ROUGH TRADE

The shower felt good. The water was hot and plentiful, the pressure hard. Blair lathered his body thoroughly, trying to wash away the misery of his captivity. He shampooed his hair and stood directly under the spray, letting the water rain over him. Then he caught sight of Lee Brackett standing in the bathroom doorway, watching him, steel-dark eyes recording every move.

Blair shuddered, sweeping his hair back from his face. God, wouldn't he be allowed to keep something in tact? Some semblance of privacy or dignity? Despair swelled to close his throat; he choked it down.

He'd learned that Brackett's passive spectator could erupt into punisher within a heartbeat. Two days ago, he had struggled out of a drugged sleep only to find a reality worse than nightmare. Reality left clues, the kind you used to build a case ... the telltale aches, marks on his skin, the state of his clothing – the stale scent of sex and sweat and liquor permeating the room. A stained sheet. A used condom discarded in the trash.

Knowing what Brackett had done to him was like waking to a disease, something horrible and lethal. Loss burned through him like a fever. In a matter of hours, everything had been taken from him ... Jim, his home. His body.

Blair had launched himself into the next room. Lee Brackett had been sitting by the fireplace, holding a mug of coffee. The only expression he could read in that casually predatory face was curiosity.

That was the next shock. What he'd done – it didn't mean anything. Blair could have handled smug or triumph, any expression that might have indicated Brackett felt something, that he understood the pain he'd caused. But no.

Nothing.

A door had opened inside Sandburg sending all the rage to rush out. He had hurled himself at Brackett and hit him so hard the impact raced up his arm like fire. But it was as if someone else felt that strike. Blair hit him again.

In one explosive move, Brackett was on his feet, grabbing Blair by the front of his shirt, fist slashing out in a return attack. The blow snapped Blair's head back and to the side; the taste of blood burst into his mouth like a hot spring.

But it didn't stop him. Blair lunged at him again. Brackett blocked the blow, kicking the Guide's feet out from under him. Falling to the floor, pain finally registered. Blair shook his head. Spat blood. Tried to get up.

Brackett kicked him again, striking his hip, a calm and calculated move that left Blair writhing. Suddenly instead of attacking, he was scrambling to get away, to keep out of range of the blows that chased him across the room.

But there was no escape. Blair could feel the Rogue's presence, a malignant shadow falling across his flesh followed by brutal pain. Brackett slashed down at him, a sweeping blow across the side of his face. Blair choked and twisted away, scuttling backward. Again he tried to get to his feet. Again, he failed. Brackett scored a kick to his shoulder as Blair backed into the wall. He cried out, wedging himself into the corner, raising his arms to protect himself. Brackett knocked his hands away, forcing him to face him. Blair didn't know if he would throw up or pass out.

Maybe both.

Lee Brackett hunched down in front of him, arms crossed over his knees. Blair cowered back, trying to press himself through the wood and out of the cabin. Anywhere but here.

"Don't ever do that again," Brackett said calmly. "No more emotional outbursts. I don't need to hurt you but I will if I have to."

"You didn't have to rape me either," Blair spat out, swallowing blood. "But you did."

"To the victor, the spoils. Do you have any doubt that I've won this hand?"

Blue eyes narrowed, tearing. "You fucking bastard."

"Not at all. Technically, Mr. Sandburg, you're the bastard here. If you're going to hurl insults, try not to abuse your intelligence. My parents are married. I know my father."

"Great. Does your father know what kind of murdering rapist shit his son is?"

"Now that's better. I wouldn't push it, though." Brackett stood and stretched out a hand to help him up. Shaking, Blair turned his face to the wall. "Suit yourself." Brackett walked away.

Eventually, Blair had staggered to his feet. Using the wall as a crutch, he'd managed to get himself into the bathroom where he'd promptly passed out.

That had been two days ago.

Two long, silent days and nights - those had come and gone as well. Blair kept to himself as much as possible. He didn't talk and, except for watching him incessantly, Brackett didn't force contact.

At first Blair was relieved by the silence, nursing his wounds in near-solitude. But there were too many questions and too much time to think. Where was Jim, was he all right? Did Simon get to him in time?

He tried to consider the situation logically. Scientifically. Whatever had happened to Jim, it had to be bad. His Sentinel would have been here by now if he could. There would have been some kind of action going on, not this miserable waiting.

It left him wondering how badly Jim was hurt and just what was being done to help him. What kind of chemical crap were they pumping into his partner? Didn't they know that kind of stuff would kill him ... if it had any effect at all? No one knew how to take care of James Ellison the way he did. That was Blair's job. It killed him to think of Jim hurt and needing him, that he wasn't there to help.

Not-knowing was the worse kind of torture. During this last day, Blair had been willing to offer anything for information. He told himself he didn't have to care what was done to him.

When Sandburg worked at that really hard, he could almost make himself believe it.

Now, standing under the shower, Blair ran a hand over the bruises on his arms. His shoulder. Weariness brought tremors as much as fear. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat – he wouldn't chance being drugged again.

And he couldn't stop Brackett from watching him but he could stay clean, God damn it. He could refuse to cringe every time the man made a move. Blair closed his eyes, fighting to keep his resolve. He had never been so afraid, so alone. It was as if a black well of despair had opened at his feet. One small step and terror would eat him alive. Brackett would win.

No.... He shook his head fiercely and turned off the shower. You can't think like that. Jim will find you, you'll get home.

Blair stepped out of the shower and reached for the towel. Brackett slipped it off the rack and held it open. Smiled. Sandburg froze on the spot. Dripping. He couldn't make himself move.

Brackett stepped forward, enfolding him. Blair clenched his teeth. The pretense of intimacy was grotesque. Degrading. Again, he felt tears form behind his eyelids. I want Jim, he thought helplessly. I want to go home. Want Jim....

"You've got to eat," Brackett was speaking, murmuring into his ear. "Try to get some sleep. You need to keep your strength up, professor."

"Don't call me 'professor,'" Blair corrected automatically. "I'm a grad student. A teaching fellow."

"Excuse me," Brackett apologized. "But you could have been a professor already if Ellison had allowed you to publish your findings."

Blair remained silent.

"Speaking of which," the Rogue continued, carefully drying bruised flesh. "Jim should be out of the hospital soon and off to the rescue. No, don't thank me. You just looked like you could use some good news."

"Jim's in the hospital?" Blue eyes widened, stricken. "God...."

"He's all right." Brackett's hands wandered over him, turning him in the mockery of an embrace.

"Stop it." Blair tried to pull away.

"Oh, come on. Give me another chance." Brackett trapped him with the towel, keeping him close. He grinned, a perfect expression of charm and contrition. "Let me fix you dinner. We ought to talk ... clear the air. Don't you think it's time we got to know one another a little better?"

"So now it starts. Classic textbook conversion of the hostage," Blair snapped. "Save it, man. We are not on the same side. I'm not even sure we belong to the same species."

The man blinked, withdrawing as if he'd been hurt. As if I could, Blair thought bitterly.

"You won't even give me a chance to defend myself?" Brackett asked quietly, suddenly serious.

"Like you gave me a chance?"

"What if I told you I was sorry?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Fair enough." Weariness crept into his eyes, his voice. "I wouldn't believe me either."

He lifted a hand to cup Blair's chin, his thumb stroking along his jaw. The faintest thread of current thrummed between them, almost as if Brackett had thrown a switch. Blair's eyes widened with shock; again he tried to step back. Couldn't.

"Yes ... it's just as you wrote about it," Brackett said, his voice hoarse. "'Touch provides the catalyst between Sentinel and Guide. Physical proximity charges the connection.'"

"You cracked my files?" Blair's mouth had gone dry.

"We've got internet access even in the pen and plenty of time to use it."

Blair shook his head, reeling. Lee Brackett had read his private files, all the information about Sentinels and Guides. The history, his experiments, the actual work he and Jim had performed. All the personal data.... Suddenly he found himself breathing as if he'd run a marathon. Just when you think it can't get any worse....

"Why are you telling me this?" Blair demanded.

"Because sooner or later you had to know."

"Why?"

"You can feel the answer to that, Mr. Sandburg." Brackett caressed the line of his throat. "You must have wondered why I'd pursued your sentinel material to begin with. You're too smart not to figure it out. And too logical for all your passionate enthusiasm. But your priorities are already mapped out. There's no room on your agenda for wild cards like me."

"Wild card doesn't begin to cover it, man." Blair found his voice with difficulty. "You're a monster."

"Absolutely. Just like Jim Ellison."

"No! No way, man. You're nothing like him."

"But I'm the one who's here now. I'm the one who needs you." The expression that locked onto Brackett's face was grim. Haunted. "You've got to help me. You're the only one."

Blair held his gaze, unwavering. God, you could almost believe him. That, he understood, was the real danger. "If you're looking for salvation, talk to a rabbi," he said. "Or a priest. Whoever. Just leave me out of it."

"You could do that? You could just turn your back on me?"

"Two days ago I watched you kill your partner. You just shot him down. You were almost laughing when you did it. You kidnapped and tortured my partner. Then raped and beat the hell out me. No, man, I am not stupid enough to turn my back on you. But you are not my responsibility, no matter what your potential. You can't trick me enough to think you should be."

Brackett cocked his head. "So that's it, then?"

"No way. You better believe Jim is going to find you. And when he does, he's going to kill you."

The Rogue's smile returned as he stepped away. He patted Blair's unbruised cheek. "Ever the optimist, aren't you, Mr. Sandburg? I can see you're looking forward to that."

Yeah, well, that's the bitch of it.... Blair winced, gathering the towel around him. I am.

* * *

In a secured, private room at Cascade General, Jim Ellison finally opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. Detective Brown sat nearby reading a mystery novel. The lamplight hit his eyes like lasers. Groaning, Jim raised a hand to his face.

"Turn off the light," he said. And blinked. The sound of his voice continued after his lips had stopped moving, echoing in his head five or six times.

"Ellison...." Brown started up in his chair. "You're awake."

Brown's voice rang on several beats longer as well. Jim scowled, trying to work up enough spit to swallow. His throat felt as if he'd tried to chow down on the Sahara. "What's going on?" he croaked out.

"Well, it looks like you're going to live," Brown told him, smiling. He closed the book and placed it on a table.

"Where's Sandburg?"

"Still missing. We haven't heard anything yet."

"Simon?"

"At the station."

"I want to see him."

"The Captain wants to see you, too," Brown said. "But maybe the doctor wants to have a look first."

Doctors.... The scowl deepened, his jaw clenched. "Okay." Jim closed his eyes. "But get Simon."

Some hours passed before Jim opened his eyes again. But at least this time, he'd managed to remain aware. He stayed conscious of the medical personnel who'd infiltrated the room and rallied himself enough to answer their questions and let them proceed with their examinations. But he saved his strength for Simon.

By the time his captain arrived, it was dark outside. Drowsing, Ellison could sense his approach from the scent of cigar smoke and coffee that clung to him like a familiar blanket. There was another scent with him as well, something like vanilla and chemicals ... medicine.

"Jim," Simon said softly. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been hit with a truck." Ellison accepted the offered cup of ice water and took a sip. "Five or six times."

"That's understandable," a woman in medical scrubs said. The vanilla belonged to her, an attractive, older black woman with carefully coiffed hair. The smile she gave him was warm and genuine. "Cornelia Mutts," she introduced herself. "Captain Banks has apprised me of your situation. Do you feel like talking, Detective?"

"Actually, I feel more like listening." He did, too. The echoes had decreased to about two beats per word. But his eyes still burned. Jim blinked against the artificial light.

Dr. Mutts nodded, sympathetic. "Well," she began. "For starters, if your captain and his men hadn't have acted as quickly as they did, you'd be dead. If the EMT's in the ambulance hadn't have worked as hard as they did, you'd be dead. If you weren't as strong and healthy as you already are –"

"Yes. Right. Dead. I get the drift," Jim broke in. "What's the prognosis?"

"Well, we don't really know. A few broken blood vessels, some nerve and tissue damage but we're not sure of the extent. Your heart actually stopped once you hit the ER. Did you know that?"

"No."

"It shouldn't have happened. But we've never treated anyone with your problems before – this kind of long-term assault to the nervous system, the electrolyte imbalance, the effects on your sight and hearing. Captain Banks tells me you're very sensitive in those areas."

Jim nodded, impatient, willing her to finish.

"Let me assure you, your prognosis is excellent. With proper treatment and therapy, you're going to come back from this," Dr. Mutts concluded in her comforting voice. "But we'll need to watch you a while longer in order to ascertain your specific requirements."

Ellison wasn't comforted. "How long have I been out?"

"It's going on three days," Simon told him gently.

"And you've heard nothing from Brackett? Sandburg's still with him?"

"The way we see it, Brackett knows you've been incapacitated," Simon explained. "You're in the hospital. He won't start the game again until he knows you're ready to play. Sandburg's the only asset he's got right now. Brackett won't hurt him, Jim."

"Bullshit." The word came out as sharp as a blow. "Save me the snow job, Captain. We both know what Brackett can do."

Simon had the grace to falter under blue heat. "Okay," he began again. "Let's talk. Doctor - if you'll excuse us...."

Cornelia Mutts hesitated a moment, then nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. Simon dragged a chair closer to his friend's bed. Ellison looked like hell, eyes bloodshot, face shadowed and still ghastly pale. Any remaining color had been leeched from his skin by the florescent light. He looked beaten and bad tempered and completely unapproachable.

Simon sat down. He pulled out a plastic evidence bag containing the note Brackett had left for Blair and handed it over.

"We found this in the restroom beside Wingfield's body," Simon said. "Before you ask, Wing's fine. They only zapped him with a stun gun. We figure Sandburg dropped this for us to find."

Jim looked at the note, one line of stark printing that read: 'Looking for your partner? Try the men's room. Five minutes. L.B.' followed by Blair's fluid script, 'Simon, you know I've got to do this. Sorry. Don't worry - Jim will find me.'

Ellison closed his eyes, his sense of outrage cutting through the haze of pain and drugs. Of course Blair would trade himself to save his partner. Brackett would count on that. Jim had been used as a pawn in the most brutal game. He thought of Blair waiting for him, alone. Helpless. The image brought on a rush of emotion – hatred, fear, a loathsome sense of vulnerability.

Simon leaned forward, placing his hand on Jim's arm. "Are you all right?" he asked, concerned. "Do you want me to call a doctor?"

"No." Jim opened his eyes.

"We don't have to do this now," Simon assured him.

"Yes we do."

Simon nodded. The resolution that laced his friend's voice was irrefutable. Here was a victim's personal rage compounded by the determination of a good, proud cop.

"Okay." Banks leaned back in his chair. Quickly, he described events leading to Jim's rescue at the warehouse. "We found the van. And we found Brackett's initial getaway car, a dark green Jeep Cherokee. It was pretty shot up. Apparently, Sandburg helped himself to your back up gun again. We think he must have tried to force Brackett into revealing your location and letting him go. Brackett left the gun in the glove compartment. Don't worry," he added quickly at Ellison's first look of alarm. "We didn't detect any sign of injury. We figure Brackett switched vehicles again. He knew we'd have an APB out on the Cherokee."

"Any idea where he's holed up?"

"Not so far. Everything we know is going out on bureau teletype. I've got Records compiling all known data on Brackett and his associates, his accounts. But that's almost less than useless. The Feds seized all his assets when they arrested him. Of course, knowing Brackett's international operation, there had to be more. Especially with his background in covert ops. Problem is, the scope is just too broad. We don't have the resources to cover it all, not without making a lifework out of it."

"Sounds like we're building a haystack to find a needle, sir."

"No ... no, it's much worse than that," Simon told him, grim. "You know I contacted the Feds right away. I wanted to know why they neglected to tell us about Brackett's escape. Why we weren't warned."

"And?" Ellison burned with curiosity and suspicion.

"In a word – they didn't think there wasn't anything to tell. According to the Feds, Lee Brackett is dead."

"What?"

"Brackett was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer shortly after his incarceration," Simon explained. "No one is telling me exactly what it is mainly because no one was able to figure out exactly what was wrong. But he was sent out, under guard, for treatment at another facility."

Jim sipped at his water. "What happened?"

"An explosion, followed by a fire that almost gutted the place. Fifteen people died, patients, guards, medical personnel. Another 145 were injured. Brackett was listed as one of the fatalities."

"He's not dead!" Ellison leaned forward, eyes blazing. "He escaped! This is exactly the kind of stunt he'd pull. Brackett would take out a whole hospital if he had to."

"Whoa - down, Cujo!" Simon held up a restraining hand. "You don't have to convince me. It's the three-letter teams who think Brackett's dead and I can't convince them otherwise. They won't believe the tapes we have; they could be altered. We don't have any usable prints –"

"They want to believe he's dead so they don't have to admit they fucked up," Jim growled. A low-grade thunderstorm began to pound its way through his head. Automatically, he began to massage the pressure points at the back of his neck. "Wonderful."

"I thought so, too," Simon told him, voice thick with sarcasm ... and something more.

Jim looked at him, hope blazing through a world of defeat.

"I figured it was time we contacted our own consultant," Simon continued. "Jack Kelso found someone who'll talk to us. He's arranged a meet tomorrow morning. Are you up for it?"

"Yes," Jim answered quickly. "Yes sir, Captain. I'm ready."

"Good." Simon shoved to his feet, more exhausted than he wanted to show. He plucked the evidence bag from Jim's fingers, folded it and returned it to his breast pocket. "Eight a.m. I'll pick you up." Simon paused, catching the uncertainty that flickered across his friend's face. "I'm not planning to leave you out, Jim," he said softly. "One way or the other, you're with me. Just don't go tearing off on your own and do something stupid. We'll get the kid back, okay? We'll take Brackett down. And we'll do it together."

Moved, Jim released the breath he'd been holding. "Thank you, Captain."

Simon nodded. Then turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

Eight a.m. ... it was such a long time away. Jim Ellison lay in his bed, counting the hours until dawn. It was almost midnight and the hospital corridors were still busy. The echo-distortion created a surreal, nightmare effect. Except he was awake. Visitors had been banished except for the most critical cases. In the pediatrics wing, a woman labored to give birth; she'd been going at it since he'd awakened. Hours of agony, lapping at him in waves. Another mother-to-be, complete with entourage, was being wheeled in.

But at least the maternity ward offered the sound of life. He was too aware of less hopeful activities going on in other parts of the hospital.

Tune it out, the memory of Blair's voice soothed the ringing in his head. Take a deep, cleansing breath and let it go.... Relax, big guy. You're going to be okay.

Yeah, right, Jim thought bitterly. But what about you, chief? Who's taking care of you?

He sucked in a deep, ragged breath, cursing the tears that filled his eyes. He'd be damned before he'd let them fall. Before he admitted defeat. Waiting was always the worst, but this extra torment, the sensory overload of others' suffering....

Let it go! Blair again - from another time and another crisis using the tone Jim privately referred to as the "Sandburg D.I," defy-me-at-your-own-risk voice. The Guide. You can't help anybody like this. Breathe ... Just let it go.

The case had taken him down. There was something so wrong about the death of a child. But when that child had been murdered, evil became a tangible, soul-corrupting presence. Closet monsters and killer clowns took on shape and substance. Flight or fight, that was the response to danger. But how could you fight what you couldn't see or find? Where could you run?

Three children ... three little girls all gone missing. All found dead and laid out to be discovered in Cascade's darkest alleys. Each child had all been dressed in communion finery, white lace, white gloves, little shoes and socks and a string of pearls fastened around each throat. Fancy trappings that hid the obscenities that had been performed on their tiny bodies. Their killer was a phantom, free to snatch and slay at will.

Jim had hoped his sentinel abilities would make the difference but an increased range of clues didn't come with answers. He could only work the case like he would have in the past, hammering away until it made sense. Until he had the monster by the throat.

The problem was, these cases had a way of hammering back. The sentinel abilities made it worse. Enhanced senses gave him more power, but they seemed to take more in return. Control was still impossible and that made him angry. He took his frustrations out on Sandburg, blew up at him - even while he was cautioning the kid to stay detached, keep cool and solve the case. Right.

Blair should have run for cover at the first find. He should have bolted straight back to the safe world of academia. Well, it was relatively safe. Nothing was absolutely sacred anymore. Five-year old Melinda Jenkins was proof enough of that. But Sandburg had just kept coming back for more.

No, Jim corrected himself. Blair didn't come back; he stayed right at Ellison's side, every terrible step of the way.

But why did he stick? The accessible room and board? No, Jim would not fool himself into believing he made a compelling roommate, especially when he had taken such pains not to be. It sure wasn't the money because there wasn't any of that. The infamous thesis? Under the circumstances, of which none were good, new subject matter, not involving the ritual torture and murder of children - or anyone - was readily available and had to have more appeal.

No, it was the work. The case. Blair couldn't let it go anymore than Jim could. Even after nearly two decades, Jim Ellison remembered what it had been like finding his first murdered child. He knew the look of it when he saw it on Sandburg's face that night. The shock. Blair's expression had sent him hurtling back to a tropically hot night in Grenada, a place even warmer than this foul July. Jim had been on routine patrol when he'd stumbled onto an extremely non-routine discovery. A find which was made even worse by the understanding that this wasn't a local killing. Someone from his own outfit had performed this atrocity.

The murder had been covered up; the killer whisked home to the States under cover of government protection. Muy malo P.R. to advertise that an American protection crew had brought worse with them than they'd found. Jim was never able to find out what happened after that.

Oh yeah ... Ellison could understand Lee Brackett's disillusionment with the U.S. government and its minions. But that didn't give a man carte blanche to become a beast himself.

Besides, Jim Ellison already knew the futility of trying to please a task-master parent. Seeking approval, believing that meant the same as love. If you didn't know the difference, you could fall into that trap. Easy.

Jim had only begun to grasp the difference that night in Grenada. He'd learned it for real in Peru living with the tribe, watching those families interact. For eighteen months, Jim had been a part of that - an assembly of parents, children and elders. He'd been their guardian, their Sentinel, using his training, instinctively accepting and developing his new found abilities to serve and protect what he had never had himself. He'd found his true father there in the tribe, even if he hadn't realized it at the time. At least not until he was back in the real world again where it was better to try to forget everything than to attempt to hold onto what he'd lost.

He'd never thought to have that again. Not until he'd found it in a pair of bright blue eyes belonging to an energetic, neo-flower child-genius. Blair Sandburg had attached himself to Jim Ellison with all the persistence of a homeless puppy. Full of enthusiasm and good will. Exasperating. Aggravating. Even infuriating. And completely endearing. The harder Jim tried to kick the little mutt away, the more like a shit he felt. But guilt gave way to proprietary interest, admiration replaced annoyance. It was easy to worry about him; Blair Sandburg was a trouble-magnet. Eventually, it was just simpler to take him in.

Of course the next thing you knew, the mutt was curled up beside you in bed. Which was exactly where he wanted Blair right now.

Naturally, the first time he'd found the Guide in his bed, Jim hadn't been so accepting. Actually, it hadn't been his bed; he'd been in Sandburg's room. Still technically, if you wanted to press particulars, it was Ellison's bed. Regardless, Blair had been stretched out across him, collapsed over his chest, arms and legs curled around him. Jim had awakened to the warmth and weight, very comfortable until he'd discovered the source.

"Sandburg," he'd growled. "What the hell is this?" Shook him. "Sandburg?"

Blair had raised his head to peer up with half-open blue eyes. "What?"

"Don't give me `what,'" Jim told him. "That's my question. What are you doing here?"

"Sorry, man. Got tired of the chair. I was just checking on you, didn't want to leave you alone." Blair winced, making an effort to rouse himself off Jim and out of the bed.

It was coming back fast, that old puppy-kicking sensation. Automatically, Jim's arm's closed around his then-new partner, keeping him, demanding, "What's the matter?"

"My hair hurts."

"Huh?"

Blair grinned sheepishly, turning his face away. Jim could feel his blush against his skin. "Couldn't get the rubberband loose. And if I use scissors now, I'll just cut a chunk out. It hurts ... but I'm too tired to mess with it." He yawned.

"Is that all?" Jim smoothed his hands over Blair's head until he found the knot at the back of his neck. In the past, he'd performed similar services for women he'd been with although, of course, that had been something of a staged production. Pull the clip – let the bounty fall and the games begin. But like most things involving Sandburg, this was no easy task. Strands of mahogany silk had become twisted around the rubberband. Cutting it would have been the best solution. If there had been scissors and something resembling coordination.

There wasn't. Gently, Jim used his sense of touch, working at the knot until the band was loose enough to pull free. He tossed it towards the night table where it skipped the surface and fell to the floor, contrary to the last. Not that Blair cared or noticed, locked into sleep again.

Or so the Sentinel thought. Zoned on sensation, Jim carded thick, soft curls through his fingers, massaging the back of his Guide's skull and neck. Sandburg's hair drifted down to fall across Jim's skin, enveloping him in texture and scent. It smelled good. Like rain. No, he acknowledged, wondering, like the rain forest in Peru. Like Home.

"That's so good...." Blair shifted, half-asleep, rubbing a stubble-roughened cheek against his Sentinel's chest. "Thanks, Jim."

Ellison froze. Caught. In another second he would bolt up and dump this puppy. Make a break for it while he still could.

Any second.

But the minutes kept ticking by and Jim was unable to move. Blair continued to sleep, lying in his so-called blessed protector's arms, as defenseless and trusting as a child.

As defenseless as those other children had been. Melinda Jenkins. Lisa Murphy. Tracey Forester.

The headache had kicked in after the second child had been discovered. Lisa Murphy. She would have been six in October. Lisa turned the Jenkins killing into a pattern, not just a single outrage. Now Jim knew for certain what he'd already suspected - there would be more deaths unless he could find the monster and put an end to it.

The pain kept building, a persistent ache that lessened sometimes but never completely disappeared. By the time Tracey Forester went missing, it had become his constant companion, even more tenacious than Sandburg if that were possible.

Jim had experienced stress headaches before. Working jobs that never seemed to end, jobs that no one else could or would handle, most cops eventually fell victim. But for the Sentinel, this, like everything else now, was different. More intense. Monstrous if you wanted to get melodramatic about it. A Stephen King-scale pounder, way beyond Excedrin or ibuprofen.

He knew it wouldn't stop until they found the killer - and they had come so close this time. So close that Jim had been able to feel the killer's residual body heat surrounding the body of his last victim. Seconds sooner and they would have had him. Stopped him.

Somehow he managed to get through it. Drop Sandburg off at the university to pick up the work his partner had so thoroughly neglected and retrieve his car. Jim proceeded onto the station to immerse himself in paperwork and clues that went nowhere. Or, rather, not anywhere fast enough. Not for Tracey Forester.

"The killer's escalating," the profiler had informed them. Like this was news. "He'll be even more confident now. That means his turn around time will be even shorter."

Jim's response was pure reaction. "Turn around time?" Suddenly, he was on his feet and holding the man up by the lapels of his coat. "What do you think you're talking about - some kind of furniture factory?"

"Easy, detective." The man had been really scared. "We're all working together here."

"Is that so?" Fury stormed through him, ravaging judgment and reason. He couldn't stop it. Jim released the hapless investigator and swept his hand through the piles of accumulated documents, statistics and prints outs. Paper spun through the room in a miniature twister. "While we're playing paper chase here, that freak's picking out his next victim. Children have been killed!" Jim kicked the desk hard. Again. "Goddamnit!"

"Ellison!" Simon was on his feet, shouting. "In my office. Now!"

Jim froze on the spot. He noticed for the first time that the rest of the task force was watching him, paralyzed in place, waiting to see where he was going to land next. Calculating how to get out of the way. The profiler's eyes were as big as saucers, his skin ashen, the color of fear. Congratulations, Ellison, he told himself, wincing. You lost it ... blew it. Idiot.

Inside Simon's office, Jim had tried to apologize, to explain. "Captain, I'm sorry. I know I was out of line –"

"You are off the case," Banks barked out. "Starting right now."

"Simon, you can't mean that," Jim protested, knowing even then that Banks could and did mean it. "Don't –"

"Not another word!" Simon slammed his hands down on top of his desk. "For the next twenty-four hours you are relieved of duty. You will go home. You will eat. Then you will sleep. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir, we're so close. I can feel it," Jim tried again. "We've almost got him." He shut up when he saw the look on Banks' face. Simon had the power to force him off the case completely. They both knew that.

"Twenty-four hours." Jim clenched his jaw so hard, the vein throbbed in his throat. "If something happens before then –"

"You'll be notified." Banks relented only slightly. "If I think you can handle yourself. Look, Jim, I don't care what you do or how you do it, but you get yourself together before you come back here. Understand?"

The detective nodded once. "Yes sir."

Banks pointed towards the door. "That's it then," he snapped. "Out."

Angry and ashamed, Jim left Simon's office. He'd been dismissed. The thought stabbed him hard, but there was no one to blame except himself.

The headache he'd kept marginally at bay, returned full force. Jim drove himself back to the loft, hands shaking as if he'd suddenly developed Parkinson's. This case was so important; Simon couldn't force him off it. But he was the one fouling things up, dragging everyone off to chase meaningless clues he'd picked up through his sentinel "gift" as Sandburg called it. The same gift that was driving him crazy even as he headed towards the loft. His hearing flared, then overloaded driving street sounds into his brain with the force of ice picks. Horns, brakes, bells.... Over on the sidewalk, a child let off a high pitched squeal of laughter chasing after an ice cream truck. Snatches of conversation slammed him with jackhammer force.

Jim pulled to the side of the road, struggling to regain control. He sat back in his seat, scrubbing his hand over his face and head. Closed his eyes. He'd been a good cop back before this Sentinel thing had taken over his life, a good cop with an outstanding arrest and conviction rate. Right now he wanted nothing more than to find the rabid freak who had butchered those three kids. Find him, stop him. Make him pay. Jim wanted that more than food or sleep or sex. A fist of panic tightened in his chest. He couldn't imagine what his life would be like if he wasn't able to do that any more.

Knock it off. The warning surged through his frayed nerves as his hearing settled back to something resembling normal. Better snap out of it, Jimmy, or you really will be a useless piece of shit. His father's voice drifted out of the past to shove him back in line. He'd been hearing the old man more and more here lately. For all the good it did.

Resigned, Jim managed to get back on the road. He stopped at the first available Chinese take-out establishment, then soared back to the loft. If Simon wanted him to eat, sleep and get it together, Detective James Ellison would eat, sleep and get it together.

That night had been a disaster. Jim shuddered, trapped in his hospital room. Memory brought him around full circle, back to the present. What kind of sick game was Brackett playing? He could have taken Blair the other morning instead of staging this elaborate trade off.

Revenge was the easy answer, not necessarily the right one. Especially in the Lee Brackett universe of smoke and mirrors. What was the point; what had he proved? That he could be cruel, that he could get to them. Make them suffer.

No. Ellison shook his head slowly. That he could get to me. He could hurt me. Kill me if he wanted.

But ... so what?

A frustrated groan escaped his lips. If he had the answer to that, he could figure out the rest. Jim sighed and checked the time again. 1:15 a.m.

Seven hours and forty-five minutes to go.

It felt like a lifetime although he knew it wasn't. Not really. Jim closed his eyes and drew in a deep, calming breath. He focused, thinking of Blair, of finding him and keeping him safe ... bringing him home.

He also envisioned Lee Brackett's balls on a plate. Raw. Or maybe skewered and roasted over an open flame while the son of a bitch watched. Ellison's tribal family in Peru had developed a series of fascinating customs over the centuries to deal with those who would dishonor The Way. Sandburg was right. Sometimes traditional methods were just as effective and even more satisfying. Jim could just imagine Blair's, "I told you so," once he made that confession.

Smiling, Jim thought of Sandburg laughing in his face.