Part Five

Jim hated waking up in the hospital. He had to fight not only the debilitating aftereffects of his injury, but he had to battle the painkillers and tranquilizers forced upon him by well-meaning doctors. This time was no exception. Returning to consciousness after a blow to the head was like swimming upward through a suffocating pool of thick treacle, his terrifying urgency of need succumbing to his body's inability to respond.

From deep within his unconscious state, he heard faint voices and tried to pick out the words. Impossible. One of the voices -- an important one, he knew -- was filled with such sick despair that he felt a compassionate need to reach out, but he could not make the thought translate itself into action. The darkness inside him only deepened, and when he found the meager strength to struggle upward again, the voices were gone, and he heard only quiet breathing.

This time he made it past the protective veil of whatever drugs the doctors had given him and opened his eyes. Even before coming fully awake, he'd processed that he was in the hospital, his head ached, and Simon was sitting beside the bed. As his eyelids struggled to open, he finally recalled getting shot by that grizzled mass of human perversion; he remembered falling helplessly, his body momentarily disconnected as his traumatized brain tried to cope with the event. He remembered Blair trying to catch him, stumbling under his weight and going down with him.

Had there been a second shot? Had Sandburg fallen with him because of a bullet?

Panic drove away the last of the medication, and he shot awake with a gasp of denial.

"Whoa, Jim!" Simon said urgently, jumping to his feet and restraining Jim with gentle hands. "It's OK. You were shot. You're in the hospital," he explained quickly, misunderstanding Jim's sudden fear. "You're gonna be OK."

"Sandburg?" Jim managed to gasp through thirst-parched lips. The answer to this urgent question was the most important part of his world right then.

But Simon's face only tensed, and his gaze slipped quickly away from the desperate, beseeching blue eyes that sought reassurance.

Oh, God, Blair was dead!

A wave of despair rolled through Jim's body, leaving behind nauseous enervation and a grief so profound it felt as if his heart had been hollowed out; surely, its runaway thumping would stop altogether with his next breath. Tears stung his eyes. "Simon -- " his whispered, trying to reach for assurance, but his arms were too leaden to respond.

Instead, Simon reached for him and clutched Jim's nearest hand in both of his. "He's OK, Jim," he assured hastily. "God, I'm sorry you misunderstood. I should have told you right off. He didn't get hurt. Blair's OK."

Jim felt his fragile world realign itself, and he closed his eyes in relief, fighting back the tears before opening them again. "Then what's wrong?"

Simon shifted uncomfortably, but this time he managed an answer. "The kid shot Gipley."

"Gipley?"

"The guy who shot you."

Jim sighed. Gipley. "He was our killer."

"I know. Sandburg told us. The guy had another kid tied up in his cellar. You must have heard something; that's why you got shot. Don't you remember that?"

Jim frowned in frustration. He didn't remember much of it at all except for the memory of falling against Blair and going down.

"Anyway, after Blair shot Gipley, he used your cell phone to reach Sean down at the crime scene. Everyone down there was going nuts because they could hear the shooting but couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Sean and Dan gave you emergency treatment, and then you were airlifted out by helicopter."

"And Gipley?" Jim asked, absorbing the information, but still remembering few of the actual events.

"Dead at the scene, one bullet straight through the heart."

God. Jim grimaced in frustration. "How's Blair?"

Simon shook his head. "I don't know. Not good, I suspect. He's been making all the right moves -- staying calm and controlled...too damned much of both, actually, for me to believe he's anything but absolutely torn apart inside."

"Where is he?"

"Out getting coffee or something. He'll be back in a bit." Simon looked a little lost for words. "He can't seem to sit still for very long. Guess it's nerves."

"Yeah." Jim could see something was still troubling his captain. "What else?"

Simon grimaced. "Some of the other guys -- not my guys," he hastened to correct, "but some of the uniforms -- are treating him like a hero, like he's completed some kind of initiation and is now one of 'us'. I know it's because this case was so ugly, and everyone is glad the bastard responsible is dead, but it doesn't change the fact that the kid is getting a lot of unwanted attention. Brown and Rafe are sort of running interference for him, but everyone wants to congratulate him." He sighed. "Hell, in my own way, I guess I sort of congratulated him myself. I told him I knew it was hard, but he'd made the right decision, and I was proud of him for making it."

"How's he reacting to everything?" Jim asked quietly, pretty certain he already knew the answer.

"Oh, he just smiles and refuses to talk about it," Simon replied. "But you can see it in his eyes. The kid's in full panic mode, and the only thing keeping him here is you stuck in this hospital bed."

Jim has suspected as much. "It had to happen sooner or later, I guess," he said. "Something like this was inevitable."

"Yeah, but just keep remembering Sandburg's an adult who made the decision to be with you. It wasn't your fault."

Jim didn't really listen. After all, wasn't Blair supposed to be a consultant, and wasn't it a police officer's job to protect all civilians, especially friends and partners who had a knack for getting into trouble without any additional help from a negligent cop? Why hadn't he been able to do something to prevent the situation from escalating so badly out of control?

"Well, I can see that little pep talk did a lot of good," Simon observed wryly.

"Sorry," Jim murmured. "Is IA investigating the shooting?" It was standard procedure for anyone connected with the department, but he worried because one of the IA officers seemed to have it in for his partner.

"Pretty much over and done with," Simon assured him. "They handled him with kid gloves. They think he's some kind of hero, too."

Jim frowned with the effort to concentrate. "How long was I out?"

"A little over twenty-four hours. It's six p.m. now; you were shot yesterday around four."

Jim used the hand not impaled by an IV to rub his face. The stubble of his beard convinced him more than Simon's answer that he'd been unconscious for over a day.

"How's the head?"

"Hurts." Jim closed his eyes again. "Simon, will you find him for me, please? I need to talk to him."

"OK, maybe you'll be able to get more out of him," Simon agreed, then noted with a smile that Jim had drifted off again. "Take care, buddy," he murmured to the sleeping figure. "You came too damn close this time."


Part Six

Guiltily aware he'd been sleeping when there was something important he needed to do, Jim jerked awake in the semi-dark hospital room. A sharp twinge in his head reminded him not to act in haste, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

Beside the bed, his feet propped on the bed's side rails, Blair sat slouched in the uncomfortable visitor's chair, his head drooped forward toward his chest as he dozed. An open book on his stomach was evidence of an attempt to occupy himself.

"Sandburg, wake up," Jim said quietly.

Blair stirred, moaning with the effort, and straightened. "Hey, Jim," he said sleepily.

"Hey yourself," Jim returned. "Don't sit like that; you'll pinch a nerve or something."

Blair shifted around to work out the kinks, catching the book before it fell. "Us young, vigorous types can handle it," he scoffed idly, but his heart wasn't really in it.

"Then can you move that vigorous body enough to pour me a glass of water, please?" Jim asked. "I'm parched."

"Sure." Blair stood up with as much aplomb as he could muster, but a stitch in his knee made him wince. With a soft chuckle, he admitted, "OK, so the chair makes me feel a hundred and four." He poured water into a glass from a bedside pitcher and held it to Jim's lips until he was certain his partner could manage on his own. "How's the head?"

"Marginally worse than the concussion I had last month," Jim admitted a little weakly. "Sorry, Chief, but it seems like every time you've needed me around lately, I've been flat on my back in the hospital."

"I've noticed," Blair returned with a slight smile. "It's a disturbing trend. Try not to make a habit of it, OK?"

"OK," Jim agreed. "When can I get out of here?"

"The doctor's going to be in to talk to you, but he said if you have a good night, you can go home tomorrow."

"That's good." Jim deliberately let a note of uncertainty creep into his voice.

Blair picked up on it immediately. "What's wrong?"

"I just feel so damned weak," Jim admitted, not lying completely but knowing his normal tendency toward understatement would have the alarm bells going off in his partner's brain. "I don't know how I'll be able to manage for a few days."

"Oh." Blair looked troubled for a moment. "Then, uh, maybe you should stay in the hospital for awhile longer."

"No way. When the doc clears me, I'm outta here -- on my hands and knees if that's what it takes." Innocently, Jim added, "Why? Is there a problem?"

"No -- uh, no," Blair was quick to answer. "I just -- I was going to -- I mean, while you were laid up, I was planning to -- "

"Go away for awhile?" Jim finished quietly.

Blair's shoulders slumped. "Simon told you?"

Jim started to nod, thought better of it. "Yeah."

Quietly, Blair said, "I just need to get away for awhile, sort through some things."

"If you go away by yourself, you'll just dwell too much on what happened and work yourself into a depression," Jim pointed out, taking another sip of water and wishing the pain in his head would let him focus his thoughts more clearly. "You need to think, but you need to do it around friends who can help when you need it. Talk to Simon, or the department shrink if you don't want to talk to me about it."

Blair was quick with a denial. "I don't want to shut you out, Jim. No way. It's just, there's so much I don't understand...so much I don't think you'd understand."

"That's what talking's all about," Jim answered simply. After a moment, he added, "Just don't run away from it, Chief, OK? I need you here. I need your help." He knew Blair had grown up in a world of broken promises, where he'd learned that lies, both petty and major, could be a survival tool to help him through a difficult childhood. He'd bluffed and bullshitted his way through more than one sticky situation. But in the years he'd spent with Jim Ellison, he'd come to understand the intense burden of responsibility Jim placed on a man's word. Part of the foundation of their relationship was founded on it. Once all the slippery semantics were stripped away and a promise was made, it was kept. If broken, a portion of the foundation of their friendship would be shattered irretrievably.

Therefore, it took a long time for Blair to answer as he wrestled with his need to get away versus Jim's need for him to stay. Finally, he nodded. "OK."

Jim's relief was nearly palpable. "Good. Now go home and get some sleep so you can pick me up in the morning."

"OK." With his word given and unable to be taken back, Blair felt drained and helpless.

"How are you getting home?"

"I don't know. The bus, I guess."

"Where's the truck?"

"Back at the station."

"OK, then where's my wallet?"

Blair dug into his backpack. "I've got the rest of your stuff too." His whole body froze for a moment as an unwanted image invaded his memory. "Except for...I mean, they kept your -- "

"I know," Jim interrupted smoothly, knowing Blair was referring to the 9mm. He took his wallet and pulled out his cash. "Here. Take a cab to the precinct and pick up the truck. You OK to drive?"

Blair nodded, grateful to have all the little decisions handled by someone else. "Yeah. I'm OK."

He didn't look OK, Jim thought worriedly as he watched Blair gather up his things, put his book into the backpack and fuss over the pillows a bit before he was ready to leave. "Blair -- "

Just don't lay on the platitudes, Jim, OK? I've heard 'em all, and I don't need to hear them from you. I did the right thing, I'm a fucking hero, it took a lot of guts to blow that scumbag to hell -- yeah, I've heard 'em all. My favorite is that I didn't have a choice. Well, they're right about that one...I didn't have a choice, and not for any of the reasons they're probably thinking. You should be glad I didn't have a fucking choice. Oh, and let's not forget the one about everything will be all right. Well, it's not all right, man, and it won't be all right tomorrow, and it probably won't be all right for a long time. So if you're gonna say any of those things, Jim, I'm outta here, maybe a long way outta here. I really want to keep my promise, but some things are just too hard, you know? It's bad enough having to take it from the other guys, but I can't take it from you, too....

" -- I'm sorry," was all Jim said. There'd been more he'd wanted to say, but the momentary look of absolute panic that had stolen over Blair's face had stopped him in confusion. He sensed the wrong words right now could be disastrous.

Blair blinked. "What?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't be the one to stop him."

"Oh." Some of the rigid tension left Blair's expression. "Yeah, me too." He clasped Jim's arm briefly. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah, take care," Jim answered.


Part Seven

Skipping the unnecessary expense of a taxi, he caught the bus outside the hospital and rode it to the stop a block from the precinct building. Climbing off, he started up the street, his knee aching and causing him to limp a bit. His body and spirit were weary, yearning only for rest.

Instead, he saw a veritable media circus gathered outside the main entrance to the station. Without a pause, he ducked down the alley and entered through the garage. No one had noticed him.

Jim's department 4x4 was parked close by, and he slung his backpack inside with a tired grunt. For a moment, he debated about going up to see Simon, but he figured the captain would have his hands full fielding questions from carnivorous reporters. This case had all the earmarks of a tabloid thriller -- kidnapped runaways, sex, murder, and snuff videos. It would make headlines for a week or more. And no matter how he felt about it, Blair was right in the middle of it as the unassuming little grad student who had blown the big bad man to hell.

Shaking slightly, he climbed behind the wheel. Feeling tired and out of sorts, he sat there for a long minute, but the lack of action wasn't getting him any closer to home and bed. It was the thought of bed that finally spurred him to start the engine and drive up the ramp out of the garage.

There was another cluster of media entrenched outside the loft. With a surge of panic, he realized they'd spotted him and were converging on the truck, microphones held before them like thrusting swords. Angrily, he swung the wheel and cut through the parking area that ran down the center of the street. He cut up the wrong side of the pavement for a short distance without encountering any oncoming cars, then turned down a side street.

It was late, it was dark, and he was tired. Traffic was still heavy, and he joined it, aimlessly following the path of least resistance through the city as he tried to think of what to do. His thoughts felt disconnected, and he had to concentrate very hard both on his driving and his predicament. He chalked it up to exhaustion after the stress of the past two days.

Sometime later, the engine sputtered and died abruptly. Startled, he used the forward momentum to steer the truck to the side of the road, where he parked and tried the key. Twice, the stubborn engine simply ground dangerously, never catching. When he finally noticed the fuel gauge needle resting well beneath the "E", he turned off the key and pounded the wheel in frustration.

A minute later, he grabbed his cell phone and jabbed Simon's number on the speed dial.

The Captain sounded equally impatient and harried. "Banks!" he growled into the receiver.

Blair's temper skyrocketed without warning. "Damnit, Simon!" he raged, appalled at the shaky timbre of his tone. "There's a bunch of reporters outside the loft. I can't get in!"

The captain sounded surprised. "Sandburg?"

"Man, all I want to do is go home and get some sleep. I can't even do that! Now, I'm stuck on the side of the road, and the truck's outta gas."

Blair sounded petulant and aggressive, both uncharacteristic of his nature, and Simon's own temper died immediately as he heard the note of desperation beneath the young man's outburst. "Blair, calm down," he said quietly. "Take a couple of those deep breaths you're always going on to Jim about, and start from the beginning."

Following Simon's advice, Blair sought to steady his breathing. God, he was unraveling! What the hell was happening to him? If he had to find a place to have a nervous breakdown, late at night on the side of the road would not have been his first choice! "I'm sorry," he murmured into the phone at last, his voice still a bit shaky. "I'm OK." As calmly as he could, he recounted what he'd done from the time he'd left the hospital.

"Yeah," Simon agreed sourly, "it's a media feeding frenzy. Somehow, Jim's name got leaked, and I had to put a couple of uniforms on his hospital room, just in case some determined reporter got past hospital security. I never figured they'd find his address and stake out the loft."

Blair heard the unspoken apology. "It's OK, I just need to go home."

"OK, where are you?"

He looked around for an address and gave his location.

"Stay in the truck with the doors locked," Simon told him. "I'm gonna send the closest unit to stay with you until Taggart gets there."

"Simon, I don't need a babysitter," Blair objected, but as he felt the odd surge of angry emotion rising in him again, he began to wonder. Something wasn't right, and it frightened him. He shoved the feelings down.

"I know you don't," Simon soothed, although the calm in his tone sent a clear message of concern -- normally, he would have been impatient and brusque. "Just humor me, OK? It's been a rough few weeks, and I won't leave one of my people stranded on the side of the road, especially after the last couple of days you've had."

Blair sighed, abruptly calmed and warmed by the thoughtfulness. "Thanks, Simon," he said, and this time his voice was sincere, free of its previously hysterical tremor. "I need to pack some stuff for Jim, too. He's getting out of the hospital tomorrow."

"I know. I want you to pack two bags, one for each of you. Enough for a week or so. Jim has to recuperate away from this media blitz, and I'm guessing you could use a little peace and quiet yourself."

Anxiety tried to make a reappearance, and Blair fought it back. Once again, the enormity of what had happened returned to haunt him: he hadn't simply confronted and killed someone, an overwhelming event in itself, but he had confronted and shot a serial killer whose brutal, sadistic crimes had gone undetected for years. Blair Sandburg and First-Name-Unknown Gipley were famous in a way neither would have desired. Briefly, he wondered if his sudden notoriety would result in losing his teaching job -- again.

The turmoil that had defined his life for the past month was about to intensify even further.

"You still with me, Sandburg?" Simon asked a little anxiously, interrupting the young man's musings.

"Yeah, Simon, I'm still here," he answered softly, a sense of doomed inevitability settling over him. He felt trapped, unable to find an escape. "The squad car just pulled up. Thanks." He was hardly aware of ending the call or grabbing his backpack before getting out of the truck.

The two officers were vaguely familiar, and they greeted him with friendly casualness.

"Sorry to cause all this trouble," Blair apologized.

"No problem, Sandburg," the older one told him, moving him expertly to the sidewalk. "We all have a bad day now and again, and I gather all of Major Crime had a huge one yesterday."

"Yeah, but I'm the only one who was stupid enough to run out of gas," Blair murmured with embarrassment.

That was only reference anyone made to the case, for which he was grateful. They chatted about administrative problems within the uniform division until Joel pulled in behind the squad car.

He joined the group and relieved the uniforms, who returned to their normal patrol with a wave as Blair thanked them politely for their time. "Lock up the truck and keep the keys," Joel told him when the squad car had pulled away. "The garage has a spare set. They'll put some gas in the tank and park the truck in front of the loft, ready for tomorrow morning."

Again, Blair apologized for all the trouble he was creating for so many people -- Simon, Joel, the two cops who had babysat him, the garage personnel who would have to deal with the truck. He was getting all wound up again when Joel's hand on his arm stopped the rising tirade.

"Blair, it's all right," he assured his young friend. "Shit happens."

"Yeah, OK," Blair agreed, making an effort to calm himself down. His emotions seemed to be on a roller coaster, and he couldn't quite get a grip on the emergency brake to stop the crazy ride. He climbed into Joel's sedan and leaned back. "Can we get into the loft?"

"Simon sent some units to move the media back," the detective assured him. "He'll post officers on all the doors for tonight in case anyone tries to get persistent. Unplug your phone, too -- if Simon needs to reach you, he'll use your cell number."

"OK."

He felt like a fugitive. At the loft, police had cleared the front of the building, but that didn't stop the telephoto lenses from following his dash inside or prevent the shouted questions from the news-hungry reporters.

He was certain he didn't take a breath until he'd bolted the loft door behind him.

The phone was ringing, and he automatically reached for it, only to have Joel unplug the line from the wall.

"Cell calls only," Taggart explained patiently.

"Right. Sorry."

The answering machine was blinking furiously, its message tape full. He couldn't deal with that right now. "You want some coffee?"

"Nah, it's almost bedtime," Joel replied. "Maybe some tea before I head home."

Blair put on the kettle. "Simon wants me to pack suitcases for Jim and me. He wants us to go away for awhile."

"I know. He's gonna meet you tomorrow at the hospital with the keys to a beach house that belongs to Rafe's mom. She's in Europe for a month, so you'll have the place to yourselves. A little peace and quiet will do you both a world of good."

"Yeah," Blair agreed with a sigh.

He brewed the tea, and they drank it standing up in the kitchen. Conversation was light and inconsequential, carefully skirting any mention of the shooting.

When they were finished, Joel asked, "Anything else I can do?"

Blair hesitated a long moment before answering. "No, it'll wait."

"What will wait?"

The younger man gestured toward the answering machine. "I'd like to go take a shower. Would you mind scanning the messages? Some of them may be important."

"Sure, no problem."

Feeling as if he was trying to find his way through a mental fog, Blair took a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the decadent pleasure of using all the hot water. When he emerged, steam swirling behind him, he felt much better. He put on clean sweatpants, socks, and a tee shirt before joining Joel by the answering machine.

"How's the knee?"

"Feels pretty good," Blair admitted, flexing it cautiously. The hot water had loosened it up considerably. "Any interesting messages?"

"I wrote them all down in order," Joel told him, showing him the sheet of paper. "Mostly reporters, but a couple from the University. I gather they aren't thrilled with your newfound fame. Everybody else wants an interview."

Blair shook his head. "Not interested."

"Some of them will pay to hear your story."

Without hesitation, Blair said irritably, "I won't accept money for killing a man."

Joel winced; the kid's temper had seemed to be lurking just beneath the surface these past few weeks. "Instead of thinking that you killed a man, why not focus on the fact that you saved your partner's life."

Blair looked suddenly contrite for his outburst. "I'm sorry, Joel," he said quietly, then added, "I couldn't accept money for that, either."

"OK. You want me to stick around tonight?"

"No, I'll be fine." He didn't sound fine, but he'd caused enough problems today without the added embarrassment of needing someone to hold his hand through the night. "I'll just pack the bags and go to bed."

Reluctantly, Joel said goodnight. Blair locked the door and drank in the sudden stillness that descended on the loft. Even the small crowd of reporters out in the street seemed to have given up and gone home. Going upstairs, he took great care packing Jim's clothes for the upcoming week. He knew he'd packed too much of everything, but he wanted to be prepared. Besides, the concentration kept his thoughts away from contemplating the possible meaning behind his strange, yo-yoing emotions.

Satisfied with his efforts at last, he hauled the bag downstairs and added Jim's bathroom kit, which was always kept packed and ready for a sudden departure. Still, he checked the contents to make sure everything was inside.

Then he packed his own stuff, being less fussy but still gathering enough to meet the challenge of any change in the weather. When he was finished, it was after one in the morning.

Feeling too hyper to sleep, he tried reading, but found his attention wandering aimlessly to mundane, irrelevant matters. TV brought the same result, although he finally dozed off to the tinny sounds of a badly dubbed, black-and-white Japanese monster movie.

The face of Gipley rose in his mind's eye as he dreamed. The demons of his nightmares had gained another ally.


Part Eight

Blair left for the hospital very early the following morning. Only a few die-hard reporters continued to lurk outside the loft, and with a uniformed officer at his side, he was able to run the gauntlet without being stopped. Resolutely, he refused to answer all questions or to look toward the cameras trying to capture him for the morning news.

He checked for a tail en route to the hospital, but no one seemed to be interested in following him. According to the cop who'd delivered him to the truck, the story had moved on to focus on attempts to identify the remains found near the old house, and personal stories of frantic parents in search of runaway children dominated TV screens across the country. Facts and speculation surrounding the life of Aker Gipley (Blair was surprised to finally hear the first name of the man he had killed) spilled from the lips of somber news anchors who pretended they were delivering relevant information and not just feeding the public's insatiable appetite for tragedy.

Another cop directed him around to the rear of the hospital, where Blair was startled to find himself escorted through the door into the hospital's morgue and thence to a freight elevator to carry him to Jim's floor. Apparently, reporters at the main entrance were still intent on interviewing him.

The hospital corridors were quiet, and he made it safely to Jim's room without encountering anyone.

His partner was already up, showered, and sitting impatiently in the chair waiting for his clothes to arrive. "Damn, this place is driving me crazy," he observed, changing out of his hospital gown with quick, sure motions. A small but thick pad of bandage above his left temple was the only indication of his injury.

"You have been spending a bit too much time here lately," Blair agreed, helping him sort out socks and shoes.

"It's not just that -- have you been watching the news?"

Blair gave a tiny shake of his head.

"God, it's grim. Everybody's just eating it up." He buttoned his shirt with angry movements. "I'd like to take them all out to that gully and let them see for themselves -- maybe then they wouldn't be so damned prurient." He got a good look at his roommate, and his anger dropped away. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

Blair smiled slightly. "Do I look that bad?"

"You could raise kangaroos in the pouches you have under your eyes," Jim confirmed.

"I'll sleep at the beach house," Blair promised mildly, refusing to let any hint of emotion creep into his voice. He'd deliberately set the alarm an hour early, taken another luxurious shower, put on his favorite tribal music, and sat down for a long period of meditation. It had worked to create an outward calm, but nothing had lessened the knot of tension in the center of his solar plexus; he felt it every time he tried to take a deep breath. "Aren't we supposed to meet Simon?"

"He came by earlier," Jim confirmed. "I have directions and keys to the place. You OK with this?"

"Yeah, the last thing I want to do is talk to a reporter."

"Me, too." Jim checked the room over one last time, but he hadn't missed anything. "OK, let's get out of here. All the paperwork's signed, and the hospital is actually foregoing the wheelchair requirement because of the 'mitigating circumstances of the situation' -- I actually had to sign a piece of paper absolving them of responsibility in the event I keel over in the elevator and crack my skull again."

Blair looked at him oddly, and Jim frowned.

"What is it?"

After a moment, Blair just shook his head. "Everything just suddenly felt unreal. There you are, a bundle of nervous energy, talking a mile a minute, and I'm feeling all quiet and reserved. Did we suddenly switch personalities or something?"

Jim started to laugh, realized his partner was honestly bemused. He shrugged a little helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe it's just shock or the aftermath. I think we both need this time away from here."

"Yeah."

They left the room and went back the way Blair had arrived -- down the freight elevator and out through the morgue. Idly, Blair wondered if Gipley's body resided in one of the steel drawers or if he'd been taken directly to the city morgue for an autopsy. Neither thought was pleasant.

"You OK to drive?" Jim asked, tossing his bag behind the seat.

"No problem," the younger man assured, climbing behind the wheel. It was weird, but he really did feel disconnected -- from his thoughts, his emotions, from this very minute in time and space. Even Jim seemed like a stranger.

It felt kind of peaceful being detached from himself, as odd as the description sounded in his sluggish mind. With a slight smile, he started the truck and pulled away from the loading dock.

Occasionally, the onset of depression had an upside.

Following the directions Jim gave him as they drove, Blair only made one wrong turn on the way to Palisades Beach, one of the numerous small communities that surrounded the urban amenities of Cascade. Although he'd been fairly confident he could keep his emotions masked, he saw his partner look at him oddly a time or two, which just made Blair's temper simmer. What was Jim looking at? It wasn't as if that driver hadn't deserved a savage cussing out for cutting them off like that!

When they pulled into the driveway of the beach house forty minutes later, his hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles looked bruised.

He jerked the door opened and practically lunged from the car. "I'm sorry, man," he stammered awkwardly as Jim climbed more calmly from the passenger side. "The drive just really wound me up -- I gotta take a walk or something, before I go inside." He was a few steps down the drive when he stopped and turned back. "You OK? You can leave the stuff in the car. I'll bring it in later."

"I'm all right," Jim replied, concern heavy in his voice. "I'll get the bags. Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Blair answered, not sounding confident about it. "I'm just -- I'm just antsy, that's all. I won't be gone long." With that, he turned and continued down the drive, then turned left up the street. His knee had stiffened up again from sitting in the car, and he limped a little, unable to attain the speed his agitated thoughts required.

With a sigh, Jim grabbed the bags and locked the truck before going up to the porch. He found the right key to unlock the front door, then went inside. It was a small house, about the same square footage as the loft, but with two bedrooms and two baths to further divide the floor space. Even the lot was small, typical of beachfront property, but tall conifers sheltered the house from its neighbors and created the illusion of privacy. The house sat on a bluff, and a steep, grass covered slope dropped to the beach below. The incline was not steep enough to be called a cliff, but it was enough to require a switchback trail to make a comfortable descent. The steel-gray waves of the ocean pounded onto the shore several hundred yards across the wide expanse of sand, creating a distant but soothing susurrus. The sky was overcast with a high, thin layer of clouds, and in the distance, Jim could see giant thunderheads building in the northwest. They'd have a storm by tonight.

He opened the glass doors that led to the balcony, and the cool sea breeze immediately began to clear out the stuffiness of the place, which had been closed up for more than a week.

Rafe had already been in to stock the refrigerator and turn up the water heater, so Jim grabbed a beer and ventured out onto the small redwood deck. Patio furniture had been stacked under the awning, and he unlimbered two chairs. Facing them toward the sea, he sat down in one and nursed his beer, his mind not on the view but rather somewhere behind him, out on the narrow street where his partner had retreated with such desperation.

He knew Blair was in trouble, but he didn't have a clue how to begin breaking down the barriers and finding the core of the problem. So much had happened, culminating in the death of Aker Gipley, and Jim didn't know which events were central to the problem and which were simply straws adding to the burden. In the driveway, he'd sensed any inquiry, even a mild "When will you be back?", would have been met with an angry outburst.

Although he knew he would have to tread cautiously, he was determined these days of seclusion would provide an explanation, if not a solution.

For now, he simply nursed his drink and his headache. The pain medication he'd taken much earlier in the morning was wearing off, but he preferred the comfort of the beer to taking another pill.

On to the next part (sometime or other...)