ellison was using an undercover vehicle when he disappeared, which we have recovered, and his own vehicle is still parked at his residence. Welch, he's your man. You have any ideas to share?"

"Sorry, Chief. I can't add anything. I just know that if he's a dirty cop, I want him brought to justice."

As they filed out of the room, Simon felt a nudge at the elbow. His old friend, Joel Taggart, Captain of the Bomb Squad, motioned toward the stairs. "Let's skip the elevator, Simon. Walk with me?" Without fanfare they separated from the rest of the group and headed for the stairwell.

They climbed flight after flight until they reached the roof. Early morning sun was just touching the streets below. They'd been doing this for years, whenever they needed a truly private place to talk.

"I don't like it either, Simon."

Simon stuffed his hands in his pockets. "What the hell is Welch doing? Not to mention IA."

"I may be out of the loop here," Joel said. "My gut tells me Ellison's being railroaded, but I can't think of a single thing to do, or even a reason why. At least they could have softened the message to the press, said he might be injured or something. Give him the appearance of innocence."

"We can't talk to his partner, either. He doesn't work with one," Simon said.

Joel scuffed his feet along the asphalt of the roof. "IA won't give us the time of day, even if we ask. Welch is ready to hang him, and Warren just wants to preserve the image of the department. There are no proper channels to pursue. I don't think going to the mayor would be productive, especially with no real justification other than a feeling."

"Something sure doesn't add up," Simon agreed. "The man's been one of our top officers. Plenty of high profile cases to his credit. Ellison was supposed to be one of mine, you know."

"No, I didn't," Joel answered, looking thoroughly surprised. They normally discussed everything between them. It had been that way since they were rookies. "When was that?"

"It's been years now, but the transfer was approved from Narcotics to Major Crime right after I made captain. You were taking that training course in D.C. with the F.B.I. I'm sure that's why I never mentioned it. It was withdrawn at the last minute, and long over by the time you were back in town."

"Why didn't he come? His request, or Welch's?" Joel asked.

"I never got a straight answer from Welch, and Ellison went out of his way to avoid me. I let it drop. In light of today's performance, I wonder what the real story is between Ellison and Welch."

"I've always heard they didn't see eye to eye. Maybe that explains Welch's attitude. He sure isn't spending any energy going to bat for the man."

Simon pulled out the cigar he habitually chewed on in times of stress. "Oh, he's saying all the right things. If that's the case, and he doesn't like Ellison, why didn't both of them bail out when the opportunity was available?"

"Might be a little late to ask. I hear the same rumors you do. All of a sudden, Narcotics can't make an arrest to save their lives. Maybe it's like they said. Ellison's been on the take, and finally got caught. You wouldn't tolerate a bad cop in Major Crime, either." Joel gazed off into the distance for a moment before continuing. "Problem is, I don't believe it any more than you do. Time to make some discreet inquiries, don't you think, Simon?"

Simon returned his friend's knowing glance. "I think so, definitely. You have good instincts. Our usual meeting place? Say about six?"

"See you then, Simon." With a nod, the two men separated. It would be a long, trying day for the Cascade Police Department.

&&&&&

Casey Baxter was bone tired. They'd searched most of the night without getting a whisper of Ellison's location. Ellison hadn't shown up at any ER, and he hadn't gone back to his own place. They'd scoured the neighborhood near the University and had come up empty. He was seriously wondering whether to skip town while they still could. Jared wanted to.

Still, it killed him to walk away from all that money. You made a score like this once in a lifetime. No, he wasn't quite ready to give up yet. They'd go back to where they last had Ellison cornered. Now that it was daylight, they'd look again for a blood trail. They'd find the son of a bitch and kill him, and then everything would be back on track.

&&&&&

Jim couldn't figure out where he was. The view above him definitely wasn't the high, beamed ceiling of the loft. It wasn't the station, or a hospital. He started to sit up and the shooting pain in his arm brought it all back. Baxter, his narrow escape, and...Sandburg? It was then he realized he was not alone in the room.

"Hey. Good to see you awake." The man he thought was Sandburg was sitting in a chair by the window. What looked like a textbook was open on his lap. "Ease up slow, and have some juice before you try anything. You had a rough night"

"Sandburg, isn't it?" The room was bright with morning sun. How long had he been out? "What time is it?" Jim asked, his voice somewhere between concerned and groggy.

The man beside him chuckled. "Of all the questions I expected you to ask, that wasn't the one. It's about eight in the morning. How much do you remember from last night?"

"Most of it, I guess," Jim answered. He was fighting to think straight. "How did you know my name? It might be better if you didn't." He paused for a moment. "Did we have this conversation before?"

"Yep, but I don't mind having it again." He held the juice glass out, and kept talking while Jim downed a few more swallows. "I looked through your pockets and found your badge. I figured if you were a cop, I was probably safe. Besides, Baxter is a creep. Everyone at Rainier knows what he's about."

"I need to get out of here. I'm putting you at risk." Jim shoved the covers back, but didn't get very far.

"Whoa there, let's take one thing at a time. I expected you to ask about the bathroom. How about it, man?"

"Uh - yeah." Jim gave his rescuer a sheepish look. "Now that you mention it.

That answer got another grin. "Let me give you a hand."

Jim planned on going under his own power, after which he'd head out the door and out of Sandburg's life, but he needed more help than he wanted to admit. Sandburg stepped back when they made it to the bathroom. "I left a robe and some towels out for you earlier. I'll go get us some real breakfast. You call me when you're ready to come down."

"Where are my clothes?" Jim asked.

"They were toast, man. I couldn't begin to wash the blood out of them. Don't worry about that right now. We can talk logistics over some eggs. Scrambled okay?" All Jim could manage was a nod, since holding onto the sink was taking most of his concentration. He got another grin and watched the back of Sandburg's curly head disappear down the stairs. The guy operated about fifty percent faster than most of the population.

Sandburg hadn't just left the robe. A fresh disposable razor and a toothbrush perched on the tiny sink as well. It seemed like a lot of work, and it was. Jim had to sit down as much as he stood, but he forced himself through the motions. By the time Jim was finished, the smells of breakfast had wafted up to the second floor. He debated for a moment at the top of the stairs and started down. He still had every intention of leaving at the earliest opportunity, and that wasn't going to happen if he couldn't get around unaided.

Sandburg hustled over as soon as he saw him standing in the kitchen doorway. "Are you nuts? You should have let me know you were coming down. You could have taken a header down the stairs."

"I'm okay," Jim muttered, but he was relieved to sink onto one of the two kitchen chairs. Sandburg's furnishings seemed a little Spartan.

"Not too fancy, is it?" Sandburg said cheerily, moving busily around the tiny kitchen. "I just got hired as an assistant prof, and before that I was overseas. Friends gave me a few things to get started, and the kitchen stuff I've been getting at yard sales. I haven't spent a lot of time on it, and I really don't need much." He scooped a generous portion of eggs onto a plate and added some toast. "Here, eat, and then we'll talk."

Jim inhaled the first serving. Without making a big deal of it, Sandburg had more cooked up and on a plate before he knew what was happening.

"Thanks," Jim said. He was suddenly embarrassed by the amount of food he'd consumed. "Guess I really needed to eat. I feel better, anyway."

"Excuse me for pointing out that you still look like shit. Would you like some coffee? I wanted you to get some real food down before I offered." Sandburg cleared the table and set a steaming mug in front of Jim. "Baxter had guys combing the neighborhood for you last night," he said softly.

"I'm not surprised," Jim answered. He scraped the fork absently along the rim of the plate. "When you take a whack at a cop, you damn well better finish the job and hide the evidence. It's a bad move to let him walk around until he turns you in."

"Is that what happened? They seemed real serious about finding you. I'd really like to know why you're trying to stay hidden, even from your brothers in blue." His face was calm, but determined.

Jim was pretty good at reading people. His host wasn't going to like taking no for an answer. "Sandburg, obviously I owe you my life, but we should end this conversation. You'd be a lot safer not knowing."

"If that was my only concern, I would have been a lot safer if I'd called the cops the second Baxter was out of sight and you were passed out under my bushes. I'd say you need some help. Don't turn it down when it's being offered."

Jim knew he should walk out the door without another word, and keep Sandburg from getting in any deeper. He gripped the edge of the table and realized physically, he just couldn't make it. "I - I think - no, I'm sure I was set up. I don't know who I can trust. I'm a big believer in being cautious. I want to know what's going on before I walk back in."

"So what are you going to do?" Blair asked. "Can you call your boss? Your partner? There's got to be someone you can call."

"I guess. I want to get some answers first, just to be sure. Do you have any clothes I can borrow?"

"Sorry, man, nothing I have will fit you. There's too much difference in our heights. My thought was to make sure you were okay and hit a discount store. I wasn't joking, you know. You still look pretty awful. A few more hours of rest won't hurt you, and I can go buy the things you absolutely need."

Jim looked down at the short terry cloth robe. Sandburg was probably right on all counts: he needed more downtime, his own clothes were a lost cause, and he was going nowhere in a robe and bare feet.

Sandburg interrupted his train of thought. "Come on, man. I'm glad you ate, but you're white as a sheet. Let me help you back upstairs, and I'll write your sizes down.

Jim only made it halfway up the stairs before he had to sit down. He meant to tell Sandburg to take cash out of his wallet, pick up a newspaper for him. Those and a dozen other thoughts and instructions swirled away when Sandburg eased him back on the pillows, and the world grayed out.

End Part 2

Blair glanced nervously at his watch. This was taking way too long. He didn't have a car yet, so he'd taken a bus. The actual shopping had been pretty efficient, but he was stuck in a long line waiting for a cashier. Who would have thought Friday morning would be such a zoo?

He shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other. He was seriously worried about Ellison. He had terrible images of Baxter bashing in his door and dragging the man away to finish him off. Of equal concern was the injured police officer's physical condition. A little gauze and hydrogen peroxide wasn't sufficient treatment by anyone's standard. Blair studied the antibiotic creams and disinfectants in his cart along with the clothes. They were the best he could get over the counter, but they might not be enough.

He watched impatiently as the cashier called for yet another price check. The place was a big as an airplane hanger, and it had only two registers open. He could be trapped in this line easily for another twenty or thirty minutes. The line moved up another few steps and Blair had a view of the electronics department. A row of televisions, from tiny portables to big screens, were now within view. Still cursing the slow moving line, Blair absently passed the time watching morning cartoons in parallel image. To make matters worse, it was a stupid cartoon. Whatever happened to classics like the Roadrunner, or Rocky and Bullwinkle?

The station cut to a news bulletin. Blair was only half listening when he realized it was Ellison's picture filling the screens. He moved to get closer, and then pulled himself back. He didn't dare lose his precious place in line. He caught the tail end of the report

...we repeat this bulletin just issued by the Cascade Police Department. Detective James Ellison is missing and wanted for questioning. Any resident should not approach this man, but immediately report his whereabouts on the number listed on your screen, or call 911.

Blair turned to the middle-aged woman standing in line behind him. "Were you listening to the TV? What did he do?"

The woman shrugged. "They didn't really say. The late news last night said two cops were found dead in their patrol car yesterday evening. Maybe he had something to do with it, or maybe he just knows something." She stared at the image of Ellison that remained on the screen. The announcer was droning through his physical description. "I don't know. He's pretty good-looking, but he does look sort of intense, doesn't he? I don't think I'd want to find him on my doorstep."

"You have no idea, lady," Blair muttered under his breath. Miraculously, as if on cue, another register opened up. Blair sprinted over. He couldn't waste any more time standing in line.

&&&&&

"Casey, one of the guys found blood on a fence. He says there's a lot of it."

"About time! Where?" The two men made their way to the alley. A large smear of dried blood on the weathered cedar was obvious in broad daylight. Baxter examined the dark blotch. Now that he knew what to look for, he could pick out splashes of blood in the gravel. "He was bleeding pretty bad," he mused. "Why didn't we catch him?"

Jared shrugged. He'd known Casey Baxter since they were kids. Casey had a short fuse with anyone else, but he always took the brutal truth from Jared without protest. "He was running for his life. That's pretty motivating, if you know what I mean."

Baxter crouched down to stay out of sight, and surveyed the surrounding neighborhood in all directions. "Okay, you're Ellison. You just vaulted that fence. You lean up against here 'cause you're not feeling too good. Where would you go from here?" He frowned. "Who did we have searching over here?"

Jared thought for a moment. "Rodney and Tamar."

"Both dumb as rocks. If someone with half a brain had been over here, they would have nailed him."

Jared snickered. "Those two don't have half a brain between them. We should've known better."

"We didn't have another choice. Would he stay in the alley? Or cut through a yard?" Baxter pointed toward the connecting street. "You work that direction. See if you can find anything."

Other than dodging a few neighborhood dogs, they were alone. Any kids in the neighborhood were sleeping late, enjoying the first few days of summer. The Rainier students were gone except for a few summer school stragglers, and the working folks were at their jobs. Ten minutes passed before Jared found more blood on a short chain link fence a few houses down, and motioned him over.

"What do you think?" Baxter said.

"This is the only house with a short fence. I'll bet he hurt himself going over the tall one back there. The alley is too open. He stuck to the grass to hide the blood."

They cut through the yard. A few more smears of blood led them through two more backyards. Other than a snarling tomcat that took a swipe at them, they were still alone. Their one close call was an elderly woman who came out to water her flowers. Baxter was swearing softly.

"Be cool, Casey. We don't need the cops down on us, and we don't need to hassle an old lady today." They waited a few more minutes. Jared sensed that his friend was reaching the breaking point. "Hey," he teased. "Maybe we can get a tracking badge or something."

Baxter snorted. "You and me ain't no boy scouts."

&&&&&

Jim opened his eyes and looked at the tiny travel clock by Sandburg's bed. He'd been gone for quite a while. The rest hadn't done him much good. If anything, he felt worse than when he'd ventured downstairs to eat breakfast. Jim shoved the covers off and sat up. His arm ached and felt hot, a telltale sign of infection. Not exactly unexpected considering the nature of the wound, but it only added to his list of problems.

Time to start dealing with specifics. Sandburg said he had no car. Once he got some clothes, he'd either need to take the bus or call someone. A cab was too easy to trace. At this point, he wasn't sure he was up to the bus. That left the next alternative, who should he call? Even if he got that far, where should he go? All he had were suspicions that no one was going to believe.

What he really wanted to do was flop back on the bed. He forced himself to stay up. Sandburg had left a pitcher of water for him. He poured a glass, cursing his unsteady hand, and gulped the water down. At the moment it was all he could do.

&&&&&

Simon scanned his duty roster. Everyone had a full caseload. He couldn't justify pulling anyone off an active investigation to second-guess IA and what was going on in another department. It would be stupid. Chief Warren had made it clear he expected their full cooperation, a united front.

Simon stared at his desk. After mercilessly pestering his people, everyone had brought their paperwork up to date. He had a pile of case reports to review and sign. The monthly summaries were due on Monday, and he needed to post a new duty roster for the month the day after. If he didn't want to work all weekend, which just incidentally happened to be his weekend with Darryl, he needed to hole up in his office and get down to business. With a sigh, he picked up a file and started to read.

He managed to make about half a page before he tossed his glasses onto the desk. Something just wasn't right. Serena Chang had been assigned to process the evidence from the killings of the two officers who had been Ellison's backup. Sometimes, people didn't listen to everything Serena had to say, himself included. Welch clearly had his mind made up. Maybe there was something crucial that wasn't being considered.

He marched out, headed for forensics.

&&&&&

"We got him, man. He's here, and close."

Baxter knelt beside his friend. "About time we got a break. The bastard can't be that lucky."

They had been crisscrossing through the yards and streets of a three-block area. Jared was kneeling by a couple of garbage cans that had been knocked over. A pack of neighborhood dogs had strewn trash across the ground. The garbage was a hopeless, smelly mess. "Take a look, man." He gingerly picked at a half torn grocery bag. Bloody cloth was exposed through one corner.

"Ellison's pants," Baxter said.

"These were double bagged and down in the bottom of the can. It's just lucky the dogs got here first. Somebody's helping him, and they live on this street. He might not still be here, though."

Baxter was totally focused, his expression grim. So much depended on this. "Then we'll beat the shit out of whoever this garbage belongs to. They'll know something. We just have to be persuasive."

&&&&&

It couldn't be true.

Blair purposely set his bags on the seat beside him, hoping to keep some distance between himself and other passengers. He needed to think. He reread the lead article of the Cascade Times. Couched in all the politically correct language, the message was pretty clear. The Cascade Police Department suspected Jim Ellison had murdered his backup and disappeared with a significant amount of drugs, money, or both.

He desperately tried to remember everything Jim had said to him.

You call anyone, and I'm a dead man.

I - I think I was set up.

I don't know who I can trust.

You'd be a lot safer not knowing.

It was possible. Ellison could have been running a double-cross, and got caught. That could explain why both sides were after him. He could be committing a crime just by keeping the guy in his house. What did he really know about him anyway?

Blair checked his watch. He'd been gone a long time waiting in that stupid line at the store. He needed to make a decision, and he didn't have a lot to go on. At the next stop, he bolted from the bus. Halfway up the block he broke into a run.

&&&&&

The water pitcher was empty. Despite the morning breeze and the fact he was sitting here in his boxers, he was burning up. Jim's head ached. Maybe Sandburg had some aspirin in the bathroom. If he could find some, it might keep his fever down.

He lurched to his feet and managed a few steps. The bedside chair saved him from crashing to the floor. Maybe he could slide it along and use it for balance. He stood there for a moment, trying to rally for his next effort. He was intent on making it to the bathroom, but something made him glance out the window.

Sandburg had carefully pulled the curtains shut, but Jim could just see through the gauzy material. Baxter and one of his cronies were sneaking into the backyard, heading for Sandburg's back porch. Jim had noticed the doors during breakfast. Even locked, they wouldn't be any problem for Baxter.

They'd run him to ground. He had no weapon to defend himself and nowhere to go.

&&&&&

Blair took the stairs at Hargrove Hall two at a time. He tossed the shopping bags onto the floor with the stacks of books and files he hadn't taken the time to put away. No matter what evidence to the contrary, Ellison's primary concern had been to keep him out of the fray. That just didn't square with a person who would murder two fellow officers in cold blood. At the very least, Ellison could have forced him to secure some transportation and drive him away from Cascade. He hadn't.

Blair started his search with the online archives for the local newspaper. He had results in no time. Jim Ellison wasn't only a cop, he was a highly successful one. His name was referenced in one high profile case after another, both in Vice, and more recently, in Narcotics. The more Blair read, the more fascinating the story got. A passing reference to a popular news magazine had him hopping sites. Archives went back to 1985; he gave it a try.

An Army Ranger? What hadn't this guy done?

Blair pushed his chair back. A man who spent eighteen months on his own doing drug interdiction in Peru wasn't the kind of guy to have connections with a lowlife like Casey Baxter. Jim Ellison had been a straight arrow since he was in diapers. He certainly wouldn't take off with the proceeds of a drug deal for personal gain. He'd showed up under his bushes empty-handed.

Blair looked at the time and shut down the computer. He made a quick phone call to the departmental secretary. Five minutes later he was flying down the back stairs of Hargrove, the shopping bags bouncing as he went.

&&&&&

"Captain Banks, you're not assigned to the case. I really shouldn't be discussing it with you."

"I can appreciate that, Serena. If you would prefer, you can leave the file on your desk and take a stroll."

Serena gave him a half-smile. She was accustomed to Captain Banks peeking over her shoulder from time to time. They'd done this dance many times, and Banks had never betrayed her trust. On the other hand, IA wasn't usually involved, and that changed the stakes a bit.

"I could, if I still had the file. Everything I had was removed by Captain Welch at the request of IA. As far as anyone is concerned, my part of the investigation is closed."

Banks leaned closer. They were both seated on stools in the back of the lab. Anyone coming in wouldn't see them having this conversation. "I'm not just anyone. What do they have so far?"

"The serial numbers identify the murder weapon as Ellison's service revolver. The ballistics match. Well, they sort of match. The bullets were hollow-points. The ones recovered from the bodies were too mangled to evaluate very accurately."

"So what do you mean, they matched or they didn't?"

"There were significant similarities. It would probably hold up in court. Ellison's gun was loaded with the same bullets. They aren't departmental issue, Captain."

"Okay," Banks muttered. "What else? Any signs of a struggle? Prints?"

"Nothing on or in the vehicle. The weapon was found in the gutter, next to the front tire." Serena started to say more, and then held her tongue.

Banks frowned. "Serena, we've worked together for a long time. Doesn't it strike you as a little odd that Ellison would commit a double murder with a weapon easily traced back to him, much less leave it right at the scene for us to find?"

"I suppose he could have panicked, sir." Serena wouldn't look at him. Instead, she picked at a piece of tape that was stuck to the counter top.

"Right. This is Ellison we're talking about," Simon said, making no effort to hide his sarcasm. "He successfully murders two fellow officers, then gets scared, drops the gun and runs off into the night." He studied Serena's calm face. She knew, or suspected something, but she wasn't going to volunteer the information. He would have to ask the right question. "Were there any other prints on the gun? On the bullets still in the chamber?"

Serena's eyes flickered. "No, sir, there weren't. No prints, period. Not even partials."

Simon gave her a long look before answering. "You're telling me that the weapon Ellison handled on a daily basis, had no prints on it, not even his own?"

"That's correct, sir. The gun was clean, as were the bullets."

Banks leaned back in his chair and considered that revelation. "Care to tell me why Ellison would wipe clean all the prints on a traceable weapon, and after all that trouble, leave it at the scene? Didn't even so much as try to throw it down a storm drain, or toss it in a dumpster a block away."

Serena gave him an unblinking stare. "It's not my place to speculate on the meaning of the evidence, Captain. Investigators do that. My opinions are not required, if you get my drift."

"I see. Thank you, Serena. I owe you lunch at the earliest opportunity." He started to walk out, then turned just before he reached the door. "Oh, Serena? Remind me periodically of how much I NEED to pay attention to your opinions."

That earned him a wry grin. "Sure, Captain. Anytime."

Banks gently closed the door to forensics behind him. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Just what did you do to piss your boss off, Ellison?"

&&&&&

"Oh, no. No."

Blair nearly dropped the bags. His back door hung precariously from shattered hinges. The doorframe was splintered where the lock had been forced. He stepped in cautiously, wincing as the door creaked loudly. If anyone was still in the house, they would have heard it. The long, narrow back hall led into the kitchen. The table and two chairs were lying on their sides. Ellison must have put up a fight.

He inched along the wall. There was no way of knowing whether someone was waiting to jump him or not. He considered himself a non-violent person, but Baxter had already threatened him more than once, and he intended to protect himself. Some kind of a weapon would be nice.

The kitchen was deserted. The cupboard doors hung open, his meager collection of garage sale dinnerware in shards on the floor. From there he could see into a couple of other rooms, which were trashed as well, but seemed empty. For lack of anything else, he picked up a can of tomatoes that was sitting on the counter.

Still not a sound. He stood poised at the foot of the stairs. Every single one of the stair treads creaked. No way would he make it to the second floor without alerting anyone who might be in the house. This was stupid. Maybe he should just call the police and let them sort it out. After all, he hadn't known Ellison was a fugitive when he'd taken him in last night - well, he sort of hadn't known.

"How you doin', Prof? We're going to have us a little chat."

Blair spun around. Casey Baxter was standing in his hall.

"Get out of here, Baxter!" Blair shouted. "Right now!"

Baxter charged down the hallway. Blair hurled the can at him from point blank range. It smacked him in the forehead, rocking the drug dealer back on his heels. Blair darted through the door of the parlor, slamming it shut. He shoved a couple of boxes in front of the door and headed for the window. He heard Baxter screaming at him, throwing himself at the door. The door banged open. Blair knew he wasn't going to have enough time to clear the window and make a run for it.

He dodged around boxes, heaving whatever he could lay a hand on at Baxter. It wasn't going to work for long. "Get away from me!" Blair shouted. "Get out of my house! Help!" At least maybe the ruckus would make a neighbor call the police.

He was trying to circle around and make a break for the hallway. Baxter was having none of it. Blair tumbled over backwards over a box and Baxter lunged for him. He kicked out at his attacker, scrabbling backwards, trying to regain his feet. His hand fell on something cool and smooth, an object from his childhood. Blair wrapped both hands around it and swung just as Baxter closed the gap.

The dealer went down like a stone.

Blair got to his feet, shaken and angry. He ran his hands over the smooth ash. "That's my Mickey Mantle bat, you son-of-a-bitch." Leaving Baxter sprawled on the floor, he bolted up the stairs, bat still in hand. "Ellison?" he shouted. "Jim!" He raced up the stairs.

The upstairs bedroom was empty. The comforter on the futon was tucked in neatly, better than Blair ever did it when he got up in the morning. The rest of the room was undisturbed. Blair sat down heavily on the side of the bed. Baxter wasn't the type to make the bed. Ellison must have left on his own power. Maybe he'd just been biding his time, waiting for Blair to get out of the way before he called someone to come get him.

In which case, he still had a crazed drug dealer, unconscious on the first floor, who needed to be dealt with. With a heavy heart, Blair picked up the phone and dialed the Cascade Police Department.

&&&&&

Blair sat on the bottom stair, exhausted by the turmoil of the day. From his vantage point he could survey the wreckage of his new home in all directions. He should get up - sort through the broken stuff to see what he could salvage, sweep up the slivers of glass, call the insurance company about getting someone to repair the shattered back door. None of it seemed very important. Most of all, he wanted to wish himself back to last night, before all this craziness had happened.

Other than taking a while to arrive, he couldn't complain about the police. They'd taken the time to explain the Cascade Police Department was spread a little thin today, looking for one of their own. Blair didn't want to dwell on that thought. The 911 operator kept calling him, checking on his safety, and reassuring him that help was on the way. Feeling a little like a minor character out of a bad western, Blair had trussed Casey Baxter up with whatever he could lay a hand on, including a couple of neckties. Even when he was sure Baxter wasn't going anywhere, it was still pretty spooky.

That strategy got a good laugh out of the two officers who finally showed up. They were detectives, which might have been a little over the top, but he'd been happy to see them. This obviously wasn't the kind of call they would usually be handling, but the patrol units were bogged down. They seemed an unlikely pair, just a little older than he was. They'd been pretty cool, started off by apologizing for the delay, then cracked up at his colorful substitute for handcuffs. Blair dug the business card out of his pocket and read it again.

Detective Henri Brown

Major Crime

Cascade Police Department

A home phone number was scrawled on the back, which was pretty decent. Blair had volunteered no information for Baxter's attack other than their run-in at Hargrove, which was promptly confirmed by Campus Security. Brown, and his partner in the suit - what was his name? - had been a bit concerned for his safety. Considering he'd been harboring a fugitive a few hours earlier, Blair had turned down the offer of further protection or surveillance. As a compromise, he'd agreed to contact Brown, day or night, if anything happened, and that was that. His last view of Baxter was of him disappearing into the back seat of the detectives' car.

He propped the card by the phone, which mercifully, Baxter hadn't torn out of the wall. He forced himself to start making calls. The insurance company agreed to handle the logistics for the door repair. He swept up the kitchen, taking note that Baxter had wiped out most of his eclectic assortment of glasses and plates. Blair couldn't decide whether the destruction occurred because Baxter was looking for something, or just for spite. At least he hadn't found Ellison's gun while he ransacked the place.

He made a serious attempt to clean the parlor. Boxes and containers of files had split open and items were strewn across the hardwood floor. The insurance adjuster and carpenter arrived at the same time, so Blair stuck around while they worked and unpacked boxes he'd neglected earlier. His heart wasn't in the task, but it was preferable to wondering why Ellison had disappeared, or where he had gone. By the time the last screw was set, and the final book was shelved, the afternoon had disappeared. Realizing he'd skipped lunch, he headed for the kitchen.

It was just too depressing. Once again, he wondered if the damage was from a struggle with Ellison or just Baxter's mean streak. On an earlier tour through the kitchen he'd discovered that his two rickety chairs weren't just overturned, but broken beyond repair. Even the one that had initially looked okay had dumped him on his butt when he sat down. Blair kicked it in disgust. His meager collection of glassware had been demolished, and the only plates left were some plastic jobs that were unbreakable. Faced with the reality of drinking out of the faucet and eating soup out of the pan, dinner seemed entirely too much trouble. He ordered a pizza and slowly wandered up the stairs. Just flaking out on the bed until the delivery arrived sounded like a great idea.

&&&&&

"Baxter! Front and center, man. Your bail's been posted."

Casey Baxter momentarily contemplated staying right where he was. His head ached and his plans were shot. Sharing a cell with a few derelicts was looking pretty good, considering the alternatives.

Instead he sauntered out the door. "Damn right," he sneered at the jailer. "It's about time."

He collected his personal property in the standard manila envelope. Luckily, he hadn't been carrying any product when they rousted him, or he'd have that tacked on to the charges, too. As he made his way towards the exit, his mood turned deadly serious.

If there was any luck in the world with his name on it, Jared had posted his bail, and no one more critical had any idea he'd spent the afternoon enjoying the hospitality of the Cascade Police Department. Baxter halted near the exit doors. As much as he despised the police, he needed to gather his thoughts and leave here with a plan. How the hell had Sandburg ever been able to take him down in the first place?

He was certain Ellison had hidden in that house. Jared had found a smear of blood on the white porch railing, and the ground underneath was stained dark. No doubt they'd been within twenty feet of Ellison the night before, and let that egghead reading a book bluff them off. Sandburg had to have known the guy was there. Why had he protected him? They couldn't possibly know each other.

He and Jared had been so certain when they'd bashed in the lock, only to find no trace of Ellison. The only alternative was to wait for Sandburg and beat the answer out of him. Baxter had sent Jared off to check with Tamar and the other searchers, and then searched the house again - closets, under beds, the basement. When he didn't find anything, he trashed it for the entertainment, and some shock value. He'd been confident he could scare Sandburg into talking. Sandburg had been scared all right, but nothing else had gone as planned. The moment he was out of this disaster with Ellison, he was going to settle the score with Sandburg.

He vented a little of his frustration by shoving the double glass doors so they snapped open. Baxter looked up and down the street. Jared was smart, and the one person in his life who was totally dependable. If he'd posted bail, he'd be waiting nearby with transportation.

His heart sank when a familiar black sedan pulled up to the curb, and the door opened. He had no choice but to get in.

&&&&&

Simon Banks, in full captain mode, barked at his two detectives, "You have half a dozen open cases. What are you doing taking B & E calls?"

"Sorry, Captain. The 911 dispatcher was desperate. The patrol units were tied up, and this was a hot one. The guy had the perp tied up in the house. We couldn't just leave him there." Rafe looked at his partner, and they both burst out laughing.

"I am not amused," Banks growled.

"Ah, Captain, you should have seen it." Henri Brown snickered again. "Remember Casey Baxter?"

"Warehouse bust - couldn't make the charges stick - that Casey Baxter?" Banks asked gruffly, not the least mollified.

"That's the one. This prof from Rainier found him in the house, fought him off, smacked him with a baseball bat and tied him up with neckties. It was a sight to behold. Baxter was ready to eat nails, but he'll do time for this one. He was caught six ways to Sunday."

A huge grin replaced the scowl on Banks' face. "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? That little punk should have been in a cell months, maybe years, ago." He glared at his two detectives. "I may forgive you for wasting half the day doing someone else's work. But I want progress on Ferguson AND the Castle murder."

"We have one little concern, Captain." Brown looked at Rafe, who nodded in agreement. "Baxter made bail this afternoon. I think he'll go after Sandburg as soon as he can. We were thinking, Sandburg didn't ask, but maybe we'd watch the house a bit. Just to be on the safe side."

Simon frowned. "Patrol should handle it."

"Patrol should, Captain, they've got all units chasing around looking for Ellison," Rafe interrupted. "I don't know what IA thinks the guy did, but it's damn near a feeding frenzy. No one's going to follow up if we don't."

Banks nodded. "Follow your instincts. I just hate to stretch you guys so thin. I feel bad enough about all the overtime you've been putting in."

"We'll be okay, Captain," Brown answered, obviously pleased with the decision. "This Sandburg - well, he's kind of a neo-hippy, but he was a really engaging guy. You gotta love it - Casey Baxter trussed up like a turkey in neckwear." He nudged Rafe. "Besides, it's not like a stakeout in the rain in the dead of winter. We can do a nice little summer evening in the car."

"Right," Rafe said with a grin. He rolled his eyes. "We'll make it a picnic. Bring the volleyballs and sunscreen."

Simon shook his head, laughing. "Get out of here, you two. Keep me posted. Come in a little late tomorrow to make up for it."

Banks waited until his team departed, then grabbed his coat. He'd hoped to get Brown and Rafe to do a little snooping for him. Both of them had great connections with officers in other departments. He had few other options for getting information about Jim Ellison, the most hunted man in Cascade.

He could only hope that Joel Taggart had better luck.

&&&&&

Blair sagged back on the bed. What a day, by any measure - bleeding police officer-cum-fugitive, drug dealers, home invasion, more police officers. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been peacefully reading a book in his backyard. Maybe the suburbs were just too dangerous for lowly anthropology professors.

He closed his eyes, trying to doze, but still hear the doorbell. A soft scraping brought him back to full attention. Shit! He hadn't heard that sound since his pre-dissertation days, living in the warehouse. It had to be rats. He sat bolt upright on the bed. Please, not rats in his new house. Maybe in the basement; he could live with that, but on the second floor?

He sat listening intensely, trying to follow the sound. It led toward the back of the house. The closer he got, the less it sounded like the scritch-scratch of a rodent. Could it be Baxter? He nearly ran for the baseball bat again.

He'd stacked a couple of winter clothing boxes at the end of the hallway, in front of the tiny door that led to the crawl space and the attic. The sounds had stopped. It must have just been his imagination. Too much excitement in one day had him jumping at shadows. If it was rats, he could set out traps in the morning. In his current mood, maybe having some pest control outfit nuke the whole place was the way to go, even if it did ruin his karma for decades.

Disgusted with himself, he headed for the stairs. A soft groan spun him on his heels. He flung the boxes to the side and pulled open the tiny trap door that lead to the attic. A blast of hot air poured from the darkened space, and a hand flopped in front of him.

"Oh my God," Blair muttered as he hauled the limp, sweating body of Jim Ellison into the hallway.

"Baxter," mumbled Ellison, struggling feebly to get away. "Noooo..."

"He's gone, man," Blair said, trying to be stern and soothing in the same moment. "He's in jail." Ellison still flailed weakly against the helping hands. "Come on, man - cooperate. God, you're burning up."

He somehow got Ellison up and together they stumbled into the tiny bathroom. Blair braced the larger man between one hip and the wall while he turned on the taps. Either the hot, stuffy attic, fever or both had Ellison in near heat stroke. "In the water, man," he muttered. "Do you understand? Got to cool you down, right now."

Ellison nodded and virtually tumbled into the tub, cracking his head against the tile on the way down. He shrank away from the chill temperature, but slumped down into the cool water, unable to control his balance. Blair grabbed the nearest washcloth and began squeezing water across the stricken man's body.

"Nooo. Too cold," Ellison moaned, trying to push Blair's hands away. With a final shudder, his head lolled back and he passed out.

&&&&&

Joel Taggart was already waiting for him at their favorite hideaway, much to Simon's relief. A juicy burger sat in front of his place, although these days Joel went for a salad instead of a 100% All-American beef. At least Joel still allowed himself a beer when the occasion warranted.

"Hey, Simon, glad you got here," Joel said cheerfully. If that meal sat in front of me any longer, I was going to eat it myself and order you a new one."

"Nah, you're the soul of discipline when you're on a diet," Simon answered. His mood always brightened around Joel, the steadiest of men, no matter what the circumstances. They spent a few minutes eating, enjoying each other's company. They'd get to the private part of the conversation soon enough. "How long have we been doing this, Taggart?"

"Nearly twenty years," Joel said with a grin. "Except they were nineteen cent burgers at Bob's In and Out, and the only thing green I was eating were the pickles."

When the waitress brought their after-dinner coffee, they got down to business. "I spoke with Serena," Simon said softly. Their regular table was off in a corner, but it still paid to be discreet. "The evidence is hardly conclusive, or maybe I should say, probable. If Ellison wanted to call attention to himself, it couldn't be more perfectly arranged." He elaborated on his problems with the evidence.

"People panic, Simon."

"Would Ellison panic?" Simon asked pointedly.

"Under any circumstances I can envision, no," Joel agreed. "Any contact I've had with the man has been rock solid, but given that the action of executing two fellow officers being so totally out of character, maybe we can't say."

"I didn't get anything else done. I was hoping to have Rafe and Brown ask around, but..." A frustrated shrug told Joel the rest without saying. They both knew how the best-laid plans went in a police station.

"Don't apologize, Simon. We're meddling in another man's department, and that's just not done, under most circumstances. It's a lot easier for me to make casual conversation and ask a few questions. People are used to me making the rounds to keep in touch."

"Except when we have bombs to defuse," Simon added with a laugh.

"Well, yeah, actual bombs do kind of interrupt," Joel agreed with a grin. "This is what I've been able to glean so far." He took a long sip from his cooling coffee. "Ellison hasn't partnered with anyone for almost a year. It was normal for him in the past to assist with other cases, work with other officers on specific operations. He never did more than half of his cases solo. That stopped last fall. When other guys asked if he could help out, the stock answer was he 'wasn't available'. How would you interpret that?"

"That it was a top-down change, not necessarily something Ellison requested." Simon answered with certainty. "That's what it would mean for me."

Joel nodded in agreement. "Second, Ellison quit talking about his cases, started avoiding people. Everyone speculated about undercover work, but no one knew for what purpose, and there was never any formal assignment. Third, he hasn't attended a departmental staffing in months. They were always scheduled when he was on duty."

"Well, that can happen," Simon volunteered. "Schedules get messed up, stuff like that. Still, you never let someone get isolated."

"You don't let someone get isolated," Joel said pointedly. "Put the worst face on it. What if that was the intention all along?"

They sat in silence, considering the gravity of that accusation.

&&&&&

Déjà vu.

Same ceiling. Same killer headache. Same set of cerulean eyes staring back at him.

Jim groaned and rolled to his side, wondering why he was reliving this and hadn't died the first time.

"You scared me to death, you know," a voice said softly. A hand brushed Jim's forehead, and stayed briefly. "I don't have a thermometer, but I know you're cooler. Other than lousy, can you tell me how you feel?"

"Everything hurts," Jim said honestly. "My head, my arm, my whole body. I'm completely wiped out."

"That's the fever to blame, I'm afraid. It took hours to bring it down. I've been pumping liquids and antibiotics down you since I found you, although you may not remember it." Jim nodded. After crawling into the attic, he had no clear memory of anything.

Sandburg kept talking. "You weren't very coherent. I wanted to call a doctor. I was afraid you were going to die."

Jim pushed himself up on one elbow. His head spun, but he persisted. That was a lot of information to take in all at once. "How'd you get antibiotics without calling a doctor?"

"Raided the Anthro stash. We always carry our own on long stays in the field, especially if they're the least bit remote." Sandburg stopped to pour a glass of juice and hand it to Jim. "I went to Rainier after I went shopping and picked up a few things, but when I got back you were gone. Or at least I thought you were gone."

"Baxter showed up. I didn't have anywhere to go." His head pounded fiercely, and he winced in pain.

"I know. We had an interesting encounter."

That admission from Sandburg brought Jim's eyes wide open with a start. "Did he hurt you?" He started to clamber out of the bed, without much success.

"Slow down. He tried. The house took most of the damage. I smacked him with a baseball bat, tied him up, and they arrested him. Personally, I hope they throw away the key." Sandburg glanced at the window as if he'd suddenly thought of something. "Do you know a detective by the name of Henri Brown? And Rafe somebody?"

"Yeah," Jim said a little unsteadily. He was having trouble following the twists and turns in this conversation. His brain just wasn't firing on all cylinders. "They're in Major Crime. Why do you ask?"

"They came out and arrested Baxter. Actually, they've been sitting in a car across the street for most of the night." Jim sat bolt upright, and paid in pain. Sandburg laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "They don't know you're here. I covered the windows over the curtains with strips of foil. As far as they're concerned, I'm up here asleep with the lights off."

Jim felt himself slump back to the pillow. He just didn't have the energy. Everything was so confusing, and he was so deadly tired. He had a million questions upon his lips, when his eyes started to close. Try as he might, the next sentence he meant to say stuck on his tongue. An icy cold cloth bathed his forehead. Knowing fingers massaged the pressure points, relieving the aching in his head.

"Don't fight it," he heard Sandburg murmur, the hand stroking his brow again. "We can talk in the morning. It's okay. Just sleep."

&&&&&

They were a long way out of Cascade, somewhere in the National Forest north of the city. There'd been no conversation on the drive, just an eerie silence. When the car pulled to a stop, Baxter was sure he'd been chauffeured to the site of his own grave.

"Why don't you tell me how you ended up in lockup for the afternoon?" The voice was smooth, calm as always, only the barest hint of menace around the edges.

"We thought we found where Ellison was hiding out. When we couldn't find him, we waited. The guy jumped me."

"I'm informed of the details. A university professor ties you up and leaves you for the arresting officers. Nice touch, Baxter. Most people don't screw up so totally with the well-heeled and educated. What did he disarm you with, a textbook?"

"He bashed my head with a baseball bat, okay? I wasn't expecting it. Next time..."

"There will BE no next time."

Baxter's voice rose in panic. He was a dead man. "Look, we can find Ellison. The rest doesn't matter. I'll - I can - don't!"

"Listen to me very carefully."

Baxter went totally still. He was balanced on the knife-edge. It could go either way.

"There are officers watching Sandburg's home. You're not going near the place."

Baxter held back a sigh of relief. It almost sounded like Welch wasn't going to kill him outright.

"You go back. Post watchers on the watchers. The unit will be pulled off eventually. If Ellison is in the house, he will leave - eventually, and you'll take him - away from the house. You stay out of everything else. I don't work with unreliable screw-ups."

"One problem and you're dumping us. After a year?"

"That's right. Now get out. I've arranged other transportation for your ride to Cascade."

Baxter's hand was shaking from a strange mixture of rage and relief as he opened the car door.

"Oh, Casey? The ride back will be very - instructional, shall we say."

Casey Baxter shut the door to the sedan and it roared off. When he turned, they were waiting for him.

&&&&&&

"So what do you think, H? We been here long enough?"

Henri Brown rolled his head back and stretched. Rafe had a nice ride, but it was still hard for a big man to sit still in a car seat for hours at a time. "Don't know. We leave and Baxter could be here five minutes later."

"True, but it's two in the morning. I'm beat. Simon's version of 'come in late' isn't going to be late enough for me." Rafe yawned. "You're right, though. You want to take a nap and I'll keep an eye out? Then we'll trade."

Henri leaned his seat back, rolling his shoulders into the seat cushions, trying to get comfortable. "Take you up on that one, partner." Both men were silent for a few minutes. Eyes still closed, he asked his partner, "Why is this bugging us so much?"

"Because Sandburg seemed like a nice guy who was pretty scared. Because he warned us off, even though it was subtle. Because a lowlife like Baxter doesn't need to come after a University professor just because he hassled him in the hallway. Because something just doesn't ring true, and we're such vaunted detectives that we can't let it go."

Henri snorted, still keeping his eyes closed. "Fabulous. Vaunted detectives, huh? I'll remind you of that when we're both half asleep tomorrow. Captain Banks is going to vaunt our butts into next week." Another silence followed. Henri shifted and squirmed.

"What do you really think Sandburg has that Baxter wanted?" Rafe asked, knowing full well his partner wasn't asleep.

Henri sighed. "Has as opposed to knows?"

"Definitely 'has'. You don't tear up a house looking for what someone knows, you tear apart a house because that someone has something you want. So unless Sandburg is running drugs, what could he possibly have in there that Baxter would be so stupid for?"

"Don't know, man. Now be quiet. I need to sleep. Wake me in an hour."

"Come on, H, you're kidding yourself. The last time you fell asleep in a car you were nine years old. What could Sandburg have?"

Henri shook his head. The interior of the car was dimly lit by a streetlight three car-lengths down, and the partners could see each other in the glow. "Maybe something the professor brought back. Don't anthropologists dig up old stuff that's worth money?"

"That's archeologists, not anthropologists," Rafe answered knowingly. "Besides, you saw the place. Everything in the place was Early Goodwill, not priceless antique, and Baxter hasn't done much larceny since he was a kid boosting cars. He's making too much running the chemicals."

"Okay, let's just say you're right. Could he have seen something, then? Something at Rainier Baxter wants him to forget?" Henri stretched, apparently giving up on the nap idea. "Hand me one of those candy bars. I need an energy boost if I'm going to stay awake and talk." He tore the edge of the wrapper off with his teeth and bit into the chocolate. "If that's the case, we need to talk to the good professor again and get him to open up to us, because there's no way we can protect him. The two of us sitting in a car is not going to cut it."

Suddenly Rafe's head snapped around. "Damn. H, where did Ellison supposedly shoot those patrol officers?"

"Fourteenth and - hey, what are you thinking? We're not that far from there. Nah, it couldn't be."

"Was there any report that Ellison was mixed up with Baxter, or vice versa?" Rafe asked.

"Not that I know of, but Ellison works narcotics. From what I hear, Baxter is moving up in the world, running a lot of product. For some reason, they can't lay a hand on him. Our bust was the last thing on his sheet." Henri snapped the seat up. "Baxter had to be high on the hit list. Come on, man, that's just too wild to be a serious connection."

"Tell me honestly, H, have you heard anything about this Ellison fiasco that did make sense? Sandburg doesn't make any sense either. I think we need to talk with Simon."

On to Part Two