Four hours up Highway 20, Jim pulled off the road at Rainy Pass. Luckily for him, the pass was not aptly named today, for the sky was a brilliant cerulean, puffs of sun-dappled clouds scudding merrily across its wide blue canvas. The air was cold, with a sharp bite to the wind, and Jim pulled off his leather gloves to massage some warmth back into his numb fingers.

Although his butt and thighs ached from reacquainting themselves with the art of motorcycle riding, he felt elated. Restored by the hands of a master craftsman, the Indian was everything he'd been promised and more.

The route of the Pacific Crest Trail cut across the road at this point, and Jim drove up to the parking lot at the southern trailhead. There was a small picnic area, deserted now, and a Forest Service bathroom -- a pit toilet really, but kept clean and regularly serviced. He locked the security bar on the bike, just to get in the habit, retrieved the lunch he'd bought from the diner while waiting for the bank to open, and walked a little stiffly to a nearby picnic table. The coffee inside his thermos was still warm, and he sipped it gratefully to help take the edge off the chill air. Almost groaning with the exquisite agony of stretching his legs, he unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite.

The area was quiet and deserted, the parking lot far enough off the highway to mute the sounds of passing traffic. Distantly, on the downslope to the east, he heard the sound of a big rig's jake brake and smiled at its juddering growl. For some reason, the sound always reminded him of wide open country, probably because use of the raucous brake favored by truckers was illegal in urban areas.

As the sound faded, quiet returned to the forest. Unseen birds twittered in the trees, and a single squirrel ventured courageously close to the table to await a handout. Jim obligingly tossed it a bit of bread, ignoring Sandburg's chiding little voice inside his head telling him it wasn't good conservation practice to encourage wild animals to expect handouts. The squirrel didn't seem to think the gesture degraded its chances of survival in the wild. It gladly scavenged the crust, held it between its forepaws, and sat back on its haunches to enjoy the treat.

It was peaceful here. It was a place for contemplation, but Jim was not in the mood. Instead, he thought about spreading his sleeping bag beneath the trees behind the picnic table and trying to catch a little sleep. He certainly needed it. He'd been awake for most of forty-eight hours, and they'd been some of the most stressful hours of his life.

The image of Blair lying in the hospital bed impinged on his contentment, and he felt a stab of guilt for being healthy and unfettered, nothing but open forest and sky around him.

Naturally, efforts to avoid thinking about his partner led inevitably toward the opposite result. What had caused it all to blow up in their faces? Had they gradually been heading for a meltdown all along, the warning signs unheeded?

Jim remembered one of the most minor incidents of the cataclysmic final days: he had called Blair an idiot. An idiot! Blair could be reckless at times, careless, emotional and impulsive -- but he had never been stupid. So why had Jim lashed out at his intelligence? Because of that damned dissertation, of course. Everything came down to it. The foundation for their eventual disintegration had been laid on day one of their acquaintance. Jim had needed help, so he'd agreed to be the subject of Blair's research. Fine. It had been something that wouldn't be finished until later. A lot later. But later had arrived all too soon, and Jim was suddenly afraid their relationship wouldn't matter any more, that he wouldn't be needed in Blair's life any more. And so Jim had over-reacted badly, first about the dissertation, then over the double whammy of Alex's arrival and Blair's help with her sentinel abilities. He'd let Blair get killed because he'd lost his faith and trust in his best friend. He'd been unable to ask a simple question: when the dissertation is finished, where does that leave us? The question would have made him feel weak and vulnerable. Instead, not asking it had led to the greatest public display of vulnerability he could have imagined -- the naked, raw emotions of guilt and grief which had rendered him virtually helpless.

Finally admitting he couldn't keep heading in the present direction in both the literal or figurative sense, he knew he had to go back and try to salvage something from the ruins of the friendship he'd left behind.

Left behind? Deserted was more like it. Abandoned. Fled. And why? Because he was afraid, afraid of a shared dream. His dreams were one of the few things about his life he couldn't control, and to find Blair actively participating in them, seeking and exploiting his vulnerabilities, was a terrifying revelation. He had no defenses in his dreams.

With a sigh, he looked at the Indian. Wryly amazed at the amount he'd paid for it, he still felt secretly pleased that it was his. First an old Ford pickup, now a classic motorcycle; maybe he really was turning into Retro Man. But a repeat of the cross-country sojourn of his youth would have to wait.

Finishing his lunch and disposing of the trash, he put the thermos back into his bag, unlocked the bike, and climbed aboard. His thighs protested their return to the unaccustomed position, reminding him he wasn't eighteen anymore.

As he headed west on the scenic highway, a sense of urgency began to grow in his mind. He couldn't define it exactly, but he gradually found himself opening the throttle and pushing harder into the curves.

 

Blair had been writing frantically in his notebook ever since the jet had lifted off from LAX. A scrawled train of consciousness, his treatise seemed at times the epitome of intellectual perfection; other times, it seemed nothing more than the incoherent ramblings of fever-induced paranoia. Whatever it was, he couldn't stop. He felt compelled to make some sense out of his death and eventual recovery ('resurrection' sounded vaguely blasphemous, and 're-birth' horribly inaccurate) but he needed to explain it, and so he wrote the disjointed letter to Jim, hoping some thread would emerge to give it meaning.

When he was finished, he pondered over what the last bit he'd written: Jim, I'm sorry I let you down. I knew it was about friendship. I just never realized it was also about so much more. He started to end it with 'I love you', which was what he felt in his heart, but the hand-written sentiment would make Jim feel uncomfortable. It was OK to say it out loud, in one of those mano a mano ways Jim favored, but written indelibly on paper, it was just too intense. The less personal 'Love you, man' was too casually macho. Finally, he just signed it 'Blair'. He folded the pages, put them inside the envelope with Jim's account of the dream, added his own recollections that he had written in the hospital, and tried in vain to seal the bulging package. He'd have to do something about it once he got to Lima.

An aching truth abruptly settled over his overwrought mind like a shroud. Hastily, he stuffed the envelope into the magazine sleeve on the seat in front of him and crawled over his fellow passengers to make a mad rush for the lavatory. He managed to stumble inside and lock the door before sliding down the cold, barren steel to the floor. Cramped in the tiny cubicle, its frigid draughts whistling around him, he huddled in misery and sought to tame his muddled thoughts.

He'd always believed in the concept of destiny...karma...fate. But he also believed they flowed like a river, ever changing, dependent upon the choices a person made in the day-to-day act of living. His choices over the last few days had been catastrophic.

OK, he had died. No big deal.

Wrong. Very big deal indeed. For a span of several minutes, he had been dead -- clinically dead, to be precise, but dead enough that just a few years ago the absence of pulse and respiration would have been sufficient to get his corpse sent to the morgue. Only modern medicine had redefined death to include the absence of measurable brain activity.

At the time, he'd been amazingly calm about the whole thing. He remembered thinking about Alex, who had perverted her gifts, and wondering what sort of judgement she would face as a consequence.

Instead, he should have been thinking about his own punishment. For three years, he had been scientist, teacher and friend to a sentinel, but he had never been guide. He had made a commitment to help, but never the commitment to be responsible, to accept his own role in the odd, ancient marriage of spirits that defined the essence of sentinel and guide.

Sure, Jim was a friend -- his best friend; more like a brother, really -- and Blair had worked hard to help him, to spare him emotional hurt or physical pain because of his enhanced senses. But he had never stood beside the Sentinel and accepted his place in the partnership.

And for his punishment, he had died.

Somewhere in that foggy netherworld, he had met the Shaman who had appeared before only to Jim. He had been given a choice, but his self doubt and fear had made him reject the offered gift. That had been his first mistake; his second mistake had been in thinking he could go back and do it over. The Shaman came from a culture of unimaginable savagery, where priests ripped out the living hearts of their sacrifices and chieftains drank the blood of their enemies. What had given him the idea that the Shaman would grant him a second chance? No, the first offering was behind him, an opportunity forever lost.

The shared dream had made him to realize his errors. Jim's grief and guilt had been so overwhelming they stood like a palpable barrier between them. But acknowledging his mistakes actually had been the next part of his punishment. He had lost his Sentinel by not making the choice to be his Guide; next, he was destined to reject his friend and partner. He had driven Jim away during a fit of shame and guilt, leaving himself bereft and defenseless. That had been his second choice.

All that was left was Blair Sandburg, academic and anthropologist. For years, he'd been a human rights activist, a staunch conservationist, and a student of primitive cultures. So the last vision has been an opportunity to redeem that part of himself with which he was most comfortable. He had been given a chance to save an entire culture from extinction. This task he had found the courage to embrace. Rejecting the first choice, he had been fated to die in the fountain; accepting his guilt and choosing to try to save the Chopek had changed the course of his destiny...but neither had altered its inevitable denouement.

Alex was still destined to kill him. Only his death, previously pointless, could now be given meaning. It was the only concession the Shaman would grant him.

Crouched sobbing on the cold lavatory floor, he felt thoroughly wretched. With no one to point out the flaws in his logic, to play devil's advocate to his self condemnation, a fatalistic doom settled over him.

The Shaman had not been granting him chances to make things right again...he'd been letting Blair define the essence of who he was as a person -- not guide, not friend, merely the scientist, alone and apart, always the observer. Each stage of his downfall had been absolute; there was no going back.

 

The body of Blair Sandburg, an anthropologist affiliated with Rainier University in Cascade, Washington, was found today in the jungles of the La Montana region of Peru. Sandburg, twenty-nine, was responsible for uncovering a plot to annihilate the Chopek tribe, a primitive culture living in a protected reserve of rain forest. The Chopek are a major obstacle to oil interests seeking to drill in the region. A spokesman for the Peruvian government said...

 

He jerked back to awareness with a moan of despair. Only it wasn't the voice of Dan Rather on the evening news he'd been hearing. Instead, it was a member of the flight crew giving a little travel log as the 747 made its approach to Mexico City. The 'fasten seat belt' sign was on.

His fever had broken sometime during his mental ramblings, and he shivered violently in the cold. Feeling completely disoriented and detached from reality after his bout with the virus, he struggled shakily to his feet. The remnants of his delirium left him feeling faintly anxious and unfocused.

Splashing cold water on his face to rinse off the sheen of sweat, he looked at himself in the mirror. A young/old face peered back at him, eyes red-rimmed and dead as mannequin's glass.

Silly, he told himself. Fanciful silliness. But he shivered again, this time not from the cold.

Perhaps he was having a nervous breakdown. After all, whom the gods would destroy.... He grinned mockingly at the face in the mirror. Quoting Longfellow, was he? Then maybe he truly was mad!

There was a knock on the door. "Sir, this is the flight attendant. Are you all right?"

Opening the door, Blair smiled valiantly at her concern. "Just nervous about flying," he lied. "It just sort of caught up with me all at once." He was intimately familiar with the symptoms of a panic attack, of course. Since his flu was very similar in many respects, he had no trouble convincing her of his plight.

He found himself the sudden object of sympathy. The flight attendant took him back to his seat, helped him get settled, then kept him well supplied with tea, water and juice. He even managed a bit of late supper from the tray she had saved for him. The woman in the neighboring seat, previously alarmed because he'd looked so ill, took pity on him and injudiciously offered him one of her valium, which he politely declined.

A bit later, he felt immensely better, and he was able to take a little interest in his surroundings. Mentally, he apologized to the hundreds of his fellow passengers who had been exposed to his flu bug; whoever caught it would never know their suffering would be in a good cause.

The plane landed in Mexico City, and he straggled into the terminal to await his connection to Lima. Finding an empty bench, he used his backpack for a pillow, his jacket for a blanket, and lay down to get some welcome sleep.

Only he couldn't sleep. Events of the past few days broke in tiny fragments across his mind, and any thought not related to them slid off like quicksilver. Sitting up, he studied the thickly stuffed envelope he had addressed to Jim. Lots of nonsense there, but maybe a few kernels of truth as well. He went to the nearest attended gate and begged some tape to seal the bulky package. There wasn't a stamp machine close by, so he finally shoved it back into his pack. He'd mail it from Lima.

The spectre of his crimes invaded his thoughts again. He'd betrayed Jim by helping another sentinel; he'd dabbled in the ways of Guide and Shaman without having a personal stake in either save his own continuing education. OK, maybe he had to die for these crimes, although he refused to believe his fate was carved in stone. Whatever his destiny, he had to try to make it right with Jim.

He found a phone and used his calling card to call the loft. The impersonal message on the answering machine was his only greeting, and he finally hung up with a sense of overwhelming sorrow. Never before had he felt so completely alone.

 

The sun was low on the horizon and shining directly into his eyes when Jim finally reached Interstate 5. At this latitude in late spring, the days were luxuriously long, the sky still bright with light until after nine at night. By mid-June, there still would be a trace of sunset left until well after ten.

The speedometer crept upward until he was darting in and out of the evening commuter traffic. Cascade was behind him, but he continued to press southward. The Indian responded to his demands for more speed like the well-tuned champion it was, growling confidently through the rpm's, promising it had even more if it was needed.

When he heard the siren behind him, he glanced at the speedometer and winced. With a sigh if irritation, he pulled to the shoulder of the freeway and waited, his hands left in plain view on the handlebars. Impatiently, he waited for the State Trooper to park and walk up to the bike.

The young officer examined the Indian before addressing its rider. "Sir, do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

"About eighty," Jim admitted. He read the officer's nametag. "Officer Cutrell, my name is Jim Ellison. I'm a cop with Cascade PD. Can I show you my ID?"

"OK," the cop answered agreeably, but he watched closely as Jim fished out his badge and handed it over. He was a cautious cop; patrolling the state's highways was one of the most dangerous, unpredictable occupations in law enforcement. The unexpected happened all too frequently, and an incautious officer could wind up dead. It was one of the reasons Jim had kept his hands in plain sight and asked for permission to take out his badge; incautious motorists could also provoke a violent reaction from a nervous cop.

Officer Cutrell, however, did not appear the least nervous. "I need to get to the airport," Jim went on, trying to keep his voice level and reasonable even though he wanted to scream helplessly at this stupid waste of precious time. "I have to catch a plane. I know it probably sounds melodramatic, but it really is a case of life or death."

The cop handed back the ID but looked skeptical. "Yeah?"

Jim nodded. He thought of the VX. "Possibly a lot of lives -- or a lot of deaths." He was about to suggest a call to Simon Banks when Cutrell made up his mind, swayed perhaps by the repressed urgency he could read just beneath the surface of Jim's calm expression.

"I'll give you an escort, make sure you get there in one piece. Which terminal?"

Jim was startled but grateful for the sudden cooperation. "An international carrier -- TWA, PanAm, any one of them."

"OK, follow me." Cutrell hurried back to his police unit. With lights and siren, he pulled back onto the freeway, Jim right behind him.

Although the rest of the journey to the airport was completed at a slower speed, at least Jim wasn't dodging in and out of traffic, risking his life and others in his mad dash to do something he still couldn't quite comprehend.

They pulled up at a loading zone in front of international departures, and Cutrell walked back to join him. "My boss called your boss, who sounded very confused but said you knew what you were doing -- most of the time anyway."

Bless you, Simon. "Thanks." Jim grabbed his carryon, but left his sleeping bag on the motorcycle. He handed his weapon and spare magazines to Cutrell. "Would you mind taking care of these for me? And get the bike to your motor pool? I'll pick 'em up when I get back."

"Sure thing," Cutrell promised, eyeing the bike with a gleam that told Jim the odometer would probably have some additional miles on it by the time he got back.

Quickly, Jim shook the officer's hand and dashed inside. Standing just inside the door, he was able to look up and down the concourse and see several flight schedules at one time. PanAm had the next flight to Lima, and it was already in the boarding process.

He raced up to the ticket desk, badge already out as he shoved his way to the front of the line. "I need to get on your flight to Lima," he said urgently. "It's official police business."

The startled ticket agent consulted the computer. "That flight departs in eleven minutes, sir," she told him doubtfully, ignoring the angry murmurs of the other customers in line.

Jim hauled out his travelers checks. "Cut the voucher," he ordered, signing enough checks to purchase the ticket.

As she entered the necessary information into her computer, she observed, "Everyone seems to be in a last-minute hurry to get to Lima today."

It took a moment for the comment to register. "What?"

"Earlier, there was a young man who just had to get there."

A young man. Not Alex Barnes, then. But his suspicions were still aroused. "What young man?"

"He looked a little scruffy, in an endearing sort of way, you know?" she explained, hitting the print key. "A student, I suppose. He had this gorgeous hair; I should be so lucky to have long, wavy hair like that."

"Blair Sandburg?" Jim whispered in shocked disbelief. It wasn't possible. Sandburg was supposed to be in the hospital, damnit!

"Yes, that's right. Unusual first name, don't you think?" Then, with a frown the woman asked, "You're not chasing him, are you?"

Mutely, Jim shook his head, too stunned really to hear what she was saying. Blair was on in his way to Lima...he was going after Alex Barnes.

The computer seemed agonizingly slow, but eventually the required document spit from the printer. "I'll alert the gate you're coming, but they won't delay takeoff," she warned him, handing it over. "I'll just get your change."

But Jim was already sprinting for the gate.

At the security checkpoint, he threw his carryon onto the conveyor and dumped his change and wristwatch into the pass-through basket before stepping through the metal detector.

It beeped.

"Sorry, sir," the security guard began, but Jim had already stepped through the other way and dug back into his pockets. His badge landed atop the items in the tray.

He passed through the metal detector again, this time without setting off the alarm, made a wild grab at the basket, snagged his badge and twenty-two cents, and started running again. His carryon and wristwatch were forgotten in his haste.

The gate attendant was chafing with impatience when Jim finally arrived, nearly out of breath from tension. He thrust the ticket toward her, and she quickly issued the boarding pass as she all but shoved him down the ramp. "Hurry," she urged. "The captain refuses to wait any longer."

Finally, Jim stumbled on board the 747. A harried flight attendant immediately began securing the entry door, while another escorted him through the cabin to the only empty seat. "You must be in a hurry to get to Lima," he observed mildly.

Jim nodded absently, shaking with nerves as he shed his jacket and flannel overshirt before falling into his seat. "Believe me, if this was the Concorde, it couldn't get me there fast enough," he murmured almost to himself. Even as he buckled his lap belt under the flight attendant's watchful eye, the huge jet was being pushed back from the gate to begin its taxi toward the runway.

He had the center seat in the wide middle section of the cabin, his least favorite location, although he was just grateful to be aboard and finally on his way. He refused to dwell on how many miles and hours still separated him from his partner.

Telephone handsets had been installed in the rear of the seats, and he reached for the one in front of him. The system still hadn't been activated.

"You'll have to wait until after takeoff," the passenger on his left said. She sounded miffed by his tardiness, which had held up their departure.

He ignored her and tried to quell the trembling in his hands. The flight attendant came by again and handed him a plastic glass. "Just water, I'm afraid," he explained, "but you look as if you could use it. You can get something a bit stronger once we're in the air if you like."

"Thanks," Jim said, accepting the glass and taking a swallow. The water did nothing to help the nervous butterflies winging frantically through his gut. Damn, wasn't the plane ever going to get to the runway and take off?

What had prompted Blair to head for Peru? Probably the same impulse that was driving Jim. But, god, he was going after Alex Barnes by himself! How could he be so reckless? Because you weren't around to stop him.

The 747 lifted off at last, and Jim felt his nervousness subsiding as the jet gained altitude. Everything was out of his hands now...he was dependent on the plane's airspeed to get him to Lima; there was nothing else he could do.

He tried the phone again, used his calling card, and finally reached Simon.

"Jim, what's this about going to Peru?" the Captain demanded without preamble, his anger audible.

Jim was mindful that they weren't on a secure line. "She's gone to Peru, sir," he replied cautiously.

"Are you certain?"

"No, sir, it's just a hunch," Jim admitted. "And there's more -- Sandburg's on his way to Lima, too."

"What?" Jim was positive Simon's outburst could be heard throughout the passenger cabin. "He disappeared from the hospital early this morning, but I never figured he went to the airport. What the hell does he think he's doing?"

Jim sighed. Blair had been gone since morning, and now it was night. "Look, Captain, could you find out what flight he took and what his arrival time was in Lima? I want to know how far behind him I am."

"OK. I'll contact Ernesto Sandoval," Simon promised. Grimly, he added, "Jim, Sandburg had some sort of relapse in the hospital. He was running a high fever. If he's gone to Peru, he could make his condition even worse. Do you think he's going after Barnes by himself?"

"That's my guess."

"But why?"

"Because he felt he had to," Jim replied. Because it didn't look like I was going to do anything about her.

Simon sighed. "All right. Call me back in an hour. I should know something by then."

"Yes, sir." Jim disconnected the call and slumped back in his seat. Blair had suffered a relapse? Even in perfect health, he was no match for Alex. What could he possibly hope to accomplish by going after her in his present condition? Atonement for Jim's accusation of betrayal, or something even more subtle?

Fervently, Jim hoped Blair never found her. But he knew his silent prayer was in vain; Sandburg was following the same trail as Jim, and with the same unswerving conviction. It was as if fate were determined to bring the three of them together again.

 

It was late when Blair's flight finally landed at Jorge Chavez International Airport.

Once again, he waited until everyone else had deplaned before gathering up his meager possessions and trailing after them. He had managed to get some sleep, although he still felt a little wan and woozy. However, the worst was behind him, although he knew he risked a repeat of his illness if he didn't get some real food and rest soon.

The line through customs seemed interminable, and standing in it brought a return of the headache. When he finally approached the desk, his passport in hand, he tried very hard to look alert and fit. There was no need to make the customs officer think Blair had the plague or something equally dramatic.

"Purpose of visit?" the customs agent asked, eyeing Blair's rumpled clothing, long hair, and pale complexion.

"Uh, vacation," Blair replied automatically.

The man glanced suspiciously at Blair's backpack. "Is this your only luggage?"

"Yes, it is." Blair placed it on the table for inspection. Having his luggage inspected at every port of entry was one of the prices he paid for looking the way he did.

The officer took an abnormal interest in Blair's belongings, inspecting everything twice, looking for hidden compartments in the backpack. "Where are you staying?"

Blair's mind went abruptly blank. He'd been in Lima many times before, and yet he couldn't remember the name of a single hotel. "Uh -- " he stammered. "I haven't really decided. I'm supposed to meet some friends from the anthropology department at the University."

But his hesitation had aroused the man's suspicions even further. "Please step to the side, and someone will be with you shortly."

Ah, man....

Despite its rich archaeological heritage, Lima was a city gripped by economic depression. Unemployment and crime were rampant. What halfway sane customs agent would believe anyone would actually want to smuggle contraband into the city?

His brain started functioning again at the alarming possibility of a strip search. "Sure, but I really need to see Captain Ernesto Sandoval of the Lima Police. I have some vital information for him, and I'm on a tight schedule. Could you ask him to meet me here?" He put as much impatience and disdain into his tone as he thought he could get away with. He wanted the customs agent to think he was undercover or something equally covert.

The agent recognized the name. "Captain Sandoval?" he repeated. "Of course." He gestured to another agent and issued instructions in Spanish spoken too quickly for Blair to follow with any accuracy. At least he was reasonably certain the officer hadn't mentioned "strip search" or "drugs".

A minute later, Blair was in a plain but clean interrogation room, a hot cup of coffee in front of him, and no strip search in sight. He closed his eyes gratefully and warmed his hands on the cup, although he didn't drink the coffee.

A half hour later, Ernesto Sandoval walked in. It was good to see a familiar face, even if that face looked perplexed and suspicious. Blair stood up to shake his hand. "Captain Sandoval, you have no idea how happy I am to see you."

"Mr. Sandburg," Sandoval returned guardedly. His association with Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison had been two years before, when his American friend Simon Banks and his son had disappeared in the jungle. He didn't know how much he should trust the young anthropologist. "The customs agent said you wished to see me?" He gestured for Blair to sit down again and sat across from him.

"Yeah," Blair answered. "I didn't know what I was going to do, and those custom guys probably think I'm a drug smuggler or something. I really appreciate you coming to the airport to see me."

"You don't look well," Sandoval observed.

"It's just the flu," Blair assured him. "But I really need your help."

"What can I do?"

Briefly but with as much detail as he could fit in without becoming incomprehensible, Blair explained about the stolen nerve gas and Alex Barnes. "She's here to sell the VX to an oil company. I don't know which one, but whoever buys it is going to use it to wipe out the Chopek. With the tribe eliminated, the oil company can pressure your government into opening up the protected reserves."

Sandoval looked skeptical. "That sounds unlikely."

"Look at it in the long term," Blair insisted. "It might take years, even decades, but there are billions of dollars in oil just sitting under the La Montaña region. Eliminate the Chopek, slip a little incentive into the right government palms, and an oil company could be drilling in no time."

Sandoval was not swayed. "How do you know she came here?"

"I don't, not really," Blair answered, almost desperate to make himself believed. "But you could show her picture around the airport. She's a very striking blonde, someone is bound to recognize her." He dug an enlarged copy of Alex's mug shot from his backpack. "If she flew into this airport, someone will remember."

Sandoval looked at the photo. That it was an official police photo did much to convince him of Blair's sincerity. "I'll have some copies made and distributed to airport security," he promised. "In the meantime, you look as if you could use some rest. There's a spare bunk at the police station."

Blair laughed nervously. "Does it have bars around it?" he asked, only half joking.

The police Captain smiled and shook his head. "No. I would not do that to you. But would you object if I call Simon Banks just to confirm the story you have told me?"

Blair thought about it. It was a reasonable request. "That's fine, but Simon's going to tell you some pretty weird things."

"Like why someone who is not a police officer has come to Lima on police business, chasing an elusive thief without proof she is here and spouting a wild story about nerve gas and genocide in the rain forest?"

Blair winced. "Yeah, stuff like that," he mumbled in embarrassment.

"And where is your partner -- Detective Ellison, isn't it?"

Blair just shook his head, unable to face that particular question. His sudden misery must have aroused Sandoval's sympathy, because Blair soon found himself comfortably settled in the front seat of the Captain's car, a blanket from the trunk wrapped around his body, and a bowl of soup from an airport restaurant in his hands.

The soup was delicious, and he finished it all before leaning back and closing his eyes. At least he had an ally. He was glad he'd made the impulsive decision to talk to the Lima cop; going after Alex by himself, with nothing but the vast tract of rain forest known as the La Montaña region as his only clue, was foolish. Alone in that wilderness, he'd only get himself killed. With backup, he stood a chance, fate be damned.

It was barely thirty minutes later when Sandoval climbed behind the wheel, his expression grim. "You were right. Alex Barnes came to Lima," he said succinctly, starting the engine and pulling into traffic, police lights flashing. "A customs agent remembered her well. She arrived in a corporate jet this morning and left again almost immediately by helicopter."

"Who owned the jet?" Blair asked, fastening his seat belt and hanging on as Sandoval bore through the late night traffic with little regard for safety.

"Cyclops Oil," was the succinct reply.

Blair felt himself pale even further. "Cyclops Oil?" he echoed. "I thought they'd been fined and put out of business for illegal drilling on Chopek land last year."

Sandoval waved a hand in negligent dismissal. "Our wheels of justice turn slowly, especially where big American dollars are concerned. I suppose bribes to the right people proved more economical for Cyclops than big government fines. Apparently, the company is still in business, but they have been obeying the terms of their lease and drilling only on approved sites."

As if there were anyplace in that beautiful rain forest that should suffer the invasion of an oil company. Still, Blair wasn't up to saving the rain forest today; he had to find two canisters of nerve gas, and stop Alex Barnes.

Sandoval reached for his police radio. "Excuse me," he said to Blair, "but I have some arrangements to make." For the next several minutes, Blair listened to a dialog in Spanish as Sandoval was patched through to a very sleepy-sounding Minister of Defense. The hasty conversation was mostly lost on him, but he was sure the words "gringo lunatic" were uttered at one point.

Finally, the police Captain threw down the microphone in anger.

"What's wrong?" Blair asked anxiously.

"The Minister wishes to convene a meeting in the morning to discuss possible alternative strategies," Sandoval replied bitterly.

Alex will get away. But the nerve gas was more important. "There may not be enough time."

"I know." Sandoval smiled grimly. "I pointed out to the Minister that the United Nations might be more able to deal with this situation."

Blair almost chuckled. "And what did he say to that?"

"He's calling the Army even now to order a mobilization. The last thing he needs to do is appear incapable of handling problems inside the borders of his own country."

Blair was grateful for the policeman's quick actions, but he recognized the stakes involved. "You're risking a lot."

"Not if you're right. I'll let the Minister take all the credit for saving the rain forest and the Chopek. He'll be a national hero."

"What if I'm wrong?"

Sandoval shot him a look. "Do not be wrong. I am far too young to think of retirement."

They reached an Army base on the outskirts of Lima, and activities were already in progress. Three helicopters were warming up in front of a large hangar, mechanics and pilots going through last-minute preflight checks. Inside the hangar, an Army major waited with two dozen heavily armed commandos. With the arrival of Sandoval and Blair, followed quickly by the arrival of a police special weapons team, the briefing got under way.

Blair was impressed with the efficiency of the quickly mobilized little force. Nervously, he hoped his theories were accurate; he had set a lot of wheels in motion, and now he could only sit back and watch the scene unfold. There were three Cyclops exploration wells. Raids would be launched against each site simultaneously, with extensive searches made for the VX and Alex Barnes.

"Which site do you suggest we take, eh, my young friend?" Sandoval asked him at the end of the briefing.

Blair looked at the map of the remote region. He tapped the site closest to the protected reserve. "This one."

"Very well," Sandoval agreed. "Would it be impudent of me to ask you to stay behind?'

Blair shook his head. "Impudent, no; hopeless, yes. You may need my help to stop her." He realized a moment later how utterly stupid that must have sounded. "I mean, I know how she thinks; I'll be able to help you find her."

Sandoval looked resigned and somewhat amused, but he relented. "All right, but you'll do as I say."

"Absolutely," Blair promised. With a cadre of soldiers and police to back him up, what could go wrong?

 

Jim forced himself to eat an uninspired chicken breast buried in mystery sauce. He'd managed to sleep with the aid of earplugs to shut out the sound of the many headsets tuned to the various audio channels offered by the 747's entertainment system. After dinner, there would be an inflight movie, equally uninteresting, so he planned to sleep some more providing his wildly spinning thoughts would permit it.

What had compelled Blair to head for Peru? Before, only Jim had been able to sense Alex, unless Blair had failed to mention.... No, that was silly -- Blair had become involved with her purely by accident, or maybe through some strange twist of fate, but he hadn't felt her presence.

Which brought Jim to his second big question, also unanswered: Was he following his intuition in search of Alex Barnes, or was he instinctively following his Guide? Whichever, he felt certain Blair was in trouble, and Jim was too far away to prevent it, just as he'd been almost a lifetime too late at the fountain.

He called Simon again. The Captain sounded harried. "Jim, Sandburg's flight landed a couple of hours ago. He had to catch a couple of connecting flights, so you're not that far behind him."

"What's the word from Sandoval?" Jim asked.

"I couldn't reach him," Simon replied. "But the officer I spoke with was able to confirm that Sandburg and Sandoval are together somewhere in the jungle. Beyond that, I couldn't find out a damn thing."

Jim should have felt relieved that Blair had exercised good sense and called for help from the Lima cop. But he didn't know Sandoval all that well, and since Blair seemed to be capable of getting into trouble even with his good friends looking out for him, what chance did Sandoval have of keeping Blair safe, especially against the likes of Alex Barnes? "Did you tell the Lima cops about Barnes?"

Simon's voice sounded glum. "Yeah, but they didn't sounded interested. Either she's old news to them, or they're not as bright as I think. I didn't mention the, uh, canisters. No point in risking a panic. Still, it probably means your hunch was right and Barnes did go to Lima."

"Yes, sir." Jim didn't sound particularly pleased. "I just wish Sandburg's hunch hadn't been just as right." Impulsively, he said, "When I get my hands on him -- " His voice held a threatening edge, but his thoughts concluded the sentiment more truthfully. -- I'm never going to let him out of my sight again...

Simon chuckled. "Yeah, I was making the same threats myself, only they involved both of you." The humor died. "Find him, Jim," he said at last. "I know that's a big job with thousands of square miles of wilderness to search, but you've done it before."

"I'll find him," Jim vowed quietly. But would he find his partner alive?

 

The big military helicopter was noisy and not designed for comfort. Blair sat in one of several canvas slings that hung from metal hooks in the roof of the cargo bay. He hung onto the straps of this uncomfortable seat and stared out at the blackness of the night. The soldiers and cops looked relaxed; perhaps they gotten used to the buck and vibration of the chopper.

Normal conversation was impossible over the noise of the rotors, but there were some questions Blair wanted to ask. Sandoval was sitting in the seat next to him, so Blair leaned over and raised his voice enough to be heard. "Are there any roads to the site?"

Sandoval shook his head. "If the exploratory well produces oil and the government grants permission to drill, a road will be bulldozed through. Until then, everything is brought in by helicopter to impact as little as possible on the environment." He pulled out a small map and turned on his flashlight to enhance the dim lighting inside the chopper. "There is a single road running past just east of the site. It runs several hundred miles through the Andes. It was used by smugglers and guerillas for many years, but it has since fallen into disuse and is probably impassable by now."

Blair studied the map. Just a few inches along that squiggly line, the road traversed the Chopek pass, where Jim's time as an Army Ranger had brought his heightened senses on line. It felt weird to be so close to the source of their rocky beginning, and again he felt a twinge of fatalism -- perhaps it also was destined to end here. He shook off the morbid feeling. Nothing was carved in stone....

It was after three in the morning when they reached the site. The lights of the camp shone brilliantly against the impenetrable black of the surrounding rain forest. The crew was asleep, but many workers stumbled from their bunks as the helicopter set down and the forces disembarked, weapons at the ready.

A burly, middle-aged man strode angrily into their midst, his manner totally unfazed by the guns brandished by soldiers and police. "What the hell's going on here?" he demanded.

"I am Captain Sandoval of the Lima Police," Sandoval introduced himself. "I am in charge of the police unit." He gestured toward a combat-clad solider. "Sergeant Guttierez is in charge of the Army contingent. And you would be -- ?"

"Miles McIntosh, site foreman," the man replied grumpily. "I'm in charge of this operation. What are you doing here?"

"We have reason to believe you or one of your crew has received dangerous contraband," Sandoval explained briefly. "We will need to search your camp for evidence."

"Don't you need a warrant or something?"

Sandoval smiled tolerantly. "Actually, I do not. Nor do the soldiers. However, my men and I will gladly wait here while someone finds a judge who will sign the necessary paperwork to your satisfaction. Such an undertaking may take several days, during which time, of course, I cannot permit your work here to continue or allow any of your crew to leave."

"Damn blackmail, that's what it is," McIntosh complained bitterly. "All right, just let me brief my men."

Once again, Blair was relegated to observer status. For once, it was a position he was happy to assume. After all, the police and Army were much better trained and equipped to search for the nerve gas. But then he saw a familiar face peering cautiously around the side of one of the larger tents. "Crilly!"

"Who?" Sandoval asked curiously.

"He's wanted in the US for attempted murder and sabotage," Blair replied urgently, sort of making it up as he went along because he really didn't know the official term for attempting to blow up an oil platform in the middle of the ocean. "Also for illegal salvage and sale of hazardous materials to an unfriendly power." The last bit was made up, too. Although it was an accurate description of what Crilly had done, Blair had no idea of the official term for the crime. What the hell was Crilly doing here? Why would Cyclops shield a man who had tried to blow up one of their multi-million dollar drilling platforms? If Crilly had succeeded, the damage to the rig and the environment would have cost the company millions.

Crilly suddenly recognized Blair and darted back out of sight.

Sandoval dispatched some men to catch him. "And look for the canisters," he ordered. "Crilly may have them."

McIntosh looked thoroughly confused. "I didn't know Crilly was wanted," he murmured, affronted there was something about his crew he didn't know.

"Did he have a visitor this evening?" Sandoval demanded.

"Yeah, his girlfriend, I think," McIntosh said. "Good looking chick."

"Where is she?"

Long gone, Blair thought forlornly, but he didn't say so.

"I don't know. She was supposed to leave by helicopter, but since it's still here, I guess she is, too."

Sandoval and Guttierez ordered the rest of their men to search all of the site's numerous outbuildings and tents. If Sandoval had harbored any doubts about Blair's story, the identification of Crilly, and McIntosh's confirmation that Barnes had been here, effectively quashed them. He turned to Blair. "You should wait by the helicopter. If the woman and the canisters are here, we will find them. You are looking decidedly -- what is the American word for it -- knackered?"

"That's British, I think," Blair returned, but he wasn't about to argue. Wasted, knackered, or just plum tuckered out, even the adrenaline excitement of the raid couldn't hold his exhaustion at bay. Gratefully, he sat down in the open cargo doorway of the chopper to view the activity from a distance.

It was like watching a movie. The bright lights illuminated the area with a flat brilliance, and the scurrying figures of police and soldiers lent the place a surreal feeling. McIntosh went off to insure his irate, sleepy crew cooperated fully with the search. A couple of officers finally brought Crilly out in handcuffs, and Blair smiled in satisfaction. Even if he'd lost Alex, he had found one fugitive.

Then someone shouted for Guttierez. The soldiers had found a large metal suitcase, and apparently whatever they'd found inside it was causing some excitement and concern. Sandoval hurried off to join the Sergeant in examining its contents, and a few minutes later, the cop gave Blair an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Yes! They'd found the VX. All in all, not a bad day's work for a sick anthropologist-cum-novice-shaman following a vision. Not a bad day's work at all. Smiling, he leaned against the cargo door to close his eyes just for a minute.

He sensed someone in front of him. "Hello, Alex," he said calmly, opening his eyes to verify what his instincts had already told him. The sense of fatalism washed through him again; he'd known they were destined to meet one more time.

She had a gun held unerringly to his temple. "You are a hard man to kill," she observed, not sounding particularly upset. "Come on, I've got a jeep hidden behind one of the tents."

"Why not just kill me here?" Blair asked resignedly.

She smiled. "I've decided not to kill you, at least not as long as you continue to help me."

Blair thought about it, trying to use logic instead of reacting to that horrible sense of immutable destiny. He didn't want to die at her hands again, but he truly was beginning to believe it was inevitable.

"Can I bring my pack?" he asked. "I have some water and first-aid stuff in it."

She stepped back a bit. "Sure. Just don't try to reach inside it."

He slipped the backpack over his shoulder and stood up. She was too alert and too far away to attempt to hit her with it.

"Come on." She used her free hand to point in the direction she wanted him to go.

Together, they moved off into the darkness, their departure unseen by the soldiers and police gathered triumphantly around the canisters of nerve gas.

 

It was past dawn before the police team made it back to the station. Jim had been pacing the confines of the police station for over an hour

After landing, he'd been met at the airport by one of Sandoval's men, who had brought him immediately to police headquarters. Told Captain Sandoval still wasn't available, he had been given a chair and a cup of coffee while he waited. Both remained untouched.

When Sandoval finally came in, with Crilly being escorted behind him, Jim scowled in surprise. "Crilly?"

The man clearly recognized him. "Ellison," he snarled, then grinned savagely. "She has him -- she's taken your partner, and she's gonna kill him! He doesn't stand a chance."

In less than a heartbeat, Ellison went for him.

On to Part Four (the Conclusion)