If intimidating suspects is my forte, then reaching out and comforting people in need--helping them--is Blair's. He's proven this time and again. Although I haven't always been personally receptive to his altruism, I'd never want him to change.

I guess my own hang-ups, my own stubbornness that sometimes comes into play, stem from a long tradition of depending on myself. It's hard for me to put control in someone else's hands. I'm anal that way, as Blair would put it. But Blair . . . he doesn't give up or back down. When he's ready to lend a hand, he doesn't pull it away.

Now, as we walk down the hallway to Johnny's apartment, I couldn't be more grateful for the person he is. Macado's mother deserves better than my reserved assurances.

For the second time today, we're greeted at a door by a woman in tears. But Magdalena Macado couldn't be more unlike Mrs. Stevens in appearance, and from what I know of her, her pain goes deeper than living in an unhappy marriage.

Looking up at us with coal-black eyes, she manages a smile when she sees my partner. "Blair, thank you for coming." Her voice is slightly accented and soft, but she speaks with a strength that belies her fragile form.

Sandburg takes her small, dark hand in greeting. "Magda, this is Jim Ellison, my partner." With his free hand, he takes my arm and ushers me closer to the threshold.

"Johnny's told me about you," she says to me. "I'm glad you're here. Come in."

The apartment is small. I can see all of it from three steps inside the door. The living area to our right, carpeted in stained brown, is furnished only with an old green couch, a wooden chair and an end table. The kitchen is to our left, as well as the open door leading to a single bedroom. A pillow and blanket stacked beside the couch, along with some abandoned sneakers, suggest that Johnny sleeps out here, leaving the bedroom for his mother.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asks, while encouraging us to sit. I take the chair, Sandburg the couch.

We both decline so she joins Sandburg on the couch, folding her legs under her and making herself seem even smaller. Her hands trail back and forth across the knees of her oversized jeans.

"How are you?" Blair asks.

"I miss him," she says simply, the corners of her lips twitching in a brief smile. "He's never away this long."

"We need to ask you a couple questions to help us find him. Is that okay?" he asks.

She tucks a strand of long black hair behind one ear. "Yes. I don't know how much help I can be to you, but I will try." She speaks each word with care, as though trying her best to pronounce them without an accent. Somewhere along the way, someone must have chastised her for sounding too 'foreign.' The thought makes me sick. She shouldn't have to put such effort into speaking; it's obvious enough that each day is a struggle for her.

"We hope you could tell us where he likes to hang out," I say, "and if you know anything about his close friends, especially someone named Roland."

She looks over at Blair beside her, then meets my eyes again. "Blair asked me about Roland. I don't know him, but Johnny's talked about him. I called his friends I know, and tried calling some of the places he likes, but no one's seen him, unless they lie." She shrugs. "I'm happy to tell you the places."

I nod, pulling a small writing pad out of my jacket pocket and copying down all the information she relates. Every lead is in this neighborhood, spanning the radius of a few blocks. Our search shouldn't take more than a couple of hours.

"He takes good care of me," she says as we finish. "He's a good son. I know he's been in trouble, bad trouble before, but he's a good son." Her tears flow again. She wipes them away as quickly as they spill and apologizes.

"No, don't be sorry," Blair tells her, shifting on the couch to lean a little closer. "It's okay. We'll find him, Magda. He's going to be okay."

I lean forward and speak to her softly. "Could you tell me where your son keeps his things, Mrs. Macado? I might be able to find something to lead us to him."

"The closet in my bedroom--he stores most of his stuff in there." She sniffles and wipes her eyes again.

"Can I?"

"Si, si puedes." She slips into Spanish.

"I'll stay here, Jim," Blair says, one hand on her trembling shoulder.

"Okay, Chief."

Leaving them alone in the living area, I walk over to the bedroom and flip on a light. This room, too, is sparsely furnished with only a twin bed and dresser. The familiar sight of neatly lined-up pill bottles grabs my attention for a moment, and I feel a pang of sadness for this woman. Like my partner, she has to depend on medical science and drug therapy. Unlike Blair, she may have little to look forward to. If I can give her one thing, I'll give her back her son.

I move toward the closet and open the sliding doors. One side clearly belongs to Magdalena and the other to Johnny. First, I go through the couple of boxes beside his shoes at the foot of the closet, then start on his shirt and pants pockets, looking for anything that might help. I come up with loose change, candy wrappers, and a phone number written on a scrap of paper with the name 'Mario' scrawled at the top. The latter is the only item that stands out.

Rejoining Blair and Mrs. Macado, I ask her about the name, handing her the scrap of paper. "No, I don't know this person. But I will call the number if you like."

"I can--"

"They might not speak English and, no offense, but she probably speaks Spanish better than you," Blair reminds me.

"Right," I say, handing the number to Johnny's mother and telling her briefly what to ask. She slowly pushes herself off the couch, while Blair stands ready to offer assistance.

"I'm okay." She smiles at us, wiping her eyes again as she passes me on her way to the kitchen where the phone is mounted on the wall. She dials, and I hear a male voice answer on the other end in Spanish. "Puedo hablar con Mario?" she asks.

"No vive aqui," the man replies.

She repeats the phone number back to him, asking him if she has it correct, and he modifies his answer. She has a short conversation with him, mentioning both her son and Roland. I catch the gist of it, but she repeats it all after she hangs up, with new tears in her eyes. "He said that Mario left suddenly. He went to Vegas, he thinks. He's worried about him and wants me to call him if I find anything out." She hugs herself with her arms. "I asked about Johnny and Roland, if he knows them. He said he knows a boy named 'Roland' and that Mario was mixed up in something with him, something not legal, but he hasn't seen Roland around and doesn't know where he lives. He doesn't know my son."

Blair enters the small kitchen to stand beside her. He reaches toward her, and she moves quickly into the circle of his arms. Though he holds her, he says, "I have a cold, I shouldn't--"

She cuts him off, thumping his chest with her hand, as her face reveals the depth of her emotion. "I don't care!" She takes a deep, gulping breath. " I don't care about myself, this is about my son! I need to know he's okay. I need to know."

Sandburg shushes her, gently smoothing her back. "We'll find him," he says, repeating the words over and over like a mantra.

God, Chief, I hope you're right.

Sandburg convinces Magdalena to call a friend to stay with her for the night. The woman, who lives in the same apartment building, is at the door before we leave to begin the search.

Standing on the threshold, Blair promises to call her if we find Johnny. Magdalena smiles and takes my partner's hand and touches my arm. "Via con Dios, go with God," she says.

"Gracias," I tell her softly, not knowing what else to say.

Turning away from a closed door, Blair and I walk slowly down the hall. The silence is heavy between us. It's an air of desperation. Of need and purpose. We've both seen the reality of Johnny Macado's life now, and we know the mother he loves enough to steal for. We know how much she needs him, how much she loves him. And we have to bring him home to her.

This renewed conviction lends me a burst of energy, but it seems to sap the life out of Blair. Once in the rickety elevator, he slouches against the wall, shutting his eyes. I see creases of pain line his forehead, and hear a poorly disguised catch in his breathing.

I lean over him, placing a hand on his shoulder to catch his attention. "Hey, what is it? What's wrong?"

Opening his eyes, he looks up at me. "Just a headache. It's nothing." He attempts to straighten and shrug off my hand, but instead sways forward a little.

"Easy." I steady him and lean him back against the wall, maintaining contact. "The truth, buddy." My words are soft, but demanding.

"I--it's just, just a bit much, you know. She's dying, Jim. And Johnny, dammit, he could be dead already, right?"

I shake my head. "We don't know anything other than Mario was probably the other kid working for Obaya. He must have decided to skip town when word got out about Obaya being picked up."

"And Johnny probably convinced Roland to stay."

"Yeah, they could just be holding up somewhere until things die down."

"Man, I hope so. This really sucks."

I know he's going to fight me, but the weariness in his stance and voice urge me to suggest, "Why don't I take you back to the loft?"

His mouth gapes. "You can't be serious."

"What was I thinking? Oh, yeah, maybe that you're still sick and need some rest," I say sarcastically. "When was the last time you ate, anyway?"

"I--uh--you need me. We've gotta start looking now, Jim. Don't fight me on this. If you do, you'll lose." He nudges a finger against my chest.

"Watch it or you lose that finger," I say, trying to lighten the moment.

It doesn't work. Blair's expression warns against further argument.

I sigh and look at my watch. It's after 9PM. "We grab some food first, then do two hours together. If we don't come up with anything, I drop you off, come back, then replace Brown and Rafe at the Stevens' residence in the AM. You got it?"

"Got it," he says, just as the bell dings for the first floor. "Let's go."

This case is only a couple of days old. I should be pleased at how far we've come and how much we know, but I'm not. As I walk through the door leading up to our apartment, all I can feel is disappointed. That and the weight of sheer exhaustion make each step a chore. Hours looking for Macado and still more staking out the Stevens' home have turned up nothing. I called Magdalena and told her we'd resume the search tomorrow, and then I reluctantly put out an APB on Johnny. Stevens and his family were quiet all night. Now, the sun's about to rise on a new day, the case is at a standstill, and time isn't on our side.

I'm glad I convinced Sandburg to let me bring him home before I went to replace Brown and Rafe at the Stevens'. There'd been no reason for him to be there, other than just keeping me company during what remained of the night. The thought of him safe, back at the loft, was enough to keep me going. I only hoped Blair was able to let go of his guilt over not finding Johnny so he could fall asleep; he needs as much rest as he can get.

A short elevator ride later, I let myself in. I'd checked his vitals, so I knew he wasn't asleep, but when he looks up from a book in his lap, I can't suppress a gasp when I see his face. A dark bruise colors his left cheek and his lip is split and slightly swollen on the same side.

Slamming the door behind me, I'm beside him in the living area in a second. I take his chin in my fingers, turning his face to inspect the damage. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

He's quiet at first. Large, searching eyes bore into mine. He finally answers, "I did."

"What?" I release him and straighten.

He takes a deep breath. I can see from his expressions he's about to say something I won't like. "I had a seizure."

The enormity of his admission is like a physical blow, one I'm not prepared for. "You . . . a seizure?"

"I fell there by the couch." He nods beside me. "I must have hit my face on the coffee table. I don't remember." I'm sure his calm tone is meant to diffuse my anxiety. It doesn't work.

I drop to the couch and rub my forehead. How? How could this happen? He hasn't had one for months. Why now? Could it be the stress of this case? God, all I can think of is the fact I could have lost him.

A warm hand touches my knee. "I'm sorry, Jim."

Looking back at him, I realize something's not right. Why should he apologize for having a seizure? Unless . . . "What did you do?"

He flinches at the question, and I grab at his hand before he can snatch it back. I hold onto him tight enough to assure he won't move away, but not strong enough to hurt him. "Blair, tell me."

The answer flows out of him, as though I'd just given a call to open the floodgates of a dam. "I stopped taking my medication. I thought--I thought I could have clearer visions if I stopped taking so many pills," he explains, not fighting my hold.

"When? When did you stop?"

"About a week ago." I hear a tremor in his voice.

I let go of his hand and sit back, realization dawning. "All this time you've been faking?"

He nods.

"What about the cold medicine?"

"That I took. I figured it wasn't as strong as the rest of the stuff."

The fact that he stopped taking the other medications a week earlier leads me to the rest of the truth. "Then the dream, when you told me--it wasn't the first time you'd had it."

"No, but before I only had snatches of it. When I told you, it was first time I saw anything more."

Trying to process his admission, I stand up and walk around the opposite side of the coffee table, avoiding having to pass close to him. Through the balcony doors I see the sky lightening to an early morning gray. I flick the latch and step outside before I know what I'm doing. Having never taken my coat off, the air only chills my face and hands. But I remember Blair--I'm letting the cold into the loft behind me, allowing it access to my partner. But if he doesn't care about himself, why should I?

The answer is so simple, it hardly warrants thought: I know what life is like without him, and I never want to experience even a glimpse of it again.

I hear him come up behind me. "Jim, say something," he pleads.

My hands grip the railing. What am I supposed to say? I swallow hard, trying to regain control.

I feel a hand on my back. "I need you to talk to me," he says. "Yell at me, whatever, man. Just don't do this."

I turn slowly to face him, feeling his touch slip away, and when I speak, my voice is low and controlled. "I thought we'd both learned something about trust, Blair. I guess I was wrong."

He takes a single step back, but keeps his eyes locked on mine. I can't help but feel the hurt in his expression. He doesn't say anything, but I can see him shaking. I've no doubt it's from more than the cold. Regardless, I shrug out of my jacket and drape it around his thin shoulders. His eyes start to water, and he whispers my name.

Damn. Damn it all to hell. I reach for him and pull him close.

Despite my angry words, he doesn't resist my peace offering and returns the embrace. Even so, I find myself saying, "I'm sorry," apologizing again for my quick judgment, while I use his warmth to convince myself that I haven't lost him. Whatever he thought necessary to do is done. I can't change it. Neither can he.

But he has to know something--he needs to know this. "Chief, if I'd come home and found you . . . if I'd found you . . ."

He pulls away gently. "Don't, please. I can't--"

"You need to understand."

He smiles. "I know. I know how you feel." He pauses for a deep breath, unconsciously drawing my attention to his still-congested lungs. "I thought I could get by without the drugs. I would have told you if I thought there was any danger. I was wrong. If I'd had the seizure in the field, I could have gotten you hurt, too. I've been thinking about that since it happened. I know I violated your trust, Jim, but I hope you'll--"

I shush him and pull him toward me again with a hand at the nape of his neck. I lean forward and our foreheads touch briefly. "I trust you, Chief." Then, I carefully nudge him toward the balcony doors. "Let's take this inside, buddy."

Following him back into the loft, I close the doors behind us, shutting out the cold and pushing back the fear that's welled up inside me.

Sandburg takes off my jacket, lays it on the couch, and sits down.

"I'll make coffee and heat some water for tea," I offer.

"No, wait," he says, catching my arm. "There's something else you should know."

I sit beside him, bracing myself, but keeping my voice even. "What is it?"

He turns his whole body toward me on the couch. "I had another vision. Right after the seizure, when I fell asleep, I saw more."

"What did you see?"

"You, again--I saw you at the fountain alone. This time, after I heard the gunshot, I saw the jaguar leap out of you and into the water."

In the silence following his words, I hear the sounds ushering in a new day. The buzz of passing traffic, the murmur of tenants rising in the building around us, and our two hearts beating rapidly in a seemingly quiet moment of revelation.

"You're in danger, Jim."

It's too much to take in at once--Blair's seizure and his admission about forgoing his meds, his vision about what I'm sure he perceives as my death. The way he's looking at me now, the fear in his eyes expressing what he can't . . . or rather, won't. He thinks I'm the one who won't outlive this case.

I don't know what to tell him. I don't know how to calm him when my own fear for him still rages. He's misinterpreted visions before, and so have I. When I kicked him out of the loft, I believed I was doing the right thing--protecting him from me. What else could I have thought after seeing myself shoot his spirit animal in a dream? And Blair's vision in the hospital that made him think Alex was coming after me when, in reality, she wanted to finish what she'd started at the fountain.

Neither of us is infallible when it comes to our dealings with the mystical.

"Jim," he says, touching my arm. "Did you hear me? You're in danger, man. We have to do something."

I shake my head. "You don't know that, Chief. What you saw, what we've been shown before--it's always been fragments, only glimpses of the truth."

He takes a deep breath before speaking. "So what do we do?"

I place a hand on the one gripping my arm. "We get some rest."

"What?" The look of surprise on his face is almost comical, almost. He breaks contact with me and braces his hand against the back of the couch.

"Neither of us have had much sleep," I explain. "If we're going to be any good to each other or to this case, we have to be alert."

"We--as in both of us? You're letting me stay on the case?"

"You're too stubborn to let go of it now, Sandburg. But given the circumstances," I say, lightly brushing my fingers across the bruise on his face, "we probably have to review just how you'll be involved in this case and whatever follows." There, I've finally said it. Things have to change--for my sanity if nothing else.

He doesn't protest. Instead he says, "I took my pills right after I woke up. I know they need time to build up in my system, but at least I've started on them again. As much as I want the visions, I know . . ." He shrugs.

I tap his uninjured cheek with the back of my hand. "You know I'll kick your ass if you don't take them," I say with a wide smile.

He smiles back. "Yeah, there's that."

I hold on to the moment for all it's worth before deciding it's time for us to get some sleep. I realize that retreating to our own beds, a floor apart, won't assuage my anxiety about his recent seizure. It'd be better if I stayed close.

"Stay here for a second. I'll be right back," I say, retreating to his room in search of what I need.

Returning to the living area after a couple of minutes, I place a pile of blankets, pillows, and a sleeping bag on the couch beside him. I set the travel alarm on the coffee table.

"What's all this?" he asks.

"We're gonna do a little camping, Chief. You get the couch." I push the coffee table farther away, making room for the sleeping bag. I lay it beside the couch and toss a pillow on it. "I'll take the floor."

"You don't want me to be alone," he says softly.

"Not after tonight," I reply, as I hand him his pillow. He turns to place it behind his back, scooting up until he's leaning against it.

"But I might fall on you if . . ." He looks away without continuing.

"Hey." Tired blue eyes meet mine. "I want to be close if you need me. Is that okay with you?"

"Yeah," he whispers, nodding.

I help him with the blankets until he's settled comfortably. Then, I arrange my own makeshift bed, aware he's watching my every move. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking. He doesn't seem upset about my overprotective gesture, so it must be something else. I don't ask though.

I go upstairs and change. After a short detour to the bathroom, I return to the living room and pull the shades, shutting out most of the morning light. I crouch down on the sleeping bag and set the alarm for 10:30 AM. We can't afford the luxury of sleeping past noon.

Turning on his side, Blair asks, "How long do we have?" Even though I know he's talking about the alarm, the question sounds eerie and profoundly final.

"Four hours. We should be at the station before lunchtime. We can check on Stevens' business dealings. The report from the phone company should have come in by then, if we get it at all."

"Then what?"

"Then we decide what's next."

"Okay," he says.

His one-word answers aren't encouraging. I'd like to think he's too exhausted to elaborate, but it probably goes deeper than that. Most likely, he's thinking of the potentially disastrous occurrences of the last few hours, and the potential for disaster that lies ahead.

When I finally lie back, he leans over the edge of the couch, propping himself up on one elbow. "Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

I'm not exactly sure what he's thanking me for, but it doesn't matter. "You're welcome." I nudge his forehead with my fingertips. "Get some sleep, Chief."

I listen to him shift above me, getting comfortable. Soon I hear his body rhythms slip into sleep, and I follow close behind. The enveloping darkness is blessedly dreamless. All I carry with me is Sandburg's slow and regular heartbeat.

Suddenly, I'm jarred awake. As my eyes focus, I search for Blair with my hearing, trying to sense anything that would signal an oncoming seizure. There's nothing. He's still asleep. One limp hand dangles across my field of vision. I reach toward him. Stopping just short of touching his fingers, I run my hand below his, as though warming myself at a fire. I feel an aura of heat emanating from him, and use it as another way to convince myself he's all right.

Letting my hand drop, I look at the clock. 10:26 AM. My internal clock must've been warning me the alarm was about to go off.

I sit up carefully, so I don't disturb him. I turn off the alarm, then shift my attention to him, letting my sight confirm his wellbeing. He's holding the blanket under his chin with his other hand, his mouth slightly parted. I don't have the heart to wake him just yet. Instead, I climb to my feet, stretch, and head for the shower.

The clothes Sandburg wore yesterday litter the floor by the shower, and a bottle of his shampoo stands open. Its pleasant odor permeates the bathroom. I smile, thinking about how fortunate I am to have him around to clean up after.

Showered, shaved, and wrapped in my blue robe, I walk back into the living area. Sandburg's just sitting up, rubbing his eyes with his hands.

"Hey, Jim," he says. His short hair is mussed, his eyes bleary with sleep.

"Hey, Chief. How do you feel?"

"A little groggy, but okay."

I nod, satisfied at his assessment, but nevertheless I'm glad he's coming with me to the station where I can keep an eye on him. The thought of him alone and having another seizure is enough to send a shiver through me.

Blair stands slowly and begins to gather the blankets and pillows. "You can leave them," I say, "We might be camping out again tonight."

He doesn't comment, but he grins at me before making his way to the French doors of his room. "I'll be ready in a couple of minutes," he calls.

In a short while, we're on our way to the station after picking up some fast-food breakfast. The usual complaints about cholesterol and fat from my partner keep my mind occupied as we wind our way through the city streets. Our routine is deceptively normal, but I know the rules have changed. Hell, the players have changed. That much is apparent when I look at him--his thin frame and short hair are constant reminders of what he's endured. And the bruising on his face is a visible display of how far he'll go to ensure my safety.

I don't know what I've done to inspire that kind of loyalty.

Soon we're rounding the corner toward the station. At this late morning hour, the underground parking garage is bustling with the activity. Blair and I endure a few questioning looks from other officers and a couple of genuine greetings. On the seventh floor, it's Rafe who rushes up, stopping just short of colliding with us in his enthusiasm.

"Perfect timing!" Rafe is practically beaming. "Brown sent me back here to do some checking on Stevens and see if the fax from the phone company came through."

"You came up with something?"

"The fax is on my desk and the numbers match, but the best part is--get this--Obaya's ready to talk. He called and asked to speak with you, but they put him through to me. We set up a meeting for this evening. He gets a deal, we get our man and the target."

"Why the change of heart?" Sandburg asks.

Rafe turns his attention to my partner and winces. "What happened to you? Are you okay?"

"Had a fight with the coffee table," he replies, not bothering to give the details.

"Oh." The young detective doesn't sound convinced but, to his credit, he doesn't press the subject. Instead, he answers Sandburg's question. "I asked Obaya why he changed his mind, and he said he didn't want to take the fall for this guy. He also sounded worried about getting knocked off."

"So why wait until tonight?" I ask.

"He wasn't specific about that. He just said he had a few things to take care of."

"You think it could be a trap, Jim?" Blair asks, and I feel his hand grip my arm tightly.

"I don't know."

Sandburg's tight grip on my arm, along with the look in his eyes, tells me he doesn't want me to meet Obaya without him. I don't like the idea of Blair coming along, but the thought of being separated from him after his recent seizure bothers me even more. I hope in the hours before the scheduled meeting, we can resolve this somehow. Maybe we won't need Obaya.

Right--and what would that take? The meager evidence we have so far isn't even enough for a search warrant.

I break eye contact with my partner. My sentinel abilities have given me the tools to find out who's behind this planned hit, but there's a downside. What I know is inadmissible in court, like it was with Danny Choi's murder a couple years ago. I'm still haunted by the pain of losing my friend, and the anger about how that case went horribly wrong.

Now, once more, I know the truth, and it's practically useless without hard evidence or credible testimony to back it up.

"Jim? You all right?" Blair's concerned voice cuts through my thoughts, as he tugs on my arm.

"Yeah." But I've been better, partner.

Just then, Simon's door bursts open. The hard look on his face doesn't bode well. "Gentlemen, I need the three of you in my office now."

Blair's the last to enter. As he steps in front of Simon, the captain stops him with a restraining hand on his chest. In an almost fatherly voice, he asks, "What happened to you?"

My partner looks up a him, the tilt of his face revealing the extent of the darkening bruise and the slight swelling of his lower lip. "It's a long story, sir. I'm okay, though. One-hundred percent."

I can't help but grimace at the kid's obvious lie. The truth is he doesn't want Simon taking him off this case. God help me, I don't want it either. I need to keep an eye on him. Blair can't be alone.

"It was an accident, Simon," I add, drawing his attention.

"Is there something I should know?"

"We've got it under control, sir."

"Make sure that you do." He pins me with a warning gaze, before removing his hand from Blair and shutting the door.

Simon tosses a file on the conference table and opens it, revealing some notes along with some pictures of two young, well-dressed men. "We have a problem," he says. "This just came over from the Feds. They want us to be aware these two are thought to be in the area."

Blair sits down, pulls out his glasses, and slides the pictures closer. "Who are they?"

Looking over his shoulder, I commit to memory the thin, dark faces I see.

"Hit men," Simon replies. "The Feds got a tip in Tacoma that these men are on their way to Cascade for a job. They wanted us to be aware of their possible presence here."

"You think Stevens hired them?" Rafe speaks up beside me.

"It's entirely possible," the captain says.

"Yeah," I agree. "The timing is right, and look at them. They could be mistaken for a couple of young Latino men. They're perfect for setting up Johnny's friends."

"It says here they're brothers," Blair adds. "Roberto and Giancarlo, no last name listed."

"Those are probably aliases," I say.

"Right."

With both hands on the table, Simon leans forward. "I'll have these pictures copied and circulated. If they're in town, we need to know their every move."

"We're running out of time," Sandburg mumbles. I'm not sure if he meant to say the words aloud. Regardless, I lay a hand on his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze.

Back in the bullpen, I ask Rafe to look into the list we have of Obaya's haunts, and the possibility he's hiding out with the girlfriend he mentioned during the interrogation. The sooner we get the information he's promised us, the better.

"I'm on it," Rafe moves over to his desk, leaving Sandburg and I alone.

"What now?" Blair asks, resting against my desk.

"Now we go after our only other lead."

"Stevens?"

"No, Henri is still on Stevens. We've gotta find Johnny and Roland."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Blair smiles at me.

It's late afternoon by the time we stop for lunch in Johnny's neighborhood. A tiny restaurant with a glowing sign "Soraya's" in the window entices us off the street. Inside, there's only one line of plastic booths along the wall mural. The painting itself depicts the history of the Mexican people. I place our order at the counter then turn back to my partner who's seated himself at a booth.

His eyes are scanning the painting, taking in the colorful details of a civilization conquered by the Europeans. He holds his face propped in one hand. The angle highlights the dark smudge along his cheekbone. The dreary florescent lights are unforgiving. I see the weariness in the tight lines around his eyes and the pallor of his skin. What are we doing here? What is he doing here? This is too much for him.

Sandburg doesn't know I'm watching him. He closes his eyes tightly, shifting his hand across his forehead. I hear his sudden intake of breath, and I'm beside him in four quick strides. I place a hand on his back, feeling for any sign of an impending seizure. There isn't so much as a tingle. "Chief, what is it?"

He shifts under my touch, moving his hand away from his face and looking up at me. "It's just a headache," he replies, attempting a smile. "I'm okay."

"You might fool Simon, but this is me, Sandburg," I say. "Let me take that back, I don't think you fooled Simon either."

"Jim--"

"This can't go on, Chief." I slide into the seat across from him.

"Look, you shouldn't be alone. Not with what--" His words are interrupted by a coughing fit. I know what he was going to say though. He still believes his vision foretells my death. When he looks back at me, his expression is desperate. "Please, Jim, don't do this."

What choice do I have? I can't just watch him run himself into the ground. I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Chief."

"Dammit! Don't I get any say?" His voice is loud enough to attract the attention of a few other customers. Dark eyes turn toward us, the obvious interlopers in their tight knit community.

"Hey," I warn. "I know this is about the both of us. Do you think I want you alone right now?"

"So what do we do?"

The idea comes to me almost immediately. It's a way for both of us to have some peace of mind, and a way for him to get some rest without me having to worry that no one will be around to monitor him. "Magdalena's," I suggest. "I can take you over there to rest. I'll call Rafe to continue the search with me. He'll have to come out here for the meeting with Obaya anyway. Simon won't let me go without additional backup."

"At least someone has some sense," he replies. I'm about to forge a retort, but he smiles, and adds, "I'm sorry about blowing up. It's just . . ." He shrugs. "I worry about you."

"Ditto," I say, tapping the uninjured side of his face.

When our food arrives, it becomes apparent how hungry we both are. We finish our enchilada plates in a matter of a few minutes. I leave a generous tip, hoping it will make up for any disturbance we may have caused with our arguing. Then Blair and I put our jackets on and take to the sidewalk again. It's six blocks to the apartment building. Six blocks spent in silence.

I called ahead, so Rafe is waiting in the small lobby, looking terribly out of place among peeling plaster and old mailboxes.

"I'm going up with Sandburg. I'll be back in a sec," I tell him.

I lead Blair into the elevator with a hand on his back. Once the doors close, he looks up at me. "You didn't have to deliver me yourself," he says. "You called and told her we were coming."

"I know, just humor me, okay?"

He rolls his eyes, but smiles. As the doors open and we step into the hallway, he whispers, "Promise me you'll be careful, man."

I look over at him, but he's not meeting my eyes. I stop before we reach the door, and gently turn him to face me. "I promise, Chief. I'll be careful."

He doesn't look convinced. Reaching up, he pulls his necklace over his head and presses it into my hand. I hadn't noticed it before, hadn't given it a second look. I turn the item over in my hand. The amulet on the long leather tie looks like a cross, but with a loop at the top.

"It's an ankh, the Egyptian symbol for life," he explains. "It'll bring you luck."

He's never offered me a good luck charm before. "Chief--"

"Humor me, okay?"

I laugh at his turn of words. "Sure." I slip it over my own head and tuck it beneath my shirt. I feel residual warmth trace the outline of the ankh on my own chest. His warmth. I smile at his gesture as together we turn toward the door.

Magdalena answers it, greeting us in Spanish.

"Thanks for looking after him," I tell her.

"Jiiiim," he whines.

She looks at me and says, "We'll look after each other, Mr. Ellison." Her sweetly accented words put me at ease, for now at least.

Back downstairs, I ask Rafe about any leads he might have on Obaya. His response isn't what I'd hoped to hear. "Nothing yet, but Brown is on it now. Simon sent a replacement out to cover Stevens. He knows this case is coming to a head, and the more of us on it, the more chances we have for an arrest."

"Look, I have the list of Johnny's usual hangouts I got from his mother. Sandburg and I covered most of them, but there are still a couple left. Let's take your car over to 5th and Central."

"Sure."

We cross the street to his sedan. "You think we're gonna break this case in time?" he asks.

"We have to," I reply.

By the time we call off the search for Macado, it's nightfall and only an hour away from our appointed meeting time with Obaya. Rafe and I are walking down a sidewalk that borders an abandoned playground. The chainlink fence surrounding it is old and twisted, bulging out in places. On our left, traffic whizzes past, headlights making my tired eyes ache.

We'd left our vehicles parked next to each other up the street. They're within sight now, and thankfully intact.

"You going to pick up Sandburg before we meet Obaya?" he asks.

I sigh. "Yeah, I think--"

The ring of my cell phone interrupts our discussion. It's dispatch with a call from Johnny Macado. After I tell them to send it through, I answer Rafe's questioning stare with Johnny's name. Rafe looks as relieved as I feel. We both know the sooner we get Johnny and Roland to a safe house, the better.

But it's too late. A hysterical voice fills my head, mixing English and Spanish in a stream that my sentinel abilities can't even decipher.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Johnny."

The next two words I hear are unmistakable. "He's . . . dead."

Immediately, I think of Roland, the young man whose testimony is so critical to this case. If only he'd listened to me and convinced the kid to turn himself . . . "Where are you? What happened?"

"Back at my mom's. They found us. They got to us. Oh Jesus, man, I'm sorry. He . . . oh, man . . ."

His apology hits me full force. Sorry? No. It can't be. This isn't happening. Not Blair. I choke out a repeat of my question. "What happened?"

"One of them, he caught up to Blair on the roof. He was trying to lead them away from us. I heard the shot, man . . . after they were gone, I called for help, then I went up to check. He's dead. I saw him . . . there's so much blood . . .his head. They shot him in the head. Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry." Behind Johnny's frantic words, I hear the pitiful wail of a woman. Magdalena.

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away from Rafe. An expletive leaves my mouth; I don't even know what I said. My hand reaches blindly for support, fingers threading painfully through the wire fence. I can't breathe.

Johnny's next words reign in my anguish with a promise of redemption. "They . . . they took Rollie, grabbed him and took him. I saw them put him in their trunk, man. Mom and me, we hid in a dumpster. I heard them say . . . one of them said Tony's next."

Stevens won't get away with what he's done. His hit men will go down and so will he for killing my partner. If they have to die, so be it. "Johnny, do you know where Tony is? Do you know where his girlfriend lives?" I ask, surprised at the steadiness of my own voice. I have a purpose I have to fulfill. I won't fail. I can't fail.

He blurts out an address. It's only a few blocks from our position.

"Stay where you are. I'm sending Detective Rafe over to the scene. Don't move from there, do you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, man . . . I hear you. God, I'm so sorry." He's sobbing, too, now. I have to grit my teeth not to join in their mourning. A gaping hole has opened somewhere in my chest. A hollowness I know will never be filled. I steel my shoulders and lock my knees against complete collapse. But I have no choice. I have no choice. Forgive me, Chief. I can't let them get away with killing you.

I click off the phone and turn toward my concerned colleague.

Taking a deep breath, I release it with words carefully chosen to conceal the truth. Rafe can't know. If he did, he'd never let me go after them on my own. Besides, I don't know if I could say the words aloud anyway. "Johnny and his mother are at her apartment. I need you to take them into protective custody. I'm going after the hit men. They've taken Roland and are after Obaya."

"Cleanup time," Rafe comments, referring to Stevens' tactics.

"Something like that," I say. The only thing on my mind--justice for Blair. And for myself.

Dead. This time he's not coming back. The memory of finding Blair at the fountain returns with supernatural clarity. All my senses are assaulted as a wire trips in my head and synapses fire: the smell of the chorine on him, the taste of it, his cold, pale skin under my touch . . . and the silence . . . .

My imagination overlays sense memory. Dark red blood . . . my friend, brutally murdered--executed on a rooftop.

Blair.

I left him on the threshold of his death. And he'd seen it in his vision. God, Blair must have known what was happening when he ran for the stairs. He must have known.

I struggle to control my ragged breathing as Rafe's car squeals into a U-turn ahead of me. My own foot slams on the gas, and I speed into traffic with my siren wailing. With a shaking hand, I reach for the radio to check if an ambulance and backup have been dispatched to Magdalena's apartment building. True to his word, Johnny had called for help before contacting me. Their ETA: 3 minutes.

I make no mention of backup for myself before signing off. If the hit men aren't at Obaya's hideout, I won't need it. If they are, I don't want it.

A voice deep within me screams for me to turn around and head for the apartment, wanting--needing to be with Blair . . . needing to know, but I can't give up this chance, possibly my one and only opportunity to see an end to this. It's more than duty and baser than justice. Call it what it is, Ellison--revenge. My truck screeches around a corner onto a neighborhood street. I cut the siren before I give notice of my arrival.

This fury isn't unfamiliar. I've stared into men's faces and been a hairsbreadth away from doing society a favor. I never went through with it. Never killed in cold blood. But this is the hunt. I'm more focused toward one goal than ever. And my senses are all razor sharp and ready for action.

Even with Alex, as much as I hated her, I hadn't been stalking her to kill her. Things happened so fast in the woods after the car crash. She gave me no choice. She'd almost taken Rafe down with a bullet and was about to shoot me. But this, this is different . . . primal. My body practically aches for the kill.

I jerk the truck to a stop across the street from the house in question. A haphazardly parked car and the smashed-in front door are my first signs of victory. My sight cuts through the half-open blinds as I jump out of the cab. And I see them. I feel cold metal beneath my hand before my brain even registers the fact I've pulled my gun.

Approaching the small, shabby house, I stay low and in the shadows. I piggyback my hearing on my sight, picking up accented voices demanding information. Demanding the whereabouts of the other accomplice, the one I know hightailed it out of town.

Obaya is babbling, his girlfriend screaming. Four heartbeats in the house. Another close by. The trunk. Roland's still alive.

Crouched, I press my back against the side of the car, listening intently. The young man's heart rate and respiration are slow, but steady. He's likely unconscious, but in no immediate danger. I'll have to get him out after I take care of the others. I can't spoil the element of surprise. That and my sensory abilities will be more than adequate to get the job done.

Remembering my cell phone in my jacket, I pull it out and turn it off. I don't need it ringing at the worst possible moment.

Taking another look inside the house, I gauge everyone's relative position. Obaya and one of the hit men are near the window. Obaya's seated at a couch, the man is behind him. The other stands across the room from them, threatening the woman at his side with a gun.

Maybe it's the same gun used to kill Blair.

The thought sends a spike of anguish through me that leaves me gasping. Unbalanced, my knee cracks against the concrete drive. I use the sensation to pull myself from the waking nightmare of blood and death, channeling the pain into rage. It becomes my focus.

I push off the car and steal the few steps to the small porch. I slowly creep up the stairs to the landing. Trained on their heartbeats, I keep track of each person's position in the front room as I press through the demolished door. Knowing I have seconds before they make me, I train my weapon on the gunman aiming at Obaya's girlfriend.

His shocked face stares into mine. "Police! Drop it!" I shout.

His finger tightens on the trigger as he swings the gun toward me. A split second later, I fire. He slams back against the wall, his weapon slipping from his nerveless fingers. The woman screams, twisting away from his falling body. Blood trails across the fading wallpaper, following his descent to the floor. But he's alive--his eyes are open, his breath coming in ragged, bubbling heaves. The bullet probably tore a hole in a lung.

I step all the way into the room and whirl toward the other man. The barrel of his 9mm is pressed against the side of Obaya's head. "I'll do him, man. You take another step and he's gone." Both men's heart rates spike. Obaya looks like he's about ready to piss his pants.

"I don't think so," I say, edging closer to the downed man. Using my left hand to keep my weapon trained on Obaya's captor, I kneel and retrieve the other gun. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man beside me shrink back. He has no where to go. I press his own gun against his forehead. "This is the deal. You let Obaya go and I let your brother live."

"Nah, man, you're a cop, you can't do that."

"I can. Let me tell you why." I almost feel the hate burning through my eyes. "One of you shot a man on the roof of a building tonight."

There's no denial, only tense silence. With little effort, I tune in their heartbeats. Obaya's would win the race by far right now. But not for long.

From the next room, I hear the woman dial 911. In panicked whispers she calls in the cavalry and makes a hasty escape out the back door. My time is almost up.

"And?" the man I face prompts, pressing the 9mm harder against his sweating hostage.

"And he was my partner."

"He was a cop?"

Behind me, the heart rate of the wounded man rises and I know who pulled the trigger.

I lose my tenuous hold on sanity, turning my sights toward him. "It was you." My voice is low and feral. I drop his gun and dig my hand into his jacket. Ignoring his brother, I grab the wounded murderer, my left hand pressing my own gun against his shaking body. Adrenaline lends me the strength to stand and lift him, throwing him against the coffee table in the center of the room. Gun fitting snugly in my right, I point it between his terrified eyes. "Say goodnight."

"Drop it, cop," a voice startles me out of my madness.

I look up to see a gun barrel aimed at my face. The bullet in the chamber clearly outlined with by my sentinel sight. Its unmarred surface shines. I'm literally staring death in the face.

No. This won't be stolen from me.

My free arm arcs upward, connecting with the gun. It fires, dislodging plaster on the ceiling that rains down. Unbalanced, the man falls back against the arm of the couch. He stumbles behind it, gaining control of his firing arm again and bringing the weapon to bear. I shoot on instinct, my brain hardly registering the moment I train the gun on him.

It's a heart-shot. He's dead before he hits the floor.

A pitiful whimpering catches my attention. The second man is on all fours, crawling across the floor, the wrong way, in a fruitless effort to escape. "No," I say. I stand over him and press my gun against the back of his head. I can't stop the hot tears from spilling down my face. "Is this how you did it?" I ask.

"Please," he whines.

I move to crouch in front of him, never letting the barrel leave his head. I jerk his chin up with my left hand, looking into his face. "Or could you see his eyes? Could you see his fear? He was my hope," I choke. I steady myself, pressing the gun into his forehead. "It's your turn to die."

I feel a growl. Turning, I see the jaguar. It stands in the hall by the door, glowing eyes trained on me in warning. "I have to," I tell it.

The animal stalks toward me, bearing its teeth in a bellow. I aim the gun toward it. The beast crouches, muscles rippling beneath black fur. I know the stance; it's ready to spring. In the space of several breaths we stare at each other, neither of us backing down. But I feel my fury ebbing into its deep green eyes, my rage absorbed by the jet-black pelt.

I can't do this. I can't kill this man. Never for him, for Blair. And not even for me.

I turn back toward the hit man. His forehead is pressed to the floor, arms shielding his head. I push him onto his side, not so gently. He cries out.

"The keys--I need the keys to your car," I say.

His scared eyes look up at me. "Pocket," he whispers, one bloody hand pressing against his right hip.

I dig for them. They jingle as I stand. At the sound of sobbing, I turn. Obaya's weeping like a child into his hands, his shoulders shaking. I make my way over to him, stuffing the keys in my pocket and withdrawing my cuffs. Showing little compassion, I snap the bracelet onto one chubby wrist. I tug him up until his standing and lead him to the radiator, securing him. He doesn't protest. I make sure all the guns are accounted for and out of anyone's reach, holstering mine when I'm satisfied.

Sirens. In the distance but coming closer. Looking toward the door, I notice my animal spirit has departed. It's no surprise, but it leaves me feeling more alone than ever before.

I jog outside into the cold night air. Quickly, I unlock the trunk, depositing the keys in my pants' pocket. Gently, I lift Roland's unconscious body out and lay him on the grass. I take off my jacket and cover him with it, tucking it around his thin shoulders.

The sirens are getting louder. Three vehicles at least, maybe more. My head jerks toward the truck as the radio inside crackles. A familiar voice--Simon's voice--is shouting for me. I drop to one knee, hands over my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut. No! I won't hear you say it. I can't hear you say it.

Insane with grief, I block my sense of hearing entirely. I can't even hear the sound of the keys as I pull them out again. I close the trunk. Then I'm in the hit men's car, feeling the rumble of the engine throughout my body. I shift into reverse, bumping across the curb and into the street.

Now into drive. Passing my own truck, the night rushes by as I run from the destruction I've left behind. As I hide from the truth I can't bear to face. But where can I go? Where? The idea comes to me--perverse, but appropriate.

And I'm speeding toward Rainier University, toward the fountain, and a delayed destiny.

The fountain at Rainier draws me toward it. A fixture in my nightmares, it was also part of Blair's last vision. And I know why. I have something I need to do there, some unfinished business.

Although my head still demands proof, I can't face the scene at the Macado's apartment. I'm sure police are still there, probably Simon and Rafe among them, maybe reporters now, and the coroner . . . I suck in a breath. My anguish is too raw, too new. I don't trust my composure. I'd crumble if I saw his body.

And Stevens. Someone else will take care of him. Maybe Brown. They'll read him his rights and take him down to Central. Obaya's testimony might ultimately put him away; it might not. Does it matter? Revenge or justice--neither will stop the pain. I know that. I've known it all along. But now I feel it. The jaguar took my rage and gave me perfect understanding. Clarity.

Home? I shake my head. I couldn't go there. I don't know what the word means anymore.

I drive too fast, weaving carelessly through traffic. The drivers around me don't exist. With my hearing still turned low, I hardly make out their annoyed honking. They're not my problem. I have to get to the university. The cars in my way are obstacles; the red lights minor hindrances. If I'm not forced to stop, I don't.

In minutes, I make my way to the campus, driving up and screeching to a halt beside Hargrove Hall just like before. But it's not my truck I leap out of this time, and the sky overhead is dark, unlike the bright early morning when I turned on the steps to find him . . . .

Floating in the fountain--dead.

I tread across the grass where we laid him, and it's like walking across a grave. In my mind, I hear myself plead with him to breathe. I mumble the words I said on that morning: "This can't be happening. This can't be happening." New tears spring to my eyes.

Cautiously, I turn my hearing up and survey my surroundings with my enhanced senses. There's no one close by, no one to witness my confession or my sacrifice. I allow the imaginary dials controlling my senses to gauge themselves, holding nothing back until the night comes violently alive around me. I shudder. The wind cuts through me, the stars above blind me, and I can almost taste the chlorine. Every nuance of the water from the fountainhead rushes through my brain like a raging downpour.

I take a step toward the pool, tugging the good luck charm Blair gave me from under my shirt, where the cold metal burns me. Slipping it over my head, I toss it into the air over the water. It catches moonlight, reflecting back an image of life--faith on a string--before it plunges into the shallow water.

"I failed again," I confess aloud. "I'm sorry, Chief. I hope--I hope you'll understand."

The wellspring--the source of my mastery of these senses--is you. I can't do this without you, Blair. I don't want to.

It's time for me to make another choice--like I did in the jungle and on the rooftop, but this one will be different. I take a deep breath, as much as my lungs can hold, allowing my senses to fill me one last time, saying goodbye to the gift I was given, a gift I'm about to give back.

I close my eyes. "It's time to make a choice. I am ready."

I hear a deep, familiar voice. "Enqueri." My Chopec name.

Opening my eyes, I'm not surprised to see the jungle surrounding me, cast in surreal blue light. Incacha, Shaman of the tribe, stands before me painted and dressed for ceremony. In one hand he grips a staff with feathers tied at the end. "There is no reason in your choice, Enqueri. You make it with your heart alone." His eyes dare me to deny him.

"No, I make it with my soul."

"A sentinel will always be a sentinel if he chooses." He repeats what he's said to me in the past, what I already know.

"I wish just to be a man."

"It is your choice to make," he says. His hand reaches out, pressing against my chest for a moment. Then he steps back, and I feel a jolt as half of me is ripped away. "Open your eyes, James Ellison. Now you are just a man."

"My eyes are open."

"No, my friend, they are not." He sweeps the staff in front of my face . . . and I'm suddenly back at the fountain.

And the sky is dark, the brilliant depths of the universe reduced to a muddy gray as the faint starlight is dulled by city lights. The air is cold, but not biting. My eyes are wide as I walk up to the very edge of the pool. Within its murky water, I see a glint of feral green eyes. And then they're gone. I am truly alone.

Without senses to control or distract me, my grief is overwhelming. I sink to my knees. Blair is dead--my friend is dead. He died alone on a rooftop. I left him because I thought he'd be safe. I pushed him away to save him and he was killed . . . again. He died saving other lives, but that fact doesn't make the pain any more bearable. It doesn't give his death any meaning for me. My hands grip the brick base of the fountain, my head lolls forward, and I sob. Deep, heaving breaths shake my shoulders. Tears leak out of my tightly shut eyes.

When I finally stop, I rock back on my heels, shifting myself so that I'm sitting beside the fountain. I stare at the spraying water as though I can zone on it. But I can't. Not anymore. That's not my problem any longer.

All I have to do is get up and walk back to the car. But that means I'd have to stand and turn to face the truth. I shake my head and laugh bitterly. When have I ever been good at that? How can I make my way across town to the place of my partner's death? Police cars still parked around the building. Yellow crime scene tape on the stairs that lead up to the roof. And bloodstains I wouldn't need my senses to see. I can't face it. I'm a coward. I can't do it.

Instead I sit and wait. I wait for someone to come along ask what's wrong, or someone to call campus security to escort me away. But it doesn't happen. A couple walks by hand in hand, but they ignore me. No one asks me to go, so I don't.

I can't see the hands of my watch clearly in the dark; I don't know what time it is when I finally stand. It's late, I'm sure. The aches in my legs and back tell me I've been immobile for far too long. I walk slowly back to the car I stole. I pull out the keys, get in, and crank the ignition. Shifting into reverse, I pull back, watching the fountain recede before me. My destiny is fulfilled--my choice has been made.

Slowly, I head for home. The emptiness waiting for me there is nothing to hurry toward. There's no compulsion to rush now. No urgency or need reflected in the quiet turns and careful stops I make. I'm thankful I know the way so well. Not much thought is required to make the trip.

Once parked outside, I lock the vehicle, which will likely become evidence. I turn away from it and walk to the building. In a couple of minutes, I'm walking up to the door, realizing the keys in my hand won't open it. I curse and dig in my pants pocket for my own set of keys. I can't find them. They must still be in the truck or my jacket back at the house. For a brief, angry moment I consider kicking in the door.

Instead, I reach up above the door frame where Blair use to keep a spare, where I told him to stop after a mound of manure was delivered to the loft courtesy of a road-raged manic. I'd said something to the effect of, "Chief, you never know when some crazy's going to try to get in here."

"You never know when one of us is going to get locked out," he'd countered.

"Won't happen to me."

"Whatever you say, man."

I echo the voice replaying in my mind. "Whatever you say." My fingers skim what I'm looking for. I laugh sadly, pressing my forehead against the door, the cool metal of the key gripped tightly in my hand.

I push back and unlock the apartment. Someone's been here. A couple of lights are on, and I don't need enhanced senses to smell Simon's cigar. He must have come looking for me. The message light flashes on the answering machine, demanding attention. Shutting the door behind me, I walk over to it.

It's become an obsession now, not wanting to hear the words. I turn off the machine and reach for the nearby phone, switching the ringer to mute. If someone's going to say it, they'll have to do it in person. Simon's presence here is a testimony to the fact he's already tried. He probably left a note behind, and I turn away from kitchen, afraid to catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye. Then, I see the couch. It's still covered with blankets and pillows, my sleeping bag beside it. Tonight we were supposed to camp out here again. We were supposed to . . .

Heading toward the stairs, I take them two at a time up to my bedroom, escaping from the threat of revelation. From the tangible evidence of loss. I pace in the confines of my room. What now? What now? I can't sleep. I can't rest. Even though I'm exhausted, there's no way I can close my eyes without imagining Blair's last moments.

Out. I have to get out and go away. For how long, I don't know. But I must leave. Go somewhere, anywhere. Decision made, I drag open the lowest drawer and pull out a duffel bag. Stuffing it with clothes, I zip it and start down the stairs. I'm halfway when the apartment door swings inward, catching me by surprise. I twist toward the sound, one foot poised in the air, hand gripping the railing.

And I can't breathe. The face looking toward me across the short distance--it can't be. Those eyes pin me, freeze me.

Suddenly, it's all rushing in. Hitting me like a tidal wave, my senses overtake me, the flood filling and blinding me. Choosing me. I'm calling the apparition's name as I fall.

"Blair!"

My heightened senses begin to catalog my surroundings before I'm fully conscious. A nagging pain radiates through me, concentrated in my lower back. A pillow cradles my head and neck, but the rest of me lies on the cold, hardwood floor. I hear a heartbeat thrumming rapidly, one other than my own. And I smell antiseptic, bandages, . . . blood.

My eyes fly open, and I sit up too quickly, gasping when my abused muscles protest. Warm hands--I feel their heat through the layers of my clothes--reach to steady me and lay me back. "Jim, don't," the voice says. I stop struggling. Again, I freeze when my eyes meet his, when I focus on the person trying to stay my fear. Blair. It can't be. I must be seeing things.

I can't seem to speak. I blink, refocusing on his bandaged forehead and the bit of blood staining it on the far right side. He's alive. Alive. He didn't die on that rooftop. By some miracle, he survived.

I exhale and close my eyes. Elation and exhaustion overwhelm me. God, he's alive.

"Jim, what is it? Jim!" I feel his fingers dig awkwardly under my collar, feeling for my pulse point, but giving up quickly. I'm about to open my eyes again and say something to assuage his fear when I feel him lay his head on my chest. God, he's listening. Listening for my heart.

I lift a hand and lay it against his cheek. My fingertips, resting against his temple, feel the vibration of his pulse. The beat I hear in my head echoes in time to the one beneath my touch. These senses are a blessing now. Using almost all of them, I confirm the life I thought I'd lost. It's almost as if they rushed back to me for this very purpose and, in doing so, remind me of their importance, their usefulness. I realize they are as much a part of me as he is.

"Keep breathing," he pleads in an anxious voice. "Just stay with me, man."

My other arm steals around his shoulders, holding him against me. "I'm okay, Chief," I assure him. "It's all right." I struggle for control of my emotions, but a thickness invades my voice. "I thought . . . I thought you were dead."

"I know," he whispers. For a few seconds, he's silent, giving me the time I need to confirm what I'm only beginning to believe. Then, he gently pulls out of my embrace so he can face me. "I'm sorry. I was so worried . . . when I woke up and Rafe told me they couldn't find you, and after what Johnny told you . . . and you left the truck behind . . . I thought something had happened. I don't know. And now, man," he closes his eyes for a second and inhales deeply, "I thought you were having a heart attack. I felt something. Are you sure--?"

"Whoa, Speedy, take it easy," I say, smiling up at him. "I'm fine. No heart attack. I promise."

I'm holding onto one of his arms as he leans over me, feeling the fine tremors that course through him. He's exhausted. Taking a closer look, I see the lines of pain and dark smudges under his eyes. There are still flecks of dried blood on his face and in his short hair. Beneath a long trench coat that's obviously too large for him, he's wearing only a T-shirt and his jeans. The flannel shirt he had on probably wasn't worth saving.

I need to get him to bed. He needs rest. For now, it doesn't matter what happened on that rooftop. All that really matters is that he's alive.

I'm trying to sit up again, when his insistent hands push me back down. He's stronger than he looks. "No, Jim, you took a pretty bad fall. The paramedics are on their way. Rafe's on the curb waiting for them."

"What? I'm fine."

"I thought you were having a heart attack," he repeats. His eyes look haunted. Hell, he's sure that seeing him almost killed me.

"I'm all right, maybe a little sore from the fall, but otherwise--"

"It was like I felt . . . ," he begins, then quiets as his eyes widen. "Oh, man, you didn't." He shakes his head slowly. "You gave them up, your senses. And they came back. That's what I felt."

Grimacing, I sit up, and this time he doesn't try to stop me. His hands remain pressed against the floor for his own balance. I think he's too stunned at the moment to do anything but breathe and stare. "You're right," I say, catching hold of his shoulders, "but let's not talk about this now, okay?"

"You gave up everything." Blair's eyes begin to fill.

God, not now. I can't bear to see him like this. It hurts to know I caused it. Doesn't he know how connected these senses are to him? But how can he? I don't think I've ever told him. Not even--not when I lost him the first time. And surely not since.

I can't turn away from this without making it right. I can't deny him what he deserves to hear. "Chief, you have to understand--"

Before I can finish, he bows his head and slumps forward in my grasp. One trembling hand reaches up toward the bandage. "Easy, Chief, I've got you." I inwardly curse whoever decided he was fit to be released from the hospital. I'm sure his own stubbornness had something to do with it, too--his need to join the search for his errant sentinel.

It's then the paramedics make their entrance, rushing through the open door of our apartment with Rafe close behind. Immediately and thankfully, they're drawn to Blair, not me. Once I know he has his balance back, I make room for them, but maintain contact with a hand on his shoulder. I'm afraid of letting go, as though he'll disappear if I'm not touching him.

Beside me, Rafe nods a greeting, which I return. The man is disheveled, his once pristine clothes stained with blood and grime, hair tousled. For the first time, I realize it's his coat Blair's wearing. I'll have to thank him later for taking care of my partner.

Apparently, Rafe is as willing as I am to let them look over Sandburg, since he doesn't say a word about their mistake. Blair, though, shrinks from their ministrations, insisting that I'm the one he called them for. The medic closest to me--Jenkins, by the name on his shirt--glances over questioningly.

"I just took a tumble down the stairs," I explain. "Sandburg overreacted."

"How'd you get the head wound?" the other--Mendoza--asks Blair.

Blair blinks and pulls back from the hand holding his chin when a penlight is shined in his eyes. "Ow, hey man," he protests. "It's just a scratch. I'm just a little dizzy that's all."

I huff, and Mendoza shakes his head. "There's a lot of padding under that newly dressed bandage. I doubt it's just a scratch. When were you released? What time?"

Blair shrugs.

"Let's see your discharge papers." Mendoza gestures for them.

"Do you know where--?" Sandburg asks Rafe.

"Right here." The detective produces the sheets from the pocket of the coat Blair is wearing. He hands them over to the paramedic, who studies them for a moment before setting them down.

"What's today's date?" Jenkins asks Blair.

My partner looks at me for help, then at Rafe. Neither of us says anything.

"Oh, come on, I am not going back to the hospital. I'm fine. So what if I can't remember the date. It's September-something. Look, Bill Clinton is President. Satisfied?"

"Not really," Jenkins smiles. "I didn't vote for him."

"Smartass," Mendoza mutters at his younger partner, while pressing a stethoscope against Blair's chest. "How long have you had this cold?" he asks.

"A few days," Blair replies, flinching away from the icy instrument.

Worry spikes in me at Mendoza's question. I instinctively gauge Blair's temperature, as I listen for any congestion. He doesn't have a fever and his lungs sound better than they have in the last couple of days. And he seems lucid enough. Despite the positive signs, I'm more than willing to let the men do their job.

Mendoza tells Blair to take off the trench coat so they can get a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Reluctantly, he complies with a little help from me. I leave the coat draped around his shoulders, allowing the medics enough room to work around it. After a minute or so, Mendoza announces, "BP is one-twenty over eighty."

Once the cuff is off, Blair rubs at his arm. "I'm really taking offense to you ignoring Jim," he says. "He's the one who passed out."

Jenkins looks at me. "You passed out?"

I raise my hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, wouldn't you if you saw him like that?"

The paramedics both laugh as they gather their equipment. But Jenkins isn't entirely convinced. "Maybe we should look you over."

A triumphant grin spreads across Blair's face. The expression is priceless. I'm almost willing to concede if it'll make him that happy. Almost. I shake my head. "I'm fine. Really. I just had a shock, nothing more."

They give in to my protests, but Mendoza pins Blair with a warning stare. "Your friend here is going to wake you up every two hours tonight, just like the ER doc wrote on the paper. Don't overdo it for the next few days and maybe we won't have to come back."

Blair gapes.

Mendoza and Jenkins stand and start for the door. Rafe follows them. I help Blair get to his feet, ignoring both my own minor aches from my fall and Sandburg's incensed mutterings. I don't let go of him. Even when he's standing steady on his feet, I hold his shoulders. I need this contact. It grounds me.

Before Rafe disappears, I call him back.

"You need help, Jim? The kid's a handful."

"No, I just wanted to say thanks."

"Anytime." His smile is warm and genuine. I owe him a lot for taking care of Sandburg. "Oh, I called Simon before I came up with the paramedics. He said he was coming right over."

Simon. Great. I'm sure the captain will have some choice words for me. That's probably not all. I violated some rules of conduct. This could turn out to be a potentially serious blow to my career. I push those thoughts away for now. They aren't what's most important to me.

Once Rafe's gone, the door shut behind him, I maneuver Blair over to the made-up couch and ease him onto the cushions, then sit down across from him on the coffee table. The sleeping bag lies between us on the floor. This will be our bed tonight, if either of us can sleep.

For a long moment, we just sit there, looking at each other. We're probably both trying to convince ourselves this isn't a dream. The sound of his heartbeat--of our heartbeats--and steady breathing fills me. I wish I could share this with him, this affirmation of life.

He breaks the verbal silence first, leaning toward me. "Don't, man, I'm okay. We're okay."

I'm not sure what he's talking about until his fingers brush wetness on my cheek. I reach for his hand, drawing it away from my face and holding it between both of mine.

We have to be okay. There's no other option. None that will leave me sane.

A sudden pounding on the door startles both of us, sending Blair's heart rate through the roof. I smell the odor of a recently extinguished cigar coming from the hall. Though I understand Simon's frustration, I'm angered at his thoughtlessness. I also chide myself for not hearing him approach. My focus was elsewhere.

"Easy, it's just Simon," I say to my wide-eyed partner as I squeeze his hand before releasing it. Standing, I shout, "It's open!"

Blair shifts on the couch to look toward the door. Rafe's coat slips from his shoulders onto the cushions, and he doesn't bother to pull it back up. My eyes are immediately drawn to the large bloodstains on his white T-shirt. The coat had hidden the worst of it. I swallow hard as I'm again reminded of how I nearly lost him.

Simon enters our apartment, closing the door behind him. His eyes meet Sandburg's first, and the tone of his voice is an apology in itself. "You okay, son?"

"Now that Jim's here, yeah."

"Good." His smile is fleeting, clearly meant for Blair alone.

When he looks up at me, it's impossible to tell his expression had been anything but hard. "I see you're fine, too, despite the 911 call."

"I just took a fall, passed out for a second. I'm okay." I don't bother to add anything about giving up or regaining my sentinel abilities. Right now, it's something personal I have to work out with Blair.

"We have to talk, Jim," the captain says.

"Yes, sir. I--"

Simon cuts me off by lifting a hand. Walking into the living area, he sits beside Blair and motions me to take a seat on the smaller couch near him.

"I know you were told that Blair had been killed," he begins. "I understand how much you wanted revenge. Hell, I can't say I wouldn't have wanted the same. I also know you couldn't go through with it. Unfortunately, I'm not one of the people you'll have to convince."

I feel the weight of his words; they speak to the seriousness of my situation. But I can't--I won't let whatever consequences I might face take away my relief at how this has turned out. Blair's alive. Whatever punishment I face will pale in comparison to how I thought I would live out the rest of my life.

Knowing Simon will have to ask for them, I pull out my badge and gun, laying them on the coffee table.

"Jim, what are you doing, man?" Blair asks, before I can say anything. He sounds more upset about this than I am.

"Procedure, Chief," I explain. "I killed a suspect and left the scene."

"And you abandoned two people in need of medical attention," Simon adds.

I grimace. "I heard the sirens, and I just lost it. I couldn't wait around to hear . . ." I take a deep breath. "I have no excuse, sir. I should never have walked away like that." I look over at Blair. The sympathy in his expression is unmistakable. If only I had waited. My gaze drifts back to Simon. I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tension building there. "How's Roland?"

"The boy was treated and released into our custody. He's being questioned at the station now. The hired gun you wounded is critical, but expected to live."

I'm sure the hit man can't wait to tell his story about how I handled the bust. Who knows what Obaya's already said about how things went down. I'm sure the term "police brutality" has already been used to describe my behavior. IA is going to have a field day with this one. I don't even want to think about what might happen if they determine what I did was premeditated.

Premeditated. That idea brings me back to the person really responsible for this whole turn of events. "What about Stevens?" I ask.

"Taggart and Brown picked him up, arrested him for conspiracy to commit murder. Obaya gave him up pretty quickly."

"Do we have details? Do you know who he was planning to take out?"

"Not yet," Simon replies. "We should know more by morning."

An awkward silence passes. I don't know what to say or how to explain myself. I'll have to take responsibility for my actions. I might have been out of my mind with grief, but that doesn't excuse what I did. Simon doesn't seem ready to spell out the possible consequences. I'm sure he's struggling with his role as captain and his role as my friend.

"So what now?" Sandburg finally asks. "You're not taking Jim in, are you?"

"No," the captain answers. He gives Blair's knee a quick pat. "I cancelled the APB and, as of now, no one's filed any charges."

"Good, that's good." Despite his words, I hear the apprehension in the kid's voice.

Picking up my gun and badge, Simon slips them into his coat. "For now, you are on leave with pay, Jim. I'm not saying that things couldn't change."

"I understand," I say.

"Look, why don't I leave the two of you alone to get some rest." The captain stands, and I do the same. "You'll have to come by the station in the morning to file your statements. We'll take it from there. I promise you, I'll do what I can."

"Thanks."

"I'm glad you're all right, Jim." Turning from me, he gently touches the top of Blair's head, careful to avoid the bandages. "You, too. I'm thankful for that hard head of yours."

A faint smile turns up the corners of Sandburg's mouth.

After walking Simon out, I return to my partner. Uncharacteristically silent, he doesn't even acknowledge my approach. He's drawn his legs up, propping his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He looks young--no older than Johnny.

Johnny.

"I didn't even ask about Macado and his mom."

I don't realize I've spoken out loud until Blair answers me. "Rafe told me they were taken in for questioning. I was out of it at the time, but Rafe said they know I'm okay." He lifts his head to meet my eyes. "I heard Johnny was really sorry about telling you . . . you know."

"Yeah." It seems like neither of us want to get into the details just yet. "You ready to get some shuteye, Chief?"

"If I can," he says. "I'm exhausted, but every time I close my eyes . . . well, let's just say it's not a pretty picture."

Same here. Far from pretty. I can't shake the mental image Johnny conjured for me of the rooftop and Blair.

Blair stands a little unsteadily. I'm right beside him in a second, but he waves me off. "I'm all right." Responding to what must be my unbelieving stare, he adds, "Really. I'm just going to wash up and get changed. I'll be right back."

I monitor his progress as I head to the kitchen to make him some tea. I try to calm my shaking hands, but my body's responding to the traumatic events of the last few hours. I'm wired. Edgy. Uncomfortable. Like a marionette whose strings are pulled too tight. Although I keep telling myself the worst is over, I can't seem to believe it.

Even when he walks out of the bathroom in clean sweats and he stands only a couple feet away, the anxiety is still there, riding the wave of disbelief.

"Your chamomile tea should be ready in a minute. I thought it might help you relax," I tell him. "Will you be okay while I take a shower?" I'm really asking him not to disappear on me. Not to make this all some hallucination.

Sandburg steps around the kitchen island, closing the distance between us. I take a deep breath, smelling Cascade General on him. And the blood beneath the bandages. "Will you be okay, Jim?" he asks.

I don't answer. Instead, I lean forward and pull him close with both arms. Letting his warmth become my own, I stop trembling on the inside. My panic slowly fades into the background, becoming part of the scenery instead of my entire world. This is what I needed. To hold the proof. "I lost your good luck charm." My words are muffled against his shoulder, but he still understands them.

"'s okay, man," he replies, patting my back. I feel the rumble of his words against my chest. "It still brought us luck."

I'm still holding Blair when the tea kettle starts to whistle. I flinch, my arms unconsciously tightening. "Easy," he says as he smoothes my back. I let out a ragged breath and release him. Turning toward the shrill sound, I flick off the burner while attempting to ignore my swimming vision. I blink rapidly, focusing on the green teapot waiting on the counter, a simple object bobbing in sea of turmoil. As the sound dies to a annoying whine, I feel Sandburg's hand against my ribs. "Are you all right?"

I laugh, but it sounds more like a grunt. Though I want to, I can't face him; I can't turn. The second I look at him is the same one in which I'll fall apart. God, I could have lost him tonight and, strangely enough, his concern for me is enough to poise me right at the edge.

With a shaking hand, I pour the water into the pot, set the kettle back down, and place both hands on the counter for balance. The steam rising from the teapot heats my face. The smell of the chamomile tea fills me until it's almost overwhelming.

Control. I need control. Whatever peace I attained by convincing myself Blair's alive flees as my senses go on overload. I don't have the strength or the presence of mind to manipulate my surroundings. As though he knows this, Blair lets go of me and reaches for the pot. He carefully moves it away from me. I close my eyes and hear him set it down behind me, but he doesn't pour it. Instead, I feel him near again, radiating warmth. He doesn't say anything. Instead, he leans against my side, one arm circling around my waist, the other smoothing my back. I feel his head resting against my shoulder. Breathing deeply like he taught me, I use his presence again as a beacon, a light that promises to lead me out of this sensory storm.

I dial back my senses, slowly reining in my anxiety. I take back control--no, he gives it. He's the source, the wellspring. I was right to think that at the fountain--it all comes from him.

I sigh. Now, all I feel is exhausted. Spent. I wonder how I'll even summon the energy to clean myself up before collapsing. Opening my eyes, I blink a couple of times and the room comes into focus again. I start to straighten, and Blair leans back and shifts his hands, but doesn't let go entirely. I doubt he could catch me if I started to buckle, but he's prepared to try. Patiently holding on, he waits for me to say something.

When I finally look at him, I manage a smile. "I'm all right, just went on overload for a minute there."

"I'd say." The mixture of warmth and relief on his face serves to ground me even more. Although he's a sight, with the bandage on his forehead and bruised cheek, his expression is very Sandburg. Genuine and full of life. I clasp the back of his neck and stroke his jaw line with my thumb for a quick second.

"I'll be out of the shower in a few, Chief," I say.

"You sure you're up to it? Maybe you should just lie down."

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

He lifts his eyebrows, but doesn't say anything.

I'm really more concerned about leaving him alone out here than taking a header myself in the bathroom. He's been through a lot tonight and I still don't even know the details. Truthfully, I don't know if I want to. The seizure he had last night also worries me. I resign myself to monitoring him with my hearing. Turning away, I walk toward the bathroom.

It's all I can do to remain standing while the water washes over me. I'm in the shower scant minutes before getting out and drying off. Keeping tabs of Blair is more dizzying than I thought it would be. He's remained pretty stationary and calm the whole time, but my languor has stolen my ability to focus.

Emerging from the bathroom in my robe, I glance over at him. He's sitting on the couch, propped on pillows against the armrest. He cradles a mug in both hands. A throw is spread across his legs. "Hey, Jim."

"Hey, Chief, I'll be down in a minute," I say as I climb the stairs to the loft.

I slip on some boxers. The temperature inside is comfortable enough that I don't need a shirt to sleep in. Padding down the stairs, I return to the living area. I hang Rafe's coat on a peg by the door. Then I kneel and smooth out the sleeping bag, fluffing the pillow. Ignoring Blair.

He doesn't let me get away with it. "Do you wanna talk?" he asks.

I stiffen. "About what?"

"What happened tonight. What happened to both of us."

Looking over at him, I meet his concerned gaze. "I don't know if I can," I admit. "Not now anyway." To me, the most important thing is the fact we're both alive and relatively sane. Not more than an hour ago, neither seemed possible.

"Okay, later then."

I nod, then take his empty mug and carry it to the sink. All the while hoping later is much later. "I'll get the lights," I say needlessly.

Lying in the near-darkness, I close my eyes and invite sleep to take me, but somehow my fatigue only serves to amplify my awareness. The muscles I pulled in my fall down the stairs ache with a vengeance, and the sleeping bag irritates the skin on my back. The sound of newly falling rain beats mercilessly against my eardrums. It's starting to happen again. Desperately, I reach out for Blair's heartbeat and respiration. I use his, and my own, as a focus, blocking out everything else until I don't know if I'm zoning or sleeping . . .

. . . until I see a body bag being zipped up and a flash of empty blue eyes. Why didn't they close his eyes?

Shit! Sitting up abruptly, I wake to pre-dawn light piercing through the balcony windows, driving like needles into my brain. I turn toward the couch. It's empty.

I'm on my feet in a flash, barely missing tripping on the end of the sleeping bag. "Sandburg!" I wince at the loudness of my own voice.

The bathroom door whips open. Toothbrush still in hand, he crosses the distance between us in a few quick strides just as I'm rushing toward him. We almost blunder into each other in our haste.

I clutch at his shoulders, convincing myself I'm not dreaming him. Blair lays a hand on my bare arm. "Hey, it's all right, Jim. We're okay."

I nod, talking a deep breath. I must be going crazy. Maybe I did lose my sanity at the fountain last night, tossing it away like the amulet Blair gave me.

Attempting to hide my growing fear, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I was supposed to wake you, every--every couple of hours."

"No sweat, it's all right," he replies. After a brief silence, he asks, "You wanna talk about it now?"

Immediately, I know he's referring to all of it. Last night, everything. Releasing him, I can't help but grin. "You don't give up, do you."

His own expression is serious. "No, man, I don't. You should know that by now."

"Yeah." I know that. Giving up isn't the Sandburg way. If it had been, we'd never have become partners, and he never would have lived through half of our cases. Lash, Golden, Alex . . . and this, so close, too close. And who could I blame but myself? "You're right, we should talk."

I gesture toward the couch behind me and we walk over to it. Before he sits beside me, he drops his toothbrush on the coffee table. It looks so out of place. Like everything else I guess, like us sleeping in the living room.

When we're settled, close but not touching, he starts to speak as though he knows he has to start the conversation. "Last night, at Magdalena's when they came . . ." His heart speeds up, and he takes a deep breath before starting over. "One of them chased me to the roof. He had no clue who I was, and I was glad, you know, that I could lead him away from Magdalena and Johnny. The other guy, he was right behind Roland." Blair hands fly. "We just all took off in different directions--divide and conquer." He shrugs. "Only it didn't quite work out that way. On the roof there's really nowhere to go and I had nothing to fight back with. I heard the gun cocking right behind me. For some reason, even though I knew I was gonna die, I couldn't take it in the back. I turned. That's when I felt the pain. It was blinding. I went down. When I woke up, Rafe was leaning over me. God, it hurt, and there was all this blood. But he kept telling me I was fine, that I'd be okay. It wasn't until later, at the hospital, that he told me Johnny called you and told you I was dead. And when they found your truck--I was still in the ER, and I made them release me. I had to find you. I knew you'd gone after them, but I wasn't sure what'd happened. In the vision, the jaguar--"

"Leapt out of me," I interrupt. A little worried at the breathlessness of his revelation, I take my turn and explain. "I gave up my senses, because I didn't think I could handle them without you, Chief. I made a rash, stupid decision going after those guys alone. I wanted them dead. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't let myself do it." I remember the jaguar, my spirit animal, staring me down and drawing my rage away. I take a deep breath before continuing. "Then I was driving toward Rainier--the fountain to do what I felt was right. I just couldn't imagine being a sentinel without . . . without you." Understanding and sympathy light Sandburg's eyes, but I know what I say next will put out the spark. "Blair, after everything that's happened--not just on this case, but others--I don't know if I can keep being a cop with you."

His voice gets a little deeper. "What are you saying, Jim?"

"I'm saying that maybe we have to rethink our partnership."

The look--oh, damn--that look he gives me. Incredulous. I've seen it before in the bullpen, hours before I found him floating in the fountain. "You don't think you can be a sentinel without me, but you want me out of your life?"

"No!" My vehemence catches him off guard. I continue more calmly, touching his shoulder to make a connection. "You have to understand, I don't want you getting hurt anymore. I don't want you in the middle of things." I move my hand to skim his bandage. "This was too close."

"What can I do to convince you that it's my choice? I know the risks, man. I know what I've gotten into."

I sigh and close my eyes. When I open them, I admit, "You know, I think I'm almost glad I might not have a career to go back to, Chief. After this, neither of us may have a choice."

Anger. I see it flash across his face. He's not ready to let me give up my career, and he won't stand for being pushed out of it. I should have known. Really, what could I expect?

A knock on the door abruptly ends our discussion. It's not Simon or anyone else I can recognize by scent. I motion for Blair to be quiet. Although as of last night all of our suspects were in custody, I can't be too careful.

Even before I can get up, a voice calls from the other side. "It's me, Johnny."

Sandburg repeats the kid's name in a whisper, looking over at me as if to gauge my reaction to the visitor waiting outside our door. In truth, I can't deny the pain Macado caused me, but I'll be damned if I'll take out my frustrations on him. He made a mistake--one with far-reaching ramifications--but it was a mistake. I have no right to blame my own irrational, reckless actions on a 16-year-old boy. Besides, I only have myself to fault; I'm the one who believed him.

"I'll get it," I say, standing.

Before I can head for the door, Blair grabs my wrist. "Jim, let me. You go up and get dressed." He nods toward the stairs. His tone says what his words don't: take the time to think before you speak, Ellison; he's just a kid.

"Okay." Blair's right. It's probably better to ease into this confrontation than to rush head-on. Besides, I'm sure Johnny will appreciate my partner's manner right now. A quick listen confirms how rapidly Macado's heart is beating. The last thing he needs is to see me right away. Sandburg releases me and I head upstairs.

Even without my sentinel abilities, I can hear the exchange below as I rummage for some clothes. This can't be easy for either of them, I'm sure. The terror of last night is no doubt permanently etched into their minds.

"Hey, Johnny, come in, man."

"Hey," comes the soft reply. "Uh, is Detective Ellison in?"

Detective? Damn, the kid's on his best behavior.

"He's getting dressed. You hungry?"

"Nah, not really."

"Well, I'm going to make breakfast if you wanna join us."

The reply takes longer than I expect, especially since Johnny's always been hungry before. "Yeah, maybe."

While I dress, I hear Blair puttering around, pulling out pans and opening the refrigerator. "How'd you get here?"

"The bus."

"What about your mom? How's she?"

"She's all right. Our neighbor's with her. She was asleep when I left."

Short, to-the-point answers. This is understandably awkward for him. The fact he came by to see us at all proves his courage. But being willing to face this doesn't give him the skills to know how to approach it. Hell, I don't even know how to approach it. What do I say to a kid who inadvertently sent my world spinning? 'It's okay, don't do it again'? Of course, there won't be a next time. If IA has anything to say about it, I'll be out of a job.

But it's not Johnny's fault.

I hold that thought as I descend the stairs. As I walk toward the table, Johnny's eyes meet mine and his heart rate spikes. His usually stoic mask is down, and I see right through to his fear.

Blair tries to lighten the mood with a casual acknowledgement of my presence. He waves at me with a spatula. "Hey, Jim. Sit down, breakfast'll be ready in a couple of minutes."

Pulling out a chair, I sit across from Macado. The kid tenses up and leans back as though trying to put some distance between us.

"So, how's your mom?" I ask, trying to make conversation even though I'd heard his earlier answer.

"Okay."

So much for that tactic. My gaze drifts back into the kitchen where Blair makes a rolling motion with another utensil. Keep going, right, but what do I say? Nothing immediately comes to mind.

Tense seconds tick by. Blair walks over to the table, placing glasses of orange juice in front of both of us. Blair puts a hand on the kid's shoulder and squeezes. "You did good last night, man. Everything worked out okay."

Those few words crack the dam. Macado looks up at my partner, open-mouthed. When he speaks, his voice is a mere whisper. "I'm sorry. I--I really thought you were . . . I didn't mean . . ." He looks over at me and swallows hard. "I'm sorry. I should've been sure--I didn't check 'cause . . . I was afraid, man." Suddenly, there are tears standing in the teen's eyes. He blinks them back and struggles to regain control, but his expression crumbles. "I should've touched him to see if he was alive, but all the blood . . . I cut my hands on some glass." He lifts one to show me the healing scratches. "I was afraid to touch you," he tells Blair. "Afraid I would catch it." He bites his lower lip, silencing himself and dropping his gaze to the table.

God, it all suddenly comes clear. Macado was afraid of blood-to-blood transmission. All the concerned looks he'd given Blair, the understanding reflected in his face whenever I mentioned my partner's health, the almost immediate kinship he felt for Sandburg--everything he had seen told him that Blair was suffering from the same virus ravaging his mother. His whole world had become her disease, and he projected it onto the situation he saw when he first came into the loft, when he saw my partner looking drastically different than he did months ago.

Johnny thinks Blair has AIDS.

Although the revelation is startling in its inaccuracy, it doesn't change the fact the boy's not to blame for what happened. "Listen to me, Johnny," I tell him, reaching over the table to gently touch his arm and catch his attention. "I understand how you made this mistake, but Blair's not sick. He doesn't have AIDS." The same shocked expression crosses both their faces as I continue to explain. "He was badly hurt during a case months ago. It left him with some medical problems, but he's going to be okay." I meet Blair's eyes. "He's going to be fine." Looking back at Johnny, I stress my next words. "What happened on that roof wasn't your fault. You called for help, and--"

His eyes are wide. "Jesus, I made you think--"

"It's not your fault," I repeat more strongly. "We caught the people responsible for all this, and we're all alive. That's what matters now."

"Jim's right, Johnny," Blair says.

A silence settles as the kid takes it all in. Blair hasn't removed his hand from Macado's shoulder, but he's looking at me with approval. It's a start.

The three of us eat breakfast together, and I couldn't be happier to see the teen heartily devour his meal. His mood grows lighter as our banter drives away the darkness of the night before. I only wish I could take away his mother's illness with the ease that I changed his perception of Blair's. It's not fair he'll have to suffer through her loss, but if I have anything to say about it--if my partner has anything to say--Macado won't have to go through it alone.

After we eat, I clean up while Blair changes his clothes. Johnny brings the dishes over to the sink where I rinse them.

"We can drop you off on our way to the station," I suggest.

"Thanks." He pauses for a second. "I'm glad about Blair. I'm just sorry--"

"No more apologies," I say. "We're good, okay?"

He nods and manages a smile. The expression seems a little uncomfortable for him, like it's something he's not used to doing. We have to do something about that. "You free this weekend?" I ask. "The Jags are playing the Spurs. I'm sure we can still get tickets."

"Yeah, I'm free."

A half-hour later, Blair and I step off the elevator and head toward Major Crime. We're greeted by several well-wishers, Rafe among them. I shake his hand. "We dropped your coat at the dry cleaners on Main." I tell him, digging for a claim ticket stamped "paid."

I hand it to him and he asks, "How much do I owe you, Jim?"

I nod toward Blair who's talking to Brown. "I think I still owe you. Thanks for being there for Sandburg."

"No sweat."

Just then, Simon opens his door. "Ellison, Sandburg, in my office." Though his tone brooks no argument, he doesn't seem angry, just tired. I can relate to that.

Ushering Blair in ahead of me, I close the door once we're inside. "Have a seat," Simon suggests and joins us at the conference table. The captain threads his fingers together atop a file. "Your truck is in Impound, Jim. I'm guessing you'll be able to pick it up later today."

I nod, remembering how foolish I felt when I realized Blair would have to drive us to the station in his Volvo. "I called a tow for the car I took at the scene. It should be here by now."

Simon pushes the folder toward us. "I've got good news and bad news. The good news is that the DA has a strong case against Stevens," he says as I flip through the contents. "A thorough search of his house and office turned up some information about a coworker who's been blackmailing him. It seems that Stevens has been laundering money for the mob, and the man . . ."

"Carter Wilson," I read.

"Yeah, Wilson," Simon echoes, "threatened to blow the whistle on him if he didn't turn over a large monthly payoff."

"And Stevens got tired of paying," Blair interjects.

Simon nods. "Obaya reiterated some of this during his interrogation last night. He said Stevens wanted to use the kids to throw the scent off this being what it actually was, a planned mob hit. We brought in Wilson earlier this morning for questioning. It looks like all the players will be prosecuted and hopefully convicted."

"And the bad news?" I ask.

"IA is making your case a priority, Jim. In their words, they want to make sure the department knows they won't look the other way when a cop turns vigilante."

Sandburg jumps in. "Simon, you can't let them--"

I grab Blair's shoulder. "Easy, Chief. We expected this, remember?"

He turns from Simon to look at me. I can see the weariness in his gaze, but there's a quiet determination there as well. He won't let me let go of my career without a fight. "You can't lose your job over this."

The captain intervenes. "I'm going to do everything I can to see it doesn't happen."

"Thank you, Simon," I say.

"Look, you have a meeting scheduled with IA at 2 p.m. Why don't you get the kid some fresh air and come back later."

He follows us to the door. Sandburg turns to face him as we step into the bullpen and speaks in a low voice so only the two of us can hear him. "Thanks for everything, Simon. You kept me sane last night when Jim was missing."

"And you gave me a heart attack," he returns with mock gruffness as he pats the kid's shoulder. He looks over Blair's head at me. "You both did. Just stay out of trouble for the next few hours, will you?"

"Got it, sir." I smile, tugging Blair along with me.

Having parked in a nearby lot, I walk toward Hargrove Hall with a sense of déjà vu. Although there's no urgency in my step, I can't help but compare this bright day to one several months ago. This rare sunshine is more reminiscent of spring than fall. In the season of rebirth, I found my partner floating, facedown in the fountain. But I revived him. And the seasons changed.

The one I find myself in now is a season of uncertainty. I'm still on leave, the investigation into my conduct on the Stevens case is ongoing, and I could very well lose my position in the police department. In fact, I'm here to pick up Sandburg for another round of questioning at the station. It'll be his second chat with IA.

The sound of the spraying water sends an involuntary shudder through me before I even see the fountain. Walking up the path beside it, I'm amazed at how small it actually is. That day it seemed much larger and deeper--the way it cradled Blair's body and held it afloat. I remember feeling the water tug at me when I climbed in to pull him out. And that night only a couple of weeks ago, when I thought he'd died on the rooftop, the fountain took what I gave it--Blair's amulet disappeared into the murky water along with my sentinel gifts. It swallowed them both whole. But now it seems powerless, demystified in some way.

The spell was broken. My gifts came back to me when I saw Blair alive. Using them now, I see a glint in the water. I cross the grass until I'm standing right beside the pool. The image beneath the ripples is clear to me. Kneeling, I ignore the looks of a couple of passersby and reach into the water, withdrawing the charm.

A wet and smelly leather tie trails the metal. Without getting up, I work on the knot, tugging at it, trying to undo it with my short fingernails. After a few minutes, I manage to free the charm. I leave the tie laying on the grass while I study the shape and feel of the metal in my palm. It's heavier than I thought it would be. What did Blair say it was? A symbol of life?

I don't have to turn to know Blair's approaching. It's an unconscious thing. Amid the clamor of morning classes letting out, I can distinguish him from the other students. I stand, brushing my pant legs with my free hand as he comes to a halt at my elbow.

He looks at the object in my hand and names it. "The ankh--where'd you--?"

I nod at the fountain.

"You didn't," he says with a grin.

"I did, Chief." I smile back, closing my fingers around the charm. "So how was your meeting with your advisor?"

He shrugs. "Okay, I guess. Nothing special." I see the worry in his eyes as he looks up at me. I can almost hear his internal voice saying that his meeting with IA will be much more stressful.

"Don't worry about today, Chief. It's routine. You'll be fine."

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine, too," I say truthfully. I take one of his hands to give him the amulet.

He shakes his head, pushing my fist away. "Keep it, Jim. I want you to have it. To the ancient Egyptians, the ankh represented the cycle of life, death, and rebirth." He pauses for a moment, then adds. "I want you to remember that some things don't have an end."

I tap the side of his face with my free hand and he smiles. "I believe it, Chief." I sling an arm around his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

Together, we turn our backs on the fountain. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a streak of black. The sight is soon followed by a contented feline growl and the scent of the jungle. And I know my spirit animal and my spiritual guide walk with me toward whatever lies ahead. For now, that's all I need.

FIN