Disclaimer: The Sentinel is the property of Pet Fly Productions and UPN. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is exchanging hands. This work of fiction is for pure enjoyment alone.

WARNING: In this TS world, none of season 4 has taken place. I've enjoyed all the recent episodes, but the only way to write this sequel to "Watermark" was to pretend they haven't happened.

Permission given to Cascade Librarians and Guide Post Elves to archive. Rated PG-13. Contains SPOILERS for "Sentinel Too--Part One."

THANK YOU: To my dear friends--Joanne, Mackie, Danny, Robyn and Becky. You kept me motivated and helped me more than you'll know. I truly appreciate the work you put into this story as betas! "Wellspring" is especially for you guys.

I appreciate the kindness of those of you who sent LOCs when this story was being posted in parts. I hope I managed to send you notes individually. Truly, you kept me on task, gave me encouragement, and helped with direction. And Moira, you're a gem for sending a note each time. <g>

Private or public feedback is welcome.

Wellspring
by Tate

Each day there's a moment when I think it'll get easier. It's usually a brief span of time in the morning before Sandburg rises, when I'm sitting at the table with a cup of coffee or standing at the window watching the city stir. These quiet times allow me to believe that I'll be able to shake the sight of him lying dead beside the fountain at Rainier University or the feel of him cold in my arms beside the car wreck he had caused to stop Alex. I let myself hope that I'll see him walk out of his room looking like his old self, bypassing the pills lined up on the counter, not needing them anymore.

But for four weeks now, it hasn't happened.

I sigh heavily as I hang my jacket by the door. Depositing the donuts on the table, I move into the kitchen to start the coffee, listening through the French doors for any sign that he heard me moving around. I hear a slow, steady heartbeat and breath that catches occasionally. He has a cold and it's moving into his chest. His lungs are vulnerable. They always will be, thanks to Alex.

I'm glad he agreed to see a doctor yesterday. He returned with a defeated look on his face and another bottle of pills and calling himself a cesspool of chemicals. Regardless, modern medicine helped save him, and I'm still counting on it to keep him as healthy as possible.

Of course, Sandburg hasn't abandoned his New Age ways. Later in the day, I found him concocting some 'energy' drink that he insisted would help his recovery. "Do whatever you need to," I told him. "As long as it's legal."

He smiled and shrugged "Well, there are some rituals performed by the tribes of Central and South America--"

A playful swat to his cheek cut him off. He laughed and downed the drink.

Moments of good humor between us are precious to me. They feel normal. They beat back flashes of the dreams I have each night and bury the fears I keep hidden from him.

I've never been more afraid of losing him. I don't have to remember the fear I felt as I sped through the streets of Cascade, knowing Alex had gone after him, feeling a void where there should be Blair--that terror hasn't faded. He's alive, I tell myself. He's alive and it's over, but some part of me isn't getting the message. It's still speeding toward Rainier, toward Sandburg's office . . . toward the fountain.

And somewhere inside of him, he's still dying.

The phone rings. I snatch the portable off the counter and answer it.

"Jim, man, how are you?" Henri Brown's voice brings me back to the present. The sounds of the bullpen behind him remind me of the job I haven't been doing for a while. They take me back to the past.

"Doing well, H."

"How's Hairboy?"

I smile slightly at the nickname, especially since it doesn't fit the kid anymore. He's kept his hair short since his run-in with Alex. I haven't asked him if he plans to grow it out again. "Sandburg's okay. He's got a cold, but it's nothing serious," I reply.

"Good. You tell him we're thinking of him." Henri pauses before continuing, allowing me an uninterrupted dose of office noise. It seems like another life. "Look, I know you're still on leave, but I ran into a friend of ours down in the lobby. He wants to meet with you."

I'm curious. "Who's that?"

"Johnny Macado, the kid who took down Kaplan," Brown answers.

Johnny Macado. The name immediately conjures a scene--that of a scared teenager sitting in an interrogation room. Brown didn't need to remind me about Johnny. I don't think I'll ever forget that kid. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time, snatching a public defender's car while the attorney was committing a murder. He witnessed it all and I finally convinced him to admit it. Macado is the reason Kaplan and his goon are behind bars. If he's being threatened by them in any way . . .

"Give me a few minutes and I'll be there," I say.

"Um, how about we meet you somewhere? He's pretty jittery about being at the station. Rafe and I were about to go out and interview some neighbors in a couple of home invasion cases anyway. We can drop the kid off with you and you can take him home when you're done."

"Why don't you bring him by the loft?"

"You sure that's a good idea?" he asks.

I think about if for a second, knowing Brown is concerned about bringing a known perp straight to a cop's home. But his is just a kid and he did come down on the right side of the law where Kaplan was concerned. "Yeah, it's fine. Hey, has he given you any idea what this is about?"

I hear Brown sigh. "None. Looks like you're the only one he trusts. Whatever it is, I get the idea it's pretty important. We'll be there in a few."

"Okay, see you then." I click off the phone and place it back on the counter.

I rub at my temples, already worrying about whatever bad news I'm about to receive. I know Johnny wouldn't just pay me a visit to shoot the breeze. I haven't seen him at all since Kaplan went to prison, a fact that nags at me. When I finally realized how tough he had it and how brave he was to put himself on the line to put away that dirty lawyer, I made a vow to keep tabs on him. It never happened. Shortly after, Alex came into the picture and I started to lose focus, becoming agitated and quick-tempered. I could hardly be bothered with Sandburg, let alone think about a single juvee, even one who had risked his life to do the right thing.

Guilt--yeah, I have that in abundance. Enough to spare for the Macado kid.

"You gonna just stand there or are you gonna make some coffee?" Sandburg's good-humored voice tugs at me and I turn.

He's leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of him. Dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, he should look like he has on countless mornings, but he's still not the Blair I once knew. He's too thin, the angles of his face still too pronounced. And even after a full night's sleep, he looks tired and worn. He coughs, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth.

God, what I wouldn't give to turn back time and make it all right. There's absolutely nothing I wouldn't do to have him back the way he was. To erase the past few months from our lives.

"You want eggs or French toast?" I ask, hiding behind the mundane.

"Eggs are fine. It's my turn though. You made breakfast yesterday," he replies.

I shrug. "It's no problem, but if you do it, make a little extra," I say. "We're gonna have company."

"Yeah? Who?" He steps into the kitchen and leans against the island. I wonder if he needs the support for balance. I've been watching him too closely lately, reading his body language like I never have before.

"Johnny Macado--H and Rafe are bringing him over," I explain.

His brow furrows. I'm about to remind him who Johnny is when he speaks again. "You think Kaplan is threatening him from the inside?"

I should have known Blair wouldn't forget about Macado. Hell, Sandburg practically got his neck snapped by the guy Kaplan sent after Johnny. Of course that scuffle happened after I shouted at Sandburg for digging into my personal life for his research. After I'd broken his trust and read the introductory chapter to his dissertation. All in all, it was a day I'd like to forget.

If something had happened to Sandburg as I stood watching, aiming a gun I didn't dare fire at the man who held my partner . . .

"I don't know," I say, pushing my thoughts away. "He wouldn't say anything to Brown."

Sandburg nods, as though that's what he expected. "I'm sure it's hard for him to trust people. You kept him safe when he ratted on Kaplan; that probably puts you at the top of his list."

"I didn't save him. It was your angel, Gabe."

Blair smiles at the memory of the street person who insisted he was a messenger from the heavens. "Gabe was pretty amazing, man, but you brought the guy down. Besides, you were the one who convinced Johnny to tell the truth in the first place."

God, Chief, if you'd been there during one of my sessions with Macado, you might not be so quick to name me the hero. I scared the poor kid to death. Instead of confessing to him, I shrug. "Whatever," I say. "Regardless, the kid's on his way, and I'm guessing it's not good news."

I hear Brown, Rafe, and Macado get off the elevator, but wait for the knock before moving to the door. Behind me, Blair is scooping scrambled eggs into a bowl. I don't know if the guys will want to stay for breakfast, but we have enough for them, too.

I open the door and endure a greeting from Brown and Rafe as though they haven't seen me in years--hand clasps, smiles and warm words. Before I can say much of anything, they're waving over my shoulder at Sandburg, who raises a spatula in reply. "Hey, guys!" he calls.

I usher them in. They're followed by an impassive Johnny Macado, who nods at me, hands buried in his jacket pockets. He looks well, if a little thinner than when I'd last seen him. He's wearing worn jeans and a black T-shirt under his jacket, but his new Reeboks could easily catch the attention of my favorite snitch, Sneaks.

Sandburg speaks to him first. "Hey, Johnny, how's it going, man?"

The teen looks over at Blair. Something in Macado's stance changes. I can't be sure, but he seems startled. It takes a moment before he lifts his chin and replies, "Hey."

"You guys hungry?" Sandburg asks. "We have plenty."

"No, thanks, buddy," Brown says, shaking his head. "We really have to go. Captain Banks is expecting us at one of the crime scenes in a few." I smile as Henri taps the watches on both wrists to emphasize his point. One I recognize as a gift from his girlfriend. As long as I've known him, he's worn two watches. I've never thought to ask why.

"Yeah, he had a meeting with the Commissioner this morning," Rafe explains, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. I can see tiny lines of tension around his eyes. "He's apparently made these home invasions a high priority case."

At those words, Macado's heartbeat accelerates. He's good though; his expression doesn't change in the slightest. Whatever he has to say to me must have something to do with that case.

"Good luck with it," I offer as they turn to go, knowing full well I'll probably be on the case before the day's end.

"Be good, brother," Brown tells Johnny, patting the kid on the back and evoking no response.

Once they're out the door, I turn toward our guest. Strangely, his gaze is back on Blair, who is busy setting the table. "So what do you know about these home invasions, Johnny?"

That catches his attention. The boy's head snaps around and his eyes widen. I can hear his breath come a little faster. Through it all, he's trying to maintain his composure. He straightens a little and his hands come out of his pockets, pressing against the air as he speaks. "First I need a deal, man," he says.

"What kind of deal?" I ask. My peripheral vision picks out Sandburg's sudden immobility. He's riveted by our exchange.

"The kind where you promise that nothing will happen to me if I tell you what I know."

"You want protection from being arrested and prosecuted? I don't know, Johnny. It depends on what you've done."

"I want protection from being killed, man," he corrects. For a second his façade slips and I see the fear in his eyes. This is big. Whatever he has to say to me, he's taking a great risk. Again.

I fill the silence with my promise. "I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

Johnny looks at me for a long moment, then nods. Apparently, my word is good enough for him. I find myself wondering if he'd trust me as much if he knew what I'd done the last few months, letting my own partner be drowned, then leaving him in a coma so I could follow his attacker. Yeah, I'm trustworthy.

I gesture toward the table. "Sit. I'm guessing this is a long story and I'll need all the details."

"Yeah." He swallows hard. "Okay, man." Moving to the table, he pulls out a chair and drops into it. I sit across from him in familiar interrogation room style.

Thankfully, Blair disrupts the comparison by placing a cup of coffee in front of me and a glass of juice in front of Johnny.

"I haven't been keeping my nose clean," Johnny admits, reaching for the glass. "My mom is still in the hospital off and on. I needed the money." He takes a long drink and clears his throat before continuing. "I . . . uh . . . I met this guy named Tony a couple months ago. He had me lift a few things from some stores on the east side for cash."

"Does Tony have a last name?" I ask.

"I don't know his last name, but I know where he hangs."

Blair sets the utensils down on the table, then makes a couple of trips with the food. He pulls out a chair and sits with us. I'm surprised that Johnny is so willing to talk in front of Sandburg. I'm sure he recognizes Blair as my partner, but he's never had a conversation with him before.

"What does Tony have to do with the home invasions?" I ask, taking a sip of the hot coffee.

"Everything, man. He sets them up," Johnny says.

"And you participate." It's a statement, not a question.

Johnny shakes his head and half-smiles, though there's little humor in it. It's more exasperation, no doubt aimed at my quick judgement. "Nah, man, I'm not a pendejo. I told him I'm not into that sort of thing. He tried to talk me into it, saying it didn't matter how much stuff I took. I just needed to get in, scare a few rich white folks and get out."

"How much did he offer you?"

The kid takes a bite out of his toast, munching as he replies, "A couple hundred a house. He wanted a two-man team. He got my buddy, Roland, to join in, but I couldn't go for it. I'm not into scaring people. Besides, nowadays some folks keep pistolas in their house. Getting shot ain't worth the money."

"Right," I say, wondering why Johnny is willing to give up this guy, Tony, especially if one of his friends will likely go down with him. "Why are you telling me all this, Johnny?"

Blair says, "Maybe he's trying to do the right thing, Jim."

I look over at Sandburg. "Well, that's admirable." Turning back to Johnny, I add, "but somehow I get the idea there's more to this. Am I right? You wouldn't be so scared if there wasn't."

Macado drops his eyes to his plate for a moment. When he raises them, I don't see a less-than-reformed juvenile delinquent, I see a terrified boy. "Look, from what Roland told me, Tony's working for someone else. Some big vato who's trying to throw the cops off while planning to do in a certain guy. When Rollie overheard that, he came straight to me. He's scared, man. He wants out. There's no way he wants to go down for someone else's crime. They'll make it look like he did it. He's like me, man. He's got family to look out for."

The pieces are starting to fall together in my mind. A man hires some kids to break into houses while the occupants are home, take a few things, scare a few people. And throw the police off the tracks of a premeditated murder. Whoever Johnny's "big vato" is, he has to be a powerful man with a serious vendetta.

I'm about to ask Johnny more questions when Sandburg starts coughing again, more forcefully than before. He covers his mouth with one hand and pushes away from the table with the other, distancing himself from the food. Instinctively, I reach for Blair's arm.

But it's Johnny who speaks first, his question directed at my partner. "You okay, man?"

Sandburg nods and clears his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says, his voice more raspy than before.

"Have you taken your medicine, Chief?" I ask, squeezing his arm a little.

I expect some smart remark from Blair, but instead he says, "Not yet, but now's a good time, huh?" He slips from my grasp, picks up his half-full plate and empty glass, taking them to the kitchen.

I notice Johnny is watching Sandburg again. Something about him has captured the kid's interest. Maybe Johnny identifies more with him. I sometimes forget that Blair is only a handful of years younger than me. He seems to come from an entirely different generation, the same one as Johnny. And his thinner frame makes him look only a few years older than Macado.

My voice turns Johnny's face back to me. "Do you know who this person is trying to take out? Or why?"

Johnny shakes his head. "No, that's all I know."

I gesture at his plate. "Eat up. I'll take you home when you're done."

I'm amazed at how fervently the teen attacks his meal. It's like he'd been waiting for permission the whole time and now he wasn't letting anything, including breathing, get between him and a full stomach.

As I eat my own breakfast, I take time to wonder about Johnny, about the kind of man he can still grow up to be. Sure, he's fallen back on his old ways, but what choice has he had? It's obvious he knows the difference between right and wrong. And in this case, he's chosen right. I make another promise to look out for him. Once this is over, I'm taking the kid to shoot some hoops and have a real heart to heart. Maybe I can even find a legitimate job for him. The way he's eating, I can bet he doesn't get three squares a day.

My taste is trained on my food, my eyes on Johnny, but I'm listening to Blair get dressed in his room. He's still coughing, trying to muffle the sound, though he should know I can hear him anyway. His cold is getting worse, not better. But it's just a cold, I tell myself. Sandburg's going to be fine. He has to be.

In a few minutes, my partner walks out of his room dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He pauses by the table, one hand resting against its surface near my plate. "I have a meeting with my advisor," he explains. "We're gonna talk about my course load for next semester and my dissertation. I also have to stop by the library."

Reading his body heat, I'm relieved to find he still doesn't have a fever, but I can't resist a few cautionary words. "Don't overdo it, okay?"

"I won't. Will you be here or at the station?" he asks.

It's odd. I thought my return to Major Crime would be with Sandburg at my side. I also believed it'd be a bigger deal than it's panning out to be. "I'll probably try to catch up with Brown and Rafe," I say. "I'll leave my cell on. Call if you need me."

He smiles at my concern. "Okay," he says. "I'll meet up with you this afternoon."

I suppress the urge to say, "Only if you're not hacking up a lung," and instead say, "See you later."

Sandburg looks over at Johnny. "I'm glad you came looking for Jim," Blair tells him. "He won't let you down." With those words, he slings his backpack over a shoulder and heads for the door. He grabs his keys and jacket, then he's gone.

Macado is staring at the closed door. I find myself wondering if he's considering Sandburg's promise. I know I am.

My next step is getting this kid home safely. While rinsing dishes at the sink, I ask Johnny where his lives. He tells me he shares a small apartment with his mother and gives me an address. I recognize the street as being in a rough neighborhood, which isn't at all surprising.

"You gonna tell the other cops what I told you?" he asks, picking up on what I said to Blair about meeting them in the field. "I thought you could do this by yourself."

Drying my hands, I reply, "Rafe and Brown are already assigned to the case. I'll be working with them on this, assuming I get permission."

"Permission? You need permission?"

Exasperated, I reply, "I've been on leave. I have to talk to the captain about coming back to work and getting assigned to the case. It's procedure."

"You've been off work because of your partner," he says. It's not a question. Brown or Rafe must have said something to him, trying to explain why I wasn't at the station. He could also have seen something about the attack on Sandburg on the news or read about it in the paper. The press certainly wasn't quiet about it. But even though it's an innocent enough remark, it sparks my anger. What right does he have to know why I haven't been working? And why the hell should it matter to him?

Macado must have seen some animosity in my eyes, because he takes a step back. His neutral expression doesn't change though.

Jeez, he's just a kid, I tell myself. He has nothing to do with anything that happened. I calm my unexplained anger and answer him. "He's been sick, but he's getting better." That should suffice.

Johnny just nods.

Noticing the forgotten donuts still in a bag on the kitchen island, I pick them up and hand them to him. "For later," I explain.

"Thanks," he says.

He doesn't speak again until we're in the truck, heading for his house. Then, it's to tell me I've taken a wrong turn.

When we're back on track, I let him in on my idea of how the next couple of days will go. "I'm going to review everything Brown and Rafe have on the case, tell them what you told me. Then, we'll probably need you to help us find Tony. I'm going to try to keep you out of this as the bust goes down, but we'll need your testimony. Yours and probably Roland's."

"You're going after the big guy, right?"

"Oh yeah," I say. "Hopefully it'll be as simple as having Tony roll over on him."

Macado shrugs. "Things usually don't go that easy, man," he says. "At least not in my neighborhood."

My hands clench on the wheel. The kid's probably right. We might have to play this thing out differently. We may have to use Tony, Roland, or even Johnny to get to the head of this operation. If we're going to save lives and bring this man to justice, there might be no other choice.

After I leave Johnny at the entrance to his apartment building with all of my phone numbers and a promise to contact him later, I call Brown on his cell. They're still at the scene of the most recent home invasion, questioning the victims and the neighbors. When I explain that I have some information for him and his partner, he gives me the address.

I navigate my way through traffic toward a wealthier part of town. Driving into the neighborhood with its big houses and wide expanses of green, manicured lawns, I'm reminded of the area where I grew up. The house itself is a two-story, white Colonial with columns flanking the entrance. Three cars are parked on the long drive. One of the cars is Simon's; the other is Brown's. Rafe is leaning against it waiting for me.

Parking the truck along the curb, I get out and walk up to Rafe. He straightens from his comfortable slouch and unfolds his arms. The motion opens his long trench coat, revealing a custom-tailored suit. Brown is merciless with his jokes about Rafe's fashion sense. Hell, if it works for him, who's to say the money isn't well spent. "Hey, Jim. Brown's over at the neighbor's place," he explains. "Captain Banks is inside with the Stevens family, the folks who were robbed last night. It just so happens they're related to the Mayor."

"Really?" It appears our culprits aren't being too careful about choosing their targets. They're drawing more attention to themselves than is necessary.

"John Stevens is the Mayor's nephew."

"Guess that's why the Commissioner put a priority on this one."

Rafe nods. "He asked Captain Banks to come here and personally assure them we're doing everything we can."

"I'm sure he did." I can't hide the sarcasm in my voice.

The detective shrugs, then asks, "H said you have information. What gives?"

"The Macado kid can ID at least one of the perps, and he knows who's behind this. Seems there's more at stake than somebody's good silver."

Before I can explain further, the sound of Simon taking his leave draws my attention back to the house. A dark-haired man about my age follows Simon out the door. As they stand on the doorstep, I hear the Captain tell him that everything will be done to retrieve their stolen items and arrest the criminals. He probably spent most of his time giving them the same line in different words.

They shake hands. Simon turns as the door closes behind him. His expression immediately changes to one of puzzlement when he catches sight of me standing beside Rafe.

Walking toward us, he calls, "What are you doing here, Jim?"

"It's nice to see you, too, sir," I reply with a half-smile.

Simon nods at Rafe. "Why don't you see how much longer your partner's going to take?"

The young detective glances at me for a second, probably wondering what will take place in private between the two of us. I can't tell if he's resentful of our secrecy, but his hesitation is only momentary. "Sure, Captain," he says and walks toward the neighbor's house.

Simon's expression becomes serious. "What's going on, Jim? You all right? Where's Sandburg?"

His concern for our wellbeing is a bit unexpected, but not uncharacteristic. Simon was Blair's lifeline in the hospital. He stayed with Sandburg when I was out of my mind with guilt and a need for vengeance. He had faith when I'd lost my own. "We're fine, sir," I say, although it's not entirely true. "I just came into a break on this case. I'm hoping you'll authorize my return to active duty. I really want in on this one, Simon."

"You're talking about these home invasions?" He gestures at the house behind him.

"Yeah, I got a lead from Johnny Macado," I tell him.

"Brown told me he dropped the boy off at your place," Simon replies. Shaking his head, he adds, "That kid is a magnet for trouble. Here I thought Kaplan might be threatening him from the inside, and instead he's involved in something new."

"New, but just as dangerous," I add.

By the time Brown and Rafe join us, I've filled Simon in on what I learned. The captain tells the three of us that we'll be meeting in his office in an hour to discuss the case more thoroughly. It seems he's added me to the team without so much as batting an eye. The other detectives don't appear perplexed about this new development either. Of course, like me, they're not possessive of their cases, preferring outcomes over honors. For some reason, I thought I'd have to work for it a little more. I'd even expected some sort of resistance. The ease with which I'm returning to the force is almost alarming.

Why should it be? I want this. I know I can make a difference in this case, and we can bring this guy down before he kills his real target and frames a kid for murder. I'm also driven to keep my promise to Johnny and see that no harm comes to him. But I have to acknowledge the obvious--part of me isn't ready to return to Major Crime, and that part is named Blair Sandburg.

Brown and Rafe are already driving away when Simon catches my attention. "Let's go grab an early lunch, Jim. What do you say?"

"I just had breakfast." But his sudden frown encourages me to add, "But I could do with some more coffee." Simon obviously wants to talk about some personal details. I'm guessing this is where it becomes more difficult. Where the explanations come in.

"How about Earl's on Hornby?"

"Meet you there," I agree, digging my keys out of my jacket.

In less than fifteen minutes, Simon and I are sliding into our seats at the diner. It's within a few blocks of the station, a place we've patronized a handful of times. There are high-backed booths between the tables that offer a good deal of privacy, and it's pretty slow between the usual breakfast and lunch hours.

I order a cup of coffee, black, while Simon scans the menu.

"You want to know if I'm sure it's time to come back, right?" I ask directly.

Simon looks up from the menu and into my eyes. He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then, he says, "Jim, since this whole Sentinel thing, you and Blair have been my best team. I'd be thrilled to have you on the job again, but not if you and the kid aren't up for it yet."

"Simon, it's been over a month. I'm up for it."

"What about Sandburg? You know there's little margin for error in what we do. He's gotta be a hundred percent, Jim." Simon's cautionary words remind me of how serious Blair's injuries were. He was in a coma for weeks with a skull fracture after being nearly drowned by Alex Barnes. He suffered with seizures and headaches. He had to learn how to walk again. And now . . . what's changed?

My jaw tightens, knowing that he isn't even close to a hundred percent. "I'm ready for this case, Simon, but I'd like to keep Sandburg out of it as much as possible."

"How does he feel about that?"

"He doesn't know yet," I admit.

"Jim, I can understand why you're not happy with him getting involved. I know you want to protect him, but because of your senses, don't you think it'd be safer--"

I lift a hand to stop him from saying anything else. "I think I know what's best for him."

I rub my face and sigh in exasperation. "You've always been the one to remind him that he's not a cop, Simon. I thought you'd support me on this."

"I was going to say, 'don't you think it'd be safer if you both sat this one out?'"

I can't believe he doesn't trust me to do the job on my own. Sandburg's my right hand, I'm able to admit that. I know it'll be awkward, but I can still do the work without him. I have to do the work without him. "Look, Simon, I need in on this case and I'm capable of being a cop without Sandburg." I try to keep my growing annoyance out of my voice. This is about the kid's fitness for duty, not mine.

His dark eyes say what his respect for me won't let him. Maybe because I'm a sentinel or, more likely, because I know him so well, the unspoken words are loud and clear--remember what happened the last time you said you didn't need him.

My mind flashes back to that horrible scene. A body floating in the fountain. Blair's body.

"Sandburg's not well," I snap, my voice loud enough to attract the attention of a passing waitress.

Simon leans toward me, speaking softly. "How bad is it, Jim?"

Pretty bad, I admit to myself. "He's still taking about five different pills a day to control everything from headaches to seizures, and--"

"He hasn't had another one, has he?"

"No, he hasn't," I hasten to assure him. "But he's pretty congested right now with a bad cough. At the hospital, they told us his lungs will always be vulnerable. Simon, this could develop into pneumonia. I sent him to the doctor, but all he did was give Sandburg some decongestants and cough syrup. He told him to call if he developed a fever or had any trouble breathing." I sigh again. "He's not bouncing back, Simon, and it's scaring the hell out of me."

There's the truth. I'm making yet another decision based on fear--another decision that will impact the life of my partner. But it's for the best this time. This time, I'm not wrong. Keeping him at a distance on this case is for his own good.

Our waitress appears with the coffee and takes Simon's order. Once she's gone we resume our conversation. "Sandburg's meeting me this afternoon. You'll be able to see for yourself that I'm not exaggerating."

"I hope you are, Jim," he confesses, leaning back. "I hope you are."

God, I wish I was.

As we're taking care of the check at the register, my cell rings. "That's Blair," I predict.

Sure enough.

"Jim, where are you?" he asks, his voice thick and nasal.

"I'm heading over to the station. We're meeting in Simon's office to discuss the case."

He clears his throat. "I'll be there in about twenty minutes. I'm walking out of the library right now."

The cough he's trying to suppress gets the better of him. Even over the phone, I can hear how thick it sounds. "Just don't set any speed records, Chief, okay? We'll be in Simon's office."

I hear a breath of a laugh and a strained, "See ya in a bit," before he hangs up.

A few minutes later, Rafe, Brown and I are gathered around the conference table. Simon is hovering over my left shoulder, studying a map marked with the location of each of the three home invasions. We've just started our discussion about the case when I hear Blair get off the elevator.

A few well wishes from detectives in the bullpen follow him to where he stops just outside the door. He knocks, which throws me a little. He's always been more inclined not to knock. Maybe he's feeling a little tentative after being gone so long.

"Come in," Simon calls.

Blair opens the door and steps in. Monitoring him closely, I hear him swallow hard before he speaks. "Hey guys, sorry I'm late." He sounds worse than this morning.

"We're just getting started." I motion him to a chair across from me.

Simon has only seen the kid once since he got out of the hospital a month ago. The extra workload from being one detective short at the station has kept him busy. Now I watch his eyes track Blair around the table, and I know he realizes I wasn't overstating my concern.

The person who Blair once was hasn't returned. He's been replaced. The tragic events everyone in this room witnessed at the fountain are quickly recalled in the span of time it takes for Sandburg to dump his backpack on the floor with a thud and lower himself into the chair. I hear the memories in the shift of movement beside me from Rafe and Brown, and in the fact that Simon holds his breath for a moment.

Almost immediately, Blair starts coughing.

"Can I get you something to drink, son?" Simon asks.

Blair shakes his head. "I'm fine."

Simon and I exchange a glance. We both know he's not. And the weight of responsibility for Blair's state of being falls squarely on my shoulders.

During the briefing in Simon's office, we cover the details of the three home invasions, starting with the basic information and my revelation of the true goal of these crimes--eliminate a particular target and implicate a couple of scapegoat kids.

Throughout the exchange of information and the shuffle of papers across the conference table, I monitor Blair, taking note of his expressions as well as his vital signs. The first is something I've done before. It's interesting to see Sandburg take in the particulars of a case, to watch the wheels turn. His intelligence has always come in handy. The second, listening to his life signs, has become a necessity. Well, maybe 'necessity' is too strong a word; it's more like a comforting habit. When he's near enough, I want to know he's okay. In this case, 'okay' would be a huge improvement.

Right now, the kid has his face propped in one hand. A notepad serves as a cushion beneath his right arm while his fingers absently fiddle with a pen. His eyes look tired and unfocused, and his skin is pale. He's been doing a good job of battling his cough, but I hear the congestion growing worse. Suddenly, he straightens during a lull in our conversation and proves to everyone he's been paying attention. "Do you think the target lives in the same neighborhood as the houses that've been hit so far? You know, to make it look consistent. Or maybe it'll be somewhere else because they know there'll be extra police surveillance in the area."

The room falls completely silent as all eyes turn to him. He flushes under the scrutiny, a very un-Sandburg-like response. He almost looks like he wants to crawl under the table

I don't know why he seems so insecure now; he's always made interesting comments, some of which have helped to solve cases. I think about how it might seem to him when I tell him I don't want him the field with me on this one, when I ask him not to join me on the 'roller coaster'. It's not a pretty picture.

Simon jumps in, ending the awkward silence. "You know, you've brought up a good point, Blair. Maybe if we had a better idea of who we're dealing with, we'd be able to second-guess him. With as little as we know, it could go either way." There isn't the slightest hint of sarcasm in the captain's voice. He really wants Sandburg to know he's contributing.

My partner sits back in his chair, biting his lower lip as though vowing not to say anything more. I never thought I'd see him like this, so . . . so unsure of himself.

Brown picks up on his dejection as easily as I do. "It's just a matter of time before we know who's behind this," he proclaims, patting Blair on the back. Sandburg nods in return.

Blair's question suddenly leads me to one of my own, a question of security. Since all the houses hit so far are in the same area, a relatively wealthy area, they probably all have some level of security in place. How'd the boys get through that? "H, hand over those statements, will you?"

Brown slides the sheets across the table. I flip through the three of them, gleaning only the information I need. Looking up from the papers, I explain, "I'm rechecking who had alarms--you'd think all the homes in this price range would have a decent security system." I tap two of the sheets. "The Johnson's didn't have an alarm system. The Tucker's alarm went off and the perps got out of there with just a couple of items. What about the Stevens family?"

Henri grimaces. "They didn't have their alarm turned on."

"At, what," I pause to look at the time listed on the sheet again, "12:30 in the morning? In a neighborhood that'd been hit twice already?"

"You think that's significant, Jim?" Simon asks.

"I think it's curious."

Rafe enters the conversation. "I asked Mr. Stevens about it when we took their statements yesterday. He said he's only had the alarm a couple months and isn't used to setting it yet."

I raise my eyebrows, and Simon shakes his head. Delving into the idiosyncrasies of the Mayor's family doesn't seem to be on his agenda. Fine. I file the conversation away, and we move on to discuss our first avenue of investigation--finding the middle-man, Tony.

"I'd rather not get Johnny or Roland too involved in breaking the case," I admit. "We'll need their testimony when we have our man, but I don't like the idea of having them on the street where they're vulnerable."

"Then how do we find this 'Tony'-fella?" Rafe asks. "Stake out all his haunts?"

I nod. "I'm sure I can get Johnny back in here to look through some mug shots. This guy probably has priors. If not, we can get a composite from his description. When we find him, we haul him in and get in his face."

"And he'll probably roll over on his boss for a deal," Blair adds, leaning forward again. This time his tone is more confident.

"Whoa," Simon cautions. "All we have on him is the word of a 16-year-old juvee."

"But Tony won't know that," I say with a smile.

Simon rolls his eyes and sighs in resignation. "Just watch what you say, Detective," Simon warns. "This needs to stand up in court. I want to prevent this crime, but I also want the man behind it to rot in jail for setting it up. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," I reply.

"Okay, let's bring in the Macado kid. You get to do the honors, Jim," Simon tells us, standing.

"I'll give him a call. He's probably still at home."

Rafe and Brown gather all the loose paper and files and are out of Simon's office in a few seconds. I wait with my hand on the open doorframe, watching Blair try to stuff the blank notepad into an overfull backpack.

Simon's voice grabs our attention. "Why don't you close the door, Jim? I'd like to talk to both of you in private for a minute."

My glance is questioning, but Simon just gestures for me to comply. He's going to say something to Blair right now about limiting his involvement. I know it. And although it's within his rights, I wonder if this isn't better coming from me.

The sound of the door closing is accompanied by an increase in Sandburg's heart rate. He knows something is up. The backpack is forgotten where he placed it on the table, yellow pad still peeking out of its innards. Both of the kid's hands are flanking it, as though he's preparing himself physically for a confrontation. "What's up, Simon?" he asks.

Simon leans back against his desk, crossing his arms in front of him. He pins Blair with a serious stare. "How're you doing, son?"

"I'm fine," Sandburg replies too quickly.

Without the hint of a smile, Simon says, "'Fine' must have taken on a whole new meaning. You're sick, you're obviously tired, and it looks like you have some university work to do. Maybe it's best--"

Protocol and common sense be damned, Sandburg interrupts him. "I haven't gone back to work at Rainier yet. I just had a meeting with my advisor today and picked up a couple of books from the library. I'm free until the new semester starts. And no, I'm not tired. I just have a cold." I'm amazed he can say so much without pausing. The cough syrup must be doing the trick. He looks at me and repeats his last words. "A cold, Jim." His eyes dart back to Simon. "If you're going to ask me not to help with this case, you're wasting your breath, man."

"Blair, you just got out of the hospital. I want to make sure you're--"

"Just? It's been a month, Simon, and before that, I--"

Unfolding his arms, the captain's demeanor changes as he rises to his full height. "Would you let me finish a sentence, Sandburg? Does the word 'superior officer' mean anything to you?"

Blair's mouth clamps shut and he stiffens. In the last few months, Simon has been more of a friend to him than a boss. The man speaking to him now is taking back a role he hasn't played in the kid's life for a while now. After being an anchor to Sandburg, keeping him from being swept away in the wake of Alex Barnes, he's trying to reassert his authority. I'm sure this isn't easy for either of them. And I'm more than a little uncomfortable witnessing it.

"I'm sorry, sir," Blair concedes, eyes downcast.

"Look, why don't we compromise here? I'll have Rhonda draw up the papers you'll both need to come back to work. But Sandburg, I want you to confine your involvement to the station. You can help the Macado kid go through the mug shots, do any research, make phone calls, whatever. Just let Jim handle the stakeouts with Rafe and Brown, let him do all the fieldwork. Is that understood?"

"Understood," Blair says softly. "May I leave now?"

Simon's face softens again. "Sure, son."

He grabs his backpack without bothering to zip it and flings it over one shoulder. As he passes me, he mutters, "Thanks for the support, Jim."

Before I know it, he's out the door, slamming it shut between us. I feel the displacement of air around me like a slap in the face.

This isn't how I imagined our return to the station at all. I sigh heavily.

Simon shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Jim. I thought it'd be easier coming from me. I was wrong." The captain hardly ever apologizes, but it's not because he isn't the type to admit his mistakes. He's gifted with good judgment. His position in this department is a testament to that fact. And I'm inclined to believe he shouldn't be apologizing now. He did what he thought was best.

It's not his fault Blair's too stubborn to realize it.

"He would've reacted the same way if I'd been the one to say it."

"Yeah, but you have to deal with the aftermath," Simon reminds me.

I grimace. "There's that." A few seconds of concentration confirm that Blair is still in the bullpen.

I have my hand on the knob, ready to join my partner, when Simon adds, "Let me know if I can help."

"I will, sir."

Sandburg is sitting behind my desk at an extra chair with his backpack resting on his lap. The notepad is out again, balanced on top of the pack. He's scribbling on it. I wonder if he's purposefully not using the desktop to appease my 'territorial imperative.' The scene I made in the bullpen that day, telling people to stay away from my desk, is fresh in my mind. I must have sounded like an ass. Dammit, and here is Sandburg trying not to touch my stuff. It can't be a coincidence. When I sit down beside him, he doesn't even glance my way, but I hear his heartbeat accelerate a little.

Without looking up, he whispers so low that only I can hear. "Stop listening to me."

I gape for a second, knowing he's referring to my senses. Those few words are meant to shut me out. My first impulse is to ask him how the hell am I supposed to tune him out when all my instincts demand I protect him, even from himself. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and hold back the words. I'd only make things worse. Silence is the best course for now.

Recovering, I take a deep breath and turn my attention to the next step in the case--bringing in Johnny. I reach for the phone.

As I'd hoped, Macado hasn't left his apartment. He agrees to meet me a few blocks away from his place at a corner store. From there, I'll bring him back to Central. He isn't happy about the idea of coming here again, but I convince him that the sooner we get this over with, the faster he and his friend will be in the clear.

Hanging up the phone, I stand. Beside me, Blair's still writing. What is it now? A chapter in his dissertation about how all sentinels are control freaks? Maybe I am a control freak. I just want him to recover. If that means controlling his involvement with the department, I'll do it. If it means pissing him off, so be it.

"I'll be back in less than an hour," I tell his bowed head. I have to remind myself it's him, just without the long hair. "You mind calling up the mug shots? You have my password, don't you?"

He looks up at me, eyes flashing with annoyance. "So I can't even go with you to pick up Johnny?"

"You'd be doing me a favor here," I insist. "Especially if you query the program. You know, narrow down the search."

"I know how to query, Jim," he snaps. "But haven't you changed your password? It's been months. The computer would have asked you to."

"Oh, yeah." How could I possibly forget that? I snatch a pen and write the password on a scrap of paper.

He leans closer to read it, whispering, "B1969?" He looks up at me, quizzically. "The year your truck was made?"

I tap him lightly on the cheek. "No, the year you were born."

I turn and head toward the elevator. Once inside, alone and on my way down to the parking garage, I think back to the day I changed my password, a couple of weeks after Blair's drowning.

I had been avoiding the hospital as much as possible, concentrating all my efforts in finding Alex Barnes. But as much as I held her responsible, I knew I was at fault. I'd left Blair vulnerable by throwing him out of the loft and out of my life. Even though I believed he had betrayed me by telling her of my existence, I never should have left him alone. I let my anger and a false sense of security--thinking Alex had skipped the country--dull my common sense.

Every waking hour, I remembered the angry words that had been my last to him. Even as he was clinging to life across town, I had never truly believed he'd come out of it. He'd been unresponsive for too long. I thought I'd only prolonged the inevitable by forcing his body to carry on. I'd been selfish yet again, putting my interests above his own. I had let him die, then brought him back to merely exist . . . not live.

With all that swirling in my head, the damn computer asked for a new password. I'm surprised that I didn't enter something like: dth2alex. Instead, all I could think of was my partner. All I could think of was Blair, and how young he was. How he'd never see 30. I entered the year of his birth. Maybe I thought it would remind me every day of the future he'd lost. Of what I'd lost. As if I'd need reminding.

Now, after seeing the spark in his eyes when I told him what my password meant, I only hope he understands. His life is important to me; his safety and well-being are everything.

In less than twenty minutes, I'm pulling into a space at the mini-mart. Johnny, who was leaning against the brick wall beside a payphone, opens the passenger door and climbs in. He doesn't say anything and barely glances at me. Great, now he's giving me the silent treatment. What did I do to get so lucky today?

Macado made it clear on the phone he wasn't happy about going back to the station, but I wonder if there isn't something else affecting his mood. As I pull out, I ask him how he is.

"Fine," he replies.

Ouch. I've heard that before. "Is there something you want to talk about?"

I catch the dark look he shoots me before I return my eyes to the road. "You want me to draw you a picture, man, or what? How about one with a happy sun at the top? I'm fine, okay?"

"Whatever." Let him sulk, Ellison. There's nothing you can do about it if he wants to play the perpetual angry youth.

The oppressive silence continues until we're halfway back to Central. Checking my watch, I notice that it's almost 3:00. "You hungry?" I ask, glancing at him.

His eyes soften a little, and he nods. "Yeah, I could eat."

I catch a fast food sign and drive to the take-out window. He orders two burgers, fries, and a Coke. After paying, I hand the bag and drink to Johnny. "Don't spill it," I warn, as he balances it between his thighs, freeing his hands to dig in the bag. "And no crumbs."

He rolls his eyes while shoving some fries in his mouth. It's obvious he hasn't had much since breakfast. Maybe a couple of the donuts I gave him. No wonder he's so thin.

As we're pulling into the garage, he's cleaning his mouth with the extra napkins. He put the burgers away so fast, he didn't have time to make a mess. "Thanks, man," he says, and after a pause adds, "Look, part of the reason I didn't want to come here is because of my mom."

Feeding him loosens his tongue. I'll have to remember that. "What about your mom, Johnny?"

"She's not feeling too good. I've been helping her out at home." It's then I recall that his mother has AIDS. He'd mentioned her this morning, but I didn't catch on until now.

The truck is parked, the ignition is turned off, but neither of us moves to get out. "And you didn't want to leave her alone," I say.

"Yeah," he admits.

"We can have someone stay with--"

"Nah, man, let's not go there," he says, waving his hands. "Let's just get this over with so I can go home."

"Okay, let's go."

In a couple of minutes, we're stepping off the elevator when we run into Brown. He puts a finger to his mouth. "Shhh, someone's out for the count," he says with a smile, jerking a thumb toward the door.

In the midst of a typical bustling day in the bullpen, Blair is sound asleep, his head down on my desk, his cheek pillowed on one arm. His face is turned toward us, mouth slightly open. His breathing is a bit labored, but he seems okay. Still no fever that I can sense. I touch the back of my hand to his forehead anyway, needing the contact as much as the reassurance.

I feel Johnny right behind me and turn to answer his unasked question. "He's just tired," I say.

The look in the kid's eyes is more compassionate than I've ever seen. But I'm only given a glimpse before he looks down. And my partner stirs beneath my touch.

Blair lifts his head and wipes his a hand across his mouth. His bleary eyes focus on me. "Oh, man, I didn't mean to fall asleep," he mumbles. "I've got the search narrowed down." He gestures at the screen where the first mug shot is waiting.

I usher Johnny into the seat beside him. Still standing, I look at Blair. "Do you want--"

He shakes his head and interrupts me. "I am not going home, Jim."

"Do you want a cup of coffee?" I finish, the frustration evident in my voice.

"Oh, well, yeah," he says, surprised.

"Can I have a Coke, man?" Johnny asks, looking up at me.

I sigh and rattle the ice in the cup he put on my desk. "You just had one. And it's 'Detective Ellison' to you."

"Can I have another Coke, De-tec-tive Ell-i-son?" he says mockingly. "I'm good for the seventy cents."

I roll my eyes. "Sure you are." Then, I tell Sandburg before I turn away, "I'll get the drinks, you get him started on the photos."

My hearing is still trained on them as I walk out of the bullpen and down the hall. It's more of an instinctual need to remain close to Blair than to overhear what they say. But of course, I listen anyway.

"Is he always such a cop, man?" Johnny asks my partner.

"Yeah, but he's much more than that."

I can't get a feel for the meaning behind Sandburg's words. Macado's reference to my demeanor, always being a cop, is obvious. He's not much for authority figures. But Blair . . . what does he mean by saying that I'm more than a cop? Is it a jibe? A veiled reference to my senses? What?

I shake my head. Get out of their conversation, Ellison. I'm about to do just that, when Sandburg continues, "He's a good guy, Johnny. He really cares."

A warmth infuses me. Whether or not Sandburg meant for me to hear what he said doesn't matter. I heard. I think he knows my actions today had nothing to do with wanting to assert authority over him and everything to do with wanting him well again. With caring.

As I step into the break room, I hear the click of a computer mouse. "Here, let's get started."

It isn't long before Johnny has identified the middle-man--Anthony Obaya. His list of priors includes theft and credit card fraud. Nothing too heavy duty. His last arrest was over six years ago. That's not surprising now that he has neighborhood kids doing his dirty work. He's probably making thousands on this coverup . If it hadn't been for Macado, he might have gotten away with it clean and clear.

Although it's almost a given that the address we have for Obaya is no longer any good, I give it to Brown and Rafe to check. Then, I ask Johnny for a list of the places he thinks we should stake out. I have the kid's cooperation until I inquire about his friend, Roland. About where we might find him.

Macado shakes his head vehemently. "I'm not giving up Rollie, man."

Sitting beside my desk, I lean forward in my borrowed chair. "Johnny, we can protect him. We'll need--"

"What part of 'no' don't you get!"

I'm about to argue with Macado, when Blair steps into the conversation. He places a hand on Johnny's arm to catch his attention. The teen turns toward my partner who is sitting on the other side of him. "I know you're afraid for Rollie and you don't want to rat him out, but don't you think he'd be safer under our protection?" He's interrupted by a bout of hacking coughs. I grimace at the harsh sound. "I know things got rough on the Kaplan case, but Jim didn't let anything happen to you. What makes you think he'd treat your friend any differently?"

Macado's gaze drifts down to the desktop, and he's quiet for a few moments. When he finally looks over at me, he says, "Rollie told me they're not gonna hit another house 'til this weekend. That gives you some time. If you can't catch up with Tony in the next couple of days, I'll try and get Rollie to come in."

It's not what I want. I want to know where the kid is now, so we can be sure of his protection. I'd keep his involvement to a minimum, but I would at least like to meet with him and hear his story firsthand. I hold Macado's gaze until Blair catches my attention. He's nodding, trying to get me to agree to Johnny's offer. I sigh. "All right, we'll do it your way for now."

Johnny barely reacts to my words. His eyes look haunted. This is more than a sixteen-year-old should have to deal with. Much more. And I can't forget what he's dealing with at home.

"You ready to go?" I ask needlessly. The kid's been anxious to get out of here since we arrived.

"Yeah, I'm ready."

As we're all rising, Sandburg suggests, "Hey, Jim, how about I take him home? You can finish up here." My partner's already digging his keys out of his jeans.

I immediately reject the idea. I don't like the thought of Sandburg driving around that part of town. It's not safe. "Why don't you just meet me back at the loft?"

Blair shoulders his backpack. "Jim, man, I'd like to take him home. Is that okay?" His eyes dare me to say no.

Dammit! I don't want to argue with him, especially not here. "Fine," I reply grudgingly. "I'll see you back at the loft in an hour."

"Yes, Dad," he quips with a smug grin.

I see just the hint of a smile on Johnny's face before he turns to follow my partner out of the bullpen.

"Hey, Johnny," I call. "Thanks for your help."

The young man shrugs. "Sure."

As I watch them walk away, I wonder if I shouldn't have phrased my words differently. Like, 'Hey, Johnny, thanks for putting your life on the line again. Thanks for helping us prevent a murder. You're braver than most people I know.' I'm sure he's aware of what he's risking, but I don't think he knows it's actually appreciated. I don't believe he has a clue how far I'll go to make sure he and his friend stay safe.

An hour and twenty-three minutes later, Blair walks into the loft. I'm standing in the kitchen, stirring a batch of spaghetti sauce. I've been cooking for a while, trying to keep from worrying about him. Of course, it hadn't been working and when he enters, I pin him with a 'where have you been' stare.

"I was talking with Johnny's mother," he explains. "I wasn't sure if he'd said anything to her, but she started the conversation. She wanted to make sure we'd look after him. I told her that you and I would see that nothing happened to her son."

"You went up to his apartment?"

"Yeah, haven't you been?"

"No, I didn't think it was a good idea for him to be seen with me. And as far as I know, he didn't want me up there. Why'd you go up?"

Blair shrugs. "I dunno. I asked him if he wanted me to walk him up and he said yes. I guess I was kinda surprised, too." He stands beside me, close enough I can feel his body heat easily enough; his temperature's normal. He peers into the pot as he continues. "I don't look like a cop, so I'm sure nobody got suspicious." When he looks up at me, I mentally agree with him. Even with short hair, he still doesn't look like a cop.

"You know, Jim, his mother can't be much older than me. She's real frail, but I could still see how pretty she once was. Her name is Magdalena." He said it with a Spanish flare. "He's really worried about her. He said she's been doing all right lately, but . . ."

"He told you all that?" I ask, wondering whether Blair fed him on the way home.

Sandburg just nods like it's nothing unusual. It amazes me how my partner can get under the toughest skin and convince people to trust him, to open up. Right now, he's doing that with me and not even trying. I know I'm going to apologize to him about today in Simon's office. It's just a matter of time.

"Did Johnny say anything about having other family?"

Blair frowns. "No brothers or sisters, and his dad died before he could marry Magdalena. They'd planned to, but he was shot in bar fight. It's all pretty sad. I can't imagine what's gonna happen to Johnny when his mom--" His voice is stolen by a cough, and he doesn't bother to finish his thought.

"Social services," I say.

"That's not what I meant." Blair moves away, and I immediately miss his warmth. He walks around the kitchen island, stopping opposite me. He looks over and adds, "I mean inside, his world inside." He taps his chest. "You know 'him'." Sandburg shakes his head. "Man, when I was his age, my mom was all I had in the world. To lose her . . ."

I can't help but think about how I almost lost him.

Not now, Ellison. Let's not think about that now. "He'll survive it, Chief," I say. "With help, he'll survive."

Sandburg nods. "Maybe."

This negativity isn't something I normally expect from him, but what has been normal lately? I guess he's been through too much to believe there's a quick fix for anything. And he's always been more empathic than me, unable to--what did I tell him once?--check his humanity at the door. He has every right to be concerned about Macado, about how he'll get through this inevitable loss.

"Look, Chief, whatever happens, I won't walk away from him when this case is over. I promise you," I say.

The smile Blair gives me is like sunshine.

About an hour later, we're cleaning up after dinner and the phone rings. I dry my hands and Blair passes me the phone over the kitchen island. It's Rafe.

"Obaya doesn't live at the address we have anymore, Jim, but I have some good news--we think we've traced him to an apartment building on South Allen. The address is 285."

"This might be easier than we thought," I reply.

"Well, we don't have the actual apartment number."

"Stakeouts are us, huh?"

"Guess so."

"Look, I'll be there in thirty to relieve you guys. How's that?"

"We'll be waiting."

"I'll probably be able to bring him in tonight. If I do, you'll get a call."

"If not," Rafe says, "Brown and I will take over at say...3AM?"

"Make it four," I counter. "You guys have been doing all the work."

Rafe laughs, "All right, Ellison, you twisted my arm, four, but not a minute later."

When I hang up, I find Blair staring at me expectantly. If he thinks he's coming, he couldn't be more wrong. "They think they've found Obaya, but we don't have an apartment number."

"Why not go door to door?" Sandburg asks logically.

"We'd risk someone who knows him tipping him off. We've got some time and with the kind of business he runs, he'll be in and out a lot, if he's actually there at all. We should be able to bring him in tonight."

"When do we leave?"

Sneaky, Sandburg, sneaky. "I'm going over there now," I explain. "You're going to staying here and getting some rest."

Immediately, he argues. "Jim, I'm fine. You need--"

I lift a hand and interrupt him. "I talked to Simon about not wanting you heavily involved in this case," I admit. His eyes take on that 'I knew it' glare. I cut him off before he can voice it. "And I'm standing by this, Chief. A truck cab isn't the place for you when the temperature start dropping tonight. Besides, this guy isn't dangerous. He's the middle-man, that's all." I'm strapping on my weapon and grabbing my jacket by the door. "If I catch you driving up and down that street, I'll have Simon revoke your credentials on this one."

The anger mixed with hurt on his face is evident, but he doesn't say anything. And that almost makes it worse. Okay, Ellison, make it better. Say something right this time. "Look, you know I'm only doing this because I want you to get well, Blair."

He takes a deep, rattling breath. I wince. And his expression changes. "You wouldn't be doing this if I wasn't sick, right?" he asks.

"No," I say, but it comes out too quickly, and I know it rings false. "Why should I?"

Blair shrugs, too tired or too disappointed to call me on it. "Be careful, okay?"

"I will." I ease into my jacket.

Once I'm out the door, I think about his question and wonder why I lied.

A couple of minutes after four in the morning, I'm on my way back to the loft, disappointed, empty-handed. Rafe and Brown have taken my place across the street from the rundown complex. I only hope their luck is better than mine. At least there are two of them, one to give the other a break when he needs it. Of course, I would have had the same had I let Blair ride along.

My hands clench the wheel as I think about how I left him back at our apartment. It's not that I regret asking or rather, telling him to stay home. He would have been freezing in the truck, even with that silly hat of his. But he deserved more of an explanation and an apology. Sure, I admitted having talked to Simon, but I didn't say I was sorry for it. Instead, I used it to show him I mean business. And I lied to him, something I don't ever remember doing before: I told him things would be different if he was well. They wouldn't. After everything that happened with Alex Barnes . . . after everything that's happened during the few years we've been together, I'm just not willing to risk his life anymore.

It's something I'll have to confess to him eventually. Just not now. If I let this get in the way of the case, let it consume my focus, someone could end up getting hurt or worse.

Soon, I'm pulling into a space outside our building. The relative quiet of the early morning hour soothes my weary senses. Having taxed them for so long seeking any sign of Obaya, they seem a little on edge.

I smile to myself as I enter the building, finding it humorous how I still think of my abilities as being something apart from me. 'They' are on edge. Hell, I'm on edge. I couldn't be any more ready to collapse on my bed and call it a night.

On the elevator and down the hallway, I listen for sounds in the loft. Blair's asleep, thankfully, but he sounds closer to the door than he would if he were in his room. And, there's an electrical hum accompanying his deep, uneven breaths. In seconds, my suspicions are confirmed. He's fallen asleep on the couch with the television on. The sound's turned all the way down, so even I only hear the power coursing through the picture tube.

I hang up my jacket and walk up behind the couch to check on my partner. Dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, he's curled on his side toward the back cushions. I can see the profile of his face. Peaceful and unlined, but gaunt.

Watching him sleep now takes me back several months to the times I sneaked into his room at the hospital after visiting hours. Before entering, I'd always make sure he was alone, knowing that my friends from Major Crime hovered over him daily. Once I knew there'd be no interruptions, I'd stand beside his bed and stare at him, trying to imprint his features on my mind. God knows, I'd repressed almost every traumatic event in my life. I wasn't about to allow myself to conveniently forget any of this. I thought I'd eventually lose my senses and my sanity, but I would never forget the person who had made the last few years of my life bearable, who had made me a whole person again.

At times, when I watched him I almost thought I could see the changes ravaging his body as he lay in a coma--his skin paling, his cheeks becoming sunken. I would stand over him in the darkness and listen to him breathe. Sometimes I'd talk to him, whispering words that begged him to return. Most times, I'd just stand quietly and feel waves of guilt wash over me in sync with the rhythm his heartbeat. I never believed he'd wake.

In the cold, sterile room, it was like standing in mourning at a grave.

Leaning forward slightly, I brace my hands on the back of the couch and sigh deeply. The long day is catching up, and the unwanted memories are leeching what energy I have left. I'm ready to sleep for a couple of hours at least. And I'm sure Blair would appreciate his bed much more than the couch.

"Sandburg," I whisper.

Nothing. No response.

I lean closer. "Blair?" His stillness is frightening, though I know he's okay.

Gently, I smooth his shoulder and call him again. This time, a crease appears on his forehead and he shifts under my touch. "Mmmm." His eyes open slowly, pupils expanding in the near-darkness. "Jim?"

I straighten. "Yeah, it's me."

"Di'ja catch Obaya?" he slurs, shifting onto his back and lifting a hand to massage the side of his neck.

"No, not yet," I say. "I asked Rafe and Brown to call if they bring him in." I jerk my head toward his room. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

He pushes himself up with effort. Automatically, I help with a hand on his back. I'm hovering, I admit it. The fact that he's accepting my help without protest sparks a new worry, stanched when I realize he's still half-asleep and probably doesn't even register the touch. I shadow him as he shuffles to the door of his room, making sure he's steady enough on his feet. Then, I turn back to switch off the television and head to the stairs. I'm almost halfway up when I hear him call my name.

In seconds, I'm at his door. His reading lamp is on, and he's sitting on the bed. His hands are braced against the comforter, his bare feet shifting slightly on the floor. Sandburg's eyes are clear, as if he's only just come fully awake. They spark with purpose. "Jim, I had a dream," is all he says, but that's enough to set off alarm bells in my head. I know he wouldn't say anything unless he thought it was important.

"About what, Chief?"

"The wolf," he replies. "I was the wolf."

His spirit animal. I tense up as though someone's about to attack from the shadows. All our visions of our spirit guides have either led to or been part of some significant experience or impending threat.

Sandburg clears his throat. "I was in a stairwell. The walls were old, peeling. Something . . . someone . . . was chasing me, and I was running up the stairs toward a door. That's it." He shakes his head and folds his arms across his stomach.

"Have you--?"

"No, I haven't slept."

"But you don't have to be asleep," he counters. "You've had waking visions before."

"I haven't seen anything, Chief," I insist, and it scares me. Why is he seeing this? What does it mean?

"Maybe it's nothing," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

I reply with equal doubt, "Yeah, maybe."

Sandburg coughs and, though the sound disturbs me, it's not as bad as it was earlier today. He sniffles and rubs his nose.

I step into the room and hand him a box of tissues off the nightstand. A gesture that resounds with normality. "Blow it out."

He chuckles and, for just a second, the tension is gone. After taking my advice, he looks back up at me. "I didn't mean to worry you, man. I just thought you should know."

I nod. "I'm glad you told me." I ruffle the hair on the top of his head, needing the contact. "Get some sleep, G.Q."

"You'll wake me if they get Obaya?"

"I'll wake you," I promise.

Satisfied, he slips off the bed to pull back the covers and slide under them. I wait until he's flicked off the light before starting back to my own room. Images of his dream replay in my head as I change and climb into bed.

A wolf. A stairwell. Fleeing up toward a door. Who's chasing you, Blair? What kind of danger is this? And how can I keep it from you?

I spiral into the darkness, searching for answers that elude me.

Eight in the morning, and Rafe calls to inform me they have Obaya and are escorting him to the station for questioning. Reluctantly, I wake Sandburg and head for a two-minute shower while he's dressing. By a quarter after, we're both out the door and on our way to the station.

From the moment I woke up at six, I'd been using my senses to check on Blair. He actually seems better. His congestion has lessened, his coughing fits are shorter, and more time elapses between them. He even seems more energetic. If it weren't for the disturbing dream he shared with me last night, I might persuade myself to turn my protective dial down a notch.

I glance over at him in the passenger seat. "Did you, uh, have any more dreams, Chief?"

Sandburg shakes his head. "None that I remember. You?"

"No, nothing."

Sandburg's dream has me spooked. I'd rather have him as removed from this particular case as possible. Once our perps are behind bars, and once we've deciphered the dream, then he and I can talk about limitations and compromises. I believe the less he knows about this murder conspiracy, the less likely he'll feel compelled to be in the field with me. At least, I can hope.

When we reach the station, I offer him the keys. "Why don't you take the truck and go grab something to eat. You can get me something while you're at it."

He doesn't make a move to reach for them. "You don't want me there when you question Obaya?"

Nailed it in one. Subtlety has never been my strong point. "You'd just have to wait in the booth with Simon," I remind him.

"I don't mind."

I shrug. "All right, have it your way," I say, trying to pass of my suggestion as just that.

We're in the elevator alone when Sandburg confronts me about my attempts to keep him on the sidelines. His renewed energy has given him back the tenacity he lacked last night. He's right beside me, looking up at me with eyes that are at once both young and old. "I know what you're doing, man. I even know why, but didn't you stop to consider how it's making me feel? I mean, I know you think it's best for my health. But don't you think that leaving me out is . . . well, making me feel left out? Or that maybe, just maybe, I can be useful?"

"We've been over this, haven't we?"

"I wouldn't call exchanging a few words yesterday 'going over it'," he says. "Besides, you were the one doing all the talking."

Sandburg's not going to let it go. He won't let me get through this case without discussing his lack of involvement. I know him well enough to recognize and even appreciate his persistence. Hell, I'd appreciate it a lot more if I didn't have to spend the morning in an interrogation. "When I finish questioning Obaya, we'll talk. Right now, I'm kinda pressed for time, Chief."

"I've been your backup for three years, Jim. Just don't shut me out now, okay?"

Just as the doors to the sixth floor are opening, I press the 'close door' button, affording us another minute of privacy. I've done this before, when Blair's friend, the prizefighter, was murdered and I needed to calm him down. Now, I'm doing it to tell him something that he should already know. Something I think he really needs to hear now.

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Blair, I need you. I want you in my life. I won't shut you out, but you have to see my side of it, too. Will you try to do that for me?" I try to keep any hint of patronizing out of my voice. I'm sincere. He's my closest friend. All I want to do is protect him, from himself if need be. He has to know I'd never throw him out of my life again. He needs to trust me.

He remains silent for a few seconds before replying. "Yeah, Jim, okay."

"Good. Let's go, partner," I say, allowing the doors to open and leading him down the hall with a hand on his back.

I find myself hoping against the odds that Obaya will fold and spill everything quickly, giving me the time I need to talk with Blair. The time I need to convince him that our partnership, though unending, has to change.

As Simon and Blair enter the observation booth, I step into the adjoining interrogation room. Rafe's standing just inside the door, dressed like an FBI agent in another expensive-looking suit. I nod at him, then catch Brown's eyes. He's seated across from Obaya. "Ellison," he says, standing to offer me his chair. Though Simon hasn't officially put me in charge of this investigation, they both seem willing to let me take the lead in questioning Obaya. It must be my reputation for intimidating suspects, something that's always come natural to me.

Sitting across from Anthony Obaya, I take a minute to study the man. Heavy-set and sweating, he smells of beer and cigarettes. His thick mustache has flecks of food in it; his greased hair is mussed. He's wearing faded jeans and a worn white sweater, but his jewelry looks expensive, especially the thick ring on his chubby right hand. It clinks annoyingly against the table as he nervously taps his hands. His dark eyes dart between the three of us, waiting for someone to speak. As my partner would say, his demeanor screams 'weasel.' I can crack this guy, I know it. His heart is already pounding fiercely, and I smell his fear. He's becoming more tense by the second, and I haven't even said a word yet.

Obaya breaks the silence first. "You gonna keep me here all day?" he asks, but his belligerence is just a shallow façade.

I lean forward in the chair, placing my arms on the table and threading my fingers together. "That depends on you, Mr. Obaya. I'm Detective Ellison. I--"

"Am I under arrest?" he interrupts, his bravado faltering as his right knee begins to bob restlessly. It's obvious he doesn't like me moving into his space.

"No, sir," I say, "I'm sure these detectives explained that we just want to ask you some questions."

"What for? I haven't done nothing." He sits back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Where were you last night?"

"At my girlfriend's casa," he answers automatically, then remembers to act tough. "What's it to you?" He jerks his chin at me.

I'm familiar with his type who want to turn the tables on the interrogator. It never works. I gage the moment, deciding it's time to get to the point. Taking the direct route now could make him slip up. "We have information on some crimes you've been involved in." I lean a little closer and drop my voice. "Home invasions. We'd like you to tell us about your operation."

His thick brows knit together like he doesn't understand, but I hear his heart speed up. "Home invashon?" His accent's more apparent on the word he tries to sound unfamiliar with.

I lock his gaze with my own. "I'm sure you know the term, but I'll spell it out for you: a home invasion when you break into a house while the family is present to terrorize and steal from them."

"I don't know nothing about that," he replies. "Can I go now?"

"These particular crimes are even more severe because we've learned they're being committed to cover up a murder that hasn't taken place yet."

His pulse skyrockets and his eyes dilate, black consuming the dark-brown iris. Metal scrapes against the floor as he shifts his chair back. "I don't know nothing about home invashons or murders. Nada."

"We have information that says you do." I stand, and move around the table to lean over him. Pressing a hand against his shoulder to keep him from moving, I add in a hushed tone, "If someone dies, you'll be an accessory, Anthony. I know you've been to prison before, but this time, you won't be coming out for a long time, if ever. And it'll be a maximum-security fortress with the worst of the worst. Is that what you want?"

"No . . . I . . . no." He pauses to lick his lips. "Look, man, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm clean." He tries to lean away from me, but my grip prevents him from putting much distance between us.

"If you give us the man behind these jobs, we can cut you a deal, probably a pretty good one, since you'll be helping us prevent a murder."

"I don't know anything!" he insists.

I straighten and let out an exaggerated sigh. Looking over at Rafe and Brown, I say, "Well, I guess there won't be a deal today."

"You're arresting me?" he asks, incredulous.

"What for, Mr. Obaya?" I ask with a thin smile. His only reply is a wide-eyed stare. I pat him hard on the shoulder and he grunts. "The next time you see us," I slap my hand on the table and he jumps at the sharp sound, "we'll be hauling you in to start your sentence." With that, I leave the room without a backward glance.

Blair and Simon are waiting for me in the soundproof booth. We watch quietly as Rafe and Brown escort Obaya into the hallway. Our suspect is clearly agitated, his movements jerky. He's on the brink of cracking, which is right where I want him. "I want to start a 24-hour surveillance on Obaya right now," I say, looking over at Simon. "I'm sure he'll be contacting his boss in the next few hours."

"Good job, Jim," Simon says, taking a cigar out of his jacket.

I shrug. "Would've been better if he'd spilled his guts."

"But you weren't expecting that, right?" Blair asks, pushing off the wall to move closer.

"I hoped, but guys like him--repeat offenders--are less likely to roll over on the first questioning." I answer absently, automatically running both hands running through my hair in an effort to drive away some of my tension. "Man, I hate this. We've gotta get Roland off the streets."

"But you need to go after Obaya," Blair reminds me.

"I'll tell--"

Sandburg reaches for my arm, silencing me. "I'll contact Johnny. I'm sure he'll see how important it is to get word to Roland and have him turn himself in." There's an intense look of determination in his eyes, and the grip on my arm dares me to object.

Even so, I do. "Chief, we can let Brown or Rafe talk to Johnny. They can--"

"No, they can't," he says adamantly. "He trusts me, Jim. He trusts me."

"The kid's got a point," Simon adds.

I shoot the captain a deadly glare. He was on my side yesterday. Why the sudden change? Could it be because Blair looks and sounds much better than he did yesterday? Or that Sandburg's right about Johnny trusting him. Maybe a little of both.

I sigh. "Look, I want you to do this over the phone," I insist, seeking a compromise. "You get them both down here, Chief."

Blair doesn't reply, but he relaxes.

I swallow. "We'll talk about the rest later," I add, knowing he'll understand.

He does. Nodding, he releases my arm.

"I'll keep in touch," I tell them both, before turning to trail Obaya. It isn't hard to follow his progress through the station. In fact, I try to keep as much distance between us as possible. The closer I am to him, the more I feel the need to shower.

Hours later, I'm on my way back to the loft. Unlike the previous stakeout at Obaya's, this time I'm not returning empty-handed. I was able to listen in on a phone conversation between Obaya and his boss in which he spilled everything about his encounter with the Cascade PD. During his nervous tirade, he demanded his payment and refused to have any more involvement in the top man's ultimate plans. There won't be any more home invasions. This means the next hit will be the real thing.

I'd hoped they'd set up a meeting, but it wasn't to be. I'm sure the man figures Obaya's under surveillance. Instead, they agreed on a pick-up point to be determined soon.

Something about the other man's voice caught my attention, but even more interesting than that, I have a phone number--the number Obaya called from the payphone on the first floor of his complex. I heard the tones. Blair just has to help me remember them.

I send my senses ahead of me as I get off the elevator. Jungle music. Blair's playing one of his CDs, and I smell candles burning. Entering quietly, I find my partner sitting in the middle of the rug in front of the sofa. He's made a space for himself by pushing the coffee table off to the side, but he's still using it for his vanilla-scented candles.

Blair's eyes are closed and he's breathing deeply. His palms are facing up, resting on his knees. It's been a while since I've seen him meditate. Usually when I find him like this, he's pretty quick to respond to my presence. This time, though, he gives no sign he even knows I'm home.

I have an urge to pull him out of it. I want to ask if he talked to Johnny--the last time I checked in, Blair had only spoken with his mother on the phone. According to Magdalena, Johnny had been out of the apartment all day. I also need Blair to get the number out of my head. It's our best lead yet to Obaya's boss. But I'm reluctant to disturb him. He looks peaceful, almost healthy. I decide to leave him alone for a few more minutes.

I head for the stairs. Up in my room, I'm leaning over my chest of drawers, when the heartbeat I'd automatically tuned into changes from slow to racing. Straightening, I move to the railing and see Blair bolt up from the floor below. He wrenches open the front door and is gone before I've even processed what's happening.

Talking the stairs several at a time, I give chase while shouting his name. He's amazingly fast. I only catch a glimpse of him in the hall as the door to the stairwell slams shut behind him. The stairwell . . .

He's taking the stairs toward the roof. And I'm chasing him.

I catch up fairly quickly, still calling his name, but he doesn't slow down or stop. I'm afraid to make a grab for him. I could unbalance us both and hurt him. When he finally flings himself against the metal door, I'm right behind him as he lunges out onto the roof and into the early Cascade evening.

It's still light outside, if overcast and gray. The air is chilled, and my senses are sharp. And they're all trained on him.

"Chief, stop!" I finally reach for him, catching hold of one arm before he can get further away from me.

He stops so quickly that I almost run into him from behind. His breath comes in choking gasps, reminding me of the illness that hasn't left him yet. I turn him around to face me. "Blair, what is it?"

For a while, he can't speak, but the look he gives me is one of confusion. Finally, he says, "God, Jim, I don't--I don't know."

"It's all right," I say, kneading his shoulders. "Take it slow."

"I was trying--I tried, the vision . . ."

"You were trying to recreate the dream you had?"

He nods and swallows hard.

"What did you see?" I ask, not really knowing if I want to hear the answer.

Blair looks down at the rooftop, then back up into my eyes. I'm sure he's wondering himself if he should tell me.

"Blair, please," I urge him.

"The same vision," he admits finally, "and more. I was running up some stairs toward a door." He nods over to the one we just crashed through. "Like that one." He looks back at me. "When I got through it, I was in the jungle."

"What happened then?" I ask when his voice trails off.

"I ran into this clearing, where there was a well. Inside--in the water, I saw a reflection . . . of you. I saw you standing by the fountain at Rainier." His voice breaks slightly on the last few words. "You were alone, Jim. Then, I heard a gunshot."

His words send a chill up my spine. "Where did the shot come from?" I ask.

"I don't know. It was loud, really loud. Jim, I think something's going to go wrong on this case. I think . . . you need to . . . I'm worried about you, man."

Not as much as I'm worried about you, Chief. I don't say it aloud, but I'm sure he can see it in my eyes, and feel it, too, as I tighten my grip on him.

I don't relinquish my hold on Blair's shoulders. Still trying to control his breathing, he bows his head and slumps forward slightly, forcing me to take some of his weight. I'm ready for it. "Easy, buddy, just breathe. I've got you," I say softly. I step forward, closing the remaining distance between us, prepared to catch him if he passes out.

"Oh, man," he moans. "This really sucks." He tilts his head back with his eyes closed, convincing me he's about to fold. Instead, he opens his eyes and straightens, muscles tightening beneath my hands. "I'm okay," he says, then amends, "I'll be okay."

I gently knead his shoulders. "Take your time, Chief."

"I--I don't know how to stop this. I don't know what to do," he admits, shaking his head.

I do. I'd like nothing better than to lock him in his room and post an armed guard on the other side of the door. At least until this case is over. Hell, who am I kidding? I'd like to keep him out of the field for the rest of my career in law enforcement. As much as he thinks this vision is a warning that I'm in danger, I'm sure it has more to do with him. He was the one who was running, fleeing from someone. He was the one who was chased to a rooftop.

Around us, the sky is darkening, the air growing colder. Blair shudders, and his tremor passes into me until I feel my own body tremble. It's a feeling of desolation--the touch of Fate, cold in its finality. I try to warm myself with Blair's nearness, remembering that we've battled Fate before and won. I'm sure we can do the same now. All we have to do is heed this premonition. Of course, we need to understand it first.

"Maybe we should take this inside," I suggest, tugging at him slightly.

He resists. "No, wait."

"What is it, Chief?"

He looks around and takes a deep breath. "I thought maybe . . ."

"What?"

"Maybe being up here would trigger something more," he finishes, stepping out of my grasp. He turns around and walks a few steps toward the center of the roof. For the first time, I notice he's in his socks. And I'm sure his light pullover and sweats can't be warm enough for him. If nothing pans out in the next few minutes, I'll make him come inside.

This is strange--watching him stand with his back to me as he searches for answers in a simulation of his vision. "This isn't the same rooftop, is it?" I ask, wondering if the first vision could possibly have been a foretelling this very scene.

"No, the skyline's all wrong," he replies, waving his hands in the air. "But this--it feels right--the same." I don't know exactly what he means, but he doesn't give me a chance to ask before he's off on a tangent. "The last time we came up here, when you were reaching out to your spirit animal to reclaim your sentinel abilities, I felt it, Jim." He turns to face me, with a look of wonder in his eyes. "I never told you, but I felt your senses come back to you. It was like jolt of energy. We're connected, Jim. That's why we both have dreams and visions that help us protect each other. That's why this isn't just about me . . . or you. This is about both of us."

"You felt it? But you never said anything."

"Well," he grins half-heartedly, "You weren't exactly in the best of moods. I mean, you didn't want to try meditating in the first place. And then--" he looks away for a second. "Then, you had other things on your mind, like saving the Chopec. Protecting the tribe. After that, well . . . ." He shrugs.

His words remind me of the present, of what I'm doing now to protect an unnamed target and a couple of kids. "Chief, I have a lead on Obaya's boss. I heard him dial the number from a payphone in his lobby. I need you to help me remember the number."

"Why can't you get a log of the calls made from that phone?" he asks.

I grimace. "I tried that, but the phone company's been testing for Y2K and knocked out part of their system. They won't know until tomorrow if they can get anything to us."

Blair pauses for a moment and I can see conflicting emotions cross his face. But he finally takes a step toward me. "Let's go inside," he says.

When he's close enough, I catch his arm. "The vision--I know it's important, it's just--"

"It is important, Jim. But if I'm right, it's connected to this case. We have to move forward with it. There's no turning back."

I clench my jaw. No turning back. Maybe not for me, Chief, but for you . . . I try to calm myself as I follow his slow descent off the roof, but my own pulse is thundering in my ears. For you, Chief, there has to be a way for you to turn back.

In minutes, I'm sitting on the couch with Blair perched beside me. He's speaking in that familiar, soothing cadence, urging me with his voice to let my mind drift back. He tells me to let myself recall the tones I heard earlier. The number of the person pulling all the strings. The pressure to break this case is enormous; that phone number is the key.

Why can't I get to it?

"Relax, Jim. Don't fight it. Just listen for the tones, match them with the ones I just played for you. You can do it. Just breathe. That's it."

I inhale slowly, listening to my memory. I hear the dial tone first and the clank of change falling through the payphone. And then the tones of individual numbers being punched. I sit forward a little. They sound too much alike. I don't know how I ever thought I could do this.

"Don't open your eyes," Blair insists, reading my body language. "Just listen for them. Remember them."

"I can't."

"Dammit, Jim, you wouldn't have asked me to help if you didn't think you could do it. Come on, man," he says, his frustration evident. When he continues, his voice becomes soft again. "Your hearing is your best asset. You can match these tones."

I shake my head. "The sounds are too similar."

"Wait--no don't open your eyes, Jim. Did you see Obaya from where you were? Could you see his hand moving on the keypad?"

"I was across the street, but I could see him through the glass door. I honed in on him when he was asking someone for change."

"Good, good. Just match your memory of his movements with the tones you hear."

Slowly, I recite a jumble of numbers, qualifying a few that could be more than one.

"Got 'em!" he exclaims.

My eyes snap open, and he quickly apologizes. "Sorry, Jim. Rude awakening, huh?"

I shake my head and grin. "Give me that, Freud," I say, snatching the paper away from him playfully. Leaning forward, I reach for the phone on the table.

"You calling them?" he asks, leaning back against the arm of the couch with a puzzled look on his face.

"I'm gonna run them. No need to tip the guy off just yet with a personal call."

"Right."

Once I've made the request and left my own number for a callback, I ask to be transferred to Brown's desk. Luckily, Henri is in. I tell him that I'm in the process of running some possible numbers Obaya dialed from the payphone at his apartment building. He doesn't ask how I got them, but I tell him about the problems the phone company's been having, asking him to request the log of all calls dialed from that location between 6 and 6:30. "If they can get it, tell them to fax it to the station," I say. "I'm going to need you and Rafe to be ready to roll."

"You--are--hot, Jim," H says, making a sizzling noise.

"And you're full of it," I reply with a laugh.

"Hey, what about Macado and his friend?" Brown asks.

I frown, looking over at Blair. He's standing now, facing the balcony.

"I'll have to get back to you on that one."

"Sure thing. Catch you later."

Hanging up, I cross the distance to stand behind my partner. "You haven't been able to reach Johnny, have you?"

He turns toward me. "No, I haven't, man. I'm really worried."

"Me, too, Chief. Me, too."

The ring of the phone still in my hand startles him. "Yeah, Ellison," I answer.

Unable to believe the results of the phone-check, I gape. In front of me, Blair is whispering, "What? What is it?"

I hold up a finger, motioning for him to wait a second.

"Are you sure?" The reply is an affirmative. "Okay, thanks."

Clicking off the receiver, I meet Sandburg's questioning gaze. "Get this," I begin, "the only working number is a cell number belonging to the Mayor's nephew--John Stevens."

Blair's eyes grow huge, and he stumbles over the revelation. "But he--his family was one of the--he . . ."

"Yeah," I say, finishing for him. "His was one of the houses hit by the home invasions." I shake my head. "I thought there was something familiar about the voice I heard on the line. I must've heard him thanking Simon when the captain was at his place 'tap-dancing' for the Commissioner."

"Oh, man, but why? I don't get it."

"We don't have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, Chief," I say. "But what better way to cover your own ass than to be a victim yourself?"

I dial the number for Central again. Rafe, Brown and I are going pay a visit to Mr. Stevens, and Simon needs to know. This isn't going to go down easily. It's going to be hard to make anything stick, but maybe we can prevent someone from being murdered in this scheme.

Hanging up the phone after a few minutes, I turn to find Blair fully dressed and standing with his arms out. "I'm ready when you are, man."

"No," I say, too forcefully. "You're staying here. I've got this covered."

His face falls and his voice goes up an octave. "Oh, you have this covered, huh? No need for me anymore? I just got you that fucking number, Jim. What more do I have to do? How can I prove to you that you need me?"

"Oh, Chief," I roll my eyes. "Not now." I move toward him, but he backs away.

"Fine. Fine, then." He starts for the door, grabbing his jacket off the rack.

"Where are you going?"

He turns. "To find Johnny."

Before I know what's happened, he's out the door without even bothering to close it behind him.

This can't be happening. Watching Blair walk away like this is too much of a déjà vu. I won't let it happen. "Sandburg, wait!" I'm in the hallway, shouting for him, jogging the short distance to cover the space between us. "Blair, please."

In front of the elevator, he turns and looks up at me. "What, Jim?" Neither his tone nor his gaze is angry, just tired...resigned, almost.

"I'm sorry." I realize how seldom I've said those words to him, knowing he's deserved to hear them more often. His puzzled glance confirms my thoughts. It must seem like I'm speaking another language. One it's taken me too long to learn.

"Look, will you come with me to question Stevens? Afterwards, we can look for Johnny." Even though I'd prefer him to stay away from this case, if he's going to be stubborn about it, I'd rather he be with me than out on his own. No question about that.

At first he doesn't say anything, leading me to believe I'd really blown it. But when he finally speaks, it's not at all what I expect. "Jim, man, I'm sorry, too. I know you're just trying to solve this case, and I'm not making it any easier on you." He looks down. "It's just--" He shrugs, then meets my gaze again. "Look, concentrating on me takes your focus away from what's important, and I'm not helping things by acting like a kid." He takes a deep breath. "I'll stay here, man, if that's what you want."

The annoyance that crept into me at his stubbornness dissolves with his words. He's sacrificing what he wants for me. For what I want. I should do the same for him, but I find it hard to put his physical well-being second to his feelings, or to solving the case.

A small war wages in my head. What am I supposed to do now? What's the right thing?

Looking into his eyes, I come to a conclusion. He stays with me.

Placing one hand on his shoulder, I press the elevator call-button with the other. "Okay, Chief, let's go."

He smiles, then looks past me. "Uh, Jim, maybe you should close our door?"

I let out a breath of a laugh. "Guess I could use the keys to the truck, too."

"That'd help," and he laughs, placing a hand on my chest and gently pushing me back toward the loft.

As we pull out of the parking lot, Blair pulls his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. He calls Johnny's apartment again. Unfortunately, there's still no sign of him. I can hear the desperate worry in his mother's voice. Before hanging up, my partner assures Magdalena that we'll pay her a visit after following up a lead on the case.

Maybe she can give us a list of places to start our search for him and his buddy, Roland. I don't even want to think of the trouble the two of them could be in.

Once he's ended the call, I ask Sandburg to dial the station and ask for Brown. "I need to see if he and Rafe can meet us at the Stevens' house," I explain.

"Isn't that overkill?" Sandburg asks as he punches in the number.

"Not when your goal is to make a suspect nervous."

A look of understanding crosses his face. "Ah, nervous enough to call off the hit."

"Exactly."

Blair's expression soon turns sour, as he holds the cell at arm's length and squints at it. "My batteries are dead," he announces.

I pull my own out of my jacket and hand it to him.

"Detective Brown's desk, please." After a second, "Hey, H, it's Blair." I don't bother listening in on the other side of the conversation. "Yeah, man, I'm okay--doing pretty well, actually. Jim's with me. He wants to know if you and Rafe can meet us at the Stevens house."

After Sandburg explains the situation to Brown and secures their presence, he hangs up and lapses into silence. Once we're on the freeway, I tune in to him. Normal temperature--that's good. Lungs still congested, but not as badly as they've been the last couple of days. He coughs into the quiet of the truck's cab, but the sound isn't as harsh as it had been. If only some of his other problems would start dissipating with his cold. I guess that might be too much to ask. Months ago, I never even believed we'd come this far.

Months ago, I truly believed I would have buried him by now, losing him to the coma . . . losing him to Alex's vicious attack. Now, it's like I'm losing him to my own fears. I'm building a wall around him to protect him, but it's cutting us off from each other. There isn't any other way, is there? How else can I keep him safe?

But he's safe now. Sitting here beside me, where he should be--he's safe.

I check my watch; it's almost 7 PM. Mr. Stevens should be home if he isn't a workaholic. As I drive, I formulate questions in my mind, trying to decide what the right approach should be. I realize that it's best to give the man something to worry about; it's best to be as direct as possible without accusing him outright. We also have to conceal the fact that we have little hard evidence. Our goal is to keep Stevens unbalanced enough to delay or call off the hit.

Beside me, Blair is silent. I glance over him. His face is turned slightly toward me, but he doesn't seem to be focusing on anything. His expression is worried and tired. Boy, we picked a real winner of a case to start with, didn't we, Chief? Why couldn't it be something easier? In Major Crime? -- yeah, right.

Pulling off the highway, I turn down a side street and continue toward the subdivision. It's only a few blocks now. When we're on their street, I turn off the headlights I'd turned on only a few minutes before. That catches Blair's attention.

"What are you doing, Jim?"

"We're going to wait until Brown and Rafe show up before we go knocking. Besides, I might be able to get a handle on who's home," I explain, tapping my ear.

"Oh, yeah, good idea."

I park the truck along the curb across the street, which is a good distance from the large house itself. A car is parked in the long drive, and lights glow from the first floor. Killing the ignition, I send my hearing toward the house.

The sound of clinking glass and china suggests that dinner is being cleared from the table. There are three heartbeats, one coming from upstairs, but thus far, no voices. The sound of running water proceeds the hum of a dishwasher.

Then, finally, "I don't need your help." It's a woman's voice, sharp with annoyance.

"Fine. Whatever," comes the reply. "I'm going to the study."

Again silence, but soon I hear soft sobbing. Man, this guy must be a real bastard.

Before I can make out anything else, a car pulls up behind us. Rafe and Brown. In a few seconds, we're all standing in the empty street.

"What's the plan?" Brown asks.

"I think you and I should shake Stevens up a little with some questions. Rafe and Sandburg can hang back, but stay visible." I gesture at Rafe. "Why don't you pull the sedan into the drive. It looks more official than the truck."

"You sure you don't want Rafe up front with you?" Brown jokes. "He looks more official than both of us!"

"Ha, ha." Rafe rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. "The keys?"

Brown hands them over. I take a second to glance over at Blair. His hands are in his pockets. He shrugs under my scrutiny. "Guess I don't look very official at all."

"Nah, man, you look more like a snitch," Brown quips.

"Thanks for the observation," Blair returns.

I'm unnerved by their exchange. The last thing I want is Stevens to associate my partner with his dilemma--to believe that Blair might be a police informant.

Just then, the car pulls up the drive and a motion-detecting bright light beams on above the garage. It's blinding. I shield my eyes with a hand.

"Wonder if that's new," Blair says, squinting.

"Yeah, doesn't seem like Obaya's kids would have had much of a chance at getting close with that thing working," Brown observes.

"He had to have turned that and the rest of his security system off to make it easy for them to get inside," I say, stating the obvious. "Maybe we can find out when he actually installed this. I'm sure his excuse about not being use to his alarm system is a load of crap."

Brown and I walk up drive, Blair and Rafe close behind us. I press the doorbell, though I realize there's already someone approaching from the other side. After another couple of seconds, a woman in her late thirties dressed in a long skirt and a sweater, answers the door. Her eyes are noticeably puffy and red; her voice is nasal, and her expression perplexed. "Can I help you?" she asks.

I pull my badge, and Brown follows suit. "I'm Detective Ellison. This is Detective Brown and our associates."

"I remember you," she says, nodding at Brown.

"Is your husband home, Mrs. Stevens?" Henri asks.

"Yes, yes, he is. Would you like to come in?" She steps back, opening the door wider. Despite her current state, she's poised and cooperative.

I nod. "Thank you."

The four of us walk into a large entryway and follow Mrs. Stevens into an adjoining living area. "You can wait here. I'll get him for you."

I check her vitals as she walks away, noting no increase in her heart rate or respiration. Although her current state is decidedly depressed, our presence hasn't seemed to upset her more. She probably thinks this is a routine call.

"She doesn't look too happy," Brown observes once she's out of earshot.

"Married to him, who would be?" A guy who has plotted a murder, one who's prepared to frame some kids for the crime. Someone with the gall to set himself up as a victim. Yeah, a real catch.

I take a moment to look around. Two white couches and an expensive-looking glass coffee table shape the center of the room. There are several shelves along the back wall; windows span the opposite wall, and a fireplace takes up the third. The rest of the décor is sparse, consisting of a few knickknacks and family pictures. I watch my partner walk around the room, studying the contents closely.

Soon, the dark-haired, middle-aged man in question appears, his large, athletic frame seemingly primed for defense. Stevens' fear is readily apparent. "Can I help you, detectives?" he asks.

"We hope you can," I begin. "We have some new information about the motive behind these home invasions, and we'd like to ask you some more questions."

"Please, sit down," he says.

Brown and I take seats across from him, but Rafe and Blair remain standing. I hear them shifting behind me. No doubt Blair's still puttering around.

"What kind of information?" he asks.

"It's starting to look like the invasions were staged to cover up a much more serious crime."

His heart races in flight-or-fight mode as he replies, "I don't understand."

Brown makes a big production out of flipping through the pages of his notebook, then asks, "Mr. Stevens, do you know a man named Anthony Obaya?"

I actually hear his heart skip. "No, I don't believe I've heard the name."

"We have reason to believe someone hired this man to stage these home invasions in an attempt to cover up a murder. He needed scapegoats, easily prosecuted kids, criminals you and your family could identify," Brown says.

"Who's been murdered?" he asks, but before I can answer, he's directing his attention to our partners. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

I look behind me to see Blair standing in front of a shelf, a picture frame in his hands. "No, sorry, just looking at your pictures," Sandburg replies, setting the frame down with exaggerated care. He lifts his hands as if to say he won't touch anything else.

Though Blair's little tactic has thrown our suspect, I don't like the idea of this man's attention being on my partner at all. Attempting to divert it back to me, I jump in. "There hasn't been a murder yet. We don't know who the actual target is, but we're getting there. Considering your position, we wondered if you know of anyone who might want you dead? Have you been threatened lately?"

The man's mouth gapes, his face flushes. "No, no, I haven't received any threatening letters or telephone calls," he stammers, striving to appear cooperative.

"Well, we can't be too careful, sir," I caution. "I'll make sure someone keeps a close eye on you for awhile until we find out who's behind this scheme." I harden my expression and look him straight in the eye, all pretense gone. "And trust me when I say we will find the person responsible."

For a moment, he's speechless, and then he manages a brief, "Frankly, detectives, your theory sounds preposterous. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business requiring my attention."

Once outside, Brown chuckles, and mimics Stevens' word, "Preposterous." He laughs outright. "What's that book-- 'How to Win Friends and Influence People'? You must have memorized it, Jim."

"Too much?" I say, heading down the drive, Blair at my side.

"Nah, just enough. I'm sure Simon's gonna hear about it, though."

I nod. The shit's about to hit the fan, but at least the captain knows we're out here and is expecting a backlash.

After a short discussion, we part company. Brown and Rafe will remain in the neighborhood to begin our promised surveillance of the Stevens household, while Sandburg and I will begin our search for Macado and his friend.

As we pull away, I find myself hoping we're leaving behind a man with his plans in disarray--someone who should know he's beaten and give up before the final round. Johnny's voice rings in my head, reminding me that things aren't always as easy as they seem. The young man is himself a testament to his own words. Getting on the highway again, I navigate toward his neighborhood to meet with his mother.

"Do you think it's over?" Blair asks.

I look over at him. "No, I don't."

On to the second half....