Morning was a different matter altogether.

Jim felt well-rested. Although he knew he'd dreamed a few times, at least one of which had woken him in a cold sweat, he'd resolutely pushed away all memory of them. They were banished to the deep recesses of his mind along with the almost-forgotten remnants of his flashback and the dream he'd had while in the hospital. As he suspected, the burn on his arm had triggered the memories, and as the pain faded, so did the images. With a little determination, he was certain he could send them back to his subconscious where they belonged.

Although he'd known he was going to be sore following the wreck, the knowledge did nothing to ease the vast assortment of aches and pains that ricocheted through his body. If the pressure in his bladder was any indication, remaining in bed was not an option, so he reluctantly set about getting himself upright.

Rolling over, he winced as he uncovered a new pain that turned out to be a splotchy row of rainbow bruises parading down his left leg. The bruises terminated at his foot, which was an ugly mottle of dark-hued colors. He couldn't recall jamming his foot during the topsy-turvy end to the high-speed chase, but his toes hurt worse than any other part of his ache-filled body.

He rested his heel on the edge of the mattress to assess the damage, but nothing was broken. His toes were extremely stiff and tender, but he seemed to have avoided serious injury. Standing up, he stretched cautiously and discovered a bruise across the middle of his chest where the shoulder harness had held him. The bruise was the shape and size of a football, and it felt extremely tender. But he really couldn't complain. Without the restraint, he would have been killed.

His toes wouldn't bend without hurting, so he took the stairs one slow step at a time. Movement helped loosen the stiffened muscles, however, and he was feeling better -- if not exactly chipper -- by the time he started breakfast.

Since the pain from his burns was little more than a dull ache, and he wasn't imprisoned inside a rigid splint like his roommate, he ambitiously decided to prepare an omelet, slicing mushrooms, red and yellow bell peppers, onions and cheese. He sautéed the vegetables to release their flavors, then folded them inside the cooking eggs. When the omelet was finished, he halved it onto two plates, carried them to the table, and fetched juice, coffee, toast, and a jar of chunky salsa they both favored.

He figured the pleasant aromas wafting around the loft would rouse his roommate, and his prediction came true a few minutes later when he heard a soft moan from the tiny bedroom. The sound lacked any real distress behind it, so Jim figured Blair was just suffering the normal aftereffects of the crash.

His loftmate emerged a while later. He looked a little strange with his broken arm trapped inside the body of the sweatshirt he'd slept in, the unused sleeve tucked in to keep it from flapping around, but at least he'd enjoyed a good rest despite the limited number of comfortable sleeping positions.

"How are you feeling?" Jim asked sympathetically.

Blair paused in the center of the floor to ponder the question seriously. After a moment, he said, "Remind me not to go ten rounds with Evander Holyfield again, OK?"

Jim chuckled. "That's one piece of advice we can both use," he admitted. "I meant, how's your head and your arm?"

Blair palmed his sleep-swollen eyes, then lightly touched the bandage covering the cut on his temple. "I took some aspirin last night before going to bed. It did the trick." He wiggled his broken arm a bit inside the torso of the sweatshirt. "My arm feels pretty good."

"No numbness?" Jim persisted.

Blair's sighed but controlled his rising irritation. Jim was just in his hovering, mother-hen mode, and he might as well accept it. "No numbness." He eyed the spread with appreciation. "You're feeling industrious this morning," he observed, sitting down when Jim refused to allow him into the kitchen to help.

"It's cold outside," Jim answered. "I felt like something substantial for breakfast." He sat down and spooned salsa over his eggs.

"Are we going in this morning to file our reports?"

Jim nodded. "I thought we might as well get it taken care of. Then we've got the day free to relax."

"That sounds like a plan," Blair agreed, tackling his own breakfast. "You're gonna have to help me out of this sweatshirt, though."

"I don't know. You look kind of endearingly helpless like that -- the women at the precinct will probably fall all over themselves to help you."

Blair pondered the possibilities for a moment, then reluctantly shook his head. "Believe it or not, since I can't have two fully functional arms for awhile, I'd still like to have at least two somewhat functional sets of fingers."

"OK, just pick clothes with buttons so we don't have to wrestle anything over your head," Jim advised.

The phone rang then, interrupting their meal.

Jim glanced at the clock on the VCR. "At this hour, it can't be good news," he predicted, rising and going to the wall phone. He answered it in his usually succinct manner. "Ellison."

Simon didn't waste any breath with greetings. "Jim, the Gauntlet made bail this morning."

"What?" Jim couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How the hell did that happen?"

At the table, Blair put down his fork and wished for sentinel hearing so he could overhear both sides of the conversation.

"They have a smart lawyer, that's how," Simon grumbled, clearly as upset as his detective. "The gang was good. At the moment, we've got nothing to tie them to the Handi-Mart robbery and murders. The weapons used in the robbery were left at the scene, and the gang didn't leave any fingerprints behind. We've got hair and fiber evidence to analyze, but that's gonna take some time."

"Then what about the shootout with us?" Jim returned in amazement.

"There's nothing to link them to the land mine that blew up the car, and they claim they were just playing a harmless game of cat-and-mouse. They say you opened fire on them when they approached the wreck to help."

"Help!" Jim practically snorted with disbelief. "With automatic weapons in their hands?"

"Oh, the judge knows they're not completely innocent," Simon assured him bitterly. "But the best we can do for now is reckless endangerment, illegal possession and discharge of automatic weapons, and assault on a police officer."

"All bailable offenses," Jim muttered darkly. "They'll be long gone by the time you put together a solid case."

Simon sighed. "Probably," he agreed. "The judge wasn't swayed by arguments that the gang members are flight risks. Sorry."

"Not your fault," Jim murmured absently. "Thanks for the call."

He said goodbye to Simon and then hung up the receiver. Standing there for a long moment, his thoughts glum, he finally turned and went back to the table.

"What's up?" Blair asked a bit anxiously as Jim sat down and picked up his coffee mug.

Jim told him.

Blair scowled when the depressing news had been delivered. "Man, all that work for nothing!" he said angrily, starting to clench his right fist inside his sweatshirt until the traumatized muscles in his broken arm reminded him that probably wasn't a good idea. "They nearly kill us, and now they'll just skip town and set up their deadly game somewhere else."

Jim tried to sound philosophical, but inside he was seething. "Win some, lose some," he muttered unconvincingly, spreading some jam on a slice of toast and putting it on his partner's plate. "Finish your breakfast."

The good mood of the morning had vanished, and Jim was eager to get to work.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

The phone rang again just as he finished washing the breakfast dishes.

"Ellison."

It was Simon again. "Sorry, Jim," the Captain apologized immediately. "Do you feel up to taking on another case?"

"I planned to come in this morning," Jim assured him, "but I wanted to work on the Gauntlet case."

"I've got detectives all over that one," Simon replied, "but I just got a call on something else. It doesn't sound pretty. You're not gonna like it."

Jim sighed. "What is it?"

When Simon had told him, Jim knew he didn't like it at all. "Sure," he agreed finally. "I'll check it out."

Hanging up once again, he turned toward his roommate, who was emerging from his bedroom, head bent as he fumbled to fasten his flannel shirt. As if it was second nature, Jim walked over and automatically began doing up the buttons.

Blair was too busy assessing the look on Jim's face to comment about his partner's presumptuousness. "Now what?" he asked suspiciously. His eyes widened as his partner filled him in on their latest assignment, then he shook his head. "Bad idea, Jim," he protested. "What with the flashbacks you've been having -- "

"Flashback, singular," Jim interrupted stubbornly.

Blair grimaced. "All right...flashback. And you've admitted you've been having dreams. Even if you can't remember all of them, you've obviously got a lot of repressed memories churning right below the threshold of consciousness. I was hoping we'd get a chance to work through some of them this morning."

Jim didn't sound particularly regretful that Blair's plan was being thwarted. "Duty calls," he said blandly.

"Duty!" Blair erupted with annoyance. "I'll bet you haven't even told Simon about the flashback or the dreams. If he understood the hazards of sending you out on this particular case, I'm certain he'd reconsider."

"Look, I'm OK," Jim shot back a little angrily. "One damn flashback doesn't make me some emotional cripple who needs to lie on a couch and spill his guts to some shrink."

"You like lying on our couch," Blair retorted coolly, "and I'm not a shrink."

Jim winced but didn't back down. "OK, maybe I'm underplaying the significance of what happened yesterday, but I think you're blowing one little incident all out of proportion." Blair's derisive grunt didn't deter him. "You don't have to come along. You should probably keep that arm elevated a bit anyway."

"Bullshit I don't have to come along!" his roommate growled, walking to the coat rack and taking down his parka. "I'm the only one who has a clue about what's going on with you." He held the coat toward Jim. "Are you going to help me get this thing on, or shall I just quietly freeze to death in the mountains while you play the macho cop?"

Jim released a hard breath. "Man, you're going to be a bundle of fun today," he complained, walking over to help Blair with his parka.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

'I wonder if this one's going to be ugly?' Jim asked himself. It was a rhetorical question, and he knew it; all murders were ugly, but some, he had to admit, were ugly.

And he felt he'd drawn more than his share of them lately.

They both had.

He glanced across the seat at Sandburg, who stared through the windshield with an expression of grim anger that made his face look more angular and shadowed, less youthful.

"You don't have to go in," he pointed out quietly. Again.

Blair almost snorted. "Lot of good I'll be, sitting in the truck if you have a zone-out." He shifted in the seat to get his feet under the heater vent. Jim had helped him get his splinted arm through the sleeve of his parka, then replaced the sling, but it pretty much insured Blair was stuck wearing the jacket both indoors and out. He kept the side window cracked so he wouldn't get too warm, but he wanted the heater on because his feet were cold. He'd never realized how something as minor as a broken arm could be so inconvenient in so many ways.

"I'll be careful," Jim promised, but it sounded lame, and he knew it.

Blair didn't even bother to comment.

They'd left Cascade behind them and entered the foothills outside the city. On their left was the rugged coastline of the Pacific, its surface mirror-smooth under a lowering cloud cover. Sky and ocean met at an indistinct gray horizon, and it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

To the right, hills rolled into mountains, all tree-covered and rugged, with snow-covered peaks presently obscured by the dense clouds. Surprisingly, it wasn't very cold, but there was a promise of freezing temperatures, and the weather forecast had called for thunderstorms by mid-afternoon.

Still close to the city, this area was part of the National Forest and had avoided the development woes plaguing most of the coastline.

Blair grimaced at the beautiful scenery. "Jesus, Jim, we've been camping up here."

"And we will again," Jim answered bluntly.

Don't bet on it.

"What's the matter, Chief?" Jim asked, his own temper wearing thin. "Didn't you ever wonder how we got all the data for those neat little charts in the manuals?"

Blair let out a heavy sigh, then shook his head. "It's not that. I mean, yeah, it's gross and disgusting, and I really never thought about it before, but that's not why I'm -- " He trailed off. "It's the case," he admitted finally. "I mean, do you really think you're up to this?"

"I don't know," Jim admitted, but in his gut, he figured his partner had a valid question.

They finally turned off the two-lane onto a bumpy dirt road that had a sign posted: U.S. Forest Service Vehicles Only, No Public Access.

"Nice touch," Blair observed sarcastically. "Does that actually keep anyone out?"

"Every little bit helps," Jim replied, refusing to respond to the tone in his partner's voice.

A half-mile later, they pulled up in front of an eight-foot-high, chain-link gate topped by coiled razor wire. A large sign on the gate read: Rainier University, Department of Anthropology, Exposure and Decay Studies. Below was a phone number for the university. To either side, an equally high, imposing fence disappeared into the forest.

Blair's eyes widened in amazement. "The Anthropology Department?" he repeated, unnaturally irritated by what he took as a personal affront. "My department? Jim, did you know that? How come I didn't know that?"

Jim smiled at his friend's outrage. "I don't think it's something they put in their course catalog, Sandburg," he said reasonably. "Besides, you ought to be grateful the feds are paying them for the study. Aren't you always saying your department is short of funds?"

Blair was still agitated. "Yeah, but this -- " He shook his head. "Wow."

Jim was about to suggest his partner make himself useful and open the gate, when a woman came out of a low building located just a short distance inside the fence. Sturdily built, with a white lab coat over her street clothes and sensible, thick-soled shoes on her feet, she looked every inch the professional, no-nonsense doctor. She strode over and unlocked the heavy padlock, then swung open the large gate.

With a wave of thanks, Jim drove through and parked next to a Mercedes and a battered Toyota minivan. As they climbed out to meet the woman, Blair zipped up his jacket and huddled into the collar, drawing away from more than the cold. He fancied the air smelled of death and decay, and with a glance at Jim, he figured he wasn't far off the mark.

Jim's face was slightly pinched, a vertical line between his eyes testifying to his efforts to tune down his sense of smell.

"You all right?" Blair whispered quietly, touching Jim's jacket sleeve in concern.

Jim nodded briefly. "Yeah." His answer was a bit too abrupt to be completely honest, and Blair vowed to keep a very close eye on his friend.

The woman walked up to greet them, her hand extended. "Gentlemen, I'm Doctor Avery."

"You made the call?" Jim asked after he'd introduced himself and his partner.

"No, that was my assistant, Ray Bonneville. He's at the site now, taking photographs." She led the way into the building, which was a lot longer than it was wide. The front was hardly more than a cluttered office, filled with several desks, numerous file cabinets and bookcases, their contents spilling over to stack on the floor and every other available horizontal surface. A coffee maker held a half-full pot, and beside it stood a box of donuts from a popular local bakery. All in all, it looked pretty much like any other understaffed research facility in Blair's department. He would have felt right at home, except his eyes kept drifting toward the closed door leading to what his imagination conjured up as a house of horrors.

Avery dug through a desk drawer. "Ray needed some more film," she explained, then noted the direction of Blair's gaze. "The back rooms are empty right now, although we have the facilities to run a host of water tests -- we can recreate stagnant pond water, a saltwater tidepool complete with fish and crustaceans, and various other wet conditions. We can even mimic wave effects."

"Uh-huh," Blair murmured, trying to appear interested. The place just gave him the creeps. "How many, uh, studies, do you have right now?"

"Eight," Avery replied, tucking the spare rolls of film in her jacket pocket and reaching for a heavy coat more suited to the outside temperature.

Jim turned the conversation back to the reason for his visit. "Doctor Avery, I'm not sure it's such a good idea for your assistant to be examining a potential crime scene."

She scoffed at his concerns. "He's trained in forensics procedures, detective," she assured him. "No one has disturbed the evidence, such as it is. I'm the only one who actually touched the body, and that was to confirm death."

They went outside to the minivan, and Avery opened the driver's door.

"We'll follow in my truck," Jim told her hastily, the myriad scents of cleaners not quite overriding other, less pleasant, odors permeating the interior of the vehicle.

"Jim, are you sure you can handle this?" Blair asked anxiously as they retreated to the truck and climbed inside. He mumbled an imprecation as he fumbled to close the door. For once, the seatbelt was ignored; they weren't going very far anyway.

Jim simply nodded and started the engine, following the minivan as it bumped and jolted its way quickly over a heavily rutted road. "Yeah, it's just that every now and again, I get this whiff -- " He exhaled a long breath, as if cleaning the foul odors from his lungs.

"Yeah, even I can smell it," Blair admitted. He shook his head. "A body farm. God, who would have believed it?"

"Look, a place like this contributes valuable information about the rate of decomposition in corpses," Jim told him for what was obviously not the first time. "There are facilities like this all over the country -- in dry, hot regions, in cold, dry areas, in damp heat -- "

"Yeah, and damp cold," Blair concluded, shivering inside his jacket from a lot more than the steadily decreasing air temperature. "I understand the need for it, I'm just a little freaked out by it, OK?"

Jim smiled as he parked behind the minivan, which had pulled off the road into a small open area. Another battered truck, this one with a logo for Rainier University visible on the driver's door, was already parked there. "Yeah, me too."

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

They joined Doctor Avery beside her van.

"How did someone get in here to dump a body?" Jim asked, working through the puzzle in his mind and trying very hard to ignore the horrible stench impinging on his sense of smell. "Were there any signs of a break-in?"

Avery shook her head. "No, the gate was secure when Ray and I arrived this morning. Of course, we haven't patrolled the fence perimeter. It's possible someone got in that way."

"But why?" Jim persisted, following her into the woods with Blair beside him. "Why would someone go to all the trouble of hiding a body in here? If it's an inside job, there can't be that many people with access. If it's someone else, who could have a grudge against this place strong enough to take this kind of risk?" Abruptly, he asked, "You didn't recognize the victim, did you?"

Avery shook her head. "No. He's a complete stranger to me, and Ray didn't recognize him either."

"Hide in plain sight?" Blair speculated. "What better place to hide a body than on a body farm?"

Avery chuckled. "We don't just haphazardly throw corpses around, Mr. Sandburg," she objected with a grin. "All of our studies are carefully placed and meticulously monitored. We don't have enough available subjects to risk carelessness."

"But maybe the killer didn't know that," Blair insisted.

"If the killer knows how to find this place, he or she also would have to know how carefully we keep track of each study."

Several hundred yards into the damp woods, they reached a small clearing. The corpse was lying face down in the wet leaves, arms outflung as if he'd attempted to break his fall. The victim was small, shorter and more slender than Blair, and his clothing was nondescript -- coarse cotton pants with a plain, bulky pullover top. Still, despite the heaviness of his top, he clearly hadn't dressed for the cold weather.

Nearby, squatting on his heels beside a large conifer, a young man in a bright orange anorak was unloading a roll of film from his camera. He stood up and came over to greet them. "Hi," he said grimly, shaking hands with Jim and Blair. "I'm Ray Bonneville."

"You found the body?" Jim asked, pulling out a small notebook and a pen to take notes.

"That's right. I was making my morning rounds," Ray explained quietly. "We don't always visit the farm daily, but we have a couple of time-critical studies at the moment, so I check on the sites twice a day, morning and dusk." He gestured toward the body. "It was pretty obvious we had a new guest."

It was then Blair realized the pungent stench of decay wasn't coming from the corpse but rather from some place behind him. Resolutely, he did not turn around to see the nature of Ray's time-critical study, but he knew it couldn't be more than a few dozen yards away.

Jim's face was tense with the effort to block out the foul odors.

Doctor Avery noticed their distress. "Oh, I am sorry," she apologized, reaching into her pocket and producing a small tube of ointment. "I have some spirit of camphor that will help deaden the smell."

Jim shook his head -- the camphor was certain to send his senses reeling. Reluctantly, Blair refused as well, not wanting to contribute anything more to Jim's discomfort.

Jim approached the body carefully, watching the placement of each footstep lest he trod on some clue hidden in the dense carpet of sodden leaves. He knelt beside the corpse. The man hadn't been dead for long. "Can you estimate the time of death?" he called back to the little group clustered at the edge of the clearing.

"He wasn't here when I checked the site at dusk yesterday," Ray confirmed.

"Doctor Avery, did you move the body at all?" Jim asked.

"No. I just confirmed death. The body was cooling rapidly. Rigor is well-established, but not complete," Avery reported. "Some of the large muscle groups are not yet rigid. I haven't taken his internal temperature, which will help pinpoint the time of death, but I'll speculate he died around two o'clock this morning."

"That's pretty specific," Blair murmured. "You must get a lot of practice with this sort of thing."

Avery smiled tolerantly. "Not really. The sooner a body is examined, the more accurately we can determine time of death. It gets more difficult after the first twenty-four hours."

Blair nodded. "I guess that's why places like this are important."

"Exactly. The effects of weather, environment and insect activity provide vital clues to help us determine when a person died. Criminals are always trying to trick forensic science."

"You mean like a killer who stashes his victim in a freezer for a week before dumping the body," Blair said, remembering just such a case.

"Yes," Avery agreed, pleased to see the young man was becoming interested in her work. "But it's hard to fool Mother Nature -- a closed environment like a freezer would prevent the normal insect activity we'd expect to see in a corpse left exposed to the natural elements. Forensic entomology is one of our most powerful weapons in determining exact time of death."

Jim struggled to roll the stiffening corpse, and Ray Bonneville hurried forward to help.

A moment later, the body was face up. The man's eyes were closed, his expression almost peaceful. His clothing was torn in several places, and numerous cuts and scrapes proved he'd suffered greatly before dying.

"He's Chinese," Blair said, a bit surprised, his curiosity bringing him closer. "Jim, any idea what killed him?"

Jim touched the wet fabric of the man's tunic and smelled his fingers. "Salt water," he murmured.

"Salt water?" Avery echoed. "We're a quarter mile from the shore."

"But he came in from the sea," Jim confirmed, examining the body further. "I'm guessing he made it this far before collapsing and dying, maybe from hypothermia."

Avery looked interested. "Really?"

"Look at him," Jim answered patiently. "He's Chinese. His clothing definitely isn't American, so it's likely he's from mainland China. Or maybe Taiwan. He's got fish scales under his fingernails, so I'm guessing he worked on a fishing trawler. He might have jumped or fallen off his boat, or maybe he stole a raft or dinghy in an attempt to smuggle himself into the U.S. Judging from the cuts and bruises, he got bashed on the rocks pretty good."

Avery nodded at the reasonableness of the explanation. "But the combination of exertion and the cold weather caused his eventual collapse and death, perhaps from a physical ailment the autopsy will reveal."

Ray looked faintly disappointed. "So, no crime after all."

"There's no evidence yet to suggest it," Jim confirmed. He stood up and began to backtrack the man's progress through the woods. The others followed dutifully behind him, looking for a trail only Jim could see.

A few minutes later, they'd reached a cliff overlooking a rocky coastline. Almost a hundred feet below, storm driven waves crashed against huge boulders and swirled in violent eddies.

Jim pointed. "There -- I see the remnants of an inflatable dinghy. He washed up here, then climbed the cliff in an effort to get away from the waves."

It took the others a minute to see the tiny speck of yellow washing back and forth in the white froth.

"I'm going down there."

"You're what?" Blair protested sharply. "Jim, you can't climb down there!"

Jim looked startled by that assessment. "Why not? He climbed up. I'm hoping the dinghy will have the name of a boat or some other clue that will help us find out the man's identity."

"Oh, man." Blair's agitation at the idea was clearly evident. "Jim, the storm's almost here. What if you get trapped down there?"

"I won't," Jim replied confidently. "Look, why don't you go back to the office with Doctor Avery? I'll pick you up when I'm finished. You can call Simon and tell him to send a coroner's wagon, but that we don't need a forensics team."

Stubbornly, Blair shook his head. "I'll wait here for you," he insisted. "We'll go back together. Doctor Avery can make the call."

"Are you certain?" Avery asked doubtfully, pulling her heavy coat more snugly around her. The wind blowing in from the sea was strong and cold, the storm clouds thickening overhead. In the distance, lightning slashed the dark horizon. "The storm will be here within the hour."

"I'll be back before then," Jim said confidently, then looked at his partner, who was shivering. "Go back with her."

Blair shook his head stubbornly. "No, I'll stay." He glanced cautiously over the edge of the cliff and drew back with a wince. "Just don't get into trouble, OK? With this arm, there's no way I can climb down there."

Jim gently patted the splinted arm. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

Not willing to waste anymore time, he picked out his route down the steep, rocky cliff face and started the trek downward. The others watched for a while, and then the cold drove Avery and Bonneville back toward their vehicles with hasty assurances about phone calls and a fresh pot of hot coffee.

"Thanks," Blair murmured, turning up his coat collar and tucking his good arm beneath the injured one in an effort to keep warm. Squatting down on his heels, he prepared to maintain a cautious vigil over Jim's progress, although he didn't have a clue what he'd do if something went wrong.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Although he had moved back a bit from the edge of the cliff, he forced himself to peer over the rim from time to time to check on Jim's sure-footed descent. Each time he looked, he had to fight a dizzying wave of vertigo, but he would not shirk what he considered his primary responsibility -- Jim's safety.

The air was getting colder, gusting around him as the first line of thunderheads rolled toward the shore. The leading edge of a storm front that size frequently heralded its arrival with hail, as moisture was swirled inside the writhing mass until it became too heavy to remain airborne. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but it was coming closer rapidly, and the air felt charged with the energy of the storm's approach.

Ignoring his growing discomfort, Blair breathed a sigh of relief when his partner finally reached the rocky beach. Once Jim moved away from the face of the cliff, Blair was able to keep him in sight without having to look straight down, a blessing that eased the clench of fear in his gut. He watched Jim jump agilely from rock to rock, and realized with renewed worry that the waves were much bigger than he'd previously suspected from his vantage point.

"Oh, man, be careful," he said anxiously in a normal tone of voice, but Jim didn't appear to hear him -- the crash of the surf against the giant boulders must have overwhelmed his hearing.

Strong hands suddenly clutched the back of his jacket, and Blair felt himself thrust forward. Panic constricted in his throat as he was rocked, his feet digging in helplessly at the cliff edge and dislodging some small stones that tumbled lazily into the depths. Then he was yanked backwards and thrown to the ground.

He landed hard, his broken arm taking part of the stress and rocketing pain straight through the top of his skull. His breath was knocked out of him, his lungs paralyzed for a moment by the shock of the fall. Desperately, he fought to draw air into his lungs, grunting as he was dragged to his feet and spun around.

"Hi," leered an unfamiliar face. "Remember us?"

Blair drew a complete blank for a moment. Then his focus broadened, and he saw five men. Their black leather clothing identified them more readily than recognition of their features. He'd never really seen their faces.

The Gauntlet -- the innocent-until-proven-guilty murderers who had made bail just that morning. They obviously hadn't wasted any time resuming their preferred form of amusement.

"How did you find us?" Blair asked, needing to say something, however inane it sounded to his ears.

"We followed you, dimwit," the leader scoffed, grabbing Blair by the front of his parka and shaking him for emphasis. "Then we scouted the area and cut through the fence." The man frowned and shook his head in disbelief. "This is a really weird place." Then, he said over his shoulder, "Check on the other one."

Blair tried to yell a warning, but the man who held him closed one massive hand around his throat, nearly choking him. Helpless, he watched two of the men venture toward the edge of the cliff, their weapons poised to take out the unsuspecting target below.

One of the men turned back. "Len, he's not down there."

The man holding Blair by the throat turned toward them angrily. "What do you mean, he's not down there? He was down there a minute ago. Look over the edge. Maybe he started to climb up."

Obediently, the men went right to the edge and peered over cautiously. "Nope," came the discouraging report. "Maybe the waves caught him."

Len shook his captive in frustration. "Where the hell is he?" he demanded.

Blair tried to shrug, difficult considering his present circumstances. "You saw him down there, man," he gasped. "How should I know where he went?" Still, he felt certain Jim had not been swept away by the waves; somehow, his partner had sensed the danger and taken cover.

Len was not a happy man. "OK," he growled to the two by the cliff. "Can you see any other way up?"

They visually scouted the precipice to either side. "No, Len, this is the only way up without climbing gear."

"All right. You two stay here and watch for him. Take him alive if you can." His grin at Blair was anything but reassuring. "We don't want to kill him too soon and spoil our fun." Abruptly, he shoved his prisoner toward his remaining companions. "Let's take him back in the trees and get out of this wind."

"How long are you gonna leave us here, Len?" one of the men assigned to guard duty at the cliff asked petulantly.

Len turned on them savagely. "You two were the first to give up when the cops showed. We woulda stood a chance if you hadn't caved in. So you stand guard and do your duty until I tell you otherwise! Got it?"

"Sure, Len," the other man agreed sullenly, pulling his complaining companion toward the shelter of a nearby boulder. "Come on, Buddy," he urged placatingly. "We can keep out of the wind over here."

Reluctantly, Buddy turned away from Len and took up his position.

Blair didn't struggle against his captors. Instead, he tried desperately to protect his broken arm, which was throbbing with fiery agony in tempo with his racing heart. God, he didn't want to pass out. He fought to stay upright and moving, although the constant shoving from behind kept him staggering off balance.

Wind whipped through the treetops overhead, but Len finally found a spot that seemed secluded enough for his needs. He spun Blair around and hauled him forward, then abruptly thrust him off toward one of his companions, a short-legged, rotund man with an unzipped, black fleece jacket over his leather vest. The man caught Blair easily and shook him like a rag doll, then tossed him toward the third man, whose balding head and thick glasses made his chubby face appear even more round.

Blair stumbled from man to man, striving only to protect his arm and stay on his feet until Jim arrived. A tiny, panic-stricken part of his mind knew with certainty that soon their torment would become more vicious, and then he would be unable to keep his arm from further injury. Just contemplating the pain he knew would come was enough to make him feel ill.

Finally, the inevitable happened. Len tired of the horseplay and deliberately stuck out a booted foot to trip his prisoner. Blair sprawled helplessly, unable to prevent landing on his arm. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips as he felt the splint fracture, destroying the support it offered the broken limb. Automatically, he pushed at the ground with his good arm and rolled onto his side.

Len stood over him with an anticipatory snarl twisting his face. Very slowly, he placed the sole of his boot against the splint, not pressing down but relishing the fear that flashed across his victim's face. He never took his eyes off Blair's expression as he began to transfer his weight, slowly applying pressure to the injury.

Blair's face contorted with agony, and he bit his lower lip to keep from crying out. He closed his eyes tightly against the white heat that drove up his arm and flowed through his body. Arching his body against the pain, he was suddenly overcome with weakness as shock consumed him. An involuntary cry escaped him before he slumped limply, hardly aware when the pressure left his arm.

"Damn, Len," Glasses complained, "you made him pass out."

Len bent down and slapped Blair twice across the face. "No, he ain't out of it yet." To prove his point, he drove the blunt toe of his boot into his captive's ribs, and Blair grunted with renewed pain, automatically trying to twist away. Len followed him relentlessly, kicking him in the stomach or the back as Blair sought to avoid the assault.

When the blows finally stopped, Blair was huddled on his side, curled into a tight ball of misery. Groaning with each breath he fought to draw into his straining lungs, he struggled to stay conscious.

Helpless in his captor's grip, he was dragged unresisting to his feet, and then Len buried his fist into Blair's already bruised and tender abdomen. He bent double, dropping to his knees and folding over in an attempt to protect his injured ribs.

A moment later, Len reached for him again.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Jim reached the beach within a few minutes. The slope was steep but still navigable without the need to find handholds. He smiled to himself each time he sensed Blair peeking over the edge to check on his safety. He'd probably never admit it, but it was reassuring to have someone watching his back.

The shoreline was ragged with boulders, most of them a lot bigger than they'd appeared to him from the top of the cliff. He was able to jump from one to another without difficulty, but he knew a false step could trap him or break a leg, either of which could be life-threatening when the tide rolled in. As he approached the strong eddy where the remnants of the rubber raft swirled in the current, he was drenched by the spray of storm-driven waves crashing relentlessly against the rocks. They seemed impatient to reclaim the land taken from the ocean by the shifting of tectonic plates millennia ago.

He paused by a boulder that towered over him and partially sheltered him from the pounding surf. The raft was only a few yards away, but he had to judge the waves carefully to avoid being inundated or swept away. Calculating the interval, he lunged forward, almost losing his footing on rocks worn smooth over the centuries. Then he caught his balance, plucked the limp rubber fabric from the water, and scrambled back as quickly as he could, but not fast enough to prevent the next wave from soaking the back of his parka.

Getting colder by the minute, he contemplated the stupidity of his actions for just a moment before deciding it was a useless indulgence -- the most foolish part of the exercise was behind him. Now, he only had to get back up the cliff.

He was never certain what alerted him to the danger on the cliff top. Some instinct made him look up to see Blair the instant his partner toppled out of sight. In that brief moment, he saw at least three other figures, but they vanished from view before he could focus on them.

Stubbornly holding onto the torn remains of the raft, he leaped from rock to rock until he found shelter from the prying eyes above him. He shoved the raft into a crevasse where it could be retrieved again later, then sought to filter out the almost overwhelming roar of the surf and focus his hearing on what was happening topside.

When he realized how many men held his partner and who they were, he clenched his fists in frustration. How the hell could he save his partner from five vengeful animals, especially since he was down here, and they were setting a trap for him at the end of the only safe route to the top?

At least they couldn't see him. He heard their anger and confusion as they looked for him on the beach. But overriding everything, he could hear the pain hitching Blair's breath and the rapid heartbeat of his fear. Keeping an ear attuned to what was happening above him, he scouted the cliff face for another path that would keep him out of sight. His keen eyes traced a likely route, locating sturdy hand and foot holds that anyone else wouldn't have found except by actually climbing and exploring.

Resolutely, he flexed his chilled fingers and began the ascent.

It wasn't particularly dangerous, although -- as with any climbing -- there was a potential for disaster if a movement was miscalculated or a tenuous hold gave way. Most frustrating was the time it took him, time that Blair was at the mercy of his tormentors. Moving as quickly as he could, he still exercised care; a bad fall now would seal his partner's fate. He hadn't seen a need for hiking boots when he'd started out that morning, but the crepe-soled chukka boots he frequently wore made up in gripping ability what they lacked in support. The badly bruised toes of his left foot protested the exertion, but he resolutely ignored the pain.

He was just a few feet from the top when the storm announced its arrival with a savage gust of wind, a crash of thunder, and a pelting of pea-sized hail mixed with giant drops of rain. Counting on the noise to mask the sound of his movements, he inched cautiously over the rim. Topside at last, he rolled into the meager shelter of some bushes and stood up to assess the threat from his opponents.

Another flash of lightning, followed immediately by a mighty crash of thunder, sent him reeling to his knees. Just for a moment, the impressions coalesced into the memory of a fiery explosion, but a sheer act of will slammed the door on the memory trying to escape from his subconscious.

I don't have time for this! Blair doesn't have time for this! Cursing under his breath, he forced himself to concentrate on his breathing, shutting out everything until he was certain he was firmly back in control. Flashbacks. Who needed them? If the memories had been repressed for a reason, wasn't it better to simply let them remain hidden in his subconscious? Somehow, he knew his straightforward logic wasn't going to work here.

But he had a job to do right now. His partner needed him. Examination of his psyche would have to wait.

The two guards proved ridiculously easy to take out. Huddling miserably in their scant shelter of rocks, they were completely surprised when Jim eased up on them and stuck his 9mm in their faces.

"Very slowly," he cautioned them. "Just give me one little excuse, and I'll blow you both to hell." It was the expression on his face more than his words that convinced the two Gauntlet gang members of his sincerity. He gestured for them to leave the sheltering rocks, disarmed them, and marched them several yards into the dense forest.

Within seconds, he found what he was looking for: a pine tree with a split trunk. Quickly, he pulled out his handcuffs and shoved the men against the tree. Cuffing one wrist of each man, with the links of the handcuffs pulled taut between the trunks, there was no way they could escape without first climbing very high into the tree, where the trunks widened enough to permit one of them to climb through. It would be an exercise in trust and cooperation, and Jim had the feeling neither man was up to the challenge.

Almost as an afterthought, he cold-cocked both prisoners to assure they couldn't shout for help. It would be quite a while before either was conscious enough to call out.

Satisfied that he'd done what he could with his limited resources, Jim sent forth his hearing once again to locate his partner. Homing on the sound of Blair's frantic heartbeat, he began stalking his remaining adversaries.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Blair couldn't recall a time when he had been this cold and miserable. Even the time he'd gone with Jim to rescue Simon from Quinn didn't measure up to this.

As he fought to remain conscious, a foul odor suddenly made him gag and instinctively jerk away even before he'd properly registered what had happened.

"Damn, Evans!" Len exclaimed, both repulsed and intrigued by what the man Blair had previously thought of as "Glasses" had uncovered.

Of course, it was a corpse, one of the decomposition studies being conducted at the body farm.

Evans tossed the much-decayed husk down near Blair, who squirmed away from the repugnant sight. It was more than his natural aversion to the unsanitary. His response came from an atavistic fear that surged straight from the most primitive portion of his brain.

Only Len and Evans seemed to find the putrid remains fascinating. Blair figured they had to be drunk or drugged or both to be enthralled by such an abhorrent sight. The third man, the fat one in the fleece jacket, moved back and choked on the incredible stench.

"We've been missing out on one of the most interesting tourist attractions in Cascade," Evans chuckled.

"Yeah, no kidding," Len agreed, prodding the corpse with the toe of his boot.

"You're crazy!" the man in the sweatshirt protested. "What the hell are you going to do with that thing?"

Len glanced toward Blair. "Want to waltz with your new best buddy?" he asked, grinning as he watched his prisoner's eyes widen in terror.

Blair closed his eyes against the horrifying image of what Len was suggesting. But he was spared the indignity when a strong gust of wind screamed through the treetops. Hail began to fall in a thick, white curtain, the sound of it an almost deafening hiss, as if a thousand vipers had been disturbed in their nest.

Retreating quickly, Len dragged his captive under the meager shelter of a tall pine and stood him up, snaking an almost comradely arm around Blair's shoulders. The other two huddled around them, effectively pinning Blair in their midst, although they were less interested in trapping him than in escaping from the brunt of the storm.

The hail stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and a heavy rain began to drench them.

"Shit, Len, it's gettin' too damn cold!" Sweatshirt complained.

"Yeah," Len agreed a little sadly, giving Blair's shoulder a proprietary squeeze. "Guess it's time to move on. Go see if Buddy and Fremont have caught Ellison yet."

The man in the fleece jacket glanced at Blair. "What are you gonna do with him?"

Len chuckled. "I dunno. What say we tie him up and plant him with a new bunkmate?"

Blair was shivering so hard with shock and cold that he almost missed the words. Then he was filled with unreasoning terror. They were going to bury him alive -- with a rotting corpse!

With a little whine of fear, he struck out blindly, desperate to escape. His terror gave him unexpected strength, and he managed to break away from the arm holding him.

Len grunted in surprise and pain, and Blair shoved free of his captors.

Unfortunately, in those first few minutes of the downpour, the already sodden leaves and mud had become thoroughly saturated. As he stumbled forward, trying to catch his balance, the viscous earth slipped beneath his feet, and he fell to the ground. This time, he knew he would be not be able to get up again.

Feet entered his line of vision, and it took him a long moment to recognize the brown shoes and ubiquitous white socks, soaked and filthy now after their owner's exertions.

He lifted his eyes and focused blearily on his partner, who was equally drenched but rock-steady with resolve as he held his .9mm on his opponents.

"Jim," he murmured with relief.

The tableau lasted only a moment, and then a blinding flash of lightning directly overhead and the almost instantaneous peal of thunder sent Jim reeling. His weapon was forgotten as he grabbed at his head to block the overwhelming sensations crashing through his memory.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

The damned rebels were back, this time to desecrate the graves of the men he'd buried with his own hands. Outraged by the atrocity, he didn't care that he was up against three armed opponents. Without thinking, he lunged into the startled cluster of soldiers before they could get to their weapons. Fury gave him the strength he might otherwise have lacked to challenge the superior odds.

The first -- a short, rotund man -- went down from a vicious knee to the groin and a two-handed blow to the back of his skull.

The other two grappled with him, hoping to gain the advantage, but he fell backwards, unresisting, bringing the men down with him. Rolling to his feet in one fluid motion, he dispatched one of his remaining opponents with a perfect kick directly to the chin. The rebel's glasses went flying as the man flew backwards, unconscious before he hit the ground.

That left only one, and his determined fighting stance convinced Jim this would be the most difficult of the three.

Circling warily, each sought an advantage. The torrential rain had soaked Jim's jacket, adding weight he could ill-afford to carry, while the other's leather coat shed water easily. Jim unzipped his jacket but made no attempt to remove it.

His adversary charged, and Jim met the assault head on, using his opponent's greater weight to his own advantage as he tossed the man in the direction momentum was already taking him. In the next instant, Jim removed his jacket, although he had a moment of grim surprise as one sleeve stubbornly refused to slip free. He savagely ripped it off, feeling something on his forearm catch and tear in the fabric.

He didn't worry about it.

As the rebel soldier charged again in uncontrollable rage, Jim swung the water-soaked jacket like a matador's cape, tangling it around his adversary's head for the one critical moment necessary to step in and finish the conflict.

When he was the only one left standing, he paused to breathe in huge, gasping drafts of air, but then gagged as the odor of decay filled his lungs.

He turned his attention to the rotting remains of his comrade. The man had been his responsibility, and Jim had failed him. The young soldier had died so pointlessly, his mission unfulfilled, his life cut short. The only thing Jim could do for him was to bury him again, this time deep enough so the rebels would never find the grave.

Dropping to his knees, he resolutely began to claw at the soft, saturated soil.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Blair knew it was over, but his frozen, pain-wracked limbs didn't want to obey his commands to move. He'd seen most of the conflict and knew Jim had won, but it took a minute to realize his partner wasn't coming over to check on him.

With his right arm held protectively against him, he pushed himself to his knees.

Jim was digging desperately at the soil, the single-minded obsessiveness of the act setting off warning bells in Blair's mind. With what little strength he still possessed, he crawled over to his partner, half falling against him as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

If he was reading the signs correctly, Jim was trapped in another flashback involving the crash and death of his men in Peru. Blair didn't have the first clue how to snap him out of it, or even if trying was the right thing to do.

The rain came down harder, pounding against his head and streaming down his neck as he huddled over his friend. One part of him wanted to protect the stricken man from the force of the gale, but another part, the more honest part, confessed a need to be safe and secure, however illusory the feeling. With his left hand, he tried to still Jim's frantically digging fingers.

"Jim, please," he begged, his voice the merest whisper that must have echoed like thunder inside the Sentinel's fevered mind. "Please, you've got to come back. I need you, Jim. Please." He was frustrated by the weakness that wouldn't let him pull his partner away from his grisly task, angry at the men who had brought them to this nightmare, even angry at the weather for turning against them in this moment of crisis.

Jim continued to claw at the mud, dragging great handfuls out of the steadily deepening hole. Occasionally, he'd swat at Blair's hand in irritation, but it was clear he had no idea who or what was interfering with his efforts. His breath rasped hoarsely in his throat, a rapid bellows sound punctuated with grunts of effort.

Blair didn't know what to do; he felt as if he were losing his grip on his own sanity. Any moment now, and he would collapse in a quivering heap, too emotionally wrung out to be of any use to either of them.

He let his anger work for him. Straightening, he grabbed the back of Jim's collar with his good hand and shook him with all the strength left in his steadily weakening body. "Jim!" he shouted above the torrential downpour. "Dammit, man, listen to me! You can't change the past! Nothing you do can change the past! I need you here, right now. You've got prisoners to secure, all right? They'll kill us when they wake up. Are you listening to me, Jim? They'll kill us!"

Somewhere during his tirade, the words penetrated, and Jim's hands stilled, palms upward and filled with soft mud that began to drip through his fingers as the downpour washed it away. He sat on his heels, head bent, the rain streaming unheeded from his hair.

He began to cry, softly at first, his body trembling as if from cold. As the sobs grew in intensity, he curled forward, drawing inward to protect himself from the tidal wave of long-suppressed emotion.

Blair fell beside him and gathered him close, anchoring him to the present while the grief of the past shattered the carefully constructed walls he'd built to contain it.

Sometimes sobbing, sometimes keening, sometimes wailing in bursts of overwhelming despair, the emotional storm took a long time expending itself, leaving behind a shuddering, helpless weight trembling in the gentle grip of Blair's good arm.

Slowly, Jim straightened from where he had huddled against Blair's chest. The rain streaming down his face washed away his tears, but it couldn't wash away the swollen tightness around his eyes or their pain-filled redness. "I couldn't save them," he whispered, begging for his friend's understanding, or perhaps absolution.

"No one could save them," Blair answered just as softly.

"I couldn't move," Jim continued, needing to make Blair understand the horror of it. "I had to listen to them die because I couldn't move. I couldn't help them." He straightened a bit more, shuddering with cold. "Some of them burned alive -- I could hear their screams, smell their flesh burning, but god help me, I couldn't save them."

Blair stroked Jim's cheek with a gentle touch. "It wasn't your fault, Jim. There was nothing you could do."

The older man sat in the mud and stretched his cramped legs out in front of him, wincing as renewed circulation and the cold assailed him simultaneously.

Blair shifted around to sit beside him, trying to ignore his own shivering as he listened to Jim's outpouring of memory. He leaned close, partly for the illusion of warmth, but also because he needed to be close enough to hear the quietly spoken words.

"I had a fever for three days after Incacha found me." Jim's voice was still a whisper, hard to understand through the chattering of his teeth. His rain-drenched sweater and tee were inadequate against the cold. "My senses were kicking in and out, and I thought I was going insane. I had to go back to the crash site and bury them. It had been three days," he repeated, his voice tightening as another sob tried to work its way past his throat. He forced it back. "God, the smell. It was horrible. But I had to do it. I buried them with my entrenching tool and my bare hands. When my senses went nuts -- usually smell, sometimes...sometimes taste -- " He grimaced, still tasting the air filled with the stench of the dead. "When my senses acted up, I just hunkered down and screamed until they went away again, then I went back to digging."

"I was totally demented," he finally admitted with a short, hard grunt of derision. "When I was finished, I was too exhausted to think. Incacha simply led me away, back to his camp, and put me to bed. The next morning, I got up and went on with the mission. I'd buried the memories along with my men." He sighed -- a lost, final note as his story concluded.

"You kept those memories buried for over eight years," Blair said softly. "You never gave yourself a chance to grieve properly for the loss. You needed to remember."

Jim nodded, and looked at the angry red blistering of the burns on his forearm. When he'd ripped off the water-logged parka, the bandages had torn the skin off the largest of the blisters. "The fire. That's what started bringing it all back. All the weird flashbacks and dreams, they were what you said -- doorways opening for just a moment -- and nothing I did could keep them closed." He looked up and closed his eyes, letting the rain wash away the last of his tears. When he opened them again, he was completely focused on the present. "Man, we've got to get out of here."

Swiftly, he focused on each downed man to satisfy himself they were still unconscious. Although he felt as if the fight had happened hours ago, he knew in reality just a few minutes had passed since his flashback and subsequent breakdown.

"No argument from me," Blair agreed, shifting his weight away. "Except I can't get up."

Jim cursed himself for ignoring Blair's injuries for so long. He took stock of them for the first time. His partner's face was bruised and swollen, blood from several cuts mingling with the rain streaming from his hair. His left eye was swollen shut. "Jesus," he murmured sympathetically, reaching to gently touch an uninjured area on Blair's cheek. "They really worked you over."

"Yeah," Blair agreed, "but it doesn't hurt much -- my face is numb."

Jim peered into Blair's eyes and was relieved to see the pupils were equal. "Your speech is a little slurred."

"I think I bit my tongue," the young man replied. "I can't seem to wrap it around words, but the only ones I want to say are 'let's go'. Please?"

"Not until I check you over," Jim answered firmly. "Why can't you get up?"

"I think they broke a couple of ribs," Blair admitted, grimacing as his words drew his attention to the pain radiating through his side.

Jim got to his knees and gently lifted the bottom edges of Blair's rain-soaked parka and shirt. His fingers, although gentle, were ice cold against the warmer temperature of Blair's skin, and the younger man flinched at the touch.

"Does that hurt?" Jim asked in surprise.

Blair shook his head and smiled slightly. "Your hands are like ice, man."

"Sorry." Jim's efforts to determine the extent of the injuries were frustrated by the cold. "Damn, my fingers are practically numb. I'm going to have to concentrate hard to see how badly you're hurt."

Blair was sick of the cold and the wet. "Can't we just get out of here?"

"Not if you're going to puncture a lung or something if you move," Jim pointed out reasonably. "Just let me check you out."

"OK." Blair put his left hand on Jim's shoulder to anchor him, then abruptly leaned into his friend as weakness engulfed him.

"Blair?"

"I'm OK," Blair murmured reassuringly against Jim's chest. "I just don't feel real good."

Sifting out the extraneous sensations of the cold, rain, and mud, Jim shifted his focus to his fingertips, trying to compensate for their numbing coldness with total concentration of his sense of touch.

Everything faded out around him save for the gentle pressure of Blair's weight against him. Within this cocoon of security, he probed the damaged ribs, his fingers sensitive to every nuance of skin and muscle overlaying the ribcage and finally tracing the very outline of the individual bones themselves.

"Jim?"

Blair's voice called him back, and he refocused on the chilling wetness. With a blink, he was back. "A couple of them are cracked, but nothing's broken," he confirmed. "If I help you up, do you think you can walk?"

Blair was willing to try anything to get out of this damnable weather. The only thing that could make his misery worse was to prolong it. "Think so."

Jim scrambled to his feet. He found his weapon where he'd dropped it, slipped it back into his holster, and reached down to help his friend get up. Gently, letting Blair work at his own pace, Jim supported his weight until his partner was standing and leaning helplessly against him.

"Let me go get the truck and bring it closer," Jim advised anxiously.

"No, man, let's just get it over with, OK? I'm really sick of being wet and cold." Blair took a cautious step and found it didn't hurt too much as long as he was careful. "I'm all right."

Jim guided him back under the ineffectual shelter of the pine. Carefully, he straightened the bunched and muddy sling supporting his partner's arm, then pinched Blair's fingertips to check for circulation. "I don't think there's any more damage," he said with satisfaction. "Will you be OK here for a minute?"

"Yeah," Blair answered wearily. "Hurry, please."

Jim went back into the clearing and dragged one of the unconscious men to a nearby tree. A second, the fat one, was hauled over next. The man was groggily returning to awareness, but Jim quickly had both men cuffed together around the tree trunk with plastic quick-cuffs, the only restraints he had left. His metal cuffs were securing the first two men he'd captured.

Then he dragged a mumbling Len to another tree and bound him to it with another strip of plastic. Only when all three men were secure did he search their pockets, removing their assorted guns and knives. He dumped the little cache out of sight and well beyond their reach, then stumbled back to his partner.

It was the best he could manage. He'd known victims to succumb to hypothermia in temperatures higher than this, but he was no condition to attempt to move his prisoners. He and Blair were reaching the end of their endurance, Jim from the sheer amount of energy expended over the past few hours, his partner from the shock and pain of his injuries.

With Jim's arm supporting Blair, they trudged slowly through the rain, the steady downpour washing away the mud that clung to their clothing.

"Did they tell you what happened to Avery and Bonneville?" Jim asked, refusing to examine the emotions concomitant with his long-forgotten memories.

"No, and I didn't ask," Blair answered, his head bowed so he could watch his footing and keep the rain from running over his face. "In case they didn't know there were people in the office, you know?"

"That was good thinking," Jim agreed.

After that, they were silent on the slow, plodding journey back to the truck.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

The old pickup truck had trouble in the deep mud, but eventually they slid and fishtailed their way back to the main building.

The rain was still coming down in torrents, punctuated with strong wind gusts and hail as the storm passed overhead. The ride didn't last long enough for the truck's heater to generate any warmth, so the two men were still shaking with cold and fatigue when they finally stumbled through the door into the front office.

A blast of warm air and the comforting smell of fresh coffee welcomed their arrival.

"Good Lord, what happened to you?" Doctor Avery asked, jumping up from her desk, where she had been reading a glossy fashion magazine -- even sturdy women in sensible shoes could dream of spaghetti straps and platform heels.

"I need backup here ASAP," Jim replied a little breathlessly, easing his partner onto a vinyl sofa situated against one wall. "I've got five prisoners secured in the woods, but I don't know how long they'll stay tied up. And we need an ambulance, too."

"No hospital," Blair murmured sleepily.

"We'll see what the medics say," Jim answered, making no promises, "but I want the ambulance here for the prisoners, just in case some of them require treatment." He couldn't care less about the fate of the five men he'd left tied up in the freezing weather, but he wanted to avoid any charges of brutality or malice when the case finally came to trial. He wanted the Gauntlet gone for good, and if that meant getting them to shelter in a timely manner, then that's what he'd do.

To her credit, Avery didn't demand unnecessary details. As she reached for the phone, she yelled to Ray, who immediately dashed in from a back room. "Hot showers, clean scrubs, and blankets," she ordered quickly, then turned her attention to the emergency operator on the other end of the phone line.

Ray responded efficiently, although he fired off a few dozen questions as he helped Jim get Blair off the sofa. Jim ignored most of the questions, only offering a few details out of gratitude for Ray's assistance.

There was a large bathroom with three toilets, sinks, and a separate room with several showers and personal lockers.

Blair was still on his feet, but not exactly focused on his surroundings. He was in a muddled daze, and the only thing he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. He wasn't much use as the other two men tried to get him out of his wet clothes.

The sodden parka refused to slip over the broken edges of the cast. For a moment, Blair looked ready to pass out, so Jim eased him down on the wooden bench against the wall and forced his head between his knees until the dizziness passed.

When he straightened, Blair's eyes were tightly closed and his face was as white as a newly bleached sheet. "I'm OK," he muttered softly. "Just please don't mess with my arm again."

Ray found a pair of scissors, and at Jim's nod, he started to cut the sleeve away from the injured limb.

Blair's eyes flew open. "Ah, man," he complained with more spirit than he'd shown in a while, "this is my best parka."

"Now it's a wet rag," Jim responded unsympathetically. "It's got to come off, Chief."

With the sleeve cut, it was easier getting Blair out of the jacket. Jim helped him off with the rest of his clothes while Ray turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature.

Finally undressed, Blair shivered miserably.

Jim helped him into the shower. "Keep your arm out of the spray," he ordered, trying to hold him up.

When it was clear Blair would be unable to keep himself upright, Jim grimaced and stepped into the shower with him. There was no way he could become any more soaked, although he was grateful when the warm water began to replace the cold wet against his skin. Still, showering with his clothes on would not have been his first choice for getting warm.

When the last of the mud had been sluiced off and they'd both been warmed by the hot water, Jim turned off the faucets. With Ray's help, he bundled a towel around Blair's wet hair and another around his torso. Then he sat his partner on the bench again and finally turned his attention to removing his own dripping clothes.

Stripped, he dried hastily and pulled on the cotton surgical sweats Ray provided. There were even dry socks and slip-on booties, useless for outside wear but sufficient to keep his feet warm indoors.

During this, Blair had managed to dry himself off, and Jim helped him into another set of scrubs. Then, he rubbed the towel vigorously over Blair's wet hair, a muffled protest ignored. A fresh towel replaced the damp one, and then Jim bundled his partner inside a blanket. "Better?"

Blair's sleepy sigh was confirmation enough.

"Let's go grab some coffee," Jim suggested, wrapping another blanket around himself before helping his partner to his feet.

"Want to sleep," Blair murmured.

"Me, too," Jim agreed calmly, "but not here in the shower room. Besides, I want Doctor Avery to take a look at your arm."

So they retraced their path back to the front office.

"You're looking better," Avery approved, hastening forward to help them both get settled on the old couch. Pulling over a stool and a rolling cart of first-aid supplies, she sat down to examine the cuts on Blair's face. She cleaned and bandaged the deepest ones, sympathetic to Blair's protests as the stringent antiseptic burned when it touched the ravaged skin. "Sorry, but it has to be done," she assured him quietly.

Then she turned her attention to the fractured splint. "I can fix this," she murmured confidently. She removed the bandages covering the sutures and smiled when she saw the stitches remained intact. Skillfully cleaning and rebandaging the incision, she next removed the old splint. "The one I'm putting on is only temporary," she said. "The hospital will have to apply a permanent one."

"That's OK," Jim said, grateful for her help. He watched every step of Avery's treatment, not because he didn't trust her skill but because he wanted to assure himself there was no evidence of infection or other damage. "What about the pins securing the bones?"

"An x-ray will determine if they've been broken or bent," she confirmed. "There's some swelling, which I'd expect, but no heat to indicate an infection. I think the arm will heal OK."

Somewhere in the middle of the examination and discussion, Blair slouched down a bit and leaned against Jim's shoulder. A moment later, he was sound asleep.

Three sheriff's deputies showed up while Avery was doing her doctoring.

"I'm Sergeant Reynolds," the one in front introduced himself. "We heard you have some prisoners you need picked up?"

"Thanks." Quickly, Jim explained the circumstances to the officers, adding directions as best he could.

"I'll show them," Bonneville volunteered, shrugging into his bright orange anorak. "I know where you parked your truck, so I can probably trace your route to the first three. And I know where you went down the cliff, so I can find where you left the other two."

"Appreciate it," Jim said gratefully, not happy at the thought of venturing back out into the cold. He had finally stopped shivering. "Oh," he added just before the group left. "Bonneville, they found one of your -- uh -- studies. You might want to warn the deputies what they're going to see."

Ray frowned. "Damn. I hope they didn't mess up the scene too much."

"What study?" the Sergeant asked suspiciously as Bonneville ushered them out the door.

"Now, let me take a look at your arm," Avery said, turning toward Jim once quiet had descended again. At his startled look, she explained, "Ray saw your arm in the shower room."

Obediently, he held out his arm. Gently, Avery eased the sleeve back past the elbow and examined the burns. "There doesn't appear to be any infection, but you've opened some of the blisters," she observed. "I'll just use a bit of burn cream and a light bandage, all right?"

"Thanks," Jim agreed.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah, a little." Actually, it felt as if a thousand needles were pricking at his skin.

"That's not surprising, considering the amount of climbing and fighting you've done today," Avery commented. With her gloved hand, she felt the arm for any sign of infection, careful to avoid the open blisters.

"I think that will heal just fine," she murmured, then realized her patient had fallen asleep, his head leaning back against the wall behind the sofa and canted slightly against the top of his partner's towel-covered head.

Blair's weight was nestled protectively beneath Jim's good arm, and both of them looked remarkably content.

<<*>>(:)<<*>>

Blair hadn't intended to sleep on the drive back to Cascade, but he hurt all over where Len and his cronies had hit him, and his face felt stiff and swollen. With the help of a pillow given to him by Doctor Avery, he soon found himself too comfortable and too weary to stay awake.

Besides, Jim wasn't the least bit talkative, and Blair lacked the energy to prompt him to speak.

He didn't wake until they'd pulled to a stop in front of the hospital. Still bundled in the blanket to help ward off the chilly weather that the meager cotton surgical scrubs couldn't combat, he looked like a sleepy-eyed child as Jim escorted him into the ER.

The ER doctor gave Jim an amused perusal. "Changing professions on me, Detective?" he asked, noting the scrubs the policeman wore.

"Just using the resources available," Jim assured him calmly, ushering Blair into the exam room.

"This has got to be some sort of a record," the physician continued as he examined Blair's arm. "Two visits from both of you in two days."

"I'm only here as taxi driver," Jim hastened to point out grumpily, dodging away from a nurse who was approaching with antiseptic swabs in hand.

"We really should take a look at those burns," she protested.

"Doctor Avery bandaged my arm," Jim assured her, not bothering to explain that Doctor Avery was an anthropologist who studied dead human tissue for a living.

After x-rays and a thorough examination to satisfy himself that Blair's arm hadn't suffered further injury, the doctor applied a new splint and a pristine white sling. "Try not to damage this one," he cautioned the sleepy young man, then handed over a fistful of new prescriptions to Jim. He was chuckling as he left the cubicle.

Jim glanced over the forms -- more pain killers and antibiotics -- shoved them all into his pocket, and helped Blair on with a warm jacket, socks, and shoes Simon had delivered to them both a few minutes before.

"This is becoming tedious," Simon observed dryly when they finally walked outside.

"Yes, sir," Jim agreed, heading toward the truck. "I think we'll just hide inside the loft with the door locked until this phase of the moon, or whatever it is, passes."

"Except now you both owe me two reports apiece," the captain reminded them.

"Tomorrow, Simon," Blair pleaded.

"You said the same thing yesterday, which makes 'tomorrow' today," Simon retorted sternly, but he couldn't keep a smile off his face. "Anyway, I know I asked this yesterday, but are you two gonna be OK?"

Jim nodded as he opened the passenger door of the truck and helped Blair get situated inside. "It'll probably be another early night."

"We're just a couple of wild and crazy guys," Blair observed, frowning in concentration as he struggled to fasten the seatbelt.

Jim finally took pity and helped him, then went around to the driver's side. "I'll be in bright and early tomorrow," he promised Simon before they said their goodbyes and headed home.

They drove in silence for awhile. Blair watched surreptitiously, but he thought Jim looked surprisingly relaxed despite the rigors of the day. "We need to talk about what happened, Jim," he said finally.

"Yes," Jim agreed.

"I mean, the worst of the flashbacks may be over, but you still need to examine the memories ...come to grips with what happened."

Once again, his partner surprised him. "OK."

Blair was perplexed. "You're acting awfully mellow."

Jim parked in front of the loft and thought about Blair's comment a moment before answering. "Yeah, in a way, I guess I am. I feel like a huge burden I didn't even know I'd been carrying has suddenly been lifted off my shoulders. I'm not happy, but I'm not sad, either."

"Relieved, maybe?"

"Definitely relieved." He made certain Blair could unbuckle the seatbelt without trouble, then came around and opened the passenger door. "How are you feeling?" he asked as his loftmate climbed carefully out of the truck.

"Thoroughly pummeled," Blair admitted. "How about you?"

"Better than I did this morning," Jim replied as they headed inside. "I guess climbing that cliff and getting in a fight loosened up all my muscles. I'll probably ache tomorrow, though."

As they entered the loft and closed the door, Blair commented, "You know, this whole scene has a definite sense of déjà vu about it."

"Yeah," Jim agreed, "except this time I think I'll cook instead of phoning for pizza. Why don't you grab a nap, and I'll call you when whatever I've concocted is finished?"

"A perfect plan," Blair agreed, heading toward his room but stopping after only a few steps and turning around. "Uh -- can you help me shed this jacket first? I can pretty much manage everything else."

"Sure." Jim helped Blair remove the sling and held the jacket steady while Blair slipped his good arm from the sleeve. Then he gently eased the cast through the other sleeve. "You sure you can handle the rest of it?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Abruptly, Jim let the jacket drop to the floor and placed his hands on Blair's shoulders. "There's something I want to say," he began awkwardly.

The seriousness in his tone caused Blair to look intently at the older man. "What is it, Jim?"

"The last couple of days have been rough on both of us," Jim said softly. "I know all the bad things I'm remembering from my childhood and the mission and everything are probably pretty selective. I know there were some good times, too -- with Bud, with Steven, with my unit, and even with my parents -- and I'm going to try to remember them."

Blair nodded. "It was easier for you to suppress big chunks of memory instead of picking and choosing just the bad stuff."

"Yeah, but I want you to know I'm not going to forget that you walked this road with me. I think I was able to remember because you were beside me in the visions. You helped me find the courage I needed to face the truth. You were my anchor."

Blair smiled slightly, warmed by the love and gratitude he saw shining in Jim's eyes. He didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound trite, so he settled for squeezing Jim's arm with his good hand before reluctantly turning toward his room.

Jim didn't move for a long minute, savoring a serenity he had never known before.

Then, with a happy sigh, he retrieved Blair's jacket off the floor, hung it up, and headed for the kitchen to see what he could throw together for supper.

THE END