Part Nine

As Jim walked the empty corridor toward Blair's office, he sensed the person inside was not his Guide. Warily, he pushed open the door and stared suspiciously at the man seated at the desk.

"Mr. Ellison, you're a bit early," the stranger said. In his expensive, perfectly tailored suit, he looked every inch the smart executive, but there was a coldness in his eyes. The faint line of a concealed weapon spoiled the elegant cut of his suit.

"Where's Blair Sandburg?" Jim asked calmly. "And who are you?"

"My name is Gage," the man replied. "And Mr. Sandburg is safe. He'll remain that way as long as you cooperate fully with my instructions."

Jim didn't allow even a flicker of recognition to touch his face: Gage was the name the murdered man had written on his notepad on the day of his death. He resisted the urge to pull his weapon. Until he knew where Blair had been taken and could insure his safety, he had to go along. "Go on."

"You have a cell phone," Gage said.

"Yes."

"Please leave it on the desk." Jim hesitated only a moment before complying, and then Gage stood up. "You will walk directly to your vehicle and get in. Start the engine. A black Taurus will pass slowly. Follow it. Another car will be behind you. Do not deviate from the route, and do not attempt to contact anyone in any fashion. You're being watched closely; as long as you follow my instructions, Mr. Sandburg will not be harmed. Do you understand?"

Grimly, Jim nodded. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see soon enough." Gage ushered him politely out the door and thoughtfully locked it behind him. Jim noticed the man was wearing gloves; he was cautious about his fingerprints.

They walked together out of the building and to the parking lot. When they'd reached Jim's rented Durango, Gage gave him a casual wave and strolled away. Jim dug out his keys, using the movement to also snag his badge. As he unlocked the door, he took the opportunity to surreptitiously drop his ID to the ground and casually kick it beneath the vehicle. It wasn't much of a message, he realized, but it was all he could think of right now. He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

Within seconds, the promised black Taurus drove past. Jim backed out of the parking space and followed. In his rearview mirror, he saw Gage walk calmly over to the empty slot, shake his head in mild amusement, and bend over to pick up Jim's ID case.

So much for Plan A.

A second nondescript Ford pulled in behind the Durango, and the little parade left campus. As he drove, Jim frantically considered his options. He could try scrawling a message on a slip of paper and drop it out the window, but then what? One of his shadows could see it. Besides, who'd bother to pick up a piece of paper off the street, read it, and act on it? It was too far fetched to contemplate for more than a moment.

Scowling, he gripped the wheel until his knuckles hurt. As long as his partner was in danger somewhere, Jim didn't have a single viable plan for outsmarting these men. They were too cautious, too professional, and they had him right where they wanted him.

They drove to the heart of Cascade's business district, where corporate giants clustered their headquarters. The elite worked in elegant high rises right on the bay, with views across to the mountains on the other side.

The most elite of all, Cort Industries, occupied one hundred acres of parkland that encompassed a very large city block. It was a glass and granite high rise surrounded by beautifully landscaped grounds that were home to a vast number of birds and other creatures that might not otherwise have survived in an urban environment. Conservationists around the world lauded Cort Industries for its strong pro-environment endeavors.

The little caravan drove through the heavy wrought-iron electric gates of the complex and down a winding asphalt drive that fronted the shoreline. The fourteen stories of mirrored glass reflected the crystal blue water and snow-capped mountains. Just before reaching the main parking area, the lead car veered down a narrow drive marked "Deliveries Only". The road dipped into the cavernous darkness of a large, underground garage. There were no other vehicles inside.

The Taurus stopped, and Jim stopped behind it. The trailing car also parked, followed immediately by Gage in an old, battered Chevrolet. All in all, none of the cars would draw attention to themselves or their occupants.

Gage walked up to the driver's side of the Durango. "Turn off the engine and leave the keys in the ignition. Then get out."

Jim didn't see that he had any choice.

"Empty your pockets and put everything on the seat -- wallet, weapon, change, jewelry -- everything."

Again, Jim did as he was told. He didn't even flinch when Gage tossed the ID case on top of the little pile.

"Now, leave your jacket, belt, and shoes as well." Gage was too calm. He didn't even mention Jim's ruse with the badge, nor did he appear the least disturbed by it.

A little bemused by all the precautions, Jim obeyed. The cement floor of the garage was cold on his stockinged feet.

"Let's go." Gage led him toward a bank of elevators, and used a keycard to open one. Behind him, Jim heard an engine start and turned around. The Durango was driven into a large metal shipping container unit and parked. The driver came out, closed the heavy door, and secured it with a large padlock. Gage chuckled. "In a couple of days, that container will be on its way to Hong Kong, where it will sit unopened until the second coming."

With a sinking heart, Jim knew James Ellison and Blair Sandburg had just dropped off the face of the earth.

"Get in," Gage ordered, gesturing to the elevator. The door closed behind them, and the car started a stomach-lurching assent. It was an express elevator -- there was no wall panel with buttons for floor selection; this one only went from the garage to a specific floor and down again.

"You framed Sandburg for murder so it would look like he'd jumped bail," Jim commented.

Gage smiled slightly. "Of course. And you helped him, naturally, when you saw the evidence against him. Within a day, your bank accounts and other assets will be frozen, then all your property seized in bail forfeiture. In a few months, everything will be sold off, and you'll have ceased to exist."

"My friends won't believe it."

Gage shrugged. "So what? There won't be a trace of you anywhere. No one will ever set eyes on you again."

Jim remained outwardly calm, but inside he could feel the trap closing in. "I don't believe you went to all this trouble just to kill us."

"Of course not. We'll keep you alive at all costs," Gage assured him. "In fact, I imagine the lifestyle we provide you will significantly exceed your present standards." The elevator stopped and the door opened as Gage added, "Mr. Sandburg is the expendable one."

Jim's expression never altered. "Aren't you in for a surprise," he commented coolly, stepping out.

Gage just smiled. "Let's go see him, shall we?"

The elevator opened onto the top floor of the high rise. A huge foyer dwarfed the sweeping curve of an unoccupied reception desk, and a solid glass wall opposite showed a panoramic view of the bay and the mountains beyond. The glass curved up and formed a dome over the room. All in all, it was a most impressive entry. Corridors branched to the left and right, beautiful oak paneling interrupted at regular intervals by discrete doors, none of them bearing identification as to what lay behind them.

Gage led him down the left corridor to the fourth door on the right. It opened with another keycard. "I've put the two of you together, but I didn't think you'd mind."

Part Ten

Jim walked inside and heard the door lock behind him. There was no interior door handle. A small foyer led to a large living room. Once again, the far wall was solid glass facing the spectacular view. Deeply carpeted, with sofa, armchairs, and a huge entertainment center, the apartment looked like a luxury suite in some posh hotel. There was even a small kitchenette with a sit-down eating counter. Doors on either side of the living room presumably led to bedrooms and baths.

Jim opened his hearing and immediately picked up the heartbeat he sought. Moving through the living room, he was startled to see Blair huddled in the corner formed by the entertainment cabinet and the wall. He hurried over and crouched down, concerned and angry that his friend had been drugged or injured. "Hey, Chief," he called quietly.

Blair's bent head rested atop his drawn up knees. His only response to Jim's words was to reach out with one hand and clasp his partner's forearm. "Jim," he whispered very quietly, his face still hidden, his voice so soft Jim had to open his hearing further just to understand his words. "They used me to get you here. They'll continue using me to keep you in line. Go into your commando mode; don't let them see you give a damn."

Jim took a breath and stood up, carefully controlling his relief as he fell into the role his partner had assigned him. "Damn it, Sandburg, if you're OK, quit hiding in the corner," he said in exasperation. "You know they've got mikes and cameras all over this place, so show a little spunk."

Blair struggled to his feet. "Look, I thought I'd been invited here for a lunch meeting with some other anthropologists," he said a little defensively. "The next thing I know, I'm locked in here. I think I'm entitled to feel a little freaked."

"Yeah, yeah," Jim returned, dismissing the complaints. "Let's see what our new accommodations look like."

He prowled the kitchen first. Bottled water, coffee, herb teas, dried pasta, bread, lunchmeat and condiments. "Just like home," he murmured, casually noting the locations of the ceiling cameras covering the kitchen and living room. There probably wouldn't be any privacy anywhere, not even in the bathroom.

Blair flopped down into the deep cushions of the sofa. "Actually, home isn't quite this grand."

Ignoring him, Jim went to examine the other rooms. Two bedrooms, expensively appointed right down to state-of-the-art surveillance cameras. The closets and drawers in the first bedroom revealed brand new clothes from underwear to shirts and slacks. No shoes. No sweaters or jackets. But everything was in his size. The en suite bathroom contained unopened toilette articles in his regular brands, except there was no razor, just an electric shaver. Their captors had done their homework, but they were taking precautions. There hadn't been any knives or other sharp objects in the kitchen, either.

He crossed to "Blair's" room and found it similarly appointed, right down to new bottles of his favorite herbal shampoo and conditioner. Blair trailed in after him. "Weird, huh?"

"Too damn weird," Jim agreed, walking back into the living room. He paused by the picture windows. Thick safety glass, virtually unbreakable even if he could think of a way to climb down fourteen floors. He knew Coast Guard cutters and other watercraft passed this spot daily, but with all the surveillance in the room, how could he hope to signal anyone? "Do you want some coffee?"

He saw Blair frown a little and realized he should have made it an order, not a question.

"I'll make it," Blair said, heading for the kitchen. He was keeping to his chosen role of general dogsbody, seeking to define a relationship of mutual reward based on his own subservience.

Which mean Jim got to play the Boss. How nice. He sat down at the counter. "Tell me everything that happened," he said.

Blair recounted the details of his day. "Gage came to my office and introduced himself. He said Mr. Cort wanted to meet me to discuss environmental issues concerning some of his planned operations in Peru. Naturally, he figured I'd be an expert on the subject. He said Cort wanted to avoid duplicating the Cyclops Oil fiasco."

"And you believed him?" Jim asked, then scowled. That question had certainly come out wrong! "I mean, you mentioned you were out on bail and couldn't go to Peru, right?"

"Of course," Blair answered. "But Gage said it was only a preliminary meeting. He said there were several other anthropologists being considered for the study, and that Cort was having a luncheon here today to interview all the candidates." He shrugged in embarrassment. "How could I resist finding out what a billionaire serves for lunch?" He found the cups and poured two coffees. "When I got here, they made me empty my pockets and take off my shoes and belt, then they locked me in here." He sat down next to Jim. "Your turn."

Jim sipped the coffee as he told his side of the tale.

Blair had paled by the time he had finished. "My god, Jim, we've vanished."

"Yep, and Cort went to a lot of trouble to do it."

"Have you figured out why?"

"They need a sentinel."

Blair sighed in realization. "Stemple was spying for Cort." Then he winced as he remembered every word he said could be overheard by their unseen watchers.

Jim nodded. "When Stemple couldn't provide your research, they killed him and implemented their own plan, or maybe snatching us was part of their plan all along. They must have been watching us for awhile, searching the loft and setting up this place. Framing you for murder was just icing on the cake, so to speak. Our disappearance will look like flight to avoid prosecution."

"So, what are we going to do?"

"Let's turn on the TV and see if we're infamous yet," Jim suggested, carrying his coffee mug toward the sofa. "I'm sure Simon will try to keep a lid on it, but I'll bet Gage has already leaked our disappearance to the media."

"OK, but I'm gonna take a shower first and change into some sweats," Blair answered, heading toward the bedroom.

Jim smiled slightly. "Shower with pride, my son," he murmured quietly.

Blair looked at him oddly, then his eyes widened in understanding. "They've got cameras in the bathrooms too?" Off Jim's nod, he frowned, then shrugged. "There's a Masai fertility dance I've always wanted to try. What the hell, it'll give 'em a cheap thrill."

Jim switched on the television.

Blair paused in the doorway to his room. "Jim?"

"Umm?"

"Are we gonna get out of this?" He knew it was a stupid question, but he felt a sudden need for a little reassurance.

Jim glanced back at him, his blue eyes mild in the soft lamplight. "You bet, Chief."

"OK." Blair turned to go.

"And Blair," Jim added, "tomorrow don't make the coffee so strong."

"Uh, right, I just need to get used to the new coffee maker." Blair wandered into his bathroom and began to undress. He thought he'd feel acutely uncomfortable knowing he was being watched, but he was too busy muddling through Jim's few words to feel embarrassed. Jim's choice of names was significant, he figured out, setting the water temperature in the shower and stepping in. 'Chief' meant Jim was being Jim; 'Blair' meant he was in his selfish, egotistical mode. Cool.

He hoped he could remain alert for the little clues.

Spending a luxuriously decadent amount of time beneath the hot water, he washed his hair and body, then climbed out and dried off. In the bedroom -- 'his' bedroom, he reminded himself -- he pulled on new sweatpants, a tee, and clean socks before venturing back into the living room. He felt as if he was a guest in an expensive hotel; everything felt like his stuff, but it wasn't his stuff. The only things that were his were the clothes he had dropped on the bathroom floor. He had a feeling that by tomorrow, even those would be gone.

He microwaved a mug of water, brewed some tea, and joined Jim on the sofa. "Any news yet?"

"No, but the evening edition has just started."

And there they were, their department ID photos side by side on the screen as a reporter recounted their flight from justice. Blair Sandburg -- wanted for the murder of a college professor, and Jim Ellison -- highly-trained police officer and ex-Army Ranger, considered armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone seeing either of the fugitives was urged to call Cascade PD or the DA's office immediately.

Ellison's Captain, Simon Banks, had no comment concerning his detective's disappearance. (Actually, the picture showed Simon snarling, "That's bullshit" into a microphone thrust into his face, but of course, they couldn't air the audio portion of his remark.) He looked badly ruffled in the camera's glare, and Jim knew his Captain was probably scrambling to save his career after permitting Jim to go alone to Rainier to arrest Blair. A lot of people would be on the casualty list before this case was closed. Jim just hoped it all could be made right before events spiraled completely out of control. The longer he and Blair remained prisoners, the more difficult it would be to dispel the rumors and suspicion, not to mention recover his home, his bank accounts, and his job.

Blair echoed his thoughts. "This is going to affect a lot of people, isn't it?" he murmured, thinking of Simon and Naomi. It didn't matter if neither of them believed Blair had committed murder; their lives would be changed forever regardless.

"It'll be OK, Chief," Jim assured him quietly, but he switched off the TV and went to the huge windows, where he stared out into the darkness and kept his thoughts to himself.

Blair was counting on him, he knew. They each had confidence in the other's ability to be there when needed. Except -- usually -- it was just one or the other held captive. Even in the rare instances where they had been prisoners together, it had been simply a means to get them out of the way while their captors went about their business of crime. This time, kidnapping them was the plan, and great pains had been taken to ensure they would not escape. And they knew about Jim's sentinel abilities.

It was going to make escape just that much more difficult.

Part Eleven

Simon was looking extremely harassed as he slammed his office door and angrily shed his coat. The gauntlet of reporters had been the final straw in an afternoon filled with setbacks and frustration. "OK, what do we have?" he asked, sitting down behind his desk.

Rafe took his time about settling into a chair and pulling out his notebook; he did it to give the Captain a few extra moments to shrug off his anger. "We have a witness who saw Jim leave the University with a man in a suit around three."

"Definitely not Sandburg?" Simon persisted.

"Definitely not," Rafe agreed. "Beyond that, there's no description of this man or any suspicious vehicles in the area. No one saw if they drove off separately or together. The last person known to have seen Sandburg is the department secretary, Mrs. Simon, who saw him go into his office to pack up his stuff. That was around one."

"Henri?"

"I took a quick look around the loft," Brown told him quietly. "They packed in a hurry and didn't take much. Jim's passport is gone, but we know the court is holding Sandburg's. The kid's laptop is gone."

Simon scowled. "That's it?"

Brown smiled slightly. "The fingerprint crew found a lot of smudged areas on the dressers, desks and in the bathroom. Whoever did the packing wore gloves."

Simon allowed the silence to lengthen as he contemplated the scant information. "OK, I'm going to assume Ellison and Sandburg have been kidnapped," he said at last.

Rafe didn't sound skeptical, merely curious. "Why?"

"I may have something on that," Henri commented, passing out stapled photocopies of a document. "This is what we got off Stemple's diskette. It clearly shows a record of payoffs that match deposits in three of the dead man's bank accounts."

"Adding to Sandburg's motive," Rafe pointed out mildly.

Simon shook his head. "Look at the amounts, Rafe. No way Sandburg could afford to pay blackmail on that scale."

The young detective worked through the problem quickly. "So someone was paying Stemple to spy?"

"Exactly."

"Sandburg has two asterisks next to his name," Raft commented thoughtfully, still trying to make sense of the scenario. "For something called Genetics, Mythology and Ontology of Our Tribal Protectors. That's his thesis, right?"

"Right."

"So you're saying Sandburg was kidnapped based on the fact that he has two asterisks next to his name on Stemple's disk? Hell, sir, Sandburg's an anthropologist. Nobody kidnaps anthropologists because of their work!"

"Maybe he was kidnapped because he's Ellison's partner," Brown offered.

Rafe shook his head. "That eliminates the whole Stemple end of the case."

They were getting bogged down because they didn't have the information they needed, but Simon couldn't tell them everything. "Work with me here, OK?" he asked, feeling frustrated because he couldn't reveal Jim's sentinel abilities, or at least he wouldn't until the situation became more desperate. "I want to know who was paying Stemple to spy. Find him, and we'll find who killed him and kidnapped our two men."

"If our mystery man wanted Sandburg, chances are good Jim's already dead," Rafe pointed out.

"No," Simon contradicted patiently. "I don't believe that. We've got to stay focused here, gentlemen, and ignore all the extraneous garbage. Stemple was getting payoffs to spy on University projects. One of those projects was Sandburg's dissertation. Stemple was murdered, and Sandburg's been kidnapped -- I know, this last bit is speculation, but I feel it's the truth -- and Jim was kidnapped along with him. Someone did a very good job of making it look like they took off." He paused and studied his two detectives. "Are you willing to work with me on this?"

"Of course, Captain," Brown answered immediately, and Rafe nodded his agreement. "But every cop and reporter in the city is falling all over each other looking for Jim and Blair. You sound like you want the three of us to work independent of their efforts."

"We'll be working from the assumption that they've disappeared involuntarily," Simon replied. "That gives us a different perspective." He leaned back and rubbed his face. "I need to know the two of you will stick with this, no matter what."

"We will," Rafe promised grimly, then asked, "But what do you mean by 'no matter what'?"

Simon sighed heavily. "By tomorrow, I'll probably be suspended pending a full investigation by IA," he told them calmly. "You'll have a new captain giving the orders. You're going to have to do a juggling act to keep your attention where it needs to be and not piss off my replacement. Your careers could go down the drain right alongside mine. I want you to weigh the consequences carefully before you commit yourselves to this course of action."

Without knocking, Joel Taggart opened the door and strolled in. "Couldn't help but eavesdrop," he said without apology. "Count me in; I can always retire if the shit hits the fan."

Simon smiled. "Thanks, Joel." He looked at his detectives. "Well?"

Brown shrugged. "Hell, Captain, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror if I let the job get in the way of loyalty to a brother cop."

Rafe nodded. "Jim's a good cop and an honest man. He deserves better than what's happening to him. So does Sandburg. I'm in."

Simon really hadn't expected anything else from his men. "Thank you," he said quietly. "OK, we've got a lot of legwork to do. I want everyone whose name appears on Stemple's disk questioned: Did they know what Stemple was up to? Who would benefit by buying information about their projects? You know the drill. And I'm open to suggestions about what else we can do to shake things loose."

Taggart hitched a hip over the edge of Simon's desk. "I just happen to have an idea on that very subject."

Part Twelve

A faint chime woke Jim the next morning at six a.m. A disembodied voice spoke from a ceiling speaker. "Please be showered and dressed in one hour, Mr. Ellison."

"What about breakfast?" Jim grumbled, not making a move to get out of bed. He'd decided to add a little more verisimilitude to his role as the self-centered jerk.

"What would you like?"

"Steak and eggs, scrambled, hash browns, English muffins, blackberry jam, orange juice and coffee," he rattled off automatically, wondering why his first choice was a food he never ate for breakfast.

"It will be delivered in thirty minutes," the voice promised, and the speaker went dead.

Jim padded to the bathroom, took care of his morning routine under the impartial eye of the security camera, and returned to the bedroom to dress. He grabbed the first tee, shirt, and slacks that came to hand, slipped socks on his feet, and wandered into the living room.

Blair drifted in a few minutes later looking a bit bleary-eyed and sleepy. "'Morning," he mumbled, automatically turning on the TV.

"Turn it off, Blair," Jim said.

Blair gave him a look, then remembered they each had a role to play. "Sorry," he murmured, complying with the instruction. "Did you get to order breakfast?"

"Yeah."

"What did you ask for?"

"Steak and eggs."

Blair shuddered. "That's going to do wonders for your cholesterol."

"I'm not real concerned about my cholesterol right now, Chief," Jim chuckled. "What did you order?"

"Fresh strawberries, bagel and cream cheese, and coffee," Blair admitted a little smugly.

"Yeah? Well, don't sound too happy; we'll probably get some sort of sausage patty on a stale muffin and pre-cooked hash browns in little paper sacks."

Promptly at 6:30, the door opened and a man pushed in a food cart with two covered trays. Two other men, obviously guards, stayed in the hallway, even though the door closed immediately behind the first man. He pulled two chairs from the counter and placed one on either side of the cart, then removed the lids from the trays with a theatrical flourish. "Your breakfast, gentlemen," he said, his tone faintly derisive. It was everything they'd requested, right down to fresh blackberry jam. "A complete inventory of utensils will be made after each meal. Any attempt to conceal an item will only cause you embarrassment. Enjoy your breakfast." With the tray lids still in his hands, he turned and went to the door, which opened to permit his exit.

Jim almost lost his appetite. He'd been hoping the man would be carrying some sort of remote control device to activate the door; instead, the door was controlled by the unseen watchers who monitored the video cameras. At some future time, Jim had hoped to find an opportunity to overpower the man, use the remote, and jump the guards in the hall before the alarm could be raised; it looked like a doomed plan now.

Blair sensed Jim had been upset by whatever he'd heard or seen regarding their breakfast arrangements, but he sat down to eat anyway. He knew their imprisonment might go on for a long time, and they had to begin a routine and stick to it. Eating was a necessity, and judging by the quality of the meal, it was going to be an enjoyable one as well.

"Come on, Jim, sit down and eat something."

Jim finally looked away from the closed door and sat down, his interest in the heavy meal long gone. Instead, he poured coffee and put a little butter and jam on the muffin. "After they take us out of here, they'll probably do a thorough search and get the place ready again for tonight."

"Silly me," Blair confessed ruefully, "I made my bed."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "In your usual manner?"

"Well, yeah," he admitted, thinking of his less-than-perfect corners. Why did Jim seem so interested in this small task?

Jim smiled. "That's probably a good thing, Chief." He figured he'd check that evening to see if the bed had been remade or simply ignored by the housekeeping staff. If the latter, the bed would be a good place to stash any little thing he might be able to confiscate during the day -- even something as innocent as a paper clip or pen could be useful.

Blair didn't know if it was important, but Jim had called him "Chief" again. Maybe he was just looking at all the possibilities, even the remote, apparently irrelevant ones. It didn't matter. Blair would make his bed every morning if it would help them find a way out of this place.

Promptly at 7, the front door swung inward and Gage stood in the foyer. "Gentlemen, come with me, please."

They followed him into the corridor, where they were joined by the same two guards who had escorted the breakfast cart. Gage led them back toward the foyer and down the opposite corridor. As they walked, Jim took in as many details as he could, but the results were pretty dismal. There was no sign of a fire alarm, no fire hose or axe, no drinking fountain, not so much as a potted plant. The reception desk was still unoccupied, it's granite surface unbroken by paper clip or telephone. Both corridors ended with a floor to ceiling window that overlooked the grounds of Cort Industries. If there was an emergency stairwell, it had to be located behind one of the many blank-faced doors inset into the paneled walls. He tried to detect any differences in sound from behind the doors they passed, but he couldn't hear anything to suggest another exit. The only certain exit he knew of was the elevator, accessible only by keycard and leading straight to the underground parking garage, another secure area.

Gage used his keycard to open one of the doors, and they went through into another empty reception area. He led them straight through another door, which opened into a narrow hallway. It looked like a medical clinic, with doors labeled "x-ray", "lab", "ophthalmology" and a variety of other specialties.

The door at the end of the short corridor opened into a large lab with windows at its far end facing away from the scenic bay toward the downtown business district. The lab contained numerous "work stations", with PC's and equipment cluttering the numerous counters, and every available bit of wall space was lined with cabinets and shelves.

Jim looked at it all critically, not liking where his thoughts were taking him.

Gage pointed toward a tall wooden chair next to one of the counters. "Mr. Sandburg, if you would please sit there."

Blair took a step, and then balked at what he saw. The chair was bolted to the floor, reminding him of an aircraft hangar and the demented pervert who had bound him to another chair. "Honest to god, man I don't want to sound difficult, but are you going to strap me into that thing?" He tried to sound indifferent, but he couldn't hide the faint tremor in his voice.

"A single handcuff around your left wrist," Gage told him, frowning slightly at Blair's hesitance. Then he remembered. "Ah, yes, the incident with Mr. Hicks. As long as Mr. Ellison cooperates, there is no need for you to feel nervous."

Blair's mouth felt suddenly dry as he looked at Jim, who looked back just as helplessly. Taking a deep breath, he forced his feet to carry him forward to the chair, where he sat down hesitantly.

"There's no need for handcuffs," Jim said roughly.

"Indeed there is, Mr. Ellison," Gage contradicted almost gently. "You might feel compelled to try to escape -- an impossible notion, but one which you might contemplate -- but with Mr. Sandburg secured, you will feel less tempted."

Blair concentrated on his breathing while one of the guards handcuffed his wrist to the wooden edge of the chair. The clench of fear in his gut made him wish he hadn't eaten any breakfast; it would be embarrassing if he suddenly threw up, and he was determined not to do it. The metal handcuff felt cold against the scabbed-over abrasions caused by his earlier chafing after his arrest.

A white-coated technician joined the guard, who placed Blair's right forearm on the counter top. Only then did Blair notice the restraint bolted into the Formica, and he automatically tried to jerk away. "Wait -- " he said a little desperately, but the guard had him pinned firmly.

Jim took an angry step forward, but Gage held up a dart gun. "Please don't, Mr. Ellison. The drug in the dart will render you immediately helpless, and I'd be forced to punish Mr. Sandburg for your lack of cooperation."

Jim froze and watched helplessly as the technician secured Blair's arm in the restraint. He felt the same, trapped feeling he'd experienced in the elevator the day before. There was no way he would try to escape without his partner, and they knew it.

Once Blair's arm was strapped down, the technician lifted a cloth from a nearby steel tray to reveal an array of small syringes, all of them filled with a miniscule amount of deep amber liquid. Picking up one, he took a sterile wipe and swabbed the inside of Blair's elbow.

Blair paled. "Ah, man," he breathed, fear making his voice crack.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jim demanded angrily, almost at the end of his control.

"Mr. Ellison, there is no need to panic," Gage pointed out calmly. "I repeat, Mr. Sandburg will not be harmed as long as you cooperate."

"Then what the hell are you doing to him?" Jim shot back, wincing right along with his partner as the needle went in.

The technician taped the syringe in place, the amber liquid poised to be injected into Blair's body.

"The syringe contains an interesting cocktail," Gage explained quietly. "It will ensure Mr. Sandburg spends a half-dozen or so very, very painful hours in hell in the event you don't give us your full cooperation."

Jim was glad now he hadn't eaten the steak and eggs. His stomach was a solid knot of tension, the effects radiating outward until his limbs trembled. "What do you want me to do?" he finally asked, his voice quiet and hoarse, his eyes on his partner. Blair was trying very hard to maintain his composure, but his eyes were just a little too wide, his expression a little too studiously neutral, his skin too pale to reflect anything but fear. And Jim could hear it in his heartbeat and breathing as well.

Another white-coated man stepped forward. He looked like everyone's image of the kindly family doctor. "Mr. Ellison, I am Doctor Murdock," the man introduced himself. "I understand you are a sentinel?"

"All right," Jim answered somewhat noncommittally. To deny it was to risk seeing Blair injected with whatever horrors hovered just outside his vein.

"Mr. Sandburg has been reluctant to administer the tests necessary to trace the source and the extent of your enhanced sensory abilities," Murdock went on. "That is what we intend to do."

Jim frowned. "Why?"

"Genetic engineering," the doctor replied simply. "To create artificially what nature has endowed in you."

Jim's eyes widened in amazement. "A super race? Didn't the Nazis try that a few years back?"

Murdock smiled tolerantly, obviously used to the comparison. "They lacked the technology."

Despite his fear, Blair was paying attention to the conversation. "Cloning? You think you'll be able to clone another sentinel?"

"Within the next decade, certainly," Murdock assured them. "Mr. Cort is a very patient man with an eye toward the future."

"An army of soldiers with enhanced senses?" Jim asked, appalled by the notion.

Murdock laughed. "No. That would be unfeasible. But as organic security? A sentinel could replace the need for electronic surveillance equipment and cumbersome night vision goggles. A sentinel could pass safely through any security scan because he wouldn't need to carry special equipment. Imagine his use as part of a covert operations unit -- or perhaps you already understand the advantages there, yes?"

"It'll make an interesting addition to Cort's product catalog," Jim admitted with a slight smile, trying to hide his growing anxiety. He felt physically ill. Lab rat -- on more than one occasion, he'd accused Blair of using him like a lab rat. Well, here was that nightmare come to vivid life, and there was no escape.

"Yes, won't it?" Murdock agreed, ignoring the sarcasm. "Today will involve a long and boring medical questionnaire. We'll also draw blood for a DNA analysis, and if time permits, we'll begin the preliminary baseline testing. There is nothing to worry about, and both you and Mr. Sandburg will not feel the slightest discomfort."

Jim glanced at Blair, who was already experiencing more than a slight discomfort, bound to the chair with a syringe taped into his arm, but for the moment at least, he decided to be cooperative. With a sigh, he nodded. "OK, let's get started."

"Excellent," Murdock beamed. He gestured toward a comfortable office chair. "Sit down, Mr. Ellison, and relax. The questions will be given verbally, so both you and Mr. Sandburg can respond as appropriate." He picked up a clipboard and smoothed the top page gently. "We'll begin with confirmation of your vital statistics...."

As predicted, it was long and boring. As the morning progressed, beverages were served, which Blair started to refuse because they wouldn't remove the handcuff to permit him to hold the glass. But he finally relented because he figured he needed the liquid. Plus, he wanted to see what sort of security arrangements they intended when he wanted to take a bathroom break.

Gage left soon after the questioning began, but his minions stayed behind, keeping a watchful distance. Those two, plus the three laboratory technicians and Murdock, resulted in odds too great for Jim to think about attempting an escape.

"By the way, what would you like for lunch?" Murdock asked unexpectedly.

Jim pondered the question and looked at his partner. "Salmon with lemon-dill sauce?" he asked. When Blair nodded, he added, "And baby asparagus, new potatoes and coffee."

"And a green salad," Blair added softly.

Jim grinned. "And a green salad," he agreed.

Murdock smiled. "Excellent choices. Just in case you're trying to be difficult, I think I should tell you that we have a world-class chef and a five-star kitchen. I sincerely doubt you'll be able to challenge his culinary expertise."

"Then at least we'll be well-fed prisoners," Jim commented, then decided to add a little more to his prima donna routine. Idly, he tugged at the collar of his tee shirt. "The tag in the neck of this thing is stiff. It's irritating my skin."

Blair immediately jumped in. "You didn't wash his stuff first?" he demanded, allowing just the right note of outrage to creep into his tone. "Man, you gotta be careful about things like that! Make sure you use a mild soap, not a detergent, and everything has to be hypo-allergenic and fragrance free."

For the first time, Murdock looked nonplussed. "Really?" he asked a little numbly. Hastily, he scrawled some notes in the margins of the questionnaire he was completing. "Very well. I'll have someone tend to it."

"Be really careful with his sheets," Blair insisted. "He can't get any sleep if they're not soft enough." He would have continued in this vein, but Jim couldn't stand any more and shot him an exasperated look. With a barely restrained grin, Blair subsided. It had been a nice little diversion, he had to admit; for a moment, he'd almost forgotten about the needle in his arm.

Part Thirteen

Lunch was a long time coming, but finally the interminable questions stopped and Blair was released from his restraints. He breathed a sigh of relief as the needle was removed gently from his arm and a small piece of cotton taped over the tiny wound. "I suppose you're gonna do the same thing again this afternoon?" he asked quietly.

The technician nodded confirmation.

Blair frowned. "Then I guess I'd better stick to the salad," he murmured unhappily, thinking of his earlier feeling of nausea.

"You gotta eat, Chief," Jim assured him, throwing one arm companionably around his partner's shoulders as they were escorted from the lab. He was so damned glad to have the questions halted, if only for a few minutes, that he could have danced for joy. Sitting for long periods of time just wasn't in his nature.

The dining room was across the hall and a couple of doors down. It was small, with room for twelve four-chair tables and a sideboard that held a coffee urn and dessert tray. A swinging door led through to what was presumably the kitchen. Jim examined it all with interest as he led Blair to a table nearest the kitchen door and plopped him down at the chair facing into the room. He sat down opposite him, mouthing, "Just talk a lot," to his somewhat bemused partner.

The only people joining them for lunch were Gage, the minions, and the lab workers they'd already seen. If other executives had ever worked on this floor, they'd been relocated elsewhere so the Sentinel Project could be conducted away from curious eyes.

As with breakfast, the meal was exactly as Jim had specified. As they started to eat, Blair began talking, putting his fork down frequently so he could use his hands to add emphasis to his words. He recounted inconsequential things about his arrest, the loss of his job, the various artifacts he'd been packing at the time of his abduction, the people he knew would be worried about him -- potentially heavy topics that he kept light by skirting any real emotional involvement with their telling.

Jim wasn't listening. Instead, he used his hearing to go beyond the doors leading to the kitchen. It sounded about the right size to service the potential customers who would use this dining room. That meant there had to be another kitchen, probably on one of the lower floors, which supplied food for the hundreds of workers who occupied Cort Towers on a daily basis. Supplies for this penthouse kitchen would not be brought up on the secure elevator that opened into the foyer, obviously, since dignitaries would not want to share space with a cartload of cabbage. It was bad for the image.

So there had to be a service elevator back there somewhere. Within a few minutes, Jim heard it depart, heading for the lower floors. And he hadn't heard a key or a keycard, just the wonderful sound of a button being pushed. It could be a way out.

"Jim." Blair's voice finally cut through Jim's concentration, and he looked into his partner's concerned eyes. But the words themselves were innocent: "You should eat your salmon before it gets cold."

Jim nodded, aware he'd been close to a zone out. "OK, thanks," he murmured, picking up his fork and absently starting to eat.

His thoughts were on the afternoon session. He wanted to try something, but he knew failure could be disastrous for his partner. Thinking about the risks pretty much ensured a tasteless meal, but it did not sway his determination to try his plan at the first opportunity.

After lunch, they returned to the lab, where Jim watched helplessly as Blair was once again strapped into the chair and the needle taped to his arm. "You don't have to do that," he complained angrily. "You don't have a clue about what's going on here."

"I think we'll be the judge of that," Gage answered calmly. "Doctor Murdock?"

"I believe we're done with the medical history," the doctor replied, checking his clipboard. "Let's do a simple vision test, just to get an idea of what we're dealing with." He had Jim sit down in a chair facing a standard vision chart. "Mr. Ellison, what is the smallest line you can read?"

Actually, Jim could read the tiny copyright information in the bottom corner of the chart. This was the opportunity he'd been contemplating over lunch, so he deliberately recited the letters on the 20/20 line.

Murdock frowned. "Is that the best you can do?"

"What do you mean?" Jim countered, frowning. "I don't need glasses or anything, right?"

Gage lost his temper. "That's enough!" he said sharply. "Mr. Ellison, in case you think we're not prepared to follow through on our threats, let me give you a little demonstration." He reached for the syringe impaling Blair's arm.

Futilely, Blair tried to pull away, but his arm was strapped securely to the table. In the space of a second, his face went dead white, as if he would faint from fear.

"Wait a minute!" Jim shouted, rising and turning toward Gage, but otherwise not moving from his location. All too well, he was aware of the minions prepared to lunge forward if he became aggressive.

Blair's eyes were glued on the thumb touching the plunger as he waited for the fateful drug to be injected into his bloodstream. But Gage hesitated, his eyes on Jim. "You doubt me, Mr. Ellison?"

"No," Jim assured him, trying to remain calm as he mentally fingered his trump card. "I just didn't understand what you wanted me to do -- you wanted me to use my sentinel sight, right?"

Gage actually chuckled. "Of course we did. What did you think we meant?"

"Look, I keep forgetting Stemple was feeding you old information," Jim explained patiently. "Everything you know or think you know is months, maybe years out of date. He was just rehashing the same old bits and pieces to make you keep paying him."

"Go on." Gage sounded suspicious but interested nonetheless.

"I guess Stemple never told you about the Sentinel/Guide relationship," Jim concluded, finally turning over his card.

"We know what our research has revealed," Murdock answered. "We have access to many of the same references Mr. Sandburg used in his study. Are you saying Mr. Sandburg is such a person?"

Jim nodded. "Without him, I'm just a guy with sporadic heightened senses who suffers a lot of headaches and is in danger of zoning out if he concentrates too hard."

Gage snorted. "That's preposterous."

"Maybe not," Murdock commented. "So, how does this Guide help you prepare to use your senses?"

Jim glanced at Blair, who immediately took up the story. "I help him focus whichever sense he's going to use. There are certain meditation techniques that make him relaxed and receptive to opening that sense to input. It's the only way he can filter out distracting influences such as loud noises or bright lights. If he doesn't enter this meditative state, his senses can become overwhelmed and shut down -- the zone out condition he mentioned."

"This meditative state," Murdock repeated, furiously taking notes. "How long does it take for him to achieve?"

"Usually just a couple of minutes," Blair assured him confidently. "And there's a psychic link as well, although we haven't explored that too deeply -- he only responds to the sound of my voice."

A silent battle of wills went on between Murdock and Gage for a long minute. Finally, Gage nodded to a technician, who removed the syringe and restraints from Blair. "Show me."

Gratefully, Blair stood up and went to Jim. "OK, Jim, go ahead and sit down," he said, sliding his voice into the Guide range he used when he was seriously working on Jim's senses. Now, it was just a way to deliver a bunch of mindless mumbo-jumbo, but he did it with a seriousness of a master craftsman. "I want you to relax and concentrate on the sound of my voice. Take deep breaths and repeat your calming mantra in your mind. When you feel ready, I want you to open your eyes and see the eye chart at the end of the room."

Jim went along with the charade, making a big deal out of closing his eyes, flexing his shoulders to relax, smoothing the lines of tension from his expression. After a minute, he opened his eyes and promptly read the copyright notice at the bottom of the chart.

Blair beamed as if Jim was a well-trained dog who'd just performed a complicated trick. "See? Isn't he great?"

"Yeah, great," Gage retorted doubtfully. To Murdock, he asked, "How the hell can we work with that?"

"The genetics are in place," Murdock assured him. "We'll have to adjust our testing methods a bit, but the end result should be everything Mr. Cort has hoped for. There is no reason we can't engineer a fully independent sentinel free of the need for a guide."

Gage looked at Jim. "OK, Ellison, you've made your point. But remember, no matter how important you think Sandburg is to your performance as a sentinel, I'm still willing to inject him if you so much as twitch funny. Got it?"

"Sure I've got it," Jim returned, making sure a petulant note crept into his voice. "But you just remember you don't know squat about this sentinel business, and if you expect to learn anything, you need both of us."

It wasn't as much as Jim had hoped for, but at least he'd convinced his opponent that Blair wasn't as "expendable" as first supposed. Now, they just had to downplay Jim's true abilities while playing up Blair's role as coach. With luck, they could keep up the act until Jim could implement a plan for escape.

Part Fourteen

Murdock immediately shifted his attention to Blair, since a guide study had not been part of the original scope of the project. In his element as bullshit artiste extraordinarie, Blair launched into a detailed examination of the sentinel/guide symbiosis in which he seamlessly blended fact and fabrication until there were times Jim wasn't even certain what was real and what was contrived.

Blair moved when he talked, pacing back and forth across the lab, his hands gesticulating to emphasize a point or aid his explanation. While all eyes followed his progress, Jim took the opportunity to study the lab. More and more, it was beginning to look as if this room, and not their apartment, was the place from which they would have to launch their escape.

When Blair had concluded his lengthy dissertation, Murdock had filled several pages with notes, and a minion had changed tapes in a portable cassette recorder twice. It had taken a lot to wind Blair down, and Jim was absurdly proud of his partner. He'd successfully wasted a lot of time and prevented any further exploration of Jim's senses, for which the Sentinel was more than grateful. He didn't like being a test subject, not in the sense Cort Industries intended to study him, and he vowed never again to complain about the comparatively mild testing Blair subjected him to on a less-than-regular basis.

A minion came in and whispered something to Gage so quickly that Jim didn't have time to listen in. As it turned out, it wasn't necessary.

"Turn on the TV," Gage ordered the tech nearest the 32-inch behemoth.

It was a news conference, and Blair came over to stand beside Jim while they watched it. A cluster of reporters were gathered around a portable lectern set up just outside the precinct building, with the blue and white "Cascade Police Department" looking suitably impressive from the upward-facing angle of the news camera.

Captain Finkelman was behind the microphones, and she looked extremely professional in a dark-gray suit that seemed to match her somber mood. " -- damages the reputation of the entire police department as a whole and the Major Crime Division in particular," she was saying to the throng. "My goal is to remove the blemish from the otherwise outstanding record of service of this organization. All our of available resources will be utilized to the utmost to bring to justice Detective James Ellison and Mr. Blair Sandburg."

Reporters started shouting questions even as her mouth closed on her final word. Jim frowned. He knew the Captain only slightly, but he'd still figured they'd come to a grudging mutual respect.

She had nothing further to add to her prepared statement beyond, "And now I believe Captain Banks has a statement to make."

The two Captains glared at one another as Simon took her place behind the microphones. His anger didn't diminish as he gazed toward the cameras. "As all of you are aware, I have been suspended pending a full investigation into my actions during this case. I want you to know that I stand by the reputation of my men and will do my utmost to prove Blair Sandburg's innocence in the murder of Arlen Stemple. Furthermore, I believe Detective Ellison has become a victim of the same conspiracy that has tainted Mr. Sandburg's reputation. Both men have an outstanding record of service to the department and to this community. I am appalled by the political expediency with which the rest of my colleagues have seen fit to throw these two fine men to the wolves. Although I no longer have an official capacity with the police department, I still have numerous resources at my disposal, which I will use to prove the falseness of the accusations."

With a final glare for the viewing public, he stepped away from the lectern and refused to answer any further questions.

There was silence in the lab after Simon stopped speaking. Blair felt a warm rush of affection for the Captain's unconditional support. He glanced at his partner, and saw Jim's frown of worry.

Gage was also frowning as he gestured for the TV to be turned off. "Any truth to what he says?"

One of the minions had the answer. "He has a lot of connections, some of them are with agencies that have access to potentially damaging information. If he pushes hard enough, he could get to the truth."

Gage's scowl deepened, then smoothed as he glanced at Jim and gave a slight smile. "A minor complication," he murmured with assurance. Without shifting his eyes off Jim, he lifted his cell phone and made a call. To the person who answered, he said simply, "Simon Banks has become a liability. Make it look like a random mugging."

Blair was stunned at the ease with which Gage ordered Simon's death. Angrily, he started to shout. "You can't just -- !"

At that moment, Jim's control snapped. Lunging for Gage, he'd made it only a few feet before the twin leads of a taser impacted against his chest, the weapon held by one of the minions whose only duty was to keep an eye on him. That attention had never wavered.

The volts of electricity shot through Jim's body, disrupting his entire system. Like a fish caught on a line, he fell to the floor, writhing and bucking helplessly as the current coursed through his nerves.

The last thing he heard was Blair's scream, filled with rage and terror.

Part Fifteen

Jim woke gradually in confusion, his mind a haphazard tumble of disjointed, fragmented images. His body ached, as if he'd attempted intense, sustained labor that had required the use of every muscle and joint. Tentatively, he opened his eyes and grimaced against the dim, diffuse lighting that never permitted the room to be truly dark.

He was lying on his bed, or what he'd come to think of as "his" bed at the Cort complex. With a rush, the memories of the newscast, Gage's order to kill Simon, and his own violent response came crashing back.

He sat up too quickly, and nausea engulfed him. Desperately, he lunged to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, only dimly aware that Blair was slumped in a chair beside the bed, asleep or unconscious Jim didn't have time to discern.

He'd barely lifted the toilet seat before his stomach heaved, and he irrelevantly vowed never to eat salmon or asparagus again.

Peripherally, he became aware of his partner crouching behind him, one hand stroking his back while the other gently wiped the perspiration from his forehead as Jim continued to heave.

"God, Jim," Blair whispered, his tone despairing and helpless. The words clearly had been spontaneous, with a multitude of unspecified emotions behind them.

When his stomach was empty and the heaving cramps had subsided, Jim flushed the toilet and climbed shakily to his feet. With slow, disjointed motions, he managed to rinse his mouth and wash his face, gently shrugging off Blair's attempts to help. "I'm OK," he murmured in what he hoped sounded like assurance.

When he straightened from the sink and caught a glimpse of his pale face and bloodshot eyes reflected in the mirror, he grimaced. "Damn, I feel like shit," he admitted.

Blair handed him a towel and Jim wiped his face. "Come on, Jim," the younger man urged gently, helping him back to the bed. "You want to get undressed?"

"What time is it?" Jim asked in response as he sat down gingerly on the mattress.

"A little past dark," Blair answered. "I can turn on the TV and find out."

Jim shook his head slightly. "That's OK." He cradled his aching head in his hands. "Any chance of some aspirin and a cup of tea?"

"Sure. I'll get it." Abruptly, Blair sat down beside him. "God, Jim, I thought they'd killed you."

His memory fuzzy on the details, Jim had to ask. "What happened?"

"One of Gage's men had a taser." Blair's voice was shaky. "I've never -- I've never seen anything like that. How can the police department consider it non-lethal force?"

"Because I wasn't killed," Jim explained, trying to keep it simple.

"I think I'd rather risk a bullet," Blair returned. He shuddered at the memory of Jim's writhing body.

"It's OK, the effects are temporary." Jim pushed off the bed, and Blair helped him stand. "I need to check the news, see if there's anything about -- " He couldn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to.

Simon.

He had to see if there was any news about Simon.

Blair supported him a bit on the short journey to the living room, but Jim's strength was returning with each step. As he'd said, the effects of the electric jolt were temporary.

Before he sat down on the sofa, he turned and placed his hands on his partner's shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely, his voice filled with regret.

Blair's eyes widened in confusion. "Why? This is all my fault."

"I'm sorry I lost control," Jim explained, ignoring his partner's comment for the moment. "I didn't think about what could happen when I reacted to Gage's order to kill Simon. It wasn't until the moment I went down that I remembered, and I was afraid you were going to be punished for my actions."

Blair smiled, but he trembled slightly beneath Jim's touch. "I kinda worried about that, too," he admitted, trying to sound casual despite his tension. "I guess Gage figured it wouldn't do any good if you weren't awake to enjoy the show."

The unspoken thought that punishment might only have been postponed didn't need to be said, and Jim felt a tremor of shame. "It's not gonna happen," he said with more confidence than he felt. "They know how important you are to their research now. Until they're --" Jim faltered, annoyed by the sudden fear he felt. "Until they're finished studying me, they can't risk harming you."

Blair saw the emotion. "It'll be OK," he said gently. "We're in this together. Whatever happens, it's not your fault."

Wearily, Jim nodded and slumped onto the sofa. Blair turned on the news and retreated to the kitchen to brew the promised tea. The national news was airing, so Jim leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing the drone of the news anchor's voice to wash over him, letting his thoughts drift.

Escape became more imperative with each passing hour. He was afraid of the helplessness he felt being used as laboratory research. The tests to determine the lower levels of his senses would be tedious and probably result in numerous headaches, but those discomforts would be relatively minor. The tests to determine his upper tolerances didn't bear thinking about. How much sound or light could he endure before screaming himself into unconsciousness? How would they strap him down to control his struggles...what kind of medical monstrosities would test and record his responses to sensory stimulation? How much could he tolerate before he went irreversibly insane? Worse, how much could he endure before he snapped and caused his partner to suffer the consequences?

He couldn't allow that to happen.

"Jim?"

He startled awake, disoriented and fearful for a moment until he realized where he was. Blair was beside him, a cup of tea and two aspirin in his hand.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Jim said, straightening to accept the cup. He downed the pills before continuing. "I guess I dozed off, and the nightmare wasn't very pleasant."

"That's OK. The local news is coming on."

It was the lead story. Captain Simon Banks, recently suspended from duty, had been mugged and shot by an as-yet-unidentified assailant. He was currently in critical condition in the hospital, and expectations for recovery were not good. The assailant had been killed by an off-duty cop who'd been on his way home at the time of the attack.

They sat in silence for a long time after the report had aired. There wasn't anything to say. None of the questions they wanted to ask could be answered, none of their speculations confirmed or denied.

Finally, Blair said it for both of them, in a quiet voice filled with sadness and resignation. "Shit."

Jim gave himself a mental shake. "I think I'm gonna go to sleep now, Blair," he said softly. "I'm kinda embarrassed to ask, but, uh -- "

"Ask what?" his partner coaxed, thinking 'He called me Blair. Is this gonna be significant, or just because his mind is still a bit addled after the taser?'

"I'm afraid I'll have another nightmare," Jim confessed, shame-faced. "Would you mind, uh -- ?"

"Sitting with you for awhile?" Blair concluded gently. Jim nodded once, and Blair smiled. "Sure, no problem." He grabbed a magazine off the coffee table as he followed Jim into the bedroom. "Do you mind if I keep the light on so I can read?"

"Sure. Read something aloud. Maybe it'll help me go to sleep."

Blair just looked at him very oddly, a question hovering in his eyes that he couldn't risk allowing past his lips.

Jim undressed to his shorts and crawled beneath the covers. He started to close his eyes, then looked at Blair. "And, Chief, we're gonna get out of this," he said, absolute confidence in his tone. "Even if I have to carry you piggyback, we're gonna get out of this."

"I know," Blair answered with the same assurance, sitting down atop the bedcovers and opening the magazine. He patted Jim's knee, then left his hand there as his partner settled down for sleep. He began to read aloud in a soft voice from the magazine he'd picked up. It wasn't pertinent, but it didn't need to be; it was the sound of his voice that was important, not the words themselves, not yet.

With his hand helping to anchor Jim, he continued to read.

Jim relaxed as he focused on the sound of his Guide's voice. Then, gradually, he opened his hearing, moving past Blair's voice and out into the corridor beyond the door to their apartment. In his mind's eye, he could picture every detail of the hall as he moved along it, feeling every gentle change in the air currents as the environmental control system engaged and began to pump heat into the building. The glass expanse of the foyer exuded cold air that mingled with the warmth, sending the currents into a heady spiral that he could feel colliding against his skin.

Finding the kitchen again, he passed through. Two of the minions were drinking coffee. One used lots of cream and sugar, the other had bad breath from gum disease. Jim ignored them and moved through the room into the kitchen. Lots of stainless steel and chrome, every surface sparkling with cleanliness, the smells of cleansers and disinfectant not quite strong enough to mask the faint leftover scent of salmon.

The unpleasant association with the smell of the fish almost caused him to lose his concentration, but Blair's hand tightened on his knee, keeping him focused on the task. The Guide's voice never altered as he continued to read.

Resolutely, Jim moved on. A kitchen worker was finishing the last of the scrubbing, and as he dried his hands, he pushed the button for the elevator. It arrived, and Jim followed the scent of hand soap into the car. As he'd suspected, it had a normal wall panel with floor indicators. The man pushed a button, and the elevator started downward. Jim counted the floors as it dropped.

The third floor kitchen was enormous, more suited to serving the needs of the many employees of Cort Industries. It was nearly deserted now, but Jim passed through and entered the large dining area, where a few employees were lingering over cups of coffee before starting the trek homeward. Ignoring them, he left the dining room and found himself in a vast, marble-floored foyer crowded with departing workers. They left in several different directions, and Jim stretched his hearing to follow the different paths. Elevators, stairwells, and a three-story sweep of staircase led downward to the ground floor. Here, large glass doors opened to both the front and rear of the building to permit access to the grounds or the parking lots. More elevators and stairwells led to underground parking garages. Jim ignored these, concentrating instead on the above-ground exits.

Security in the main lobby was sparse -- one man in uniform behind a small desk (Jim could smell the leather of his utility belt and the gun oil from his sidearm). Several receptionists closed up shop behind a sweeping granite curve of countertop. One of the women was wearing Cabotine, one of Jim's favorite scents, and he wanted to follow her outside to her car, outside where freedom beckoned and normal life existed.

Only he'd stretched his sense of smell too long and too far, and he knew he'd reached his limit. Instead, he opened his hearing, and from fourteen floors above him, he heard the voice of his Guide. Quickly, he followed the sound back, and opened his eyes to meet his partner's anxious gaze.

Jim smiled. "Blair, I guess reading wasn't such a great idea after all. It's given me a helluva headache. Clear out and let me get some sleep, would ya?"

"Sure thing, Jim," Blair answered with a grin, closing the magazine and getting up. He desperately wanted to know the details of Jim's success or failure with piggybacking his sight with whatever senses he'd used to explore the building, but he knew it would have to wait until they were free of the probing eyes and ears of the security monitors.

With a final comforting pat on Jim's knee, he turned off the lamp, leaving only the diffuse lighting over which he had no control, and strolled out toward his bedroom. Gage, Murdock, and Cort had no idea what a formidable opponent they had in the Sentinel, and Blair was determined to do his best to continue bullshitting them so they never found out.

Part Sixteen

"Mr. Ellison."

Jim jerked awake with a savage start and found himself halfway to his feet without quite remembering how he'd gotten there. With a trembling sigh, he slumped back down on the edge of the bed.

Damnit, damnit, damnit! He'd been having a nightmare.

"Are you all right, Mr. Ellison?" an impartial voice asked from the overhead speakers. "Would you like me to wake up Mr. Sandburg?"

"No, damnit," Jim snarled. "I'm fine."

With quick, impatient motions, he climbed to his feet and went into the bathroom, where he showered, scrubbing away the last of the horrific images. Returning to the bedroom, he dressed in sweatpants, tee, and socks. He doubted he'd require anything more formal during the day -- or any other day that found him still captive in this well-appointed prison.

Stalking into the living room, he noticed it was still dark outside. In the kitchen, he brewed a pot of coffee and poured a cup before slouching onto the sofa and turning on the television. It featured an infomercial for reduced-fat grilling. He never did learn the name of the product or hear about its many virtues, but the mindless babble of the easily-astonished hostess and the celebrity pundit washed over him like a strong dose of white noise, and he managed to doze off again for awhile.

By the time Blair ventured out in answer to his wakeup call, Jim had recovered his emotional equilibrium and steeled himself for whatever the day held in store. He was determined to control his temper and his nerves, because to lose either meant punishment for his Guide. He'd heard of this method of intimidation, but it was the first time he'd actually experienced it first hand; he didn't like it one bit.

"What did you order for breakfast?" Blair asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"I didn't."

"You have to eat something," the anthropologist responded logically. To their unseen minders, he said, "Some bran muffins, jam and fresh fruit, fellas, OK?"

"Bran muffins?" Jim echoed with a grin.

"OK, banana nut muffins," Blair corrected with an exasperated sigh. "Whatever. You're gonna eat."

Jim raised his hands in mock surrender.

Blair flopped down beside him, keeping his steaming coffee corralled inside the cup with practiced ease. "You should have woken me," he commented without a trace of accusation.

"What -- the guards are feeding you information now?" Jim asked a little incredulously. "It was just a bad dream." A bad dream? He'd been strapped helplessly to a gurney while faceless men in surgical garb shaved his head and started drilling holes to implant electrodes in his brain to measure the limits of his sensory abilities. No one heard his screams begging them to stop or give him an anesthetic. No one cared if he went insane, because the implants would continue to faithfully measure his responses long after his conscious mind had ceased to function...

Resolutely, he took a sip of his coffee, discovered it was long cold, and got up to pour a fresh cup.

"You want to talk about it?"

"It was just about the crash in Peru," Jim retorted sharply, wondering if his partner had forgotten that every word they said would be overheard. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to an unseen audience about his nightmares.

Blair's attentive, concerned expression never altered, but Jim suddenly realized his partner had deliberately baited him into making an angry comeback. Jim hadn't been playing his part as the selfish jackass. "Since you're feeling so compassionate, Blair, why don't you make a fresh pot of coffee -- and see if you can get it right this time."

"Touchy, touchy," Blair murmured, but he was smiling. Obediently, he joined Jim in the kitchen and began fixing the fresh brew.

Their breakfast arrived promptly at 6:30: an assortment of muffins and jams, fresh fruit and yogurt, plus an excellent carafe of coffee.

"I wonder why I resent this so much?" Jim grumbled, obediently glazing a muffin with jam under Blair's approving gaze.

"Because you feel like a pampered pet," the anthropologist replied. "Because you're not in control, and that gnaws at you."

"So true," Jim agreed mildly, taking a bite. As he ate, he reviewed his meager escape plan in his mind. There were a thousand and one things that could go wrong, he knew, but he still intended to take the first chance that presented itself. If he waited, it could be too late.

"Do you want me to check the morning news?" Blair asked, pulling Jim's thoughts back.

"No, there's nothing we can do from here," he answered firmly, knowing his partner was thinking of Simon. Had their friend survived the night?

At seven, Gage opened the door and gestured for the two men to join him. As they walked to the lab, he said, "I hate to admit it, but it appears you were right about Professor Stemple. He was feeding us old information extrapolated from Mr. Sandburg's earliest notes."

"You mean you didn't even suspect that when you had him killed?" Jim asked without a trace of surprise.

"Actually, no. We simply used the fortuitous fact that Mr. Sandburg was due to meet with Stemple at 8 o'clock, so we had plenty of time to fabricate evidence pointing to his guilt."

They entered the lab, which was staffed with the same help as the previous day. "So why did you kill him?" Blair asked curiously, trying to distract himself with questions while a guard once again handcuffed him to the wooden chair. With relief, he noticed the tray of syringes had vanished.

Gage dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "He'd become a liability. Another faculty member was going to turn him in for spying on his research. Stemple might have implicated us in order to save his own worthless hide."

"He didn't understand the big picture," Jim murmured sarcastically.

Gage smiled, unoffended. "That's right. What would you like for lunch today?"

Promptly, Jim answered, "Wonder Burger and fries."

Still smiling, Gage turned to Blair, who shrugged and said, "Maybe some vegetable soup?"

"I'm sure our chef will manage both requests," Gage assured them.

Dr. Murdock was impatient to begin. "Mr. Ellison, today we're going to work on establishing the baseline measurements I spoke of yesterday. We're going to give you a routine CAT scan and MRI to check your normal brainwave activity. After lunch, we'll repeat the tests while applying certain sensory stimulation to check your brain's responses to the input. We'll also monitor any changes in your body's production of neurotransmitters during this stimulation in the hopes we can track the specific agents that enable you to use your senses beyond normal limits."

"Cool," Blair piped up, unable to control his enthusiasm. "I've been contemplating the neurotransmitter angle for awhile now," he admitted with customary eagerness. "I was wondering if an abundance of certain chemicals are responsible for his heightened senses."

"But you've never explored that possibility?" Murdock questioned.

Blair grimaced. "Couldn't get the necessary funding," he replied unhappily. "There are so many hundreds -- or is it thousands? -- of neurotransmitters, the time and money necessary to isolate and identify the relevant ones was beyond my capacity." He caught a furious glare from his partner and grimaced. "Sorry, Jim. I guess I never discussed that particular angle with you."

"You guess!" Jim repeated angrily, not sure if Blair was in his bullshit mode or not, but having a horrible suspicion he was being absolutely serious.

Blair rose to the challenge. "Hey, it was something I wasn't able to follow up on anyway, so what's the big deal?"

Jim ground his jaws closed and swallowed his retort.

"Gentlemen," Gage soothed, smiling, "please. Let's all try to behave like reasonable adults here, shall we?"

Jim spared a glower for him as well, then turned back to Murdock. "Just get on with it."

Chapter Seventeen

The morning passed with agonizing slowness. Jim endured the CAT scan and MRI with grumbling obedience, feeling ridiculous in the standard hospital gown and flimsy robe they made him wear. More questions and blood tests followed each stage of the procedures. He felt like a pincushion by the time they were finished with him.

"There'll be more tests this afternoon," Murdock told him when they returned to the lab, where Blair was alternating between a magazine and the television as he sat handcuffed under the watchful eye of a guard. "However, we'll have lunch first, so you may wish to get dressed again."

"'May wish' is right," Jim growled, grabbing his stuff and retreating behind the miniscule privacy screen they'd granted him. He had a thousand questions about the sorts of sensory tests they had devised for him, and more importantly, about the methods they'd be using to conduct the tests. What sort of "sensory stimulation" were they planning?

The dining room was empty except for the Sentinel Project contingent, as Jim had come to think of the doctor, the technicians, Gage and the minions. Obviously, the core group was being kept small for security reasons, so even the chef and servers did not make an appearance -- food was served by one of the minions.

"How's your burger, Mr. Ellison?" Gage asked with a little smirk.

"It's no Wonder Burger," Jim replied blandly, "but it'll do."

Blair fretted as he ate his soup without really tasting it. He knew he'd upset Jim with his comments about the research, and he'd give anything to be able to retract his thoughtless words. But, damnit, if this were only a legitimate project, with safeguards in place to keep Jim from pain or harm, the possibilities for discovery were almost endless. This facility had millions of dollars of high-tech research and medical equipment gathered in one place for this one specific project. Of course, it would find other uses once the project was concluded, but for now, it was dedicated to the study of the Sentinel. If the two of them had been here voluntarily, it could be perfect.

Only they weren't here voluntarily, and there weren't any safeguards in place. Cort Industries would study Jim and rip the secrets of his sentinel abilities from him by force, causing great pain, perhaps even insanity. And once they were done with Jim, or once he became too mentally disconnected from reality, they would have no more use for the Guide. Blair Sandburg, suspected murderer, would probably be gunned down in a well-crafted scenario involving a shootout with Cort security, or perhaps even the police -- if Cort could buy a college professor, he could certainly afford to keep a cop or two on the payroll.

Thoroughly depressed now, he watched his partner eat, and wondered why Jim seemed so calm. Didn't he understand what lay ahead, perhaps this very afternoon? He wished he could say something, warn him somehow, but what good would it do? Any attempts to warn him might spur him into a hasty attempt to escape. So far, Jim hadn't given him any signals to suggest an escape was imminent; he hadn't even maintained the self-centered act, or talked nasty to "Blair" -- well, actually he had, but that had been for real, and the realization made him only feel worse. Until they could find a way to escape, they'd just have to bide their time and keep their cool.

And the price if they failed in their escape attempt didn't bear thinking about.

His appetite gone, he put down his spoon and drank some water instead.

Jim polished off the rest of his burger and fries. "What's the matter, Chief? Not hungry?"

"Not really," Blair admitted, then blurted, "Jim, I'm sorry about what I said. It must have sounded pretty heartless, but you know I'd never deliberately do anything that would put you at risk."

Jim's eyes flashed dangerously. "Don't push it, Blair," he growled softly. "Not here, not now. I'm not your damned guinea pig."

Not here, not now. Blair felt a frisson of excitement. Jim had a plan...

Part Eighteen

With lunch concluded, there was nothing to do but return to the lab. Jim didn't like the idea of undressing again, so he sat down nonchalantly and began asking questions about the afternoon's program. "You know, if you want any sensory stuff, Blair will need to be there to guide me," he muttered, shooting a sour look at his partner to tell him all still had not been forgiven. Their earlier argument, although it had not been staged, gave him an opening in the event he needed to get close to Blair in a hurry -- to set him free, if need be, or protect him when Jim implemented their escape. He'd simply start a fight, which he hoped would distract the minions long enough to give him the advantage of surprise.

Since Blair hadn't been specifically told to sit in the chair, he figured Murdock has already deduced this little revision, but he said anyway, "That's right."

"I'm certain we'll be able to work the requirement into our plans," Murdock assured him.

"Are you going to hook wires up to my head?" Jim asked, feigning nervousness but irritated to realize he didn't have to work too hard at it.

"Yes."

"Shit," he complained, "I don't have enough hair as it is for you to go shaving any of it off."

Gage laughed at the display of vanity. "Really, Mr. Ellison, it will grow back in no time."

"Yeah, right," Jim grumbled, trying not to think about the nightmare. He had to stay alert and not allow himself to be distracted.

A minion hurried into the room then, and he was carrying something that caused Jim to frown.

"Hey, that's my laptop," Blair complained as the man put it down on the countertop and flipped up the display.

"Yes, it is," Gage agreed calmly, "and you had it fairly well hacker-proof. But Mr. Cort can afford the best."

The minion pulled up a file, and Gage's assured expression tightened with sudden worry.

Blair also saw the screen and shot a fearful glance toward Jim.

Only one thing could have aroused those reactions from the two men -- the contents of Stemple's floppy disk, stored on the laptop's hard drive. Gage would realize the police would know Stemple had been taking payoffs. They could trace the money, and just maybe find a trail to Cort Industries. As remote as that possibility was, it was not a threat to be taken lightly.

One way or another, the Sentinel project was going to have a major overhaul, and Jim wasn't going to wait to find out if that simply meant more precautions, a change in location, or a total -- and terminal -- shutdown.

These thoughts went through his head in the space of a few moments, then he almost casually swung a fist into Dr. Murdock's jaw, sending the man sprawling. In the same motion, he snagged the medical chart the doctor habitually carried and sent it sailing into the face of the minion who had used the taser the day before.

With the stun weapon only half drawn, the man crumbled, dazed by the blow. Jim grabbed the taser and swung it toward the lab techs, who fled with Dr. Murdock stumbling uncertainly behind them.

Blair reacted with admiral speed, shoving Gage and plowing a shoulder into the remaining minion.

Jim obligingly finished putting them out of action. "Get their weapons," he ordered without pausing.

He lunged for the nearest security camera, grabbed the connectors, and yanked them free. Averting his face, he stuck the exposed wiring into a power outlet. There was a mighty crackle of electricity, and the whole room suddenly went dark and silent.

"Whoa," Jim said, still moving, "that worked out better than I expected." He'd figured the surge would knock out the central board where the security cameras were monitored, but he hadn't figured to blow out all power to the lab.

"Turn on every valve you can find," he said as his partner finished disarming the men. He'd already spotted where most of the valves were located, and he rushed around the lab, cranking open every valve he could find, concentrating on canisters of oxygen and nitrous oxide, but happy with anything that had a "flammable" sticker affixed to it. He just hoped he didn't accidentally encounter anything immediately toxic, but the facility didn't look like one to take risks with chemicals like chlorine or fluorine.

As he returned through the room, he dragged the minions and Gage to their feet one by one. "Get out!" he shouted urgently. "The whole place is going to explode!"

Too groggy to question the danger, the men hauled Gage toward the exit, Jim and Blair hustling right behind. Since Jim had also located the emergency fire alert near the reception desk, he gave it a pull before dashing into the outside corridor.

Immediately, the air was filled with a raucous alarm.

The Cort employees were heading for the elevator, and Blair automatically started to follow. Jim snagged his collar and practically threw him into the dining room. "Through the kitchen and down the stairs," he ordered, keeping them both in full flight. He had no idea how long it would take for the flammable gases to reach a critical level, or even if they would, but he wasn't going to take chances.

In the kitchen, he paused just long enough to light a burner and kick apart one of the two thick feed lines that supplied the gas for the huge ovens and cook tops. Immediately, the hiss of escaping gas reached his ears, and he practically dove through the door into the stairwell.

They'd plunged down just one floor when the kitchen above them exploded, the force smashing through the door and expending most of its energy into the first landing wall, bringing down part of the ceiling and cracking the wall.

Even one level below, the force was still enough to knock both men off their feet. They toppled helplessly to the next landing and sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs, dazed but relatively unharmed.

"Keep moving!" Jim urged, dragging Blair to his feet and propelling him down the next flight of stairs. "Exit at three."

"Did the others get out?" Blair asked breathlessly, willing his sock-covered feet to move faster.

"Don't know, and don't care," Jim retorted, but he realized he'd heard the express elevator go past, so at least someone had gotten off the top floor.

Two floors later, more explosions rumbled dangerously overhead. The fire had reached the lab.

The stairwell began to fill with frightened employees evacuating the building, and the two escapees joined the anonymous throngs flooding downward. More explosions started a panic, and Jim began to consider stepping off at the next level until the stampede was over, but he couldn't quite get a grip on his partner.

Blair was calmly counseling everyone to remain calm, as if he were evacuating a classroom full of students. Not surprisingly, few people listened to him in their headlong dash. More people could be hurt in the panic than would possibly be at risk from the explosions and fires upstairs.

A man fell at one of the landings, and Jim scooped him up with barely a pause. To stop risked being trampled, or worse, causing a pileup that would result in many people being injured.

They exited at the third floor without further incident, although Blair's feet nearly slid out from under him as his socks lost all traction in the marble foyer. Jim caught him and pulled him aside to relative safety. They were both pretty much out of breath, their legs wobbly after the race down the stairs.

"You could have warned me about the floor," Blair grumbled.

"I forgot," Jim returned without apology. After all, he'd only explored this area with smell and hearing; he couldn't be expected to remember every detail!

Security guards were trying to restore order to the milling crowds. Employees were streaming toward the exits, flowing down the back stairs or front staircase, while glass and other debris cascaded down just outside the giant windows. Judging by the number of explosions, there was more than one lab on the top floor, and they were blowing themselves apart one by one as fire touched the flammable gases stored there.

"Ellison, Sandburg, this way!" commanded a strong, authoritative voice.

At the top of the staircase leading to the lobby stood a tall, stern figure.

"Finkelman?" Blair said incredulously as Jim steered him toward her.

"Are you responsible for this?" she asked, raising her voice above the din reverberating through the vast foyer space.

"The explosions, yes," Jim confirmed with a grin as the three of them started down the staircase. "The kidnapping, no."

"And how are you doing, Sandburg?"

"Better by the minute, Captain," he returned, restraining his enthusiasm in order mind his footing on the slippery stairs.

They reached the lobby just as more explosions thundered overhead and more broken glass rained down outside.

"Damnit!" Finkelman yelled to a startled security guard, "I told you to evacuate people down to the garage level! They'll be hurt or killed if they try to go outside in this mess."

The guard practically saluted as he scurried to divert the people trying to exit through the main doors.

She turned back to Jim and Blair. "You'll have to go out that way, too," she told them, gesturing toward the stairs to the underground garage. The fire department's on its way, and we have plenty of cops here for crowd control. Get going -- there's someone down there who's waiting to see you."

The two men headed for the exit, but Blair reached out a hand and drew his partner to a stop. "Jim, earlier I was thinking that someone like Cort might have a cop or two on his payroll. Have you stopped to wonder why Finkelman is here?"

"I thought about it," Jim admitted, "but as near as I can tell, she's not lying to us."

Blair nodded. "OK. That's good enough for me."

They joined the last of the employees heading down to the garage.

Order was being maintained by enough uniformed police officers to stage a parade. As Jim and Blair came into the garage, they heard an irate bellow rise above the echoing babble of voices.

"I said no one leaves until they've been questioned! If anyone refuses, lock him in the back of a squad car."

Blair dashed forward, a grin splitting his face. "Simon!" he called happily, managing to stop himself just short of giving the tall Captain a hug.

"Hi, Sandburg," Simon returned with forced aplomb, his sternness kept in place only with great effort. It was obvious he was delighted to see Blair and Jim alive and well.

Jim walked up a little more casually. "Hey, Captain," he greeted calmly, gazing around the vast garage and spotting some of the men responsible for their kidnapping. "We heard you'd been shot."

"We set it up," Simon explained. "We wanted to provoke a reaction from whoever had nabbed you, since we didn't have a clue where you were. We caught the shooter, and then a couple of my associates with thespian aspirations convinced him it was a good idea to talk if he intended to keep on living. They did such a good job, the guy even confessed to killing Stemple."

"My congratulations to your associates," Jim replied, making a mental bet that Joel Taggart had been one of the main stars in the little drama.

The wail of sirens as the fire department arrived effectively eliminated conversation for awhile, but the three men felt oddly isolated and comfortable amid the general hubbub. Jim reflected that he was feeling pretty damn good: Simon was alive and uninjured, Blair was safe, and Jim himself didn't have a shaved head with wires sticking out of it. All in all, a very positive sort of day.

"Can you ID the ones responsible?" Simon asked when the noise level had been reduced to the normal din.

"Yeah. Cort himself was behind it, although we never saw him. We'll probably never be able to pin anything on him."

"The FBI has the disk you found in Stemple's office," Simon added, then grimaced. "I meant the disk Detective Brown found, of course. With all the government grants pouring into some of the University's most sensitive programs, they had to get involved. Maybe they'll be able to nail Cort."

"I hope so," Jim agreed, but he had his doubts.

Blair's imagination started to get the better of him again. "Jim, as far as the public knows, we're wanted felons. What if Gage says we broke into Cort Industries to blow it up?"

Jim smiled slightly. "He'll have to explain why we did it without our shoes -- and why we locked all our stuff inside a Sea-Land shipping container bound for Hong Kong." He glanced at Simon. "That includes my rental truck, by the way." He looked toward the corner where he'd last seen the container. "Damn, it's already gone. These guys are efficient."

"Did you get a container number?" Simon asked. Jim recited it from memory. "Good. I'll have Customs track it down. We can't have the car rental agency suing you for the cost of a new Durango." He looked down. "And why don't you have any shoes?"

"To make escape on foot more difficult," Jim speculated. "They had wardrobes full of clothes for us, but no jackets or sweaters in case we got outside." He looked at his partner. "Speaking of which, my feet are getting awfully cold, and you're starting to shiver, Chief."

Simon bellowed for some blankets, which were quickly provided.

Within a few minutes, Jim and Blair had identified all the men they'd seen on the top floor, including Gage and Murdock.

With the bad guys secured, there wasn't much left to do that wasn't already being handled by the police on the scene.

"I'm going outside to admire the damage," Jim commented, heading toward the garage exit.

"Trust me," Simon said, strolling beside him, "your reputation for blowing things up will only be enhanced by this little incident." He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a bi-fold case, which he handed to Blair. "Here. This is yours," he added casually.

Blair took it and flipped it open. Inside was a gold badge -- a real badge -- that said 'Consultant' across the top and 'Cascade Police' beneath. The other side of the wallet held an identification card in the name of Blair Sandburg, Special Consultant, Cascade Police Department, with a place for a photo ID. He stared at it for a long time in confusion. "Captain?"

"You're official now, Sandburg," Simon told him. "A paid consultant to the department. You just need to take another drug test, fill out a mountain of paperwork, and pass a background check." He scowled suddenly. "You will pass a thorough background check, won't you?"

"I think so," Blair admitted, thinking furiously if there were any blots on his past serious enough to mention; he couldn't come up with anything. He grinned. "This is great. This is really great!"

Jim smiled slightly. The timing might have been a little off, but Sandburg was bouncing back with his usual enthusiasm.

Besides, Simon deserved his moment of glory. He'd worked long and hard to massage his department's budget to the point where he could hire a consultant, and he deserved to feel proud of his achievement.

"Until you were cleared of Stemple's murder, I couldn't sign the paperwork to bring you on board," Simon added as they stepped into the sunlight and stopped to stare up the side of the building.

On the top floor, flame and smoke billowed from practically every window. Even part of the roof appeared to be engulfed. The ground was littered with broken glass that had blown out from the explosions, and Jim stopped his partner before he could venture into any shards.

At least he had the satisfaction of knowing Cort would pay dearly for his little foray into the study of sentinels. Although insurance might normally cover the cost of repairs, the fact that the damage had occurred during the commission of a crime meant any claims could be held up indefinitely.

Blair was still staring at the badge in his hands. With casual ingenuousness, he asked, "Uh, Simon, does this mean I'm going to get paid for the last two days?"

THE END