Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1159966.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Sentinel
  Relationship:
      Jim_Ellison/Blair_Sandburg
  Character:
      Jim_Ellison, Blair_Sandburg, Simon_Banks, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Post-Series, Case_Fic, Drama, Angst, Repressed_Memories
  Collections:
      852_Prospect_Archive, Artifact_Storage_Room_3
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-01 Words: 20462
****** Psych 101 ******
by alyjude_sideburns
Summary
     A chance meeting with an old friend and a current case in Seattle
     combine to bring out a long-repressed secret
Notes
     Originally appeared in the zine "Senses of Wonder 3"
     Warning: This contains descriptions of non-consensual sex and non-
     consensual sex with a minor (16 yrs old). Although not described in
     great detail, it may still be disturbing. Read at your own risk.
 
                             Psych 101 by Alyjude
 
Adele Ferguson let the pen drop from her hand as she looked at the three people
seated across from her. The man, Gregory Heath, shook his head and said, "So
that's it then? It's over?"
"It's not over, Mr. Heath, but I felt it was my duty to explain how our case
has changed. In all honesty, unless we can find someone else to come forward,
there's a very good chance that Professor McPhee will walk."
"But that's not fair, it's simply not fair-- "
"Or right," Heath inserted to finish his wife's sentence. He reached out and
took her hand as he stared hard at his son. "Bobbie, you okay?"
Bobbie Heath, all arms and legs and looking younger than his almost-nineteen,
glanced at his father, eyes lost, his expression almost breaking Adele's heart.
With a bravado she doubted he felt, he lifted his chin and answered, "I'm fine,
Dad. We knew this could happen when I chose to come forward."
The man nodded and squeezed his son's shoulder before addressing Adele again.
"So what happens now?"
"That's up to you and Bobbie. You understand that a conviction now rests
entirely with your son, which means it will be his word against McPhee's. And
you know what the Defense will try to do to Bobbie if we can't find others to
come forward, willing to tell their-- "
Heath held up a hand. "I understand. I think at this point we need some time to
talk about it, if that's all right?"
She'd been expecting a complete retreat on their part, so this was a relieved
surprise which left her nodding quickly. "Of course, of course. But," she
warned, "we don't have a lot of time. The preliminary hearing is coming up--"
"I understand. Just," he shot a worried look at his son before finishing, "just
give us the weekend, all right?"
"No problem. I'll wait for your call. Who knows, maybe between now and then
we'll have our miracle."
Heath rose and, taking her arm, helped his wife up. With one arm around her
waist and the other over his son's shoulders, he led them both from Ferguson's
office.
When the door closed behind them, she sank down wearily and put her face in her
hands. This was the part of being a lawyer that she hated. A righteous case, a
boy injured by a man he'd trusted, and they didn't have a chance in hell of
bringing the man to justice without another victim. What kind of world was it
that required another innocent boy to have suffered at the hands of a monster
in order to put said monster away?
She really hated life sometimes
*****
Jim Ellison watched with wonder as his partner worked their suspect. Blair had
only been a cop barely six months, but in that time he'd proven himself several
times over. Jim's pride would have overwhelmed him if he weren't so scared.
Things were too good, considering the events that had led them both to this
time in their lives.
When Blair leaned in closer to the their alleged perp, Jim gave him a warning
in the form of a small shake of his head. The man was suspected of worming his
way into the lives of three wealthy women, over the course of eighteen months,
conning them out of thousands of dollars...and then killing them in extremely
vicious ways.
Blair ignored his warning and pushed a Styrofoam cup toward the surprisingly
nervous man. "You need this more than I do, Mr. Mitchell."
Mitchell took it greedily and drank it down before saying, "I didn't do it."
With sadness in his eyes, Blair said, "Yes, you did."
Jim moved away from the door and took the seat next to Sandburg. Schooling his
expression, he added, "We know you did. Don't you get that? We know."
"You don't--you can't--Detective," Mitchell said with the first sign of spunk
since being brought in.
"Ah," Blair said softly. "But we do. We know enough to put you away for life,
but we also know that you weren't working alone and we want your partner."
"Since I didn't do anything, how could I have a partner?" He glanced around the
room and said with exasperation, "Where's my lawyer?"
"You waived your rights," Jim reminded him with some glee he managed not to
completely conceal.
"Well, now I'm...you know...un-waiving them. I want a lawyer and I'm not saying
anything till I see one."
Blair's shoulders slumped as he realized they were beat. Once lawyered up, a
confession wouldn't--couldn't -happen.  And they needed a confession.
"Mr. Mitchell, no lawyer can save you, do you understand that?" Jim asked. "We
have all the evidence and you are going down. I just kind of figured you'd
rather not go alone, especially since you weren't the mastermind. Hell, you're
just a bartender working a dive on the waterfront so the likelihood of meeting
those women on your own is slim at best. You didn't exactly travel in their
circles, did you? "
Jim waited for his words to have the desired impact, and was rewarded a moment
later when the man's face burned a bright red.
"I... you--no way. No way could you have anything-- "
Hope once again springing eternal, Blair smiled. "But we do." He started
counting them off. "We have fibers from your rug, the one-of-a kind Persian
you're so proud of, in the trunk of Emma Madison's car. Same fibers on the
blanket you used to wrap her body in before you put it in the trunk and drove
her to the park. Nice attempt at trying to make it look as though she'd been
the victim of a mugging gone bad, though. Oh, and of course, we have the same
fibers on Emily Hudson's dress, a dress she'd purchased the day she was killed,
a day that you claim not to have seen her. Shall I go on? Because there's more.
Much more."
Mitchell's eyes narrowed a bit as he regarded the man across from him. Jim
could hear his heart rate increase in a manner that told him the man was
probably weighing his options because maybe, just maybe, Sandburg was telling
the truth.
Blair smiled, arched an eyebrow and added, "And of course, you shouldn't have
kept Myrna Watson's ring. You know the one? It was supposed to have been taken
when she was surprised in her office and killed by that alleged thief,
remember? No," he wagged a finger playfully at their perp, "you should
definitely not have kept it. I suppose it was a memento, right? A trophy?" He
didn't wait for an answer, simply added in a disgusted voice, "That was a
stupid move, though. Then thinking we wouldn't find it? Stupid times ten, man.
But I have to give you some credit. You worked all three women very well;
worked them until they'd parted with a goodly amount of their money before you
murdered them. You just didn't count on the cops being a hell of a lot smarter
than you, did you? Thought all we did was eat donuts." At that, he pushed a
pink box over to Mitchell and added with a wide grin, "Glazed or cake?" Then,
as if he had all the time in the world, Sandburg stood and stretched.
Watching, Jim had to admire the technique. Only wished he'd been the one to
teach it to him. Maybe it was time he started taking notes. He managed to hide
his smile of pride at the thought.
"It's all over," Blair said, "but if you want to go down alone, fine. So be
it." He walked to the interrogation door and opened it. "Murray, Mr. Mitchell
is ready to go back to his cell, but he's decided that he wants his one phone
call after all." Blair suddenly snapped his fingers, turned back and asked,
"You do have a lawyer to call, right? Or do you need one of the freebies? You
know how good they are." He snorted.
Realizing it was over, Mitchell lowered his head and said with a great deal of
resignation, "His name is Brad Wright, an underwriter for Amicable Trust."
The two detectives looked at each other then back at their suspect.
"Amicable Trust?" Jim finally asked.
"Yeah, that's how we latched onto them. Amicable is the primary holder for both
Mutual Trust and Worldwide Insurance. They--the women--they all had something
insured..."
Jim smiled. It was over
*****
"Not a bad haul, Chief. Wright is now sweating bullets; his lawyer is telling
him to shut up even as Joel gets every word. Meanwhile, Mitchell is tucked away
with Megan and giving up his partner with more words than you'd find in a
dictionary. Yep, I'd say we've had a very nice day."
"Other than the fact that three women are dead, yeah, it was a great day."
The words dropped between them like stones and Jim paused in his reach for more
paper. "Chief, you all right?"
Blair continued typing as he answered, "I'm fine."
"Sandburg, 'fine' would work on other detectives, but not on me. A fact I
shouldn't have to remind you."
"They were nice ladies, all of them. Generous, kind, hardworking and
successful. It shouldn't have happened."
Jim watched his partner type; practiced fingers flying over the keyboard. He
sensed the suppressed energy and pain so he got to his feet, took the few steps
required to put him in front of Simon's office, knocking lightly before
entering.
"Sir?"
Simon glanced up and cocked his head in expectation.
"We're taking an early lunch-- "
"Reports first-- "
"You'll have them in five."
Simon waved his hand in acceptance even as he returned to his perusal of his
budget. Jim made a fast exit as he thanked the Budget Gods. This time of year
had distinct advantages when 'early' lunches were required. No questions asked
by an otherwise astute boss.
The moment Blair finished, Jim pulled the copies out of the printer and slid
them into Simon's in-box. He then grabbed their jackets from the coat rack and
held out his partner's. "Come on, Chief, we're taking lunch now. Shake a leg."
"It's ten-thirty, man."
"Yeah, and we've been here since seven with a muffin split between us, so up
and at 'em."
Blair shut down, sighed heavily, but got up and slipped his arms into the held
out coat. "I'm not really all that hungry-- "
"So watch me eat."
"Gee, the thrills."
Jim gave him a fond cuff to the back of the head and held the door open.
*****
Blair's soup was untouched and Jim was now officially worried. Time to get to
the heart of things. Of course, getting to the heart of Sandburg-type things
hadn't exactly been his strong suit in the past, but lately... lately it had
become very important to get to Blair's heart. He dropped his napkin on the
table, sat back, and asked quietly, "Second thoughts, Chief?"
Surprised, Blair glanced up. "Huh?"
"I asked if you were having second thoughts. About," he made a little circle
with his finger, "this."
Eyebrow rising, Blair mimicked the circling finger and asked, "This? You mean
eating?"
"No, Einstein, I mean being a cop."
Stunned and with his mouth hanging open, Blair sat back and blinked at Jim.
"You've been pretty quiet lately. Moreover, while I wouldn't say you've been
depressed, you've been less energetic than usual. I figure things are finally
catching up."
"'Things' meaning me and a gun hanging from my shoulder?"
"Well, yeah."
"Well, no," he partially mimicked. "I don't regret," he made the same circular
motion with his finger, "this. Or even this." He pointed at his shoulder
holster. "Okay?"
Jim picked up his unused fork and started playing with it as he asked, "If no
second thoughts, then what's wrong, Blair?"
That wonderful eyebrow rose even higher and Jim had the sudden desire to spend
the rest of his life making it rise...Blair's voice brought him back to Earth.
"Blair? Whoa, you must really be worried to use my first name."
"I use it all the-- "
"No you don't. But what the hey. Look, I'm all right, really. This last one has
been... okay, more difficult than others." At Jim's puzzled look, he added, "In
case it skipped your notice, one of the victims could have been Naomi's twin
and the idea that someone could slip into her life so easily--"
"Shit," Jim interrupted like Mount Vesuvius. "I can't believe I never made the
connection. God, I'm sorry, so sor-- "
Blair raised his hand and stopped Jim mid-sorry. "It's okay, you were kind of
busy; we both were."
Jim dropped the fork and sat back, clearly disgusted with himself. How could he
notice a difference in his partner, yet not see the reason staring him in the
face? His title of "detective" should be forfeit at the very least. His title
of "friend" should be rescinded.
"You know," he finally said in what he hoped would help, "Naomi would never
fall for the kind of-- "
"Actually, Jim, my mother is oddly naive. For all her talk, men and travels,
she's really very innocent and extremely trusting. A man like Mitchell could,
in fact, get his hooks into her and rip her apart."
"You underestimate both her and her ability to judge people. And as far as
innocent and naive, you beat her around the block."
"Excuse me?"
"What?"
"You think I'm naive?"
"For a guy who's been through what you have, seen what you have, yeah, very.
And trusting. Still. And I wouldn't have you any other way, okay? But trust me
on your mother. She can take care of herself." He pushed the bowl of soup back
in front of Blair. "Now that we've talked this out and I've solved all your
problems with my usual brilliant observations and sage advice, eat."
Okay, Blair was eating. He was also laughing hysterically, but he was eating.
That was enough for Jim.
*****
"Detective Ellison?"
Jim nodded at the handsome young man standing in front of his desk and nodded.
"I'm Ellison."
"The Sergeant downstairs said you're the one I should talk with. Emma Madison
was my aunt."
Jim immediately stood. "I'm sorry for your loss. And you are?"
"Hooper, Michael Hooper."
"Again, I'm sorry, Mr. Hooper, and a little puzzled. Our records showed no
living relatives. We had no idea-- "
"I know. She and my mother haven't... hadn't... talked in over thirty-five
years. My mother died four years ago and as for my aunt, I don't believe she
knew that I existed. The only reason I'm in Cascade... well, I haven't been
here since my undergrad days at Rainier but I'm a guest lecturer, and I saw...
this." He placed a copy of the Cascade Sentinel on Jim's desk.
"When I saw her picture and name, I had to come in. I never met her, but she
was my aunt and she was murdered and - "
"Her killer has been apprehended, Mr. Hooper."
Relief flooded the younger man's face. "I see. That's... I mean, you see, she
looks so much like... and now she's dead and I never met her, and to find out
that she was killed, murdered, I just-- "
Jim moved around the desk, wished fervently for the return of his partner, and
swiped the extra chair from Connor's desk. Sliding it next to Hooper, he said,
"Please, have a seat."
"Thank you."
Hooper sat down, although it seemed more like folding into the chair before
rubbing a shaking hand over his face and saying, "I'm sorry, it's just that,
well, to be quite frank, this has turned out to be a hell of a day."
Jim smiled sympathetically as he took his own seat. "Not the best way to find
out something like this, was it?"
A rueful smile graced the man's lips. "No, definitely not."
At that moment, Blair entered, a folder in his hand. "Hey, Jim, it was ready. A
new record in-- "
He spotted Hooper and his eyes widened. "Mike?"
Hooper turned, grinned, and immediately stood. "Blair? I don't believe this."
The two men hugged awkwardly, there being at least five inches difference
between the two. Blair finally stepped back and said, "What the heck are you
doing here, man?"
Jim gave him the high sign, in this case, drawing a finger across his neck and
Blair, seeing it, gave his friend a quizzical look.
"Sandburg," Jim said, in an effort to help him out, "Mr. Hooper was-- "
"Emma Madison was my aunt, Blair," Michael finished for Jim. "But before you go
all embarrassed and sympathetic on me, I never knew her which is a long story,
but one that perhaps could be shared over dinner?"
"Oh, hey, that could work. Maybe we could meet up around seven?"
"Works for me. Tell me, is the Sweetshack still open?"
Blair nodded slowly and Jim, knowing that the restaurant in question would only
bring back memories of Rainier, jumped to the rescue. "It's open, but trust me,
not the place for a good meal anymore. How 'bout Mama Leone's on Edinger,
Chief? The food is good, it's quiet and you two can catch up."
"That's a great idea, Jim. Mama's is perfect. Okay by you, Michael?"
"Hey, I've haven't been in Cascade for over ten years, I'm more than happy to
let you be the guide. And speaking of Cascade," his eyes dropped to the badge
hanging from the pocket of Blair's blue shirt, "what's that?"
Blair glanced down and no one could miss the two bright red spots that appeared
on his cheeks. "I'm... well, this is..." his head snapped up and he said in a
stronger voice, "I'm a cop now, Michael. Jim here, is my partner."
Michael Hooper looked from one to the other, then back to Blair. He blinked
twice, then said, "Oh. Sure. Why not? Anthropologist to police detective? Not
such a broad jump, as jumps go."
There was silence, then the two burst into laughter. Jim sat back and simply
enjoyed it. A friend who seemed to take the new Blair in stride was a good
thing. A very good thing.
 *****
"Chief, you should go alone."
"Michael invited you and if he didn't want you there, he wouldn't have - "
"He was being polite."
"Michael and I both want you to join us. The idea of being able to bore you to
tears with our talk is especially appealing to me."
"Har-har. And tell me more about you and Michael? I mean, I got the part about
Rainier, but he's a graphic artist. How does that translate to you two having
any classes together?"
The question brought a genuine smile to Blair's face and Jim reveled in it. He
put the dishtowel down and turned all of his attention to his partner.
"Oh, man, that story is a kick in the head. See, anthropologists and
archaeologists need to be able to draw, you know? I mean, it's something that's
kind of fundamental to the job. But me, I couldn't draw a straight line. My
professor said quite bluntly, 'Either take an art class, Sandburg, or find
yourself a new career'. I took an art class. Several, in fact. Everything from
oil painting to charcoal--"
"Sandburg? The point?"
"Oh, yeah, anyway, I met Michael in a couple of the art classes. We just kind
of... clicked, even though he's a few years older. He had a wicked sense of
humor and kept me in stitches for two semesters." Blair paused in his telling
and scratched his chin as if in puzzlement. "Funny though... he went to France
to study for three months, and when he came back...."
Blair's voice trailed off and he cocked his head as if listening to something.
"Blair? What?"
Blair blinked, then turned to Jim and said, "Huh?"
"You were saying? Michael went to France for three months?"
"Oh, yeah. Uhm, it was just weird when he came back. I don't... things just
seemed different, you know?" Blair shook himself and added, "Then I went on an
expedition, he did some more traveling, and we kind of lost track of each other
after that."
"Typical college friendship though?"
A soft smile graced his lips as Blair said, "Yeah, typical. See each other
years later and wham, it's like you've never been apart."
"Does he... know?"
The smile faded only slightly. "Yeah, he does. When I walked him back
downstairs, we kind of covered that. He was pretty cool and said, and I'm
quoting here, 'Hey, Blair, whatever happened, well, you're you and that's all
that matters. You are you, aren't you?' Needless to say, I assured him that I
was, indeed, me."
"Well, good. Always important to be you."
Blair rolled his eyes. "So you'll join us?"
Normally, Jim would have said no. The idea of being a third wheel between two
friends just meeting again after several years did nothing to thrill him.   But
lately he'd found himself not wanting to be away from Sandburg, so he said,
"Yeah, why not? I live to help you make my life miserable."
"And we both do it so well," Blair said with a straight face.
 *****
The evening was anything but boring. He was hearing about a much younger Blair
and enjoying it tremendously. He often forgot how it must have been for the
teenaged Sandburg; being one of the youngest college students, on his own and
struggling to fit in. And yet, from what he was hearing, Sandburg had been a
holy terror. Maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised.
"Oh, man, do you remember Professor McPhee, Blair? I swear, to this day, I
wonder why I hung on his every word. He really was--"
"McPhee?" Blair asked.
"You know, our mechanical drawing teacher? He took over for Rudner when the man
broke both his arms. How can you forget? He thought you were the next
Rembrandt."
Blair frowned and shook his head. "I think I remember the class and something
about... your door locks being too...realistic? But Professor McPhee? I'm
seeing nothing, man. Nothing. I think I remember... Rudner. Big guy, red hair,
right?"
Michael leaned forward, his expression one of complete disbelief. "Blair, you
saw Rudner exactly twice. We had the class for nine weeks and Rudner had his
accident after our second meeting. How can you remember him, yet forget McPhee?
The guy was a real work of art, wearing those black turtleneck sweaters and
tweed jackets. Hell, he even had the clichéd 'fashionable patches' on the
elbows, remember? And what about the goatee and earring? Hell, you got the
second piercing because of him, remember?"
Blair's hand strayed absently to his right ear before falling back to the
table. Jim had the ridiculous urge to take Blair's hand into his own but
restrained himself as he asked, "Sandburg?"
Blair shook his head and shrugged. "What can I say? I remember... the class,
sort of, but nope, no Professor McPhee. Are you sure you don't have me mixed up
with Sterling? You hung with him--"
"Blair, don't be ridiculous. Sterling had transferred to UCLA by the time you
and I took the mechanical drawing course. It was you. For God's sake, Blair,
you went to dinner with the man at least twice. No way can you not remember
him."
Jim watched Blair's expression change from one of simple confusion to one of
worry and he felt suddenly uneasy. This wasn't a good thing, this Blair not
remembering. Jim not remembering, no biggie--been there, done that, had all the
t-shirts--but Blair?
No, not a good thing.
Jim relaxed a bit when Michael, clueing in to the fact that Sandburg was
getting upset, finally moved onto another topic. Ten minutes later, all three
men were laughing as Blair wove a story around short, geeky anthropologists
trying to kiss tall, leggy all-American female basketball players. Ladders as
mandatory accessories were bandied about between all three, but even as he
laughed, Jim noted the tightness around Blair's eyes. A sense of foreboding
invaded his gut, the same feeling he'd often get before a mission went bad, and
he reached for his wine. For the first time, he had a glimmer of what Blair
must have experienced when realizing that Jim had repressed memories. Only
difference was, Blair had the protection of being a scientist and thus having
some understanding and ability to help. Jim, on the other hand, was reeling
from the emotional toll of knowing that something in Blair's past was so bad
that he'd been forced to repress it.
Repressing was not something Blair did. Blair Sandburg dealt head-on with
anything that threatened him, his family, or his friends.
Jim poured himself more wine.
* * * * *
"God, it was good to see Michael again," Blair commented as he slipped out of
his jacket. He took Jim's and hung them both up as he asked, "Coffee?"
"I could use some, sure."
Jim moved into the living room, knowing full well that Blair's coffee offer was
predicated on Jim's current condition. The kid thought he was drunk. Well, if
not drunk, certainly worse for the wine. Jim sniffed a bit as he dropped onto
his couch. Worse for the wine? Him? Not likely. Even with the damn sentinel
senses, he'd take anyone on and drink them under the table.
Something brown was blocking his view of the city and he blinked.
"Here, hot and steaming," Blair said with a grin.
Jim captured the scene blocker and inhaled the rich aroma before taking a sip.
"Jim, man, I said it was hot--"
Jim sputtered a bit, waved his hand in front of his open mouth and then
snarked, "No kidding, Sherlock. What tipped you off?"
Blair sat down next to his friend and answered thoughtfully, his grin barely
suppressed, "Well, that would be the fact that I made it and that your face is
now red. All good detective type clues to hot coffee actually being--"
"Let me guess... hot?"
"Bingo."
Jim gave Sandburg a little snarl, blew on the brown liquid, then asked, "You
think I need this, don't you?"
Blair canted his head and regarded Jim through one open eye, the other closed.
He tilted his head in the other direction, traded closed eyes. "Yep. Five
glasses of wine, Jim. Five. Care to share why? You usually stop at two."
"It was a good wine, I was enjoying great food, and the company wasn't bad
either. I was having a good time." Jim thought that last sounded a bit like a
defensive whine. Probably not a wise thing to sound defensive or to whine.
"Sure, sure, okay. But if you want to talk?"
Jim shot Blair a disgusted look. "If I want to talk? Brother, that's rich.
Unless I'm greatly mistaken, I'm not the one who forgot a professor, okay?
Don't you think you should be the one spilling his guts?"
"Is that what all the drinking was about? You had five glasses because Michael
got me mixed up with someone else?"
Nonplussed, Jim could only stare at his friend.
"Oh, for crying out loud, man, Michael was wrong, okay? I don't think I even
finished the class. In fact, I distinctly remember realizing that it was one
class I didn't need. Michael probably had all that fun with some other short
geek."
For just a moment, it sounded... good. Right. Possible. But Jim was sobering up
rapidly and, with sobriety, came his own innate sense of truth combined with a
healthy dose of a detective's intuition. He put the coffee mug down on the
table and said, "Nice try, Sandburg. But every fiber of my detective-being is
telling me that you were in that class, and that you didn't drop it. Which
means you're repressing something. Memories don't just disappear, as a clever
anthropologist once told me. We make them go bye-bye to protect ourselves. And
frankly, if your psyche felt the need to repress this guy, well, to me it
spells very bad news. Very bad."
Blair's expression hardened and he got to his feet. "Look, I'm telling you that
I didn't finish that class. I dropped out after the first or second meeting,
okay? Now give it up. I'm going to bed."
As Blair started for his doors, Jim said, "It would be a simple matter to
check, wouldn't it?"
Blair stomped back and Jim found himself faced with one very angry roommate. He
actually winced at Blair's expression.
"Look, Detective Ellison, if you think for one minute that I'm going to Rainier
and try to get class records that are over ten years old, you've got another
think coming. I've got nothing to prove so drop it."
With what were clearly his final words on the subject, Blair stomped back to
his room and, once inside, slammed the French doors shut.
Jim decided he probably could have handled things better.
Definitely.
So. Tomorrow, he'd do a little research of his own. They didn't call him
detective for nothing.  No sir.
* * * * *
Something heavy.
He couldn't breathe.
He tried to push up, to dislodge the... whatever it was... but it wouldn't
budge.
Blair tried to wiggle out from under, but the pressure increased and he became
certain that he was going to smother. If he could just turn his head to the
side, just... turn... his head...
Push-ups. Get one arm underneath and... push... up.
Sweat, heat, hot breath, ever-increasing pressure followed by pain. Everywhere.
He yelled with all his strength and heard the sound disappear into nothingness.
His throat hurt from yelling, and the yelling turned to screaming and he had to
open his eyes before...
Before.
Darkness. Blessed darkness and he was alone and the pressure was gone and he
could breathe and knew that he was breathing because it was the only sound he
could hear.
His room.
He was in his own room and, just above him, Jim slept.
He closed his eyes and panted, then tried to stifle them, to silence them so
that Jim would remain asleep. He raised his arm and ran shaking fingers through
his hair.   His very damp hair. God, he felt... shitty. Damp, sweaty and
shitty. But a shower now would definitely wake up his "I can hear a pin drop in
Seattle" partner.
Blair sat up, pulled the wet t-shirt off and tossed it on the floor. He
shivered as the air hit his sweat-dampened skin so he rooted around for his
blanket. It was gone.
Cursing, he leaned over the side of the futon and plucked it from the floor.
His sheet was bunched up at the foot of the bed and, after touching the sodden
mass with his foot, decided to leave it there. The blanket would be enough.
Putting his head back down proved to be rough. The pillow was soaked through
and he grimaced as his cheek hit the dampness. His hair rested on his neck in
wet stripes that kept his skin from warming up.
Oh joy.
He pushed any thoughts of why he'd... of why... and closed his eyes. He could
do this, just go back to sleep. But damn it, first thing in the morning, he
would beat Jim to the shower.
* * * * *
Jim heard Blair resettle and let out the breath he was holding. He'd been
awakened in the early stages of Blair's nightmare and had stuffed down the
impulse to rush downstairs and wake him. Jim was glad he'd resisted because the
manner of waking Blair that Jim had been contemplating would definitely have
crossed the 'we're just buddies and macho men' boundaries. He'd wanted to take
the man into his arms, soothe his fears, hold him, feel him, and whisper into
that ridiculously wacky curly hair that Jim would make it all better, no matter
what.
Definitely boundary-crossing, that.
And once crossed, there'd be no going back.   Jim wasn't sure Blair was ready,
and he knew damn well that he wasn't. Going from friends and best buds to...
more; no, he wasn't ready--yet. But he was close. The two of them had been
dancing around each other like jackrabbits for months, but something was
holding them back, keeping them from taking the step and saying the words that
would change their lives forever.
Jim put his hands behind his head and regarded his skylight and the dark sky
beyond the glass; a sky that gave away no secrets. A fluttering in his stomach
acknowledged his fear for Blair and, if he were honest with himself, his fear
of Blair. He closed his eyes tightly and scolded himself. Damn it, he was
almost forty and he was afraid of Blair Sandburg. And why was it easier to
discuss that with himself than his fear for Blair?
God, he was fucked up.
Below him, Blair's breathing had finally evened out. Knowing, without caring
how, that Blair was on his right side, Jim rolled over and placed his own body
in a position to mirror that of the troubled man beneath him. He stretched out
his arm as if to cover Blair's, and he let his fingers stroke the sheet as if
it were the damp skin of his friend.
"It's going to be okay, Chief," he whispered. "I swear it."
* * * * *
The morning brought plenty of denial on the part of both men. They got up and
worked through their morning ablutions; Blair taking the first shower. They
toasted a couple of bagels and ate them hurriedly before heading to the
station. They'd talked little, with Jim spending most of the drive cursing
himself for his cowardice. He did, however, make one resolution: he would, no
matter what, investigate Professor McPhee at the first opportunity.
Now, with Blair upstairs sharing lunch with Serena, Jim finally had his
opportunity. Of course, faced with actually inputing the man's name into the
computer, he was having second thoughts. Last night and this morning, the idea
of doing this seemed logical, even desirable, but now... now it was almost a
betrayal of his friendship with Blair.
And yet.
The memory of Blair's nightmare; the smell of his fear, the horrible strangled
sounds that had come from Blair's throat....  Jim's eye twitched as he entered
the only information he had: McPhee, male.
He wasn't surprised when the list of over a hundred McPhees popped up; but he
was surprised to find that the tenth one down was flashing the CPD insignia.
The flashing icon told him that this particular McPhee could also be found in
the criminal database. Before clicking on the icon, though, Jim clicked on the
actual name: Andrew McPhee. The information page appeared and Jim read quickly.
Andrew McPhee
DOB: September 3, 1951
COB: Los Angeles, California
Parents: Lorraine Dougherty, deceased
  Anthony McPhee, deceased
LNA: 3132 Birdsview Lane
  Seattle, Washington, 98101
The database told him that this McPhee was an art professor and currently on
staff at the Seattle Art Institute.
A McPhee that was an art professor? This had to be him. Jim returned to the
original page of McPhees and, with that same sense of foreboding, clicked on
the flashing CPD icon.
Jim's face drained of all color as he read. Two minutes later he was reaching
for the phone.
* * * * *
Adele shut down her computer and readied herself for leaving. She stuffed a
couple of folders into her briefcase, checked her watch, and nodded. She had
plenty of time to get to her doctor's appointment. As she pulled her coat down
from the rack, she looked at her desk and gave a small shake of her head. She
was only leaving early because of a much-needed and often-postponed doctor's
appointment; but she felt guilty as hell. Stiffening her spine, she reached for
the doorknob.
//"Adele? You have a call on line 3, from a Detective Ellison in Cascade. He
says it's important."//
Sighing, she turned from the door and walked back to her desk. She pushed the
intercom  button and said, "Thanks, Gracie. I'll take it."
//"Should I call Dr. Carter--tell her you'll be late?"//
"No, no, not yet."
When the light went out, she picked up the blinking line.
"This is Adele Ferguson, what can I do for you, Detective Ellison?"
//"I understand you're involved in prosecuting a Professor Andrew McPhee?"//
Heart suddenly racing, Adele said, "Yes, I am. Why would a detective in Cascade
be interested in this case?"
//"Is there any chance you could send me what you have in the way of police
reports?"//
"I'll need a bit more than this phone call to do that, Detective."
//"I can have my captain call you."//
She drummed her fingers on the desktop, her long nails making a slight tapping
noise as she considered Detective Ellison's words. Finally she said, "My case
doesn't look very good right now, Detective. We've been unable to find any
other victims willing to come forward. You know the drill; the victim's word
against the upstanding professional. If you have something--anything--I need to
know what it is."
//"In all honesty, I don't know if I do. That's why I need those reports."//
As she listened to Ellison, she pulled out her file on McPhee and quickly
scanned it. There it was. Ten years ago, McPhee had lived in Cascade and was on
staff at Rainier. Was it possible that this Ellison had something that old? She
considered that possibility for a moment, even as her mind reeled off all that
she knew about the name, 'Ellison', which turned out to be quite a bit. "All
right," she finally said, "I'll send the file via email. You'll have it in a
few minutes. And I'd appreciate it if --"
//"Goes without saying. Anything that comes of this, you'll be the first to
hear."//
"Thank you, Detective."
After giving ADA Ferguson his email address, Jim put the phone down and waited,
eyes fixed on his computer. Two long minutes later, his 'you've got mail' icon
flashed and, two minutes after that, he was pulling several sheets from the
network printer.
As he read the file and looked at the photos of the young teenager, Bobbie
Heath, his jaw began to tighten as his hands shook.
Bobbie Heath looked sixteen. That was the first thing that struck him about the
eighteen-year old. He also had curly hair that just brushed his jaw line and
dark blue eyes that looked out from under long lashes. A set of full lips
turned downward proclaimed his pain. There appeared to be some light bruising
on the right side of the boy's face which Jim suspected was all that remained
of what might have been an open-handed slap. The medical report told him of
other bruises, but nothing that might not have occurred during a bout of mildly
rough sex between two consenting adults. Jim moved onto the boy's statement.
For Bobbie, the event that ultimately changed his life had started innocently;
with sessions after class discussing his abilities and techniques with his
favorite and much-admired teacher, Andrew McPhee. The coaching was soon
followed by afternoons sharing coffee and talking art with the man he so
admired. This was followed by loaned books and trips to the local art museums.
The side trips segued into shared dinners and deep discussions about art,
history, emotions and suffering for one's art. Finally, the meetings and talks
culminated in an invitation to McPhee's lakeside home and the unbelievable
opportunity to actually paint with the great man himself.
Bobbie Heath hadn't a clue that 'painting together' was a euphemism for rape.
But he'd been possessed of a strength that must have come as quite a surprise
to McPhee, because Bobbie had used it to finally get away from the man.
According to his statement, he'd made it out of McPhee's home and to the
highway, where he'd hitched a ride.
The rest of the statement told Jim why action against McPhee hadn't occurred
sooner. Apparently, on the ride home, Bobbie had struggled with what to tell
his parents, fought with himself, his shame and guilt, and after he was dropped
a couple of miles from his dorm, decided not to say anything. But weeks later,
while dealing with nightmares, his shame, and his inability to attend a single
class, he'd finally come to the realization that he needed to tell someone.
He'd called his father.
Jim put the reports down and rubbed his eyes. It didn't take a genius to know
that Bobbie hadn't been McPhee's first victim, nor did it take that same genius
to figure out that there was a very real possibility that thirteen years ago -
Blair had been one of his earlier causalities. Given all that had happened
since Michael had brought the man up, it made a certain kind of sick sense.
So where was his ability to repress when he needed it?
Jim glanced up and fixed his gaze on Simon's door. The urge to walk in there,
to unload this, was almost overwhelming, but he didn't. He didn't have the
right. Yet.
He needed to talk with Blair, to find a way to explain this to him - somehow.
And he needed to do it now. He knew that last night's unsettled sleep heralded
the beginning of remembering for Blair, and he also knew how difficult that
remembering could be without help--the help of a friend.
* * * * *
The halls looked the same, so what could account for the fact that they seemed
to be closing in on him? Blair moved away from them and towards the center of
the corridor. This gave him the added protection of avoiding bumping into
others as they passed him. Most people instinctively hugged one wall or another
when they walked down halls, so staying in the middle kept arms from striking
him, or shoulders from rubbing. Right now, that was a lifesaver. Just the idea
of anyone touching him was causing him to break out into a cold sweat. He
blinked and tried to adjust his vision but those damn walls were still
shrinking. Another corner, and he'd be within sight of Major Crime. He could
make it.
What the hell was wrong with him anyway? He'd been fine while sharing tuna
sandwiches with Serena, just fine. Missing Jim, but otherwise, fine. He'd even
managed not to scold himself for being so petty and stoutly refusing to invite
Jim to join the two of them. The reason seemed so right at the time, but now,
it was just childish.
No, Sandburg, it was protection.
He stopped in the middle of the hall.
Protection.
From?
People moved past him and he ignored them as they ignored a man frozen in
place.
* * * * *
Jim looked up and watched the double doors leading into Major Crime. He waited.
When Blair didn't walk through them, Jim got up. He knew Rafe and Joel were
watching him, both now well aware of what they termed his 'sentinel mode'. He
ignored them. Stepping over to the doors, he opened one and glanced down the
hall.
Shit.
He was just about to go to Blair's side when the younger man started moving
again. A moment later, he'd reached Jim.
"Hey, man, what's up?"
Jim looked down into the blue eyes staring up at him with not a hint of
anything deeper than curiosity in them, and said, "Nothing. Thought I heard you
coming, that's all. Was lunch good?"
"Great. She won the bet though. Her tuna sandwiches are better than Joel's."
Blair sidled past and went to his desk. Smiling, he looked down at their
inboxes and whistled. "Looks like the latter half of our day is going to be
spent doing paperwork, Jimbo."
The rest of the afternoon moved slowly and an old expression of his father's
came to mind: "Slower than molasses in January". Jim didn't need slow. This was
Major Crime and the city was Cascade. How the hell could the phones be so damn
silent? Why wasn't anything breaking open? Where was his courage?
At that moment, Simon came out of his office and crooked a finger at him. When
he rose, Blair doing the same, Simon shook his head. "Just Ellison this time,
Sandburg."
Throwing Jim a "what have you done now?" look, Blair reclaimed his seat and Jim
walked into Simon's office.
"Close the door."
The voice was oddly gentle and Jim did as asked. "What's up, Simon?"
"I just received a call from a ADA in Seattle, Jim. Anything you want to tell
me?"
"Damn. I told her if--"
"I know all your cases, Detective. You don't have anything that could be tied
into a rape case in Seattle so what's going on?"
"I'm not really at liberty--"
Simon didn't let him finish. "Excuse me? Last time I looked, I was your
captain. I assign the cases, remember?"
"Maybe I should put it this way: my call to Seattle has nothing to do with my
job or any Major Crime case, all right?"
Simon walked around his desk and took the seat next to Jim. It was an
uncharacteristic move for him. "Jim, you used this department to secure police
reports from another city, about a crime unrelated to anything you're working
on. You led an ADA to believe that you had possible information about her case.
Based on that, it has everything to do with your job. Now, putting aside the
fact that I'm your captain, and concentrating on the fact that I'm your friend,
talk to me."
Jim heard the sincerity in Simon's voice and found that he was responding to it
like a siren call. He wanted to tell his friend everything, unload it all, but
it wasn't his to unload.
"Simon, I appreciate what you're saying--I do--but right now, I really can't; I
don't have the right. Give me until tomorrow, all right?"
Simon studied him for a minute and finally gave him a reluctant nod. "Tomorrow,
Jim. I'm holding you to that."
* * * * *
"I'm thinking... pizza. I'm not in the mood for cooking, or anything
complicated. How 'bout you, Chief?"
"Pizza sounds good. Order those breadsticks too. And salad."
"Got it."
Jim walked over to the phone while Blair went into his room to change. After
he'd ordered, he climbed the stairs and traded his work clothes for an old pair
of jeans and a cropped Cascade PD t-shirt. Barefoot, he went back down and got
a couple of beers from the fridge. Just as he unscrewed the second bottle,
Sandburg joined him. Blair wore gray sweat bottoms, a tank top and tube socks.
He took the offered beer and, after taking a good, healthy swallow, said,
"Thanks. Hits the spot, man."
"You're not seeing Michael before he leaves?" Jim asked nonchalantly.
"No. He met with his aunt's lawyer earlier today and by now he should be
winging his way home. But he'll be back in three days and we'll meet up then."
"Ah."
Blair headed into the living room, picked up the remote and clicked on the set,
thus signifying an end to the small talk.
Forty minutes later, the pizza arrived. Working together, they silently agreed
to paper plates before settling in the living room with their food. They ate
without conversation; the only noise coming from the television. Blair was just
digging into his salad when Jim came to the realization that this was it. The
moment.
He took the remote from table and clicked off the set. As expected, Blair
immediately protested.
"Hey, man, what the-- "
"I've got a problem, Chief, and I'm hoping you'll help me with it," he said
quietly.
It worked. Blair turned to face him and put his food down. "Jim?"
"There's a young man in Seattle... he's in trouble and I think you and I can
help him. But he's not my real problem. My real problem is a young man here in
Cascade, also in trouble and, to be honest, I care a hell of a lot more for
him."
Jim waited, hoping that the bringing up Bobbie would give Blair pause and pique
his curiosity. His hope was rewarded.
"Maybe you'd better tell me what this is all about. What man in Seattle?"
It didn't skip Jim's notice that Blair avoided saying anything about the "young
man in Cascade", but that didn't surprise him.
"The boy's name is Bobbie and he'll eventually be called upon to testify
against a man he considered his friend and mentor. He'll be put through hell
and a jury will have to decide if he, an eighteen-year old, is telling the
truth, or if a well-respected and popular... art teacher is telling the truth."
Blair's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Jim, what the fuck are you pulling?"
"Just listen, okay? If you don't like what you're hearing, leave. I won't stop
you."
"I already don't like what you're saying-- "
"Let me tell you about Bobbie.   Then if you don't like it, I won't say another
word."
At that moment, Jim wished he could climb inside Blair's mind and see what he
was thinking. His sentinel abilities were sorely lacking at the moment. Sure,
he knew that Blair was angry, tense, even afraid, but what was really going on
inside that strange and oddly brilliant brain was beyond him. On the other
hand, the fact that Blair was still seated on the couch spoke volumes for
Blair's courage and empathy for others in trouble. Jim took a deep breath and
started talking.
Blair had no idea why he was still sitting next to Jim, let alone listening.
Every nerve was screaming that he should get up and leave; run, hide, cover his
ears.   But something else was telling him that, no matter what, he was safe
here in the loft next to Jim; so he listened.
The words washed over him and he trembled as Jim told him of the betrayal of a
young man named Bobbie Heath at the hands of Andrew McPhee. He tried to
separate himself as he listened, to distance himself from Jim's words and what
he knew they meant, but he was finding it increasingly difficult. Jim's voice
was fading in and out; twining with memories of a different voice and time,
with Blair powerless to stop it. 
"You have real talent, Blair--it's just buried under a cloud of insecurity. You
talk a good game, but down deep, you're a little boy unsure of his strengths or
talents."
"I'm a college freshman who is studying to be an anthropologist, Professor; not
an artist. I suspect I'll be able to recreate whatever artifact or building I'm
looking at, but-- "
"Don't you see how talented you are? You're wasted in anthropology--wasted."
Blair lowered his head and pulled at the new single gold hoop in his ear. He
wasn't used to this kind of attention. Sure, Naomi always said things like how
talented he was; that he was her beautiful son, but hell, she was his mother,
she was supposed to say things like that when they were together. Mothers all
thought that the sun rose and set on their children. It was a mother thing. But
he'd learned early on that his mother's view of him was definitely not a view
shared by others. Oddly enough, instead of trying to conform, he'd done the
opposite. Probably some kind of defense mechanism. But now, listening to
Professor McPhee, he felt strange and not in the least comfortable.
"Look, I know a beautiful spot overlooking the ocean; maybe you know it? It's
called The Spout."
Blair nodded, uncertain where this was headed.
"It's a painter's dream, Blair. Now here's my idea. We meet there on Saturday
as early as you're willing to rise. I'll bring the supplies and we'll paint.
If, when we're done, you're not happy with what you've created, I'll leave you
to anthropology--okay?"
Blair glanced around them; at the students milling about, chatting and laughing
as they purchased their food from the snack bar. His Saturdays were usually
taken up by short trips with his anthro class, but oddly enough this Saturday's
trip had been cancelled just that morning; thanks to their professor coming
down with the flu. He couldn't argue with the fact that he enjoyed his art
classes. And the chance to paint with McPhee--the man had two works at the
Lowell Gallery!--well, you don't sneeze at such an opportunity. But no way
would he give up his dream of anthropology, and it was only fair to tell that
to Professor McPhee.
"Sir, I'd be a fool to turn you down.  But you need to understand that, no
matter what, I intend to get my degree in anthropology.  If--"
"Sunrise at The Spout is pretty incredible, Blair. Think you can manage that?"
McPhee teased with a warm smile.
"I'm not going to change my major--"
Holding a hand up in supplication, McPhee said, "I know, I know. But who says a
man can't have two talents?"
Blair couldn't argue with that, but he could argue that he wasn't likely to be
the guy with two talents. But he didn't; he'd said "yes" instead....
..."Bobbie was praised and encouraged and gently led exactly where McPhee
wanted him to go. All of McPhee's careful planning culminated with an offer to
join him at his lakeside home and paint side-by-side with the master. Bobbie
couldn't say no. McPhee offered to pick him up at school before dawn on
Saturday morning and he'd drive him to his place and they'd catch the sunrise
over the lake..."
Blair hurried around the apartment, gathering up what he'd need for his day at
the beach with Professor McPhee. His roomies were still dead to the world--no
surprise since it was only four-thirty. Kev had some kind of field trip
scheduled for ten, Mark was free all day and would probably sleep in, and Jess
was going to his folks in the afternoon. Blair stuffed his hooded sweatshirt
into his backpack--a little extra protection should the day change as only the
Pacific Northwest could. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and headed
out. As he walked down to the lobby of the dorm, he realized that he was
actually excited about today; about painting a seascape with Andrew McPhee. How
weird was that? It wasn't the same kind of excitement he experienced every time
they went on one of the simple weekend digs, but still, he was definitely
buzzed.
He bounded out onto the sidewalk and walked to Milton Hall where Professor
McPhee would be waiting. They'd decided that with the small detail of Blair
being sixteen and having no car, maybe he should ride with McPhee. Blair
cringed at the memory because the whole conversation had served to remind him
of just how young he was. Hell, he still only had a fucking learner's permit,
for crying out loud. And the chances that he'd have anything resembling a car
anytime in the near future was ludicrous. But hey, he had a bike.
How lame was that?
Lame.
Short and sixteen. But nobody bluffed like he did. Once he got his motor mouth
going, people forgot his age...okay, people who weren't female. Co-eds.
Gorgeous co-eds. Not that Blair didn't have an appreciative eye for the odd
football player or two, 'cause he did, but they were too busy for the likes of
him. Besides, when you were Blair Sandburg, a sixteen-year-old Jewish nerd in
college, women were safer. Okay, high school girls were safer. Jeez, even high
school seniors were too old for him.
Where the hell was the 'older' woman eager to seduce the young college man--er-
-boy?
Blair sighed as he turned the corner and Milton Hall came into view. He was
surprised to see Professor McPhee standing on the steps. Man, he'd have bet
that he'd beat the guy here.
"...they painted all morning, his professor and mentor often standing behind
him, guiding his hand, talking and coaching gently..."
"No, Blair, like this, hold the brush like this."
Andrew (around eleven, he'd insisted that Blair use his first name) took his
wrist gently and positioned Blair's fingers around the brush. He guided his
hand toward the canvas, his cheek just resting against Blair's hair. A slight
unease made itself known in the pit of Blair's stomach, but he wasn't sure
where it was coming from. He concentrated on the brush stroke and, a moment
later, Andrew patted him on the back.
"That's it, Blair, that's it. You've got it. And I like what you've done with
the shading in the water. Brilliant."
Blair felt his skin flush with a silly kind of little-boy's pride as he tried
to hide his pleased grin. It felt ridiculously good to be praised by someone
other than his mother. His other professors treated him like a pest-he asked
too many questions and too often corrected them.   While he tried to pretend it
was water off a duck's back; it hurt. Funny thing was, he couldn't seem to
change himself, to shut the fuck up because he was just so damned excited all
the time.
"I'm not sure about the rocks, Pro--uhm--Andrew. They look a little... you
know, off kilter?" he asked tentatively.
"No, no, they're good. I like the contrast you've got going there. And
remember, nature isn't perfect, Blair."
He was about to argue the point, to say that nature was the most perfect thing
on Earth, but he clamped down the urge and nodded. Andrew went back to his own
easel and picked up his brush.
"...they finally broke for lunch and McPhee led Bobbie into the house. They
made pasta salad and garlic bread, with McPhee teaching the boy how to rub the
garlic over the bread; getting up close... rubbing him..."
"Okay, that was the sound of my stomach growling, Blair. I think it's time for
something to eat. The idea of starving artists is highly overrated."
Blair grinned and put his brush down. He turned a critical eye on his painting
and realized that he actually... liked it. He liked his own painting. It was
almost surreal in the way the water crashed against the shore and rocks, and he
thought he'd caught the foam pretty well too. As he stared at the water his own
hand had created, he could almost see a man on a surfboard, riding the crest of
Blair's wave into the shore, avoiding the rocks, conquering... no, no, not
conquering the wave, but partnering with it. He shook his head and laughed at
himself.
"You ready, Blair? I brought food."
He turned and looked with surprise at his teacher. "You did?"
"Yup. In the trunk. Our very own spread. Fried chicken, potato salad, three-
bean salad, a cheese and fruit tray, and of course, for me, no picnic is good
without brownies," he finished with relish. "Why don't you clean the brushes
while I go get the food."
"Fair enough."
Blair watched him head down the small path that would take him to where he'd
parked the car. He scratched his head and thought, "What a weird day." He
looked back at his painting and frowned. It really wasn't that good. It just...
wasn't.
Jim leaned forward and placed a hand on Blair's arm. "You still with me,
partner?" he asked quietly.
Blair blinked, tried to answer with words but his throat was tight, so he
simply nodded.
"Okay, so they ate lunch, and talked about art and, somehow, every subject
seemed to be about Bobbie. His likes, dislikes, dreams and aspirations..."
"So what made you decide on anthropology, Blair?"
Andrew was piling a plate with chicken and, as he asked, he slowly licked one
finger, then placed another piece on the plastic dish before handing it to
Blair.
"Oh, uhm, well, actually, I've wanted--dreamed--of doing this for about ten
years. Mom says I briefly flirted, at the age of five, with becoming a fireman,
but quickly gave that up during a trip to Mexico and South America. We stayed
down there for months and I still remember how I felt in Peru, viewing the
Temple of the Sun or running all over Machu Picchu with my mother yelling,
every two seconds, to get down off of something. Good memories considering I
was only six. But I gotta tell ya, man..."
He coughed suddenly as he realized how informally he'd spoken. He quickly
added, "Sir" before coughing again and amending it with, "Uhm, Andrew. Anyway,
I felt as though I belonged there, you know? The Temple of the Sun sang to me;
in fact all of Peru did. The Chopec Valley, the-- "
Laughing, Andrew held up his hand. "Okay, okay, I get it. You've never sounded
that excited about art, Blair. In fact, it's rare to hear any student as
thrilled or as hyped about any subject; even their majors. You're a very
special young man." He reached over brushed a bit of something from Blair's
cheek and asked, "So tell me more about this wonderful mother of yours. It
couldn't have been easy raising a child alone."
Because facts about Naomi or his fatherless state weren't common knowledge at
Rainier, Blair froze in the act of reaching for a celery stalk.
Andrew, seeing his concern, added quickly, "It's in your file, Blair, and I'm
one of your professors. When I see talent, I investigate."
"Oh, sure. Well, my mom... she's one terrific woman. Original flower child,
showed me the world, gave me the freedom to go to Rainier, never wore aprons--
so no strings. She's always let me fly and dream and actively encouraged my
flights of fancy. She's... well, she's Naomi."
"It must have been hard... without a father?"
Blair was used to answering this one, Naomi's many friends--and boyfriends--
were always quick to ask. His answer was practically patented. He waved a hand
airily and said, "No biggie; kind of cool actually. Mom and me against the
world, boyfriends and bikes and games, been to the World Series a couple of
times... only wish she had a boyfriend right now," he grinned impishly, "maybe
I'd have a car instead of the bike Roger gave me last year."
"Roger, one of her-- "
"Boyfriends, yeah. My mom, see, she's really beautiful, I mean, really
beautiful, and sweet and fun and well, the men; every guy she meets falls
immediately. Roger was okay, left me alone mostly, but he did give me the
bike."
Andrew nodded sagely. "I see." In a sudden change of topic, he nodded at
Blair's plate and asked, "So how's the chicken?"
"Great, man, just great. Where did you get it?"
"Hey, I'm insulted. I made it. The key to being a successful man is learning
how to cook." He chuckled at the expression on Blair's face and added, "Among
other things."
"Oh, hey, I cook, I cook a mean streak, but I'm not used to hearing other guys
thinking it was the key to anything, except maybe a stuffed stomach."
Andrew laughed again, throwing his head back and letting the sound out as if it
had been captured for weeks. Blair watched and smiled. People didn't usually
laugh with him....
"...the day wore on and finally the sun started setting, and it was time to go
inside. McPhee made a fire and Bobbie thought briefly that maybe he should be
asking to go home, but he was so comfortable and surrounded by beautiful art
and he wanted to talk more and listen to the great man..."
"I think we're losing the sun, Blair. Probably time to pack this in."
"Do we have to?"
"Well, unless you want your entire painting to change?"
Blair looked at his work, then his rapidly changing environment. The water was
darkening and the transparent aquamarine that he'd been able to capture in the
fold of a wave was now gray. The luminous sky of earlier was reaching out to
the west and changing with its entreaty of the sun not to set. And since when
did spending a day with oil paint make him a poet? He chuckled and started
packing it up. Andrew smiled and followed suit.
As they walked down the rocky path to the car, Andrew said, "Look, we're only a
few minutes from my place. How 'bout we stop there, review the day's work, and
I'll cook dinner? Then I'll take you back to the dorm?"
"I have a lot of work to do tonight, si-Andrew.   Work I sloughed off in order
to come here. I really need-- "
"I'll have you home by eight," Andrew promised with a playful gleam in his eye.
Blair had to admit the invitation sounded fun and, more than that... other
students were constantly talking about visiting their professors; being invited
to share a family meal.  But nothing like that had happened to him, the one
student who could have most benefited. But now...
"Okay, sounds good, but only if you let me do the cooking?"
Leery, Andrew said, "Oo-kay, that's doable. You know how to clean up after
yourself, right?"
Blair grinned. "Second thing I learned to do; right after boiling water."
"Then we have a deal."
The ride to Andrew's home was more like a class than anything else. Andrew
quizzed him on the techniques they'd used, on the brushes, lighting, shading
and shadows. By the time Andrew had pulled his BMW into the driveway, Blair
felt as though he'd just passed a final with flying colors. He was on top of
the world because, in spite of the quiz-like atmosphere, the praise had flowed
as heavily as the questions.
Walking into the cool interior of Andrew's home, Blair's eyes widened in
appreciation. The house was small, but light and airy; the colors and decor
eclectic. Anyone with a good eye would have known that a creative individual
occupied the home. Artwork adorned the walls, and it seemed to Blair that the
house was a gallery; the artwork a living breathing entity.
"Some of what you're looking at are pieces done by my students."
Blair was stunned. He'd have bet his bike that every piece was done by a
professional. He looked more closely at each and recognized a couple of popular
artists, but he couldn't honestly see any difference in technique between the
ones he knew had been done by accepted painters and the ones done by students.
As he made his way around the room, eyes wide and appreciative, he had to
acknowledge the fact that he'd probably never end up on anyone's walls--other
than his mother's. Hell, she still had a painting of a temple he'd done in the
eighth grade on her bedroom wall. Of course, the two of them were the only two
people in the world who knew he'd painted a picture of a South American temple.
Everyone else thought it was an abstract.
"Blair? Kitchen is this way," Andrew said with a teasing grin.
"Oh, right. Dinner. Cook. Me."
"...and the only lighting came from the fireplace. McPhee made Bobbie a drink
and, feeling very grown up, Bobbie took it ..."
Dinner was finished and the dishes done and drying in the dishwasher. Both men
sat in the living room; their only light source coming from the flames
crackling happily in the fireplace. Blair was relaxed and supremely happy. He
watched the fire dance while Andrew talked low and softly about his travels and
his art. The man had fixed himself a brandy earlier and, before sitting down,
had offered one to Blair. He'd accepted, feeling very mature and wise. He'd
watched as Andrew warmed the glass between his hands swirling the amber
liquid.   So, naturally, he'd done the same before taking a tentative sip. A
sip he'd never forget. A sip that had traveled down his throat like silk and
warmed his stomach from the inside out. He sighed contentedly now before taking
another sip. God, he was so relaxed. His body felt loose and light, his mind
alive yet quiet. A quiet mind was, for him, a novelty. He liked it...
Jim watched as Blair seemed to pull in on himself and he debated whether to go
on. Blair's head was cocked and Jim's senses told him Blair would continue to
listen... and perhaps... remember. He reached out, placed his hand over
Blair's, and said, voice soft and gentle, "It happened fast after that, Blair.
It's possible that McPhee hadn't put enough in the drink, because Bobbie never
completely succumbed. When it finally penetrated what was happening, he
fought..."
"How do you feel, Blair?"
The voice seemed to come from above him and within him. He tried to lift his
head but it was too much effort. His body was tingling and it felt good. Very
good. A hand seemed to come out of nowhere and he watched in fascination as it
moved closer and finally came to rest on his cheek. He tried to say something,
but couldn't, his throat too tight.
"You're warm, Blair. Let me help..."
Blair waved off the help and immediately found his hand fascinating. It seemed
to glow and to have taken on the appearance of rubber. Totally awesome.
Something was happening. He tore his eyes from the rubbery hand and glanced
down.
Fingers.
Buttons.
Oh. Way cooler now. His shirt was gone and the air tickled his chest, and all
thoughts of rubbery hands fell by the wayside as he contemplated the chest hair
that had sprouted a year ago. The cool air was playing hide and seek in the
springy curls and, just as his attention was about to waver, fingers joined in
the game. They weren't his fingers which caused him to cock his head in
puzzlement.
"Cooler now, Blair?"
Words. He needed to pay attention. "Huh?"
"Are you more comfortable now?"
Fingers splayed across his skin and a part of his mind said coolly, "Manicure.
The guy has a manicure." Another part of his brain said playfully, "Can't be my
fingers then. Me and manicures are total strangers and I fully intend to keep
it that way. I need buffed nails, why?"
While his mind had a couple of funny conversations with itself, he went back to
watching the fingers, manicured nails and all. The hand moved over his chest
and it felt good. He closed his eyes a moment and the hand pushed easily and he
found himself on his back, on the couch, legs up. Comfy. He kept his eyes
closed and gave brief thought to catching a few quick winks, but the hand
started doing... other things. His eyes flew open and he found a smiling face
just inches from his own.
"Wha'?"
"Ssh, relax. I'm just going to make you feel better, that's all, Blair. Rest
and enjoy."
The voice sounded so convincing and it had to be Andrew because wasn't that who
he was with? And he could trust Andrew, right? His teacher? Natch. He let his
muscles, which had briefly tensed, relax.
"That's it, just lie back and let it happen."
He sighed and enjoyed the sensation of floating in warm water--until a jolt of
electricity almost caused him to bite his tongue. The jolt came again and this
time traveled straight to his groin. God, what the hell? His once lax penis
jumped to life as yet another jolt sent waves of sharp pleasure down the length
of his body.
"It feels good, doesn't it, Blair?"
Whatever the hell it was, it sure as fuck did. He cracked open one eye but
could see nothing but Andrew's head. He craned his neck and realized that...
that...
"SHIT!" his mind screamed. The man... his lips... on his... his... nipples. He
was, with his tongue and teeth and lips and... this was not possible.
Not possible.
His nipples were hard and aching, not unlike his penis. His breaths were coming
in shallow pants as he tried to make sense of what was happening to him. His
body was on fire yet his brain seemed mired in cotton candy; webs of the
stringy pink stuff keeping all thoughts captive before they could actually
formulate and speak to him. He moaned as something almost akin to pain beat at
his right nipple.
His nipple ring. Tugging. Someone. Something. Tugging on his ring...
His hips seemed to lift up of their own volition and, at the same time, he felt
his zipper being lowered and Andrew was slipping his hand in... smoothing it
over his abdomen and into his pubic hair, stopping, pausing, then rubbing...
The unease of earlier in the day made itself known again and he tried to speak,
to say something, but his mind, still wrapped in cotton candy, couldn't find
the right word or words. He knew instinctively that the words needed to be
said, or even one word, that no matter how this felt, how... electric, it
was... it wasn't...
No.
That was the word. His mind said it, whispered it, but his mouth, his lips,
wouldn't do it, wouldn't say it. He tried to open his eyes again, tried to move
his arms, to move the hand from where it shouldn't be, to pry the fingers from
his penis.  But sensations flooded him, heat enveloped him, sweat broke out
over his body and something hot and heavy kept him down--weighed him down--made
it more difficult to breathe, to... speak, to find the words... no... the WORD.
One word.
Just one.
He called it up, willed it up and it teetered on the edge of his lips and one
little push would send it spilling out....
"NO!"
It was out! He'd said it--and felt stronger for saying it. This was wrong. The
man was his teacher and he was... he was... all right, he was a boy. A fucking
boy. He could admit it, here and now, he was a BOY.
"NO!"
Again, it came out and he felt proud. But... but...
The weight. It was... worse. Heavier. He tried to move but it stifled him,
pinned him down and he was just a BOY, and too short, and too skinny and too
STUPID and he knew now, knew he'd been drugged, been made a fool of and if he
didn't DO something, God, if he COULDN'T do something...
"NO! Get off-- "
A hand clamped down over his mouth and words were whispered into his ear...
"Ssh, it's okay, it's okay, this will be good, I'll make it good for you, just
rest back, let the-- "
He didn't want to listen--wouldn't listen--so he struggled and fought; yet
accomplished nothing at all. His body could barely move, the weight of the man
above him keeping him down as effectively as the entire Rainier Cougars defense
had they piled on top of him to keep him from a winning touchdown. He wanted to
yell, to scream, and he was panicking now because he couldn't breathe...
couldn't take in air... and he knew what would happen, knew what this meant....
His whole body was shaking and he couldn't breathe and he wanted it to end; to
go away, to fade into the background where he'd managed to keep it for so many
years.   But damn it, the whole thing was erupting like Krakatoa and he could
do nothing to stop it; nothing to ease his pain--except run.   He wanted to
run; to run as far away as his legs would take him.
He didn't move an inch.
He just... shook.
Arms, strong and able, wrapped around him and it was Jim apologizing,
whispering in an agonized voice that he was "...so sorry, so sorry, forgive me,
Chief, dear God, forgive me...."
He wanted to tell him it was okay, that he was okay, but instead he sank into
Jim, wrapped his arms around him and took all the comfort and safety the warm
body offered. Heated lips were pressed against his temple and he nodded, trying
to convey that it was all right--that he was all right--and he let himself
drift, let himself remember.  Because he was here and Jim had him, and Jim
cared, and memories couldn't hurt him because Jim wouldn't let anything hurt
him.
Jim held tight, his face turned into Blair's hair, eyes tightly shut. Words
were no longer needed and the story of Bobbie hung in the air above them,
blending with the story of Blair. Jim tightened his arms. He kissed Blair's
sweaty temple; murmured words of sorrow and sympathy, of support and love.
Tears slid out from under his lashes and mixed with Blair's sweat and curls but
Jim ignored them. He poured all his love--all of it--into his arms and willed
it to seep into Blair, to somehow protect him as he remembered.
The moment seemed to stretch and change. Jim felt his heart break for the young
teen that had been Blair and for the young man he'd become.   Yet, in this
captured moment, the two of them together, offering and accepting comfort, Jim
felt barriers fall on both sides, even as his heart began to swell with the
love it could now allow free reign.
Eventually, Blair ended the moment by slowly disentangling himself and
standing.
"Blair? Chief?"
As if to distance himself, Blair moved back several steps, then grinned almost
sheepishly. "That was... something, wasn't it?"
Not knowing what to say, Jim waited.
In a gesture Jim had come to recognize as his "I don't know what to do next"
move, Blair ran his hand through his hair and said, "I guess... I guess...
Michael was right, eh?"
Tilting his head, Jim realized that Blair was in desperate need of "normal". He
nodded, smiled, and said, "I'm thinking... yeah, he was right." He paused, then
couldn't help but ask, "You okay?"
The nervous tucking of hair behind his ear gave Jim his answer, but he listened
anyway.
"Oh, well, sure. This remembering gig isn't all it's cracked up to be, is it?
And by the way, that was a loaded question, wasn't it?"
Jim's smile gentled as he said, "Yes, it was, and no, remembering isn't all
that great sometimes."
Blair glanced down at the floor and gave a little bounce as he said quietly,
"No, no it isn't."
There was silence for a moment, a silence that seemed to Jim to be a good one,
a healthy one. He watched Blair, sensed the nervous energy and worry, and he
was struck with an idea. "Hey, why don't we go for a run?"
Blair looked up and, surprised, repeated, "A run?"
"Yeah, you know, that thing where two people in shorts, t-shirts and Nikes run
along the shoreline, each trying to outrun and outlast the other? Which, by the
way, is a real contest for us. I have the long legs, but you have the better
lungs."
"Uh-huh. Run. Us. Together. And just why would we want to do that now?"
Jim rose easily and walked the few steps to his friend's side. He placed a hand
on Blair's shoulder, felt it tense beneath his fingers, and said, "Because you
need it. Because you're about to start bouncing off the walls, and because
since officially joining Major Crime, you've been running regularly in order to
deal with the stress of trying to prove yourself on a continual basis. That
satisfy you as an answer?"
Blair blinked up at him, his mouth opening and closing until he finally said,
"Oh. Yeah. Okay."
With Jim taking slightly shorter strides and Blair longer, they stayed
together, pacing each other and running shoulder to shoulder. The street lights
that protected the running path along the shoreline illuminated their way. The
air had turned chilly, but it felt good on heated skin. As their feet pounded
the path, Jim waited for the moment when Blair's energy would no longer be
satisfied with the pace they were currently keeping. He knew full well that any
time now, Blair's anger would surface and, when it did, it would feed the
nervous energy and his partner would take off like a rocket. Jim would follow,
but he'd bet a year's salary he'd be unable to keep up. It was at times like
these that he was grateful for being what he was; a sentinel.
It took another fifteen minutes.
Jim felt it building, the thing that was Blair's anger. He heard Blair's heart
pick up, felt the heat of the anger roll from his body and saw the muscles
tense with the madness of it. He began a mental countdown...
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two...
Blair ducked his head, pulled his arms in, and took off.
Jim waited to the count of twenty, then sped up, but not enough to actually
catch him. Blair needed this and Jim would let him have it.
Heart pounding in sync with his feet, Blair ran. For a time, he'd been content
to stay with Jim, but then something had screamed from within, yelled a fury
that could only be assuaged by punishing speed. At first the anger seemed self-
directed; a left-over from the teenager he'd been.  But he was older now,
wiser, and thus smart enough to channel it to the proper target: Andrew McPhee.
Andrew McPhee, a man who took advantage of vulnerable young men and, in Blair's
case, a vulnerable boy. He was willing to bet Jim's salary that he hadn't been
the first, but he prayed that a young man in Seattle would be the last.
Unfortunately, Bobbie Heath was about to enter into a battle to bring the beast
down with Blair Sandburg; a liar and self-proclaimed fraud.
Lucky Bobbie.
The anger burned in his stomach, churning the acids that had started to build
up. He ran faster. Hatred flowed, but unlike his anger, some of it was directed
at himself as well as McPhee. Loathing directed at his stupidity fueled his
legs and he was soon passing the other joggers as if they were standing still.
Sweat trickled into his eyes, but he kept running, not even bothering to wipe
the moisture away. His hair slapped at the back of his neck, the world around
him faded and sounds disappeared. He could no longer hear his breathing nor the
soles of his shoes slapping the ground. Nothing existed except anger and hate.
He was running in red; dark, whirling, seething red.
Stunned, Jim watched Blair pass everyone and everything. Suddenly fearful, he
watched as Blair veered right and bounded off the path and finally down the
slope toward the rocky beach. Jim put on a burst of speed but confidence in his
sentinel abilities had placed him too far back to catch Blair before he reached
the beach.  Damn it.
He lost sight of his partner but fixated on his heartbeat and the sound of his
running; which told him that Blair was now making his way across rock.  Judging
by his sustained speed, Blair was heedless of the danger. Suddenly the sound
changed.  It was... squishy? Oh, shit, he was running in the water. In the
fucking cold water.
Jim dredged up the strength to add more speed as he crested the same bluff
Blair had used to cut a path down to the beach. He took the rocky slope fast,
sentinel sight picking his path for him.
Damn it!  His hearing told him that Blair was now... in the fucking water!
"I'm gonna kill you when I catch up to you, Sandburg," he muttered.
He hit the rocky shore and there was Blair - swimming.
He'd kicked his shoes off and they were several feet away from each other while
his glasses sat on a rock. Jim shook his head. This was so bad and he was going
to need help. As he closed the distance, he pulled his cell from his shorts
pocket and hit the speed dial for Simon.
The water felt great on Blair's overheated body and the coldness froze his
anger as his hate took a backseat to the concentration required to swim through
the heavy swells.  Blair wasn't a complete fool and he wasn't trying to do
anything more than dull the pain, so he swam parallel to the shore. His hair
was still tied back but more and more of it was finding its way free of the
leather binding it back into a ponytail. He didn't much care as long as he
could see the shoreline.
As he lifted his head to take in air, he spotted Jim, who was definitely not a
happy camper. He was running along the water's edge, waving his arms like some
kind of angry gorilla and Blair just knew he was yelling like a banshee. He put
his face back in the water, swam several strokes, then looked again.
Big huh-oh. Jim was taking off his shoes.
Blair's swim was apparently over. He headed for shore.
"You idiot! Are you nuts? Do you have any idea how cold that fucking water is?"
Blair stood dripping on the shore, shoes in one hand, glasses in the other. Jim
was still waving his arms and yelling like the predicted banshee so Blair
simply sat down and put on his shoes. When he was done, he got to his feet, put
on his glasses and started walking. As he passed Jim, he said softly, "You know
Bobbie is in just as much trouble now as he was before I remembered. I'm not
going to be a very good witness, all things considered."
Jim stopped yelling.
* * * * *
Simon stood on the bluff and watched his two detectives hike their way back up.
Sandburg was a mess, wet and shivering and Jim just looked... stunned. Blair
finally glanced up, spotted him, and stopped dead. Jim actually bumped into
him. Simon resigned himself to waiting a bit longer while the two men below
argued about his presence and what it had to signify.
He just hoped he didn't have to wait too long. Blair really looked cold.
"I can't believe you called Simon, man."
"Chief, we're miles from home, you're freezing and your jock strap is going to
turn to ice, which most definitely will not be comfortable, if you know what I
mean."
Blair stared at him through narrowed eyes. "I can't believe you just said
that."
"Sandburg, your lips are turning blue. Simon has blankets, a car," he wheedled,
"heat, coffee - "
"Did you say coffee?"
"Coffee. Very hot, very nice, coffee."
With a disgusted shrug, Blair said, "And you stopped walking why?"
Blair could see the blanket draped over Simon's arm and knew what was coming
before the words were out of Simon's mouth. Mentally, he followed along...
"Sandburg, are you insane? It's freezing. Put this... you know... around you
before we sell you to the Good Humor Man."
Okay, the Good Humor Man line was new. Blair took the blanket and wrapped it
around his shoulders but kept walking as he said snidely, "What's the Good
Humor Man?"
"Gee, Simon, I think that was a reference to our age," Jim said.
"My age, Ellison, not our age. And while I don't mind mysterious calls alluding
to a problem with Sandburg, I do find myself wanting to know what the hell is
going on."
"Is your car open, Simon?"
Both men watched as Blair approached the LHS. Simon nodded and said,
"Naturally. Now tell me what happened."
"He won't get inside."
"Of course he will..."
Simon's voice trailed off as Blair opened the back door and set the blanket on
the floor before closing the door and jogging back the way he and Jim had come.
"Shit," Jim muttered. "Simon, I need to - "
"Go, bring him back."
Jim started to jog after Blair, but suddenly Simon's arm was holding him back.
"Jim, this is... bad... isn't it?"
"It's... not good, Simon. It's not good."
Simon didn't make captain of Major Crime based on his good looks. He was damn
good at putting two and two together and coming up with four. In this instance,
the call from the ADA in Seattle plus Sandburg's current condition and Jim's
worry equaled... more than Simon wanted to accept. He sighed heavily and
started for his car.
"Damn it, Sandburg, stop right this minute," Jim hissed out as he came abreast
of his partner. "You need to warm up, you're turning blue."
Without breaking stride, Blair said, "Running will take care of that."
Jim felt his desperation rise. "Please, please stop."
Maybe it was the fact that he'd said 'please', or maybe his desperation leaked
through, but whatever it was, it stopped Blair. Jim let out a relieved breath
and moved to stand in front of his partner. "Thank you."
Blair kept his eyes fixed on something over Jim's shoulder as he said, "What?"
"You're angry, Blair, and I understand that, but... let me help. You've been
helping me for years, it's time for some payback, and for starters, we're
riding back to the loft in a heated car; Simon's to be exact."
He knew immediately that he'd said something wrong. Blair's eyes darkened and
his body language, which a moment before had been slightly guarded but
receptive, visibly withdrew.
"Right. Sure. Let's go."
He turned away and Jim experienced a flash of insight so bright, his eyes
reacted as they would, had someone turned on a huge search light in front of
him. He blinked back tears of pain while reaching out and snagging Blair's tank
top. "Blair... Please, Chief, something's wrong here.  I need to make it right,
to... to... "
Without turning, Blair said, "It's okay, Jim. Simon's waiting."
"Let him wait, damn it, this is more important--God!" He ran a hand through his
hair.  "I'm useless at this, but you've got to hear me. I want to help you,
Chief. I need to help you. You're hurting like I've never seen or imagined, and
when you hurt, I find that... that... I hurt."
He felt like an utter fool. Words were useless, and yet, they were all he had
at this moment. God, Blair looked so lost suddenly. His heart seemed to
constrict within his chest and an important truth suddenly scattered all the
meaningless chatter he could have said. "Blair, I love you, and I don't
think.... Look, you're the strongest man I know, but maybe, maybe you need me
right now, need the love I want so much to give to you, and I have this silly
idea that together, together, we can make it through this... maybe."
Blair still didn't turn, but there was a subtle change in his posture, a change
that gave Jim hope. Blair's next words gave it fuel.
"Just tell me you're not talking some stupid brothers-in-arms kind of love,
Jim. Just tell me that."
A grin tugged at his lips as he answered. "I'm not talking about some stupid
brothers-in-arms kind of love, Chief. Puppy love is out too. So is agape love,
although-- "
"So you love me."
The grin took over. "Yeah, yeah, I do."
"We have got to be the two weirdest men-- "
"Absolutely, no argument from me."
"Just so we've got that straight."
"We do, although... straight seems somewhat out of place, if you know what I
mean."
"I do, especially since we're not talking about the brothers-in-arms kind of
love, puppy love, Wonderburger love, or-- "
"Can we get you into Simon's car?"
They walked back to the waiting man and, after Simon put a plastic bag on the
back seat in typical Jim Ellison fashion, Blair slipped in, sat on the bag and
grinned as Jim slid in beside him.
"Home, Jeeves."
Simon glanced in the rear view mirror, growled, and said, "Don't push your
luck, Sandburg."
* * * * *
"So."
Simon nodded. "So."
Jim glanced at the hall, and consequently in the direction of the bathroom
where Blair was currently showering, and repeated, "So."
"So... you gonna tell me what's going on?"
"You know," Jim said without taking his eyes off the hall, and consequently the
bathroom where Blair was currently taking a shower.
"Yeah, I think I do, but I need to hear it, Jim. Blair's one of my people, and
more than that, he's my friend. I want to hear it."
Jim finally turned away from the hall and looked at his friend. He didn't think
he could say it completely; it was too raw, so he settled on the infamous
Ellison brevity. "You know the case in Seattle, with this Professor McPhee,
right?"
"I got the story, read the file, yeah."
"Ferguson couldn't find any other victims or at least anyone willing to come
forward, which means-- "
"McPhee will probably walk," Simon coached.
"Right. Unless she can find..."
He choked up. Just like that, his throat constricted and he couldn't finish.
"Another victim," Simon finished for him, his voice low and soft. "How old was
Sandburg?"
Jim swallowed hard and said, his voice husky, "Sixteen. First year at Rainier."
"Christ. How could he have hidden - "
"Apparently I'm not the only one to master the fine art of repression."
 
"His little swim says to me that those days are over."
"Yeah. I... was trying to... help," Jim paused and scrubbed both hands over his
face, then, "I told him about the victim in Seattle and while I was sharing the
case... he... it all... he was-- "
"I get it, Jim. I get it. So Sandburg remembers and you two decide to go for a
run? Sure, makes perfect sense."
Jim didn't miss the sarcasm. "Look, he was... and full of memories, and they
had no outlet and he was full of anger and all this energy!  Since the academy,
when he needs to, you know, gather himself together, he goes running.   So I
figured that was what we needed to do."
"I'm sorry, Jim. I'm just at a loss here, okay?"
"Join the club, Simon. Join the club."
In an effort to protect himself, Simon slipped into his captain mode. In a
detached voice, he said, "Like I said, I read the file. How similar-- "
"I don't know. We didn't... there was no chance to talk, I just wanted to get
him outside, get him running, which turned out to be a lousy idea."
Further discussion was halted as the bathroom door opened and Blair walked out.
He was dressed in navy blue sweats and was still towel drying his hair. He
paused mid-rub to gaze at the two men, who were staring at him. He shifted
uncomfortably from one foot to the other before saying, "I'm fine. Enough with
the looks."
"Sure you are, Sandburg," Simon commented rather nervously.
"Oh, for... look, I," he rubbed aimlessly at his hair, "really, it's okay. I'm
okay. Well, I'm not, but I am. I mean, hell, it was years ago, you know? And
sure, I realize that while it was years ago, I'm only really remembering it
now, but not really, I mean, deep down inside, it's... like... been there, you
know? I've been dealing--sort of. In my own way--sort of. But right now, there
are other things to worry about, and Simon, I need to go to Seattle, see this
kid, and talk to--"
Jim stood up quickly. "Whoa, back this train up, Engineer Bill," he held up a
hand, "and before you can say it, I watched the show in reruns, okay? "
Blinking at the abrupt change of subject, Blair wiped at his face and dropped
his arm, allowing the towel to hang from his fingertips. "Uhm, sure, Jim,
sure... and why do I need to back the train up?"
Walking around the couch and approaching Blair, Jim said, "Because I don't give
a flying fig for the kid in Seattle, and you are not putting yourself into a
situation where you're going to be hurt, that's why. So forget it--okay?
Ferguson is on her own."
Rising to his feet, Simon spoke before Blair could reply. "Now wait just a
minute.  Let's discuss this--"
"Not okay," Blair said hotly, ignoring Simon completely as he faced Jim. "You
don't believe a word you just said!  You do care about Bobbie--you care a great
deal. And you know damn well that I have to go, have to see him, if for no
other reason than to give him support; to let him know he isn't alone. As for
the case, well, we'll let this Ferguson have the final word, all right? And
Bobbie. They may well decide, after we explain my situation, that they'd be
better off without my testimony anyway. So one step at a time right now, okay?"
Jim stood with his mouth open while staring down at his partner.
"Come on, man," Blair said gently, "you know I'm right."
"Blair?"
"You know I am," he reiterated.
"Aw, damn."
The two men moved into each other's arms, but as Simon watched, he wondered who
was comforting whom.
In the end, they drove to Seattle the following Saturday, after a quick
confirming call to Ferguson. The decision to drive instead of fly was made by
Jim based on the simple truth that Blair needed more time, the kind that
driving could give him.
Now, with the scenery zipping by, Jim realized that in all their years
together, this was the longest they'd gone without conversation. One hour and
forty-five minutes. He spared a look at his partner before turning his
attention back to the road.
"Stop looking at me, Jim. I'm fine. Really."
"I know. I just... worry."
Blair gave a little shake of his head. "You're really something else, Jim. You
have the funniest way of offering comfort, yet, for me, it works. You watch,
you do little things to ease my way, you pretend everything is all right; but
all the while, you're one hundred percent aware of what's really going on. You
let your actions do your talking for you."
"And this is a surprise?"
Blair chuckled. "No, I guess not. Just... sometimes, I need to remember all the
things you're saying without saying them."
"There's Johnny Reb's. What say I pull in for lunch, then I'll test you on this
ability you seem to have regarding me and what I'm saying without saying it.
Sound good?"
With a smile, Blair nodded and said, "Sure, but only if we eat on the back
patio."
"Wouldn't have it any other way, Chief."
He made his left across the highway and into the parking lot. Johnny Reb's was
patterned after an old log cabin, the kind you'd have found in the South back
during the Civil War. It was famous for its ribs, catfish, Brunswick stew, and
the back deck where, for the pleasure of the customers, the Cascade Valley sat
gleaming in the noonday sun.
They walked inside where the deliberately discarded peanut shells on the floor
crunched under foot and the aroma of fresh baked biscuits warred with the
tantalizing smell of smoked barbecue pork. A tall young woman walked over,
menus in hand. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I have one booth in the back open,
and one table out on the patio."
"Patio, please," Jim said even as he placed one hand on the small of Blair's
back, ready to move toward their table.
"Follow me."
She led down the narrow aisle that separated the two sides of the restaurant,
and straight out the back screen door and onto the deck. Tables were placed
both next to the cabin wall, and next to a railing that overlooked the valley.
The roof extended out to the wooden railing, thus ensuring that all the tables
had shade. The hostess led them to a table in the very back corner, against the
railing, and with a terrific view. She handed them the menus and asked, "Are
either of you interested in our specials today?"
Jim glanced at Blair, who shook his head. "Guess not," Jim answered with a
smile.
"All right. Cynthia, your waitress, will be with you shortly. Can I get you
anything to drink in the meantime?"
"The strawberry lemonade for me," Blair said, eyes on the menu.
"I'll have the same."
She nodded and walked back inside.
"Bet I can guess what you're going to have," Jim teased.
"Like that's hard? We both have the same things when we come out here."
"Oh, yeah? Maybe today, I'll be different."
Blair rolled his eyes. "Right. Sure, and the Easter Bunny is chartreuse."
Jim looked at his partner strangely, then said, "You really are odd, Sandburg."
"Yeah, and you're having the babyback ribs, coleslaw, fries, and peach cobbler
for dessert."
Jim gave his menu a little shake and said, "Humph. Maybe, maybe not." He then
pretended to peruse the items listed with great interest.
"Hi, guys. You ready to order?"
Blair glanced up at their waitress and said, "I'll have the catfish, coleslaw,
and the Brunswick stew."
He looked pointedly at Jim, who hemmed and hawed, then said sheepishly, "I'll
have the babybacks - "
"Coleslaw, fries, and the peach cobbler," Blair finished for him with a grin.
"All right then. Did Kathy Lee get your drink orders?"
"Yes, thank you," Blair answered, his eyes gleaming with mirth.
The girl walked away, leaving the two men alone.
"Babybacks, imagine that," Blair said just before he took a sip of his water.
"Oh, shut up."
Bones littered Jim's plate, the coleslaw was gone, as were the fries. Blair's
plate was just as empty, his catfish and stew a fond memory. Two coffees had
just been delivered and they were both waiting for their desserts, Blair having
decided at the last minute to join Jim in the cobbler department.
The afternoon sun glittered on the valley, setting the mustard flowers and
wallflowers ablaze. The scent of the meadow below drifted up to the patio and
Jim inhaled deeply. He had the sudden, ridiculous feeling that this was the
calm before the storm, but he had no idea what form the storm would ultimately
take.
"Hey, a buck for your thoughts, man."
"Just enjoying the afternoon, Chief. And getting ready to test you and your
ability to know what I'm saying when I'm not speaking. You up for that?"
"Hell, yeah. In fact, let me plunge in. For the last several weeks, you've been
saying, 'I want to jump your bones, Sandburg,' and for the last several days,
you've been saying, 'I love you more than the Jags, Chief, and I love you
enough to wait until this is over.' " He waited a split second, then asked,
"How'd I do?"
The heat rushed to Jim's face and he had the impulse to stick his finger
between his collar and neck and pull - hard. Instead, he nodded dumbly.
Blair blew on his nails, then buffed them on his shirt. "Man, I'm good."
Jim wrapped his fingers around his water glass and, eyes on the swirling
pattern of moisture on the shiny table, said, "I never have to try to figure
out what you're saying, Chief, 'cause you always... just say it...."
His voice trailed off and he held his breath.
"Well, then, I guess I should say something like... I love you big time, Jim,
and yeah, I love you more than the Jags too. Way more. And when this whole
thing is over, bones-jumping is first on my schedule, so be prepared."
"You could have said something earlier, Chief. If you had, bones-jumping would
be old hat by now."
Blair favored him with a 'You're kidding' look and said, "Jim, trust me, with
me as your bed partner, it will never be old hat."
A calm settled over Jim as he said, "I'll hold you to that, Chief."
Whatever happened, he knew that Blair had just told him a great deal more than
his words had. Who said Blair Sandburg couldn't speak between the lines?
* * * * *
"You're jiggling, Chief," Jim said softly, resisting the urge to place his hand
on the bouncing leg.
"Sorry."
"Detectives Ellison and Sandburg? Mrs. Ferguson will see you now."
Both men rose, but only Sandburg started to follow. When he realized that Jim
hadn't moved, he turned back. "Jim?"
"Figure you'd prefer privacy for this, Chief. How 'bout I wait out here?"
"I... okay, maybe that's for the best."
Jim sat down as Blair walked into Ferguson's office. When the door shut, he
focused in on his partner. There was privacy... and there was privacy.
Adele Ferguson stood and crossed in front of her desk, hand outstretched.
"Detective Sandburg, it's good to meet you, and thank you for coming."
They shook and then she pointed out a chair. "Please, have a seat."
Blair sat down and felt the nerves he'd kept at bay, attack. He gripped the
wooden arms to keep his hands from shaking.
"I've set it up for Bobbie to arrive at four, which gives us time for you to
fill me in. Based on what you hinted at on the phone, I did some research and
you're right, this could be a very tough sell to any jury."
"I'm not here with any expectations of being your other victim, Mrs. Ferguson.
I guess I just want to help Bobbie."
Her expression softened as she regarded the man across from her. She nodded and
gave him a small smile. "Shall we get started then?" At his nod, she punched
her intercom and said, "Estelle, if you'd come in now?"
A moment later, a woman with a portable steno machine entered. She set herself
up next to Ferguson's desk, using the corner to position her machine. At a nod
from the woman, Ferguson said, "You know the drill, Detective, so why don't I
start with a few questions?"
Blair nodded, swallowed... and it began.
With no shame, Jim listened. And he knew that Blair knew he was listening. Many
times in the next hour he wanted to shut his sense of hearing down, but he
didn't. He cringed inwardly, closed his eyes several times, and held back the
urge to rush in and stop Blair from baring his soul with the new memories. But
again, he didn't. Blair's tone never beckoned, never wavered from its task of
the unemotional telling of his experience with Professor McPhee, nor of his
life since, and his few minutes of fame, thanks to a New York publisher and the
media.
When Blair was done, Jim had a full understanding of how lucky Bobbie Heath had
been.
"So you never saw Professor McPhee again, Detective?"
Blair shook his head. "Not that I remember. I did the sick thing for several
days, dropped the class, then went back to school. No more art classes, no
reason to be on that side of the campus. It's very strange to think back on it
now, to realize what I repressed. I'm sure if I'd been an art major, things
would have been very different, but as it was..."
He let his voice trail off and gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.
"As it was," Ferguson finished for him, her voice soft, "you were sixteen years
old and your mind handled it the only way it could, for your sake."
"Yeah, well, that doesn't help Bobbie, or any of the other victims of Professor
McPhee, does it?"
"I don't know yet, Detective." Before she could say more, a voice came over the
intercom announcing Bobbie's arrival. She stood up, dismissed the recorder and,
when the young woman had left, said, "Are you ready to meet him?"
Blair simply nodded.
Bobbie sat in the small office attached to the ADA's. He was nervous and, at
the moment, wishing he'd said okay to his father's request to be with him. He
knew Detective Sandburg was already in with Adele but instead of calming him,
the knowledge only served to increase his nervousness.
The other victim.
Man, that sounded so... melodramatic. So, what, Victorian? His girlfriend would
laugh at that. Like, he even knew what that meant. Like, if he had a
girlfriend. Which he didn't. But he wanted one. That was good, wasn't it?
Definitely good according to his therapist.
Victim. It's what we both are, he said to himself.
But therein lay the cause of his nervousness.
Meeting the 'other victim'.
It had to be a good thing that the guy was a detective, right? A cop? He had to
be okay, then, right? Healthy, strong, and you know... masculine? Like... me?
Okay, that was highly prejudicial, Bobbie.
Right. Just because some fuck head of a professor had... that didn't mean
anything about him. It didn't mean he was gay, or sick, or wanted it, or
anything like that. Did it?
"Now, Bobbie, you know those thoughts are normal. We've talked about it and you
know inside that you didn't want it, that you were the victim of a predator.
You were physically assaulted and it had nothing to do with your sexuality
either. Gay, straight, bisexual, you'd still be the victim, that wouldn't
change."
Right. Doctor Robbins was right. But still, what if this guy...
He couldn't finish the thought. His fears about meeting the cop from Cascade
were rooted in seeing himself in the man. If the cop was cool, there was hope
for him, and if he wasn't, if the guy was damaged goods, barely holding it
together, then ...
He suddenly stood, wanting nothing more than to escape before he could see his
future.
The door opened and Gail, Adele's assistant, poked her head in and smiled
gently. "Bobbie, she's ready for you."
Too late. Suck it up, Bobbie. This is it.
He walked through the door and into the ADA's office.
A man was in the chair next to her desk. Bobbie could see the long hair, tied
back in a ponytail, and he thought, "How weird. A cop with long hair."
Maybe a Serpico thing?
The man stood and Bobbie's heart fell to his feet. The guy was short. Bobbie
hovered at six feet; this guy was what, five seven? Eight? Crap. Did they let
guys that short be cops?
A hand was offered and, almost blindly, Bobbie took it.
Surprise number two. The man's grip was good; firm and strong with no sweaty
palms. Bobbie looked at him. Really looked at him.
"Hi, Bobbie. I'm Detective Blair Sandburg."
Blue eyes, not unlike his own, stared up at him. Bobbie searched for the truth
in them, for a clue to his future, and found a warm empathy.
"Uhm, hi. This is weird, isn't it?" he said, drawn forward by the steady gaze
of Detective Sandburg.
"Yeah, weird is the word that covers it, all right," the detective said with a
grin.
"Why don't I leave you two alone for a few minutes, give you a chance to get
acquainted?" Adele suggested.
Both men nodded, neither really paying attention as she slipped out unnoticed.
Bobbie moved to the other chair and they both sat down. He didn't know what to
say, so he fiddled with his tie.
"You doing okay, Bobbie?"
The question was asked matter-of-factly, man to man. No dripping sympathy, no
quivering voice, no tears threatening, like with his mom. His chin lifted
fractionally as he said, "I'm cool. Really."
The answering smile made him duck his head and he could feel his face flush.
"Yeah, Bobbie, me too."
There was a moment of silence, then, "McPhee is a real prick, isn't he?"
Bobbie's head shot up and he found himself staring into those eyes again, and
he couldn't help it, he smiled broadly. "Yeah, yeah, he is."
The eyes staring back at him softened slightly, then seemed to darken with pain
and regret. "I'm sorry I didn't remember sooner, not to mention when it
happened. I could have... maybe... saved you from having to go through this."
Bobbie remembered Adele telling him and his family that Detective Sandburg
hadn't remembered the assault until very recently, and he wondered about that.
He didn't think he'd ever forget.
"You were at Rainier, right?"
"Yes, Bobbie, I was. I was a freshman."
"Like me."
"Yeah, like you."
"You lived with your folks? Or were you involved with a fraternity?"
"I was on my own. My mom was living in Louisiana at the time."
Bobbie frowned slightly. The man didn't look old enough to have started college
late, not that he was all that good a judge of ages, but still, the guy looked
about the same age as his cousin, Tony, who wasn't even thirty yet. But wait,
that wasn't possible. This guy had to be in his early thirties, right? Sure.
Maybe mid-thirties. And yet...
As if sensing his internal questions, Detective Sandburg said quietly, "I was
sixteen, and no, my mom doesn't know--yet. Just getting a handle on it myself,
you know?"
Sixteen. Jesus. Sixteen. Why, he'd been nothing more than a kid, like his
little brother. Just a kid. Hell, he'd be nineteen in two weeks, and this guy
had been a boy when it happened. Wasn't that what he was always telling Scotty?
"You're still a kid, Scotty, okay? Hell, mom and dad still think of me as a kid
and I'm almost nineteen. You're too young for everything. You can't even drive
without an adult in the car, okay? Eighteen'll come soon enough, so chill."
For all his youth, Bobbie Heath understood the differences between a sixteen-
year-old and an eighteen-year-old and they were vast. Huge. Why, he'd no more
date a sixteen-year-old...
His mind veered away from the idea of dating and he found himself staring hard
at the man next to him. Bobbie liked the detective's face, the broad forehead
and the gentle eyes, but he didn't look like any cop Bobbie had ever seen. And
he looked... young.
"So... you're like, what, not even thirty yet?"
Smiling, Blair said, "I'm twenty-nine. Be thirty in a couple of months though.
The big three-oh." His grin widened. "Don't feel that old. Well, maybe
sometimes I feel older, more like fifty."
"'Cuz you're a cop?"
"Actually, I chalk it up to my partner. He runs me ragged, and trying to cover
his back ain't easy. He thinks he's Superman or something."
There was that smile again, and Bobbie had to respond with one of his own.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all, he thought. He spotted the sadness
again, just barely floating in the detective's eyes and, on impulse, and with
the need to reassure, he said, "I'd have forgotten too, Detective Sandburg, if
I'd been alone and only sixteen."
For the first time since arriving at City Hall, Jim relaxed. Blair and Bobbie
were talking now; young Mister Heath apparently over his worries about Blair.
He wasn't a bit surprised that the two men were helping each other.
Of course, Blair hadn't approached the subject of the trial or the wisdom of
his testifying--yet.
Bobbie listened to Detective Sandburg's story about his dissertation and he
felt anger burning in his gut. No way. Just no way.
"So that's it, Bobbie. That's why I thought we'd better meet. You have a right
to know that any testimony I provide could ultimately hurt you."
"You would really have passed off a lie just to receive a few letters behind
your name?" Bobbie asked, shocked to his core that this man he'd already
started to trust would have done such a thing.
Before Blair could answer, the door from Adele's outer office opened and a tall
man with icy blue eyes entered.
"No, Bobbie, Blair would never have done such a thing. Not for a 'few letters'
behind his name, not for any reason. And by the way, I'm the partner who thinks
he's Superman." He turned to Blair and added, "Where do you come up with that
stuff anyway? I mean, Superman?"
Blair sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, then made a shooing motion. "Jim,
go. Out. Vamoose."
Jim had the decency to look cowed. He nodded, but added, "You're a smart kid,
Bobbie. Figure this out." Then he was gone and they were alone again.
Bobbie stared at the closed door. It was a heavy door. The room was very
private. He knew that. There was no way that man could have heard...
But of course, he had heard. All of it. Everything.
Blair glanced up and saw the horror expressed on Bobbie's face and he could
guess where the intelligent young man was headed, thought-wise. He'd better do
something. "Jim--the idiot who just walked in--is my partner and he read the
file on your case days ago, all right? He and Mrs. Ferguson talked about it
when Jim first began to suspect that I might have been one of McPhee's victims.
He didn't hear anything today that he didn't already know."
The words penetrated and slowly Bobbie let out the breath he'd been holding.
Then the full import of Blair's words hit.
 
He'd heard. That man, Blair's partner, had heard. He'd heard.
"You didn't lie in your dissertation, did you?" he finally asked, awe coloring
his tone.
"Bobbie--"
"It's okay, you don't have to answer. I get it now."
There was a lengthy pause as Bobbie processed everything and Blair mentally
killed the Sentinel of the Great City. Finally, Bobbie said, "I guess I can see
the real difficulty now, Detective. The person who would be hurt by your
testimony would be... you."
Now it was Blair's turn to be shocked. "Bobbie, that isn't true, nor is it a
consideration. The only thing we have to decide is whether my testimony will
hurt the case Mrs. Ferguson has against McPhee."
"I disagree, sir."
Looking askance, Blair said, "Sir?"
"You're older," Bobbie said with a teasing grin. "And you're a police
detective," he added more seriously. "You've earned the 'sir'... sir. And you
are the one who will be hurt. You'll be trying to do the right thing, just like
your press conference, and you'll pay for it. Your reputation will pay for it,
which means your partner will pay for it, and even the police department. I'm
right, aren't I?"
"Bobbie, my reputation couldn't possibly suffer any more than it has. And as
for my partner and the Cascade PD, well, they'll manage. So again, the only
consideration is how much damage will be done to the case."
"Then I guess it's time to get Mrs. Ferguson's opinion, isn't it? I'm willing
to go with whatever she advises, but if I had my choice," he glanced down at
his hands, suddenly embarrassed, "if I had my choice, you'd be there with me
and we'd take McPhee down."
Throat closing up, Blair could only nod.
* * * * *
"It'll be rough, Detective. The Defense will attack your honor, your past,
they'll use the press conference against you--"
"Technically, my partner did nothing wrong. He hadn't turned in his
dissertation, hadn't made any claims," Jim said tersely.
Adele Ferguson looked at the three men across from her and gave a small shake
of her head. They looked like an army. Bobbie sat on one side of Detective
Sandburg, Detective Ellison on the other. Amazing. And she wasn't blind; she
could see the direction Bobbie wanted to go. Time for some honesty, brutal
though it may be.
"He did lie, Detective. He passed off a false document for months, years even,
as his dissertation. He told the world he fully intended to turn it in, that he
was willing to commit fraud for his doctorate, and that his dissertation was,
as I recall, a 'nice piece of fiction'. The fact that he finally did the right
thing, when under pressure, won't mitigate the facts, Detective."
Jim bristled at her words and leaned forward, ready to do battle for his
partner. A hand on his arm stopped him.
"Jim, down."
"I'm not a dog, Sandburg."
"So back off and stop baring your teeth to the nice lady."
"God, you're a pain, Chief."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, the fact is, she's right."
The two men looked at each other, and Jim was the one to finally break away,
the truth of Blair's words too much for him.
"I disagree. If anyone cares."
Everyone looked at Bobbie, who smiled disarmingly. "I think the jury will
believe Detective Sandburg. I think they won't be able to not believe him. And
if this jury believes in him, won't it make it easier in his work later on?"
Jim stared at the young man, marveling at the intelligence. God, he was so much
like Blair it was scary.
"I don't think future trials where I might be called upon to testify are really
the issue here, Bobbie," Blair said, a smile of thanks nevertheless on his
lips.
"Again, I disagree. This trial is about both of us, our future and our past. We
need to do this, for ourselves, for other kids, and for what happens next in
our lives."
His words humbled the three adults in the room. Out of the mouths of babes.
Blair cleared his throat, glanced away for a moment, then said, "I think... I
think I should testify."
Adele clasped her hands together, bowed her head a moment, then said in a voice
rough with emotion, "I agree, Detective. I don't know what will happen, but
it's the right thing to do."
* * * * *
"It'll be weeks before the trial, Chief."
"I know. Maybe months. We both know how lawyers and continuances can go. And
McPhee's lawyer will take it to the nth degree."
"Agreed. Which is a mistake, but he doesn't know it. The facts will only become
clearer in Bobbie's mind, and in--"
"Mine."
"Yep."
They were on their way back to Cascade following dinner with Bobbie and his
father, who had proved himself a wise man by going along with Bobbie's desire
that Blair testify. The full moon brightened the highway and scared away the
dark night shadows.
"It seems strange that we're trusting our secret to an eighteen-year-old," Jim
mused.
"Does it?"
Jim glanced over at his partner and smiled in the dark cab of the truck. "No, I
guess not."
"You know what I'm thinking, Jim?"
"What?"
"I'm thinking it's time for bones-jumping."
"You know what I think, Chief?"
"Yeah, I do. You're thinking it will be time when we get home, because you
don't want to mess up the seats in the truck, and you're too old to do it in a
vehicle, and a bed would be so much better."
"You got it, Chief. You got it."
"I know. I always do."
End
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