SOME ARE SILVER...THE OTHERS, GOLD

LRH Balzer

It had snowed on Sunday.

White flakes had blanketed the wakening city, hampering the traffic, clogging the roads, shutting down buses and transit. It had lured the residents outside to play on a pleasant day off: to make snowmen, go for walks, throw snowballs. It was all a novelty. A game. A break in the usual Cascade weather. Laughter, the scraping of shovels on the sidewalk, an excuse to set aside the day's plans and escape into the magic of another land.

James Ellison hadn't laughed so hard in weeks. With a bit of coaxing, Blair Sandburg had emerged from the loft and gone to the park with him and had even tossed aside his aversion to the cold to help make what was probably the worst constructed snowman in Cascade's history. In the evening they had relaxed inside, hot chocolate by the fireplace, stretched out on their own couches wrapped in quilts, the gentle strains of music on the stereo system soothing tired minds and aching bodies. They had watched an old movie and talked about the tires on the Volvo, the deteriorating upholstery on the Ford, and whose turn it was to clean out the fridge.

All in all, a decadent winter's day, in a city famous for only springs and falls.

By Monday morning, it was over. Rain lashed down on the city in true Westcoast fashion, washing out the remains of the weekend's snowfall until the frosted trees were a dim memory. They drove to the station, staring out the windshield as the wipers fought to clear the glass of the heavy rain. Cold winds caught the downpour and drenched the city's workers, sending them shivering through the streets, soaked and miserable, seeking shelter in doorways and under awnings. Traffic plowed through dirty slush, spilling over onto pedestrians already miserable with wet feet and ruined shoes.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate the cold?" Sandburg asked, hunkering down into his jacket.

"That didn't seem to stop you from throwing snowballs yesterday." Ellison cast a tolerant glance his way.

"I didn't have much choice, did I?"

Ellison grinned. "You could have just conceded right away. I ended up winning."

Blair looked back at his roommate and partner in mock astonishment. "It was a draw! We agreed it was a draw."

"Well, I've been thinking about it, Junior, and I think I actually won that fight." Ellison slammed on his brakes, his right hand shooting out to brace his partner as the car skidded through a pile of slush. "Pedestrians," he muttered, humor gone as his sharp eyes watched the bobbing yellow umbrella and a pair of legs cross the street. "She didn't even look before she stepped off the curb."

Blair stared out the side window at the group of angry commuters waiting at the bus stop. "You just sprayed them all, Jim."

"And what do you suggest I could have done differently? Tell Miss Walk-Across-the-Street-Without-Looking about it, not me, Chief."

Blair stared back out at the gray day. His feet were already wet. His boots had still been damp from the day before, so he had opted to let them dry out and wear his sneakers, thinking he had only to get to the car and he'd be fine. He hadn't allowed for the small lake that had formed just outside the door to their building and had gone only two steps before realizing his mistake.

He frowned at the rain, at the unfairness of Cascade's weather. Yesterday was unbelievable and today sucks. I'm uncomfortable and tired and cold--and we haven't even gotten to the station yet.

"Oh, you'll survive," Jim said, then shrugged as Blair glared at him for having the audacity to read his thoughts.

By eight in the morning, they were in the bullpen, sitting with too-weak coffee in hand as Ellison went through his accumulated email. Blair took off his sneakers and hooked them on the heating vent, hoping they would dry out by the time he had to leave the station. He picked up his coffee mug again and wrapped his fingers around it, absorbing the heat into his body. It didn't seem to stop the occasional shivers that still sneaked up on him. Every time he would shiver, Jim would glance toward him, the automatic response funny at first to Blair, but now a little annoying after fifteen minutes. If only there were some switch or something which turned off that protective streak in his partner...but then again, Blair reasoned, maybe that wasn't something he wanted to mess with. At least until he managed to get through an entire month without almost killing himself.

The door to Simon Banks' office opened and the captain came out, saw they were there, then went back into his office to retrieve some files from his desk. Aware of the tension hovering around the man, Blair curled his stocking feet around to the back of his chair, not wanting the captain to find any reason to explode in his direction. At least not until he had warmed up and finished his coffee.

Banks made his way over to Jim's desk and handed the detective one of the files. Blair smiled a wan greeting at Banks, noting that he was totally ignored. Not a good sign. Simon usually didn't miss an opportunity to sigh in his direction, as if someone were blackmailing the man into letting Blair stay there. Actually, in a way, maybe Jim was doing just that. Blair knew damn well--and so, for that matter, did Simon-- that if the anthropologist were to ever decide to leave the department for good, so would Jim. Ellison had grown remarkably good at controlling his senses, but, if history proved itself correct, the Sentinel would always need his Guide nearby. There were just too many risks for Jim to go without appropriate backup.

That was the problem really. Simon could always assign backup, but, like it or not, there was only one person in Cascade that could be the appropriate backup for Detective James Ellison.

Me.

Smiling into his mug and sitting a little taller in his chair, Sandburg accepted the file Banks handed him. His smile faded along with the color in his face as he opened it and realized what they were discussing.

The captain towered over them, his arms crossed, anger and frustration etched on his face. "We've had six preschool-aged children kidnaped in the last few months, all from the west side of the city, and we believe it's the work of one man. The first three children were found wandering the streets after their captor abandoned them at a playground. The next two were found dead. Last night, another four-year-old boy was abducted, Marty Leboir. His parents are well off, so we're not sure at this time if this is a separate incident and we should be expecting a ransom note, or if we're dealing with the same guy who took the others." Banks leaned toward them, his hands flat on the desk and his voice lowered. "This case was passed to us from the Cascade Police Westside Station; they're desperate for help on it. I've already got Rafe and Chan assigned---they're at the Leboirs' home right now--- but I'm going to put you in charge, Jim. Brown is just finishing up his case; he's in court this morning, then he'll be at your disposal."

Ellison nodded. "As you're aware, sir, I've been monitoring the case. I've actually been following up some leads of my own, and Rafe and I interviewed someone about it on Friday. I haven't had the opportunity to read the full report, though."

Sandburg glanced at his partner. Strange that Jim hadn't mentioned this case to him. Strange that this was the first he had heard of it. He had been busy lately at the University, getting ready for the new term, but still, it was unusual for Jim not to have discussed any of it with him. Blair read the first page of the report in his hands, the facts laid out on cold, dispassionate paper without a trace of the horror and anguish that each case represented, of what the families of the four- and five-year-old children were feeling. "What's with this guy?" he whispered. "Why target little kids?" His stomach churned as he read, and he swallowed hard to keep his breakfast down.

"No sign of sexual or physical abuse on any of the children?" Ellison confirmed, with a brief glance up to Banks before he looked back to the file, shaking his head as he scanned the information. "Has he called about this one? It says his trademark is to notify the police that he's snatched someone, how long he intends to keep them, and how scared they are."

"Scared? Try terrified." His hands trembling, and no longer from the cold, Sandburg closed the file Banks had given him. It sent Blair's heart pounding just to think about what the children must have gone through.

Ellison glanced over at him, the look conveying nothing to the uneducated, but to Blair it acknowledged silently that Jim knew how he felt--and understood. It gave him the strength to open the file again and keep reading. He could never get over what Jim could convey in a single glance, a nod, a touch on the back, or even a simple 'I'm glad you came.' It was that simple commitment, that physical and emotional awareness the Sentinel extended toward him, that made it possible for the anthropologist to look back at the file and try to understand something of the psychopath they were dealing with.

Ellison looked up at the police captain. "If he's called, do we have a voice pattern on him? Something on tape that we can use for evidence?"

"Nothing of value. I have copies of the tapes for you to listen to. This guy is careful not to get caught. With the first three children, he called from a pay phone and said --almost politely--- where he had left the child. With the fourth child, he had a cassette tape delivered to the Westside Police Station, saying there had been an accident and the child had died. A few days later there was another tape left, saying the body was in a warehouse on the edge of town. When we found him, the boy had been dead for three days. The fifth child was taken a month later. Same thing happened; after a week, a tape appeared saying the child had died and two days after that there was another tape saying where the body could be found. The perp sounded more irritated than anything, although it was hard to tell, as he uses a voice altering device to make his recordings. That was three weeks ago, and we hadn't heard a word from him until yesterday afternoon."

Sandburg shivered again as he read the report. "This really sucks, man. The little boy's family was at a matinee movie and were walking home in the snow when the child was snatched. It was beautiful yesterday." He looked across to Ellison, remembering the snowball fight and the fun they'd had. Remembering how peaceful it had been to walk through the park and how incredible the evergreen trees had looked with their snow-laden branches.

And thinking of what else was happening as they enjoyed the day.

Banks took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "The mother had stopped to adjust the scarf on a younger child and the two older children had wandered ahead of her. The seven-year-old girl was knocked aside, and he deliberately went after the four-year-old boy when it would have been easier for him to take the girl."

"So he has a pattern established that he's sticking to so far." Ellison closed the file. "Anything else?"

Banks shrugged. "There was no evidence the first two children who were abducted had been sexually or physically abused. They remembered watching TV and looking at books, but they couldn't describe the man who took them. The third child gave the same story, although there were traces of a mild sedative in his bloodstream. The autopsies on the two murdered children showed the first died of suffocation, the other of heart failure. There was some minute trace of drugs in their systems, but not enough to establish what it was, other than a generally harmless sedative."

"Were there any witnesses to the abductions or when he abandoned the first three children at the playgrounds?"

"None. Marty Leboir's sister who saw him yesterday was only able to tell us that he was big, and we assume from her description that he was Caucasian and probably in his late forties or early fifties. I've got the tapes and some pictures of the victims in my office, Jim," Banks said, glancing meaningfully down to Blair, then meeting Ellison's eyes again. "I figured maybe Sandburg might want to wait out here."

"Thanks, Simon," Blair said before Jim could ask him. "I've got to make a few calls about university stuff."

Ellison stood and Sandburg took over his chair, his hand already reaching for the phone. Jim leaned over and said softly, "You all right, Chief?"

"Yeah. I just need a few minutes. I can't look at those kids, okay?" Blair could feel his heart thumping again and put the receiver back. Jim picked up the file, gave his shoulder a brief squeeze, then headed into Simon's office. It took a few minutes for Blair's hands to stop shaking, then he wiped his palms on his jeans and made his phone calls. He was team-teaching a class every afternoon, and his teaching partner agreed to take the entire week, freeing him to work at the station.

He didn't really want to be involved in the case, but, like someone driving by an accident scene, he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore it now that he had heard about it. This had been going on for months and it was the first he had heard about it. What else happened in this city every day that he never knew about in his safe little world? He had to stop and look. Maybe not at the pictures, but he had to be there for Jim. If not as an observer, then as a support.

Blair looked at the closed file on his desk. Maybe if he read it again, he'd see something. Jim always maintained Blair had a different way of looking at things that was sometimes helpful. But he really didn't want to even touch it. There was something about the case that was making him shiver again as though he were coming down with the flu. He felt sick just thinking about it.

There were few cases in and of themselves that made him want to catch the perps, and this was one of them. He felt dizzy. And angry. His chest hurt to even look at the closed file. He was angry at the man who had done this, but terrified for the child who was missing. Marty Laboir. It wasn't just about helping Jim with his senses. He wanted to help that little boy.

And he didn't want to see the pictures that were in Simon's office. He had to believe there was a chance they could find Marty in time.

He opened the file.

Blair jumped, startled, when he heard Jim slam down the phone in the other room. He could see his partner through the open doorway and winced at the way Jim was rubbing his forehead. Walking as quickly as his stocking feet allowed, Blair slipped into the office and over to Jim's side. "What happened?" he asked quietly, tucking his rain-damp hair behind his ears as he leaned forward to look at his partner's face.

It took Ellison a moment to answer and even then the tense jaw and the icy stare at the telephone kept Sandburg at arm's length. "That was the kidnaper. He called the station and asked for the officer in charge of the Marty Leboir case. When I answered the phone, all he said was that he had the child and then he hung up before we could run the trace."

Sandburg centered himself and let himself slip into his guide mode. "Okay, what else did you hear? Anything in the background?"

There was a quick negative shake of his head, then Ellison shifted slightly to sit on the edge of the conference table. "Give me a minute." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting the distractions melt away so he could concentrate on what he had heard.

"You picked up the phone," Sandburg coached softly, letting his voice be a path for the sentinel to follow.

"I said 'Ellison.' He asked if I was the officer in charge of the Marty Leboir case, and I said yes. He said he had the kid, said where he had picked him up and what the child was wearing. Then he said he would return the child when he was finished, as long as we kept this out of the public eye. Then he hung up."

"Listen again. Run it through your mind again. Tune out the guy's voice and listen to whatever else is there." Sandburg watched as Ellison buried his face in his hands and focused on the memory. He placed the palm of his hand on Jim's shoulder, trying to let his presence offer whatever stability the sentinel could take from it.

The captain came back into his office, saw what was going on, and closed the door to the bullpen. "Anything?" Banks asked, moving around to sit at his desk.

Sandburg shook his head, but kept his attention on his partner. It was difficult to stand and watch Jim wrestling with the process of retrieving information. One day it would all be smoother, but for now they were both still learning.

Ellison jerked upright. "The kid was there. He was crying." The detective stood and pushed away from Sandburg, moving to the window and staring out at the gray sky. He slowly raised one fist, shaking it silently in frustration. "I am going to get this guy."

"At least the child is still alive," Banks said, softly. "Anything else?"

"Nothing. It was quiet there. No other sounds." Ellison turned around, restless, and retrieved his file. Without a word, he went back to his desk, leaving Blair to trail after him.

"Can I get you anything?" There were days like this when Blair felt totally useless. He watched Jim sit silently, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jim?" he whispered, sliding his chair closer. "Hey, man--"

For a moment, Ellison ignored him and Sandburg felt shut out. The worst thing Jim could do to him was act as though he didn't exist, to look right through him as though he wasn't there. It crippled him, denied him of his rights and negated his position, his place, at the sentinel's side.

Then the detective turned his head and found a smile, ruffling Blair's damp hair affectionately, and the world righted itself. Just that easily. "I'll be fine. Thanks, Chief. Listen, I'm going to run down to Forensics and find out what they have to tell me. Can you look through the rest of this paperwork and see what else has come in over the weekend?"

"Sure. Unless you want me to get the report from Forensics . . ."

"Not even remotely," Jim said, his hands raised up quickly to stop the thought from going any further. "Once you start flirting with Cassie, it'll take hours for me to get the file. Besides, with my luck you'd slip in your socks on the way there and knock yourself out."

"Ha, ha. Funny. And I am not flirting with Cassie. There's no reason why I can't be nice to her."

"Trust me. You're flirting. Everyone knows it. Cassie knows it. Simon knows it. Stay here and stay out of trouble. Okay?" Ellison pointed his finger in warning as he moved around the desk toward the exit.

"I thought it was impossible for me to stay out of trouble. Don't you say that I'm a magnet for it? It comes to me."

"Well, if you see trouble coming, run into Simon's office and shut the door, okay?" Ellison called over his shoulder as he headed out the far exit and down the hall to Forensics.

"Where did Sandburg go?" he asked Rhonda.

"Down to Starbucks to get a latte," Simon's secretary answered with a smile. "He said it was worth braving the cold to get a decent cup of coffee. I gave him a couple of dollars to bring one back for me."

Ellison sat at his desk, nodding at the organized stack his in-box had become. Post-it notes identified the different division of topics, with another two notes stuck on his computer screen. He peeled one off and read Blair's announcement that he was going to get a cup of coffee and would be right back. The other was a note reminding him to check his email again. Amazing how the kid always managed to keep him organized, yet couldn't keep his own papers in his office at the university in order. The last time Jim had seen that office even remotely organized was when Maya had been Blair's temporary assistant. Of course, she had her own reasons for putting extra effort into helping the grad student, but--

Ellison shivered.

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't sure why he had shivered. He wasn't cold. He wasn't nervous. There was no draft. But he had shivered.

He did it again.

Ellison stood up at his desk, head tilted to one side, listening for something. His entire body felt like there were thousands of pin-pricks on it, electricity charging his system. He felt lightheaded as his sight faded in and out. Then, as suddenly as it had began, it all stabilized. Except for the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

"Where's Sandburg?" he asked again, half to himself. He picked up the note, then glanced to the clock. "Rhonda," he called across to her, "what time did Sandburg leave? How long has he been gone?"

She looked up from her paperwork and shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't really paying much attention. About thirty minutes, I guess. Shortly after you left."

"He should be back by now." Ellison was aware of Banks coming to stand at the door of his office and watching him. "Sandburg's not here," Jim said. "Something's wrong."

"Maybe he was just sidetracked--" Rhonda started to answer, but Ellison waved her silent and she went back to her files.

"Come in here." Banks stood back as the detective moved past him to the windows. "What are you saying, Jim?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

Ellison tried to see down to the street, to focus his attention on the sidewalk. The coffee shop was on the far side of the building. He spun around and stared at Banks. "Simon, I-- I don't know what to say. I feel like something is wrong, but I don't know what." He was pacing, his fists clenched. He didn't know what to do first. Listen? Try to see? Smell? Someone needed to talk to him, to tell him what to go after. Damn it, Sandburg needed to be here.

He'd go looking for the kid, that's what he'd do. He'd go get him and bring him back. He'd gone to Starbucks. That wasn't far. He'll be back in a minute. No, I'll go get him.

Strong hands intercepted him as he headed to the doorway and steered him toward a chair. Ellison dropped into it, hardly hearing what the captain was saying to him, hardly aware of the telephone ringing and Banks answering it. But when he heard his partner's name, everything snapped back in focus. "What happened?" He jumped to his feet, leaning on Banks' desk, waving aside the captain's gesture to sit down again. He couldn't focus to listen in on what was said on the other end of the line.

Banks hung up the phone and reluctantly passed on the conversation. "Now don't leap to conclusions here, Ellison. Two of the secretaries from R&I just reported an abduction along the north side of the building. The description sounds like it might be Sandburg. They knew that the man who was forced into the car had long, dark curly hair and they've seen him around the building here. He was carrying a cardboard tray with a couple coffees from Starbucks. He was just about to go into the side entrance, when he stopped to talk to a man standing by an idling car, then he leaned over to look into the vehicle and that's when they saw the man put a cloth over the young man's face, then ease him into the back of the car."

"The north entrance? We normally don't use that entrance, but Sandburg uses it when it's raining. The coffee shop is just across the street."

"They said the man pulled out into traffic and was gone before they could do anything. They only saw the back of his head."

"No one else saw anything?"

"No."

"What about the car?"

"Dark sedan. They had no idea of the make or model. Neither got the licence plate."

"What? What were they staring at then?"

"The women aren't cops, Jim. Don't fault them. They're both upset and are trying to remember everything they can."

"He's got Sandburg," Ellison said, sitting back in the chair, then leaning forward, his face in his hands. "That bastard has Sandburg."

"We don't know that was the guy we're after. It could have been someone else. And we don't know that was Sandburg either."

"No. It was him. Keep the phone lines open, sir. He'll be calling."

It came forty-five minutes later.

The caller read off Sandburg's Cascade PD identification number and said he would return his subjects when he was finished with them. Once more, he cautioned them not to put anything in the news, and then he hung up. The call was under fifteen seconds. Ellison heard his partner in the background yelling at the man furiously, and he heard the message his friend delivered to him in whispers between the shouted words. He didn't know where he was, but he was in a house. The child was there, too.

Sandburg was still alive. Still thinking. But Ellison had also heard the fear in his voice.

"His subjects? What does he mean by that?" Banks asked softly.

Ellison looked over to the photographs on the conference table of the last two children the man had taken; small, white-skinned corpses, looking like they were just asleep. As though any minute they would open their eyes and smile. His mind stubbornly provided the image of two more photographs which were now in circulation in the police department. One four-year-old little boy he had never met, posing with his Christmas gifts just two weeks before. And one sentinel's guide, sitting beside Jim on a log by the river the previous summer. Ellison had taken the photograph from where it sat on his desk and handed it to the officer who asked for a current photo, watching the man carry away more than just a framed piece of paper. He felt like a piece of his soul was gone.

Ellison sat down heavily on the chair in front of Banks' desk, delayed reaction hitting him. He looked up finally, meeting Simon's eyes. "So...Where do we start?"
 

Four days passed without a word.

Now, at four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, five blocks from the wind-tossed bay waters, Ellison stood on the sidewalk of a cul-de-sac and looked at the remains of a two-storey, wood-framed house that was the hub of attention of six undercover police officers and a determined crowd of spectators. Robbed of his sight in the pouring rain and in the tangle of boards that disappeared into darkness, he let his hearing skip around, unfocused, searching for some sign that life existed beneath the wreckage. Rain ran down his neck beneath the collar of his jacket, unnoticed. The world stood still around him while he worked his way through the tangle of sounds.

Where the hell are you, Sandburg? The thought had run through his mind for days, repeating itself endlessly. Damn it. You better be here, because I'm tired, kid. I need to sleep, but I can't. Not yet. Not until I find you. Then we'll both get some rest. We're partners. We'll do this together, whatever happens now.

The police department had been tipped off by a neighbor that an older man had escorted first a young man and then a child into the deserted house a few hours previously, but only the older man had left the boarded-up dwelling a short time later. The wreckers had arrived, as previously scheduled, and had started to demolish the place. The neighbor, an elderly man who watched the world from his front window, had tried to interfere, and only his call to the police--and a clear, vivid description of Sandburg which was immediately recognized by the young woman taking the phone call--had stopped the destruction.

Darkness was falling as Ellison approached the building. The rain had eased as the week progressed, but it was colder now and windy as Ellison moved up the stairs of the semi-demolished house. He stood alone, a silent statue, and turned his head, listening, sifting through the unwanted sounds hoping against hope he would find the one he wanted. The harsh wind whipped at his exposed face and hands, cutting through his jacket, but not registering on the heightened senses of a man who had hardly felt anything for four long days.

Thump-thump

Senses flared suddenly, not responding. It took him long seconds to find it again.

Thump-thump Thump--

He stopped breathing, his lungs frozen as his concentration zeroed in on that one sound.

Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump

Eyes closed for a brief second, raindrops pooling on his lashes, then he exploded into action. "Sandburg!" The single name, grated from his throat, shouted over the sound of sirens and screams, came out harsher than Ellison had intended. He sprinted up the rest of the cement stairs and shifted around the wreckage of the house, his ears straining for sounds beyond the identified racing heartbeat of his partner. Sounds that would indicate the rest of the house was ready to collapse, to fall under the damage the back hoe and bulldozer had already inflicted on it an hour before.

In moving, he had lost it. He came to a halt, staring at shattered bricks that had once been a fireplace. Somewhere he had heard that heartbeat...but surely there would be another? Where was the child?

Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump

"Sandburg," he whispered, nodding to himself, unaware of the worried stares of his colleagues. Ellison filtered away the sounds of workmen and machinery, of children and dogs two blocks away, of angry neighborhood residents herded down the street by the police, and even--for a brief moment--the sound of his own Guide's heartbeat. But there was nothing.

Frantically, he found Blair's heartbeat again, frowning at the too-fast pace. Calm down, Chief. You'll hurt yourself. Ellison looked down, forcing his sight between the cracked floorboards, the piles of rubble. "Sandburg's in the basement," he said, his voice remarkably stable, considering his own breathing was erratic at best.

Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump

Brown, then Rafe, joined him, stepping ever so carefully over the loose boarding. Two more black and whites pulled up to the house, lights flashing as the car doors fell open and more officers responded to the 911.

"How do you know?" Rafe asked him, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. "Ellison? Can you hear him? Did you hear him?" Rafe asked again when the senior detective didn't answer him.

Ellison waved him silent, his head tilted, listening, and as he moved slowly, Rafe shadowed him. A signal passed from Brown to Rafe and the younger officer nodded in understanding, moving to kneel next to Ellison, who was examining the half-crushed door leading to the basement. Officers scattered between the houses, weapons drawn, but Ellison knew they would find no one. Whoever had done this was long gone, if he went to pattern.

Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump

"Blair? Talk to me, buddy," Ellison yelled into a sliver of darkness that was open to the lower level of the house. "Come on, Blair. I need you to tell me where you are." He couldn't concentrate to pinpoint the heartbeat. It was loud in his ears, a staccato sound that hadn't slowed. He pulled his hearing away from the heart sounds, far enough back to hear the hyperventilation, the racking, dust-filled cough, and the silent sobs. He let his sense of smell connect with the location. Blood. Not a lot of it, but there were injuries. How couldn't there be, when the top floor of the house was now compressed into the bottom floor?

Boards creaked as he moved, loud enough to Rafe beside him, but thunderous in the Sentinel's ears. He paused for a moment, getting himself under control, letting his senses filter back the distractions.

"Jim?"

At first, Ellison thought it was Rafe, as the young detective touched his elbow at the same time the querulous voice reached him. But the surge of adrenaline, the scream through his muscles as his whole body sought to respond, to leap into action and protect the Guide, alerted him to who called him.

He crouched down, trying to bring himself physically closer to his partner, to somehow calm the wave of fear that had accompanied the whispered name. "Blair? Just relax, Chief. We're getting you out."

"Jim!"

This time, both Rafe and Brown heard the anguished cry, faintly echoing through the flooring. It vibrated through Ellison's body to his soul.

"We're coming!" he yelled back, wanting to say more, but not knowing the words. "Don't move. Blair-- where are you? Answer me! Tell me something about your surroundings!" he demanded.

"C-c-closet. In a closet."

Ellison turned automatically to look at Simon Banks as the police captain worked his way over to them. "Sandburg is here. He's alive, but injured. He's in a closet in the basement."

"And the kidnapper?"

"Gone." Ellison wasted no more breath on an explanation, and Banks knew not to press the matter.

"The child?"

"I don't know. Not here."

Ten minutes later, they were still clearing out the stairway, the uniformed officers watching silently on the perimeter as the detectives had wordlessly rolled up their sleeves and, with the firemen who had responded to the 911, began the daunting task of moving aside the nail-spiked boards. Hammers and axes appeared, crowbars and more hands as the neighbors responded to the emergency. An ambulance pulled up beside the fire engine, waiting, along with the growing crowd, for a miracle to happen and someone to emerge from the wreckage alive.

The workers hired to demolish the house were now using their tools to help, the nightmare of what they had done, however innocently, something that would haunt them for years to come. They had checked the house, as sometimes animals or vagrants would break into vacant dwellings, but they had found no one and there had been no response to their calls. No, they hadn't checked the basement. The door had been sealed earlier and if someone was down there the lock would have been unlatched so they could get back out. The burly worker Ellison had spoken to had gone white when he realized what their oversight had meant. They had never considered that someone might have been deliberately locked in the basement.

As soon as they had cleared enough space for him to maneuver in, Ellison carefully eased himself down into the darkness, enhanced sight aiding his fall so his feet landed flat on the cracked basement floor. Now was not the time to sprain an ankle. He could see through the rubble to the closet where Blair was trapped, but they would need more help, maybe even a crane to lift the boards. "Chief?"

He slid under some planks, his body bent almost double as he worked his way around the splintered wood, backtracking several times as he sought a path closer. "Chief?" he repeated, louder.

"Get me out of here," came the murmured plea. The heartbeat was slower now; he could hear the shivers, the slight rocking, as his partner trembled in his dark prison.

"We're trying, Blair. It'll be a little while yet; you're in here pretty good." He listened, wincing at the despair in the anthropologist's voice. "We found you, though."

"Let me out. I can't stay here, Jim."

"You'll be fine," he called back, hating the callousness of his words.

"I'm all alone."

"I'm here, Buddy."

"No. You're out there, Jim. I'm here alone. Just me and . . ." The heartbeat rose again, hammering on ribs.

"Who else is there, Sandburg?" Ellison listened to the gasps, as his partner tried to get his mouth to say the words the detective didn't want to hear.

"Marty." A sharp cough. "He's dead." Another cough. "I'm sorry, Jim. Get me out of here. I can't . . ."

"You can, Blair. I'm sorry about Marty, too. I'll get you out, but it's going to take some time. How are you feeling?"

A pause lengthened beyond Ellison's comfort zone, then Sandburg's voice came. "I'm fine, Jim. I'll be fine."

"I know you're hurting, Chief. Can you tell me what's wrong?" He tried to put together the smell of blood and sweat with the small sounds he could hear from his partner, but the answers he came up with could mean so many different things.

"I'll be fine until you get me out." Blair must have tried to shift position, to stoically settle in for a wait, for the faint shuffling sound was followed by a whimper of pain.

Yeah, right. "Sandburg? It looks a lot like that game Pickup Sticks out here. If we take one board away, the whole thing could come down. We've got to get it stable before we can get at you."

"Just hurry."

"We will." Ellison climbed back out of the hole, waiting only until his head cleared the surface before giving his report to Banks and the fire chief. "He's about ten feet in, east of the furnace room."

"How is he?" Banks asked, softly.

"I can't tell. He's in some pain. We can call off the search for Marty. Sandburg says he's dead." Ellison watched the news reach the female police officer standing on the front lawn of the ruined house, a stuffed bear in her arms ready to hand to a traumatized child. Donna Holgan had been with the force for over twenty-five years, a valuable asset to the department who specialized in trauma cases, especially those involving rape or physical abuse. With a shudder, Holgan hugged the bear briefly, then turned to return it to the trunk of her car, to wait again until it was needed. It was standard equipment now, in the back of each police car. Along with blankets and other supplies, a child's stuffed toy was waiting to help. Only this time, there was no one to give it to.

"Holgan!" he called out, his subconscious knowing what he was going to do before it reached conscious thought.

She turned her head as his voice, pausing before she shut the truck of the car.

"Bring it here."

"I thought--"

"Hey, he may punch me later, but right now I've got a partner who's trapped, injured and feeling very much alone."

Holgan smiled grimly and tossed him the brown bear. "Just don't tell Sandburg where you got him, okay?"

Ellison smiled, the expression foreign on his face, and he looked down at the scruffy bear. "I promise." Without an explanation to Banks or anyone else, he disappeared back down the hole and worked his way over to the blocked door. His hands itched to plow into the boards and planks responsible for this prison, to pull and shove and clear the doorway somehow. Memories of the archaeological site two weeks before taunted him with nightmare visions of the entire structure caving in on him, and he knew intimately why his partner was terrified. It was too close, their bruises hardly healed from that frantic race through a crumbling underground maze.

He studied the area, finally spying a break in the rubble, probably the place where his partner was able to get some breathable air. "Sandburg?"

"What?" The voice was whisper soft.

"I've got a friend for you." He pulled himself up high enough to shove the bear into the small hole, glad the fabric was able to stand up to such rough treatment as it was compressed and twisted and worked into the tiny area. Finally it disappeared. "Do you have him?" He could hear Blair shift slightly to retrieve the bear, the amplified sound of fingers slowly tracing the shaggy coat of the bear.

"What is it?"

Ellison could hear the exhaustion in his friend's voice. "Just hold him until we get you out. He'll remind you that I'm coming back." As he climbed upward, he heard the sound of Blair enfolding the bear, then the air being squeezed out of it as his partner clung to the stuffed animal.

He hurried back to Ellison, hoping his presence would somehow reassure the man that Sandburg was being helped by experts. It had taken both his own order and that of the officer in charge of the rescue to pry Ellison away from where they were working, but there simply wasn't room in the area for anyone other than the paramedics and those watching the structure. At first Banks had thought that the detective wouldn't listen to him, then they had both seen Ellison's hands shaking---from fatigue, from too much coffee, from who knew what else---and Ellison had stepped away.

Banks knew Ellison was listening though, by the clenched-fist tightness in the detective's body as he stood, eyes closed. And Simon knew what he was listening to. Listening to his partner's heartbeat. To the conversations below. To each creak of wood, each shift of the structure as they lifted Sandburg and placed him on the spine board. Simon saw the jaw tighten even more, and knew that Blair had made a sound, probably nothing more than a gasp or a single word, but it reverberated through the body of the man beside him.

It had been four days of hell. Ellison had been as intense as he had ever seen him, focused, determined. Not a smile nor a stray thought beyond the case. As far as Banks could tell, Ellison had only left his desk long enough to go to the men's room. He had taken calls, worked round the clock to organize the unit, eaten what they had placed in front of him, as long as it could be done with one hand and didn't hold him back. When his body absolutely demanded sleep, he had stumbled into Simon's office and slept on the couch there. Either Rafe or Brown had stayed with him, putting in long twelve-hour days, coordinating their time to work with Ellison and allow Simon to concentrate on his duties uninterrupted.

Even Cassie had only spoken to Jim in response to his questions, offering no more information than he needed. Cups of coffee had appeared on his desk. If he asked her for anything, she did it quickly. Banks had seen her talking with Rafe in the Break Room, had watched as both wiped away tired tears as they stared through the blinds. He knew what had captured their attention. Ellison at his desk rubbing the pain from his forehead, silently, methodically, going over every single piece of evidence again and again. And the empty chair beside him.

They did everything they could. And then they did it again. Phone calls, interviews with the families of the previously abducted children. More phone calls. They had involved not only the West Cascade Police Department, but also the suburbs and smaller cities surrounding Cascade.

And until an eighty-five-year-old man had handed them the information, they had come up with nothing.

Simon paced, never straying more than a few yards from Jim's side. It took the rescue team longer to retrieve Sandburg, each minute an hour to his top detective. Ellison's jaw continued to clench and unclench, his fingers bent into tight-packed fists. At last, they brought the spine board upward, and at the first sight of his partner, a low growl scraped across Ellison's throat as he surged forward to take one edge of the board.

"It's just a precaution," one of the rescue workers said reassuringly, as they approached Banks. "We don't know how seriously he might be injured. From what we could see, he has a bump on his head, a bad cut on his left forearm, another on his back. Numerous cuts, abrasions, and bruises."

Sandburg was strapped to the spine board, still curled on his side, holding the bear. Foam restraints kept his head in place; a padded brace was visible around his neck and straps crisscrossed the blankets holding him in one position on the board. As they lowered the spine board to the stretcher, Banks could see the kid's eyes were closed, dark lashes on pearl gray skin, his face stained with blood. But he was breathing, unassisted.

"Jim?" Banks glanced over to Ellison's stony face and groaned. "Jim!" he called sharply, not bothering to raise his voice. "Come on, man. Let's go to the hospital." He tugged Ellison away from the stretcher, muttering to himself about zoning and shock, hoping the words would reach the sentinel and break him out of the dazed, awkward trance. From what he knew of these zone-outs, they would happen if the sentinel concentrated too much on just one of his senses and just now, Ellison's entire concentration had been focused on Sandburg: hearing, touch, sight, and smell.

Three steps and Ellison was back, braking to a halt. "Wait, Simon." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, then determinedly walked over to the family of the murdered child. Holgan opened the front door of her cruiser, and Ellison sat in the driver's seat, his conversation with the child's parents brief. Holgan smiled weakly across to Banks, then went over to her own partner, a balding officer in his fifties, who was wiping the tears from his eyes as he filled out the reports.

The ambulance was ready to leave by the time Ellison backed out of the cruiser. Long strides took the detective to the door of the emergency vehicle and he conferred with the man and woman who were hooking Sandburg up to an IV. His eyes darted for a moment to his partner inside before the siren came on and Ellison firmly closed the rear doors. He was heading for his truck when Simon caught up to him.

"Hold it, Jim."

Ellison opened his door, one foot already inside. "I want to be there when they arrive. What is it?"

"Are you okay to drive? I could get someone to go with you."

"I'm fine. Blair will be fine. You heard the attendant." Ellison slid onto the front seat, the door still ajar.

"Take it slow."

"I will."

"I'll meet you at the hospital."

"I'll be in Emergency," Ellison said, quite unnecessarily, and closed the car door.

"Easy there," the sentinel rumbled, his hands on Sandburg's upper arms, steadying him. "Just stay awake a little bit longer."

Blair's forearm was stitched and wrapped, the swelling on the bump on his head had gone down, and his forehead had been bandaged. The rest of the scrapes and abrasions had been cleaned and the strong odor of antiseptic and antibacterial cream had long since been tuned down by Ellison. Blair's bare legs hung over the side of the table, the thin gown falling open around his shoulders. The ER doctor, on the other side of the exam table, checked a gash along Blair's back, caused by a splinter of wood. Apparently satisfied that it didn't need additional stitches, the doctor bandaged the long cut.

"Wanna go home," Blair whispered. "I'm tired."

"Soon," Ellison promised. "Almost done here."

"He's going to be groggy for a few hours," the doctor said. "We should probably keep him overnight for observation, but we can't force him to stay. He insists that he's going home and you'll keep an eye on him."

"I'm a trained medic. As long as there is no immediate danger, he's probably better off at home where he can relax."

"As far as we can tell, at this point, he appears to be okay. Nothing broken. No internal injuries that we can see. The x-rays of his skull are clear. The initial tests on his blood show trace elements of sedatives, but we're having more specialized tests done now. Routinely, we test for alcohol or drugs in the blood, but many of the more refined drugs are difficult to detect in blood if the test was done more than four hours after ingestion. We've taken a urine sample and that has been sent to our lab here, as well as to another lab out of state for a series of three assays to detect the metabolites of various other chemicals." The doctor smiled briefly at Blair's blank stare. "What all that means, Mr Sandburg, is at this time you appear to be out of any danger. If, as we suspect, you were given drugs, they are not showing up in our preliminary examinations, which means they probably aren't going to cause you any problems. As for what you were given, we'll have to wait until the other tests come back."

"Oh."

The doctor moved to replace Ellison, tilting Sandburg's head up to check his eyes once more. "All in all, you're a very lucky young man to have survived a house coming down on you."

"Lucky," Blair echoed, his head lolling forward.

"Can we go? It's been a long week," Ellison said, shortly, not interested in trivial reassurances.

There was still a lecture about concussions and potential side effects from the doctor, and then Sandburg was helped on with his cords and footwear, wrapped in Jim's jacket and taken from the ER into the dark, cold night where Simon Banks had the truck waiting.

A nurse came running out after them, with Blair's pocket watch and the stuffed bear. Ellison put the watch in his jean pocket, handed Sandburg the bear, and strapped his partner into the front seat. He checked the belt's tension, then gently closed the door, his face even with Simon's as he turned.

Banks handed him the keys. "They gave me a written report. It said that barring any unforeseen complications, he'll be fine. Did they tell you about the needle marks on his arm?"

"I saw them."

"They'll fax me the secondary results of his blood tests as soon as they come in. I told them I'd call you with the information." Banks took a good look through the window at the young police observer. "He's exhausted."

Ellison nodded. "Concussion will do that. I'll get a statement from Sandburg in the morning and then I'll come in for a while. Let me know if anything else happens. If this guy calls, put him through to me at the loft."

"Will you be okay with the kid? You're just as exhausted as he is."

"Yeah. Nothing new here, Simon. This is getting to be old hat. We'll get some sleep and I'll call you in the morning."

The drive home from the hospital went smoothly, a short distance, over a bridge and up the hill, a route Ellison had driven many times. It was already past eleven o'clock when he parked in the back so they could take the elevator to the loft. Blair had his seatbelt off and managed the truck door on his own, carefully locking it after him. Jim opened the back entrance, holding the glass door while Blair ducked around him, walking unassisted, but unsteadily, the scruffy stuffed bear under his arm.

The elevator was waiting on the ground level. Jim punched the button as the door slid shut, glancing over to his partner who was leaning against the elevator wall. "We're almost there."

"I'm tired."

"We'll have to talk about it later, though. Okay? I need to find out what happened."

Blair nodded, looking down at the bear, touching its face. "I can't remember it."

"Just tell me what you can remember."

"He smothered Marty with a pillow. I think. I don't know. I didn't see him do it. But I think that's what he did." Blair squeezed his eyes shut.

Jim draped an arm over his shoulder, relieved that Blair didn't shy away from the contact. "We'll figure it out, Chief."

"I'm just so tired, Jim."

"Me, too. We'll sleep, and then tackle this all in the morning." Ellison held the elevator open and Blair walked quietly beside him, pausing outside the loft while he unlocked the door. With a sigh of relief that the day was almost over and they were returning together, Ellison waved Sandburg ahead of him into their home.

A note lay on the floor, obviously slipped under the door. Blair blinked owlishly at it, then stepped over the paper and sat at the table.

Jim retrieved it, smiling and shaking his head. "It's dated today and is from your mother. She's in town and wants to stop by and say hi before she heads out tomorrow. She says she'll come back here at midnight and hopes we'll be in by then."

Blair's eyes brightened at little bit. "Mom? Coming here?"

"Are you up to seeing her? I could tell her to come back tomorrow. You should probably go straight to bed, Chief."

"Jim, this is my mother we're talking about. If I don't see her tonight, who knows when I'll see her next?" Blair looked around the loft, his eyes taking in the familiar sights. "Did she...uh...did she call while I was gone?"

"No. And the note doesn't sound like she'd heard what had happened. It was kept from the papers. The public heard about Marty, but not about you."

Blair nodded. "Don't tell her, okay? I'm all right. Nothing lasting. She doesn't need to know this."

"Naomi will see your injuries."

"Okay, then, tell her that we were investigating the kidnaping and I slipped and fell in the house you found me in. I bumped my forehead. Something like that."

"You want me to lie to your mother?"

"No, not lie to her. Not exactly."

"Just shade the truth."

"Right."

Ellison glanced at his watch, then scrutinized his partner. "Why don't you get changed before she gets here? I don't think you'll want her to see you looking like that. I known I don't want her to see you looking like this--she'll take my head off. And unless you have some special attachment to those cords, I think we better toss them." The faded corduroy pants were bloody, ripped, and filthy.

"Might as well. I'd never get them clean anyway." Blair pushed himself up and went into his room, dropping the bear on the bed as he pulled sweat pants and a sweatshirt out of his dresser, using only his right hand. He washed himself up in the bathroom and tied his hair back awkwardly, sleepily dressing with movements that were both automatic and without thought. "This look okay?" he asked, presenting himself to his partner a few minutes later. "I wore my longest sleeved sweatshirt that should cover the bandage on my arm. Maybe she won't notice," he grinned hopefully, the smile dissolving into a huge yawn.

"She'll see the one on your forehead. Turn around." Ellison fixed the coated elastic band to include a few hairs that Blair had missed. His roommate's hair needed washing, a bit dusty from the closet in the basement and slightly matted in the spot where they had cleaned the blood from the bump on his head, but Ellison's hands--and nose-- told him that the hair had been washed as recently as that morning. He had been fed and given liquids, Blair had assured the doctors. He had been allowed to shower once a day. Beyond that, Sandburg had said very little about his captivity.

Jim wasn't about to pry for information right now, though. "There's still half an hour before she said she'd be here. How about lying down and getting some sleep?" He was surprised when Blair nodded wearily and returned to his room without argument or comment. However much they needed to talk about what had happened, that could wait until after Naomi's visit. No use bringing all the horrors of the day to mind just before she came. Or just before they turned in for the night.

Interesting timing, Naomi. Months would sometimes go by without a word from her, then suddenly there would be a call or she'd be standing on their doorstep waiting to be let in. Blair didn't seem to think this unusual but it had steadily grown to irritate Jim.

She kissed his cheek lightly, then breezed into the warmth of the loft. "Is he home?"

"Yes, he's just sleeping. I'll get him up; he wanted to see you. I'll make some tea. We were actually expecting you an hour and a half ago."

"Time got away from me, as usual. Oh, let me wake him," she said, slipping past him to Blair's doorway. She paused, letting the light from the kitchen fall onto the bed. "What on earth--?" she murmured softly, seeing the bandage on his forehead.

Jim came to the doorway and watched as she gently placed her hand on his partner's shoulder, partly turning him. She took the bear from Blair's arms and placed it aside and he woke with a start.

"What? Jim? Is he here? NO! Did he find me?" Blair pushed back the hands reaching for him, trying to get his eyes to focus in the dim light. "Who--?"

"It's me, sweetie," Naomi whispered, cupping his face in her hands.

"Who?" Blair gasped, then shivered as recognition came. "Mommy?" he sighed happily, groping for the bear with one hand.

"Are you awake, sunshine?" she asked, smiling at the heavy-lidded eyes.

Jim moved just inside the room, taking a closer look at Blair's pupils. "He's got a bit of a concussion, Naomi. We were at the hospital earlier, getting him checked out. They said he's fine, but he needs his rest. I've been keeping an eye on him."

Naomi turned her head sharply and glared at Ellison. "A concussion? What more does Blair have in store for him staying with you?" Her attention went back to her son. "Did you fall, sweetie?" she asked, in that feathery voice.

"No," Blair said, moving his face from her hands to show her the bear. "Remember Silver? I found him again."

Naomi glanced at the toy. "Silver was a stuffed koala bear from the koala reserve in Australia, and that is just a common teddy bear, honey. They're nothing alike. Does your head hurt?"

Blair's eyes drifted shut. "It's Silver," he stated, slowly melting back to the mattress.

"Blair, sweetie, get up. Jim's making us some tea. Why don't you get up and join us?"

He burrowed deeper into the pillow. "I don't want to go. I want to stay here. Can't I stay here? I like it here."

Of course you can stay. Always. Jim put his hand gently on Naomi's shoulder. "Let's let him sleep a bit. I'll explain to you what happened today."

She started to argue, then realized Blair was already asleep again. She pulled the comforter over his shoulders and reluctantly left the room. While Jim adjusted the gas fireplace, she poured the tea and then joined him in the living room. Leaving out a lot of information, he filled her in on what had transpired that day, stressing that Blair had a mild concussion and the doctors had said he was bound to be a little disoriented.

"Meanwhile, since you're here, how about telling me about this 'Silver'," he asked, trying to change the subject. "Sounds like potential teasing material to me."

Naomi recognized the tactic, but was every inch the storyteller her son was and not one to pass up an opportunity to relate a story about her son. "When Blair was little, we were in Australia for a year. I had some friends down there who...well, that doesn't matter," she said suddenly, realizing who she was speaking to. "The group was demonstrating against the tourist industry using actual koala pelts for the toys, and they had...well, 'confiscated' some toy animals from a local reserve gift store. Anyway, during one of the committee's planning sessions, my little Blair managed to wander away and get himself lost in the group's main headquarters, a farmhouse near one of the reserves.

"When things started winding down from the meeting and we were all sitting around having ...having some refreshments, someone noticed Blair was missing. We organized a search for him--probably thirty or more of us. We combed the fields and the barns and the house. Crazy Tommy found Blair in the closet of an upstairs room, curled into a little ball, asleep. My little peanut. When I woke him, I found he had one of the toy koala bears tucked under his shirt. He had a full-blown tantrum when I went to throw it back in the closet, so I agreed he could keep it for a while, just to keep him quiet, but made him promise that he had to keep it hidden from the others. Some of the group leaders were on the militant side, and I knew they would have been extremely angry to see him with it--defeating their whole purpose, of course. When we moved on, I wanted him to leave it behind, but Blair adored it and refused to leave without it. And I could never say no to him."

"Why did he call it 'Silver'?"

"A poem I used to sing to him. 'Make new friends, but keep the old. Some are silver, the others, gold.'" She laughed, remembering. "'My bear is Silver. Where's the gold, Mama?' he used to say. It became a catch-phrase with us. He made friends easily when he was little, but he always called them his 'silver' friends, like his bear. 'One day,' he would say, so solemnly, he would have a 'gold' friend."

With a shrug, Naomi dismissed the memory, embarking on a travelogue of her last trip to Australia the summer before. Twenty minutes later, realizing Blair was sleeping soundly and Jim wasn't going to let her wake him up, she made arrangements to come back the next morning and left the loft.

Overtired, Ellison poured himself the last cup of tea and sat by the fire, staring at nothing, listening to his friend's even, restive breathing in the room behind him. It was almost three in the morning before he headed up the stairs to his own room, something deep inside of him aching for the little boy they had found dead that day, and for another little boy who had been lost in his mother's world.
 

Murder wasn't the thing they normally discussed at breakfast, but Sandburg was awake and seemed to want to talk about what little he remembered right away. "If I tell you, Jim, then it's in the 'been there, done it' part of my brain. Sort of fait accompli. I can't change it, but it's out in the open, ready to be examined to death, and not crammed inside my head. Besides," Blair added after a long drink of his orange juice, "he's still out there, right? Everything I say, even if it's not much, can and will be held against him in a court of law. I want to get this bastard, Jim."

"Stand in line."

"No way. Not this time. The line begins behind me."

"We do this by the book, and we'll get him. No heroics. No taking matters into your own hands."

"No crossing the line, for you either, right?" Sandburg met his eyes, reading his thoughts. "I can't study you if you're in jail, man. That's not my scene."

"I would hate to compromise your delicate nature, Chief." The smile came more naturally now, and he held his guide's gaze for a moment longer, letting all the things he wanted to say--but couldn't find the words for--shine through his eyes. "I'm glad you're back."

"Me, too," Blair whispered, wiping at his eyes. "Now are you going to take notes or what?"

"Actually, Donna Holgan is going to be here in a few minutes to take your statement. Remember her?"

"I think so. Graying auburn hair? Incredible brown eyes? Yeah. She came to see me after the Golden drug thing in the police garage. She took my statement then."

"Are you okay about talking to her?"

"Depends...Will you be here?" Tired blue eyes looked up at Ellison, as though afraid to ask.

"If you want me to. Otherwise, I'll just step out for a while so you'll have your privacy."

"No. Please. I want you here." Blair's hand shot out and grabbed hold of Jim's arm, fingers taloning in the sweater. "Stay. Please."

"I'd be glad to stay. It's okay." He placed his hand over Blair's. "No problem. Relax, Chief." He waited until Blair's heart rate calmed before he went back to eating, trying to appear as relaxed as possible, considering the circumstances. At least they had both slept the night through, undisturbed, he with six hours sleep, and Blair with two hours more. And now, Blair was awake, hungry, and there was a spark of life in him. That was all good. The detective just had to ignore the fact that his partner looked like he had a bad hangover. His skin was pale, his heartbeat was rapid, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had numerous cuts and bruises marring his body.

Detective Holgan arrived a short time later and Ellison put on a fresh pot of coffee. After a few minutes of pleasantries, Holgan got out a small tape recorder, set it on the table, and pressed the record button, reciting the date, case number and who she was interviewing. "So, Blair, what happened after you left the police station on Monday? You went for a latte and..."

Blair took a deep breath, gave Jim a little smile as though reassuring himself, and started talking. "I was on my way back to the station when this guy jumps out of his car and grabs my arm as I was walking by him. He asked if I worked for the police and if I knew who Detective Ellison was. I said I did. He told me that he had found this kid and he thought it might be the missing child and he wanted me to take the little boy into the station. I could see Marty, man, crying, and no cops were around to ask for help. The car was right there and . . ."

"He chloroformed you and pushed you in," Ellison finished for him. That much he had got from eyewitnesses, just not what had lured the anthropologist over to the car on his own.

"Jim, let Blair give the answers, okay?" Holgan waited for Ellison's nod. "Then what happened, Blair? When did you wake up?"

"I guess when he made me get out of the car. In the garage of a house." Blair rubbed at his forehead, his eyes closed. "We went directly into a house without going outside. I couldn't move much to fight him. The chloroform made me dizzy and I was a little freaked that I was going to throw up. Everything was kind of hazy and I was trying to watch out for the kid." Blair looked across the table at Jim. "He tied us up and then he made some phone calls. He talked to you. I heard him say your name."

Ellison nodded. "I could hear you in the background. You sounded angry, but I was glad to hear you were alive." Let Holgan think what she wanted to about that statement. He doubted if any other voices were picked up on the tape of his conversation.

"I didn't give you any information to find me, though. And the house had all the shades drawn, so I couldn't see out." Blair rubbed at the tape marks still visible on his wrists. "He had me confined most of the time, I think."

"And the boy?" Holgan asked, gently.

"He killed the little boy." Blair closed his eyes again.

"In that house?"

"Hmm? No. Later. With a pillow." Blair sounded distant.

At Ellison's gesture, Holgan put the recorder on pause and looked across at him. "Why don't we take a break for a minute. The coffee's ready," he said in answer to her unspoken question. He got up and poured her a cup of coffee, refilled his mug and Blair's, then returned to the table. Sandburg was still sitting motionless, his eyes tightly closed, as though shutting out the sight. If there were some way Jim could have swept the memory away, he would have. But he couldn't, and he couldn't help without knowing what had happened, when it had happened, and if the possibility existed that it would happen again. "Chief, stay with us, okay? Just tell us what you remember." He waited for another nod, then Holgan pressed the release button to start the machine recording again.

"Any idea what the man's name is?"

Blair shook his head. "His real name? No idea."

"Did he ask you to call him by a name you thought might not be his?"

"Yeah." Blair caught his breath, rubbing his arms as though he was cold. "He wanted me to call him 'lover'."

Holgan nodded, trying to keep her face emotionless. "Both you and the boy?"

"No. Just me."

"Did you get a good look at him? Enough to look at some books and I.D. him? Or help us get a composite of him put together?"

"Yeah. No problem. I know what he looks like."

Holgan hit the pause button and made a phone call to have a police artist come by, while Jim snagged the afghan from the back of the couch to drape around Blair's shoulders. "Can you keep going, Chief?"

"I've got nothing else to do. Might as well get this over with, right?" Again the tentative smile flickered across Blair's face, almost lost in the tired features.

"Just let me know when you need a break, or if you want to stop and think about your answer."

"Okay."

Holgan came back to the table and released the pause button. "You didn't arrive at the vacated house until one-thirty in the afternoon over four days later. The child was still alive at that point. What else happened at this guy's house? Did you go anywhere else? What happened in between the phone call he made to us at the precinct, and you arriving at the deserted house?"

"What?" Blair asked, looking at her blankly, as though she'd asked some outlandish question that the young man hadn't heard right.

"What happened at the man's house? What did he do after the phone call?"

"Nothing. He just talked a lot," Blair said, nervously sipping at the hot coffee.

"About?" Holgan prompted.

A shiver racked the young man and he drew the afghan closer around him. "I don't remember. Just talked." Blair rubbed at his forehead. "He had these books . . ."

"And?"

"Nothing, I guess. I can't remember. He just talked."

"Okay, he talked, and then what?" Holgan asked.

Ellison could feel his impatience start to rise, but Blair's heart rate was going up and he forced himself to stay calm. "Sandburg? Just think back and tell us what you can remember. I want to nail this guy's ass to the wall, too, but we need more information from you. Come on." He placed his hand on his partner's shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze.

Blair nodded, took a few deep breaths, then smiled wanly, as though taking strength from the contact. "Okay. Like what?" he asked, turning back to Detective Holgan.

"You were alone in a house with the man for four days. What happened? What did you do? Were you tied up the whole time?"

"I think so. Mostly."

"According to the statement from the hospital, last night you told the doctors that the man who abducted you also fed you. Three meals a day?"

"It was sort of hard to tell night and day because we never saw outside. I remember wondering what time of day it was. He gave us cereal and milk. And Kraft dinners. I remember a turkey TV-dinner but it was the $1.25 kind that has funny-looking, watery mashed potatoes and a few grains of corn stuck in the apple cobbler. I didn't eat much of it."

"What about the boy? Did he eat, too?"

"Not at first. Later he did."

"Did he let you sleep?"

Blair nodded, but looked away.

"Blair?" she asked softly.

It was the first real show of reluctance. "He was a pervert."

"What do you mean?"

"A pervert. You know, a freakin' pervert! Do I have to draw it for you?" Blair asked angrily.

"Tell us what happened," Ellison said, one hand connecting with his partner's forearm. "You told me you'd feel better if you brought it all out into the open."

"It's just not that easy to talk about."

"It might be easier for you to tell Detective Holgan if I'm not here. Do you want me to leave?" Ellison asked, making a move to stand up, but Sandburg's hand stopped him.

"No. I want you to know. Just don't blow it out of proportion, okay?"

"Just tell me what happened, Sandburg." Pretend we're alone and you're just talking to me.

"Okay. Give me a second. No, keep it rolling. He made me lie down in his bed and he turned off the lights. The room would be pitch black. My wrists were taped to the bedposts, so I wasn't going anywhere. Then...he did things."

"To you?" Holgan asked.

"No."

"The boy?"

Blair shook his head. "No. He was in the other room."

"So what would the man do?"

"I couldn't see him but I could hear him. He sat in a chair at the foot of the bed and jerked off. He sort of mumbled to himself sometimes. Laughed. But he jerked off a lot."

"Did he touch either of you sexually?"

"No."

"Did he expose himself?"

"Not to me. I don't know about Marty."

"Did he separate you sometimes?"

A faint nod. "He would take Marty into the other room and watch movies with him."

"What kind of movies?"

"I don't know. Kid movies, I guess."

"Did he watch movies with you?"

"The man?" Blair nodded again, studying the top of the table. "Yeah."

"What kind of movies?" Holgan asked again.

"Porn. Hard core. Pretty raunchy stuff. Some gay stuff. He would ask me if I liked the movies...He said that I should be in movies like that."

"Why do you think that nothing went on sexually with the little boy when you weren't in the room?"

"Because I asked him. Marty told me that the man never touched him or made him take his clothes off." Blair took a deep breath and kept talking. "And yes, he took my clothes off, but he never touched me."

"What did he do?"

There was pause. Blair played with a thread on the afghan. "I'm not exactly sure. I think maybe I was drugged or something, because there's lots of things I don't remember."

"Did he sexually abuse you?"

"No. I'd know, right? I'd wake up on the bed naked, but I'd feel okay. Not sore or anything. I checked myself over carefully when it happened."

"How many times?"

Blair shrugged. "Three times. Maybe four."

"Within the four days you were gone? Or all in a short period of time?"

"Not all at once. But he never sexually abused me," Blair repeated.

Holgan studied him for a moment, then turned off the tape recorder. She clasped her hands on the table in front of her and looked thoughtfully at Ellison and then back to Sandburg. "Blair, I want to define what I mean when I ask you if you were sexually abused. Now I'm not asking a leading question here, you understand, I'm simply giving a definition of what sexual abuse is, okay?"

Blair nodded, and Jim could hear the familiar heart rate pick up.

"Sexual abuse is when someone has intercourse--in this case, anal intercourse--with you without your permission." She raised her hand to stop Sandburg's response. "Wait until I'm finished, Blair, okay? I know you've already answered that one. Now listen to the rest of what I have to say. Sexual abuse is when someone touches you without your permission for sexual purposes or requires you to touch them or yourself in a sexual manner. Sexual abuse is when someone is menacing or threatening sexual acts, makes obscene gestures, or says obscene things of a sexual nature. Sexual abuse is when someone makes unwanted sexual references to your body or your behavior by word or by gesture."

Tears welled up in the young man's eyes, spilling down his cheeks.

"Sexual abuse is when your body is exposed without your permission, or when you are forced to expose your body for someone else's sexual purpose."

Blair covered his face with his hands, bending over the table, and Jim rested his hand on his partner's back.

"Sexual abuse is when you are, without your consent, deliberately exposed to sexual activity or material." Holgan waited a moment, then continued, "Blair, did any of these things happen? Did this man abuse you sexually?"

The tears became deep sobs and Blair turned toward Jim, letting the older man pull him into his arms. Ellison looked across the table to Holgan, seeing tears in her eyes as well, as she watched them. He rested his chin on top of Blair's head, gently rubbing his guide's back. "I'm here," he said softly, feeling Blair's arms wrap around his waist. "We'll work it out, whatever happened. I'm glad you're back, and you're home again safely."

Finally, Blair pulled away from Jim and accepted the tissue from Holgan, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose. "Sorry. I don't know why that happened." He took a deep breath and tried to breathe normally. "My head feels clogged."

"I bet it does. Blair, I know--and so does Jim--that this is very difficult for anyone to handle. You are doing great. Don't rush yourself. We'll take as long as you need."

"Keep going, okay? Let's get this over with."

"Blair, I need to ask you some questions again, but with the tape on."

"Yeah." He wiped his tears on his shirt sleeve, hardly aware of the tape recorder beside him. "But I don't remember much. I just know how I felt afterwards. I feel like some of those things you said happened to me, but I don't know. I don't remember. I told you that I would wake up without my clothes on. And I remember him jerking off in the dark. But I don't know if he ever touched me."

"Blair, when you woke up naked, how did you get dressed again?"

"He would free my hands and leave me alone to shower and get into my clothes."

"When he made you watch movies with him, would he talk to you?"

"Yeah. He'd do what you said...he'd make obscene gestures and say suggestive things to me."

"What would be happening to Marty all this time?"

"I don't know. I think he was sleeping. He slept a lot. So did I."

"Do you have any idea of what he wanted?" Jim asked, ignoring Holgan's exasperated expression at his interruption.

"What? Other than scaring that little kid half out of his mind and then killing him? I don't know, man. Maybe he gets his jollies doing that."

"What did he want?" Ellison asked again.

"I don't know. Maybe...no. Jim, he wanted--" Blair stumbled on his thoughts. "He wanted something. He wanted . . ." A shrug; he couldn't find the words. Tears welled in his eyes again and Blair pounded the table in frustration. "I don't freakin' know what happened!"

"Do you feel he wanted something from you?" Holgan asked, carefully, trying to release whatever information the young man was having difficulty with.

"No. Not really. I don't think so."

"Let's keep going and come back to that if we have to. Blair, do you have any idea why he grabbed you and not another child?"

Blair's heartbeat picked up, his respiration doubled, and he grabbed hold of Jim's wrist. "He said he would...I don't remember . . . He scared the little boy, Jim," Sandburg said, focusing on Ellison. "He was scared and he was crying for his parents. He cried a lot. Screamed, sometimes. I could hear him from the . . ." Blair got up from the table abruptly and went into the living room. They watched silently as he stood in the middle of the room and turned around slowly, as though looking for something. He picked up the scruffy brown bear from the couch where he had left it and pushed the fur from its eyes. "Where's my mother?" he asked finally, looking back at Jim.

"She said she'd be back this morning sometime. You were a bit out of it when she stopped by last night."

"Oh." Blair sat on the couch, facing the windows, and Jim could only see the back of his head.

Damn. What's going on, Chief? You're drifting away from me. "Blair? Where were you when you heard the child crying?"

Blair didn't move for a moment, but the words finally came. "In the closet."

"At the house we found you in?"

"No...before that."

"At the man's house?" When there was no response, Ellison joined his partner in the living room. Blair was sitting on the couch, his legs drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around his ankles. As though hidden away, one furry paw of the stuffed bear was poking out from the squashing embrace. Ellison frowned, then lowered his voice, keeping it unthreatening and calm. "How's your head, buddy?"

"Still hurts." Blair opened his eyes, then closed them again. "Not enough to go to the hospital, though," he added quickly.

"The doctor said you'd probably still have a headache today. I've got something you can take if it gets worse, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll let you know."

Ellison sat on the other couch and waited almost five minutes before Blair looked over at him again.

"Sorry, Jim. It kinda closes in on me." Blair smiled wanly at Detective Holgan as she joined them. "Sorry."

"It's okay. We'll take it slow, Blair. Do you have anything else to add? No? What about the needle marks on your arm? Do you remember anything about them?"

Again the blank stare, and Jim leaned over and pushed up one sleeve to show the young man the marks on his arm. "There are two puncture wounds there. Do you remember that?"

"No." Blair rubbed at the marks, as though trying to make them go away. He rolled up his other sleeve and peered at that arm. "Just those? Nothing else? I'm not going to turn into a dope addict or freak out or something, am I?"

"No," Holgan said with a slight smile. "They probably weren't those kinds of drugs. Most likely they were just sedatives or something."

"Why would he do that?"

"We're not sure. None of the children had needle marks on them." Ellison reached and pulled Blair's sleeves down, covering the bandage on his forearm.

"What about the house we found you in?" Holgan asked. "Any idea if that was planned or not? Was he just driving around looking for an empty house or did he have that one in mind?"

It took a minute before her question sunk in. "He had an address."

"So he knew about it then?"

"I guess. He had an address." Sandburg's hands were suddenly tight fists and he stared over to Ellison. "Get him, Jim. I hate him. I hate him because I can't remember stuff. I hate what he did to that little boy."

"I know. I hate that, too. Let's get through the rest of this before Tom gets here to do the composite."

"You said he suffocated Marty," Holgan continued smoothly. "Did you witness that?"

"I heard, but I was already in the closet. The one in the empty house. Then he opened the door and put Marty's body in the closet with me."

"Why didn't you leave the closet when the man left? It wasn't locked when we found you."

Blair looked up at her strangely. "It must have been locked. I couldn't get out. I couldn't leave the closet. Then there were loud noises and I realized the house was falling apart. I thought it was an earthquake. That God was going to kill him."

"It was the wreckers. The house was scheduled to be demolished that day. Blair, do you have any idea where the man's house is?"

Ellison watched his partner's half-hearted shrug and nodded his agreement when Holgan switched off the tape recorder. He crouched down in front of his partner. "I'm going to the station once Tom is finished. Think you'd be up to coming in later?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Blair, " Holgan said, placing the tape recorder in her briefcase. "I'd like you to try to remember as much as you can about being in the house and write it down. Try and separate the days, if you can. What you ate, how he treated you and Marty, what movies he made you watch. Any or all of that could be helpful. And I want you to try to think about when you would wake up on the bed."

"And after that, maybe we can do a little paperwork on another case. I could use the help," Ellison added, trying to look hopeful.

"Sure," Blair said instantly. "I'll come. Jim, when did you say Naomi was coming over?"

Ellison glanced at his watch. "In about two hours. Tom will be here in half an hour. Why don't you have a quick shower and I'll change the bandages on your arm and back before I go."

"Sounds like a good idea. I'm kinda sweaty." Blair pushed himself up, stared at the bear for a moment, then took it with him to his bedroom. A few dresser drawers were opened and closed, then Blair went down the hall to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Jim saw Donna Holgan to the door, then listened to the shower coming on and the little grunts and groans as the water made contact with Blair's cuts and bruises. Standing, he took their mugs to the sink, then turned and looked over the island into Blair's bedroom, where the bear lay at the top of the unmade bed, as though carefully placed against the pillows.

It was obvious his partner was upset by what had happened, and he had every reason to be upset, Ellison reasoned. But there was something not quite right with Blair Sandburg, and it was more than just the effect of the trauma. He was too quiet, too disjointed. Blair wasn't prone to bursting into tears, even if under stress. It was as if he 'blurred' now and again as they talked, fading out of the conversation. Then again, he was also suffering from a mild concussion and the aftereffects of whatever the perp had given him.

With a tired sigh, Ellison took the first aid box out of the cupboard and started cutting the gauze and dressings to the size he'd need. At least he could bandage those outer injuries. The rest might take longer.

Banks came out of his office. "Jim? Could I see you for a moment?" he said, then disappeared back into the room.

Taking the file with him, Ellison joined him, closing the door when Simon indicated he should do so.

"Did you read that yet?" Banks asked, as the detective sat down in a chair across from his desk.

"Most of it." Ellison met Banks' eyes with determination.

"Does that sound like Sandburg to you?"

"No, sir. Not in that type of situation. The witness was across the street and over one house, though. He's a senior citizen who probably does not have the best eyesight, and it was pouring rain."

"He also gave us a licence plate number of a car he believed the man was driving--complained that it was covered in mud and hard to see. There's no problem with his eyes, Jim." Banks pointed to his own copy of the report. "He said the young man walked on his own into the house, although he appeared to be crying. The witness thought that maybe there had been a family problem, as the older man went back to get a child from the car, leaving the young man standing alone on the porch. The young man was shivering, his arms wrapped around himself, but made no effort to leave the porch. When the older man returned, he opened the door, then pushed them both inside."

"Maybe he threatened to hurt the child if Sandburg didn't do what he said."

"He said he thought at first that the young man was drunk, but then realized he had a muscle coordination problem of some kind. He thought maybe he was mentally retarded by the way he moved and acted."

Ellison winced at the outdated callous term. "Sandburg had been hit on the head, chloroformed, and drugged. He was probably just dazed."

"Is he okay now?" Simon asked, leaning back in his chair. "Have you talked to him?"

Jim nodded, rubbing his neck. "Donna Holgan came over and got a statement of sorts from him, but I'll have him give a more detailed one later when he comes in. He's having trouble remembering things and he's still not feeling that well. It took a lot out of him doing the report with Donna and then the composite when Tom came over."

"How so?"

"Rattled, mainly. More emotional than usual. Scared. He told us everything he could, though, even though it must have been hell trying to verbalize a lot of it. The transcript is being typed; you'll get a copy when it's done. Tom is running the picture he and Sandburg came up with through our databases to see if there's a match. Tom thinks he has a good likeness to go by."

"How did Sandburg handle that?"

"He gave some good information, was able to describe the perp in detail. Cassie came by with Tom, which actually helped, I think, because Sandburg was so busy flirting with her that he didn't have time to get upset by it all."

"Flirting? I thought we had already settled that," Banks said, irritated.

"Simon, surely you know that Sandburg flirts with all women. It's in his blood. Or his hormones or something."

"Sometimes I think he's as bad as Daryl is. If she's young and female, Daryl's staring."

Ellison looked across at Simon, a smile touching his features. "Sandburg doesn't stare anymore. He just walks up to them, introduces himself, gives some hokey line, and starts batting those eyes."

"Quite the charmer."

"At least he was acting normal, for him." The smile faded. "I'm taking him to the clinic at the university for a checkup later today. He told Donna that he would wake up tied to the bed, with no memory of what had happened to him. I want the doctor to give him a complete physical in case there's anything the hospital overlooked."

"What do you think might have happened?" Banks asked, carefully. "I haven't read his report."

Ellison shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "I don't want to speculate. But I don't want to miss anything either. Sandburg's been under an incredible amount of stress these last few days, and I want to make sure he's okay."

"Nightmares?"

"No, he slept fine last night. No nightmares for either of us, actually. Too tired, I think. And he ate breakfast okay. Kept it down, even though we were talking about his abduction and what had gone on. Considering what he's been through, he's handling it all pretty well."

"Where is he now? Did you leave him alone at the loft?" Banks glanced through his windows to the bullpen, just registering that Sandburg wasn't at Ellison's desk.

"No, Naomi's there. I wanted him to rest a bit and she'll make sure he gets something to eat. I told her to keep him inside. Not to answer the door."

"Naomi? She's in town, eh?" Banks smiled in spite of himself, shaking his head. "What all did you tell her?"

Ellison smiled back, giving an off-hand shrug. The smile faded quickly, though. "Oh, that we'd been working on a case where some children were killed. Sandburg had been caught by the guy, but we got him away before anything could happen to him."

"I bet she was less than pleased with that," Simon commiserated, turning around to pour himself some coffee, then refilling Jim's cup.

"She was pretty quiet, too, for her, this morning. Just kept watching Blair as though he were going to spontaneously combust or something."

There was a knock at the door, then Rafe's head poked into the room. "Sir, we ran the licence plate through DMV and we've come up with a possible ID on the perp. Name of Daniel Crawford. We're running his name through R&I right now, but we've already got an address on him from his driver's licence record which matches the address on the car's registration papers. Two patrol cars are heading over to watch the house: one at the garage at the back, and the other watching the front entrance. Can we get a warrant to search it if no one is there?"

"I'm on it." Simon took down the address and made a few calls, then returned to his conversation with Ellison, who was jotting Crawford's address in his note pad. "Jim, did Sandburg know why this guy grabbed him? I'm wondering if we have a change in M.O., or if this was an isolated occurrence?"

"Blair didn't say. He didn't say much, actually, other than some surface facts. Said the man 'talked' to him a lot, but he couldn't remember what he said. Sandburg can't remember if either he or the child were touched sexually, but he remembers waking up naked, tied to the bed, and the man sitting in the dark masturbating. He remembers enough that Holgan is listing it as a definite sexual abuse case."

"Damn. Is he okay?" Simon asked. "Are you okay?"

"He's shaken up by it all, but I'd be more worried if he wasn't. He's withdrawing a bit, but he's not shutting himself off from me, so I think he'll work through it okay. I set up a session for him with the department shrink on Monday, to make sure he talks about it with her. He's talked to her before, about Lash and the Golden drug overdose, so he agreed that he'd see her for this."

"Good." The captain shook his head. "Poor kid. What a thing to have to deal with, on top of being abducted and having the little boy die. I'm glad to hear he's talking to you, Jim. You're right--if he wasn't talking, I'd really be worried."

"Sir, if you don't mind, I'm going to swing by the loft and take him with me to the house once forensics is finished. Maybe something there will jog his memory."

"If you're sure he's up for it."

"I won't leave him alone. He said he wants to get this guy, and is willing to do whatever it takes." Ellison paused at the door. "If Sandburg identifies Crawford as being our man, then we're half way there."

"Your mother heading out now?"

Sandburg snapped his seatbelt on. "She said she'll come by later tonight."

"I thought she had a plane to catch this afternoon?"

"She changed her mind, I guess. She's not leaving until tomorrow now."

"What's she doing today then?"

"I dunno. Just visiting friends, probably. She has a lot of friends. We didn't get around to talking about it; she was kind of freaked at my injuries. Kept asking about it, then backing off and saying I was free to find my own path, then asking how safe it was to be around you." Blair laughed. "Sort of flipping from Mom to Naomi, then back to Mom. You got to love her, man."

Ellison couldn't help but smile at the comment, and at his partner's obvious devotion to his mother. It wasn't a sentiment Jim could share about his own mother, though; his early childhood memories of her existence in their home were far from happy. Naomi was, in many ways, every boy's dream mother: beautiful, carefree, fun to be around. So why does she make me so angry sometimes? There was a sore nerve there somewhere, and one day he would poke at his own memories a bit more. But not today.

Ellison sighed, moving the car back into traffic. "We've got a warrant to search Daniel Crawford's house in south Cascade."

Wide eyes glanced his way. "Crawford? Is that his name?"

"Maybe. We ran the licence plate number through the DMV and came up with a car registration in the name of Daniel Crawford. The composite drawing you did with Tom matched the photo on Crawford's driver's licence."

Sandburg stared at the road ahead of them. "Crawford . . ." he murmured. "It's weird to have a name attached to him."

"It might not be him, Chief. Let's take a look at his place first. He's definitely a suspect, though, and your description of him matches the photo in our records. Do you think you'll remember enough about the inside of the house to recognize it?"

"Oh, yes. If it's the same guy." Sandburg swallowed and stared out the passenger side window. Ellison could hear his heartbeat grow faster. "Is that where we're going? To his house? I thought you said I had to go to the clinic."

"We don't have to stop by the house, but if you're up to it, you might be able to shed some light on what we find there. It's up to you."

"He won't be there, will he?"

"No. He hasn't shown up yet. We're searching the place now. Rafe and Brown will be there, and the forensic team might still be there," Ellison provided. "We'll probably end up scaring him off with all the vehicles parked outside. Simon wants the place checked though."

"But what if he gets away?"

"We'll find him. Once we have an ID on him, that's half the battle won."

"Oh. Right." Sandburg was thoughtfully staring out the window. "The car," he said in a soft voice. "A sedan, right?"

"Right. It was registered in his name. Are you feeling okay?" Ellison asked. Blair's heart rate had calmed, but his tight grip on his backpack, knuckles almost white, was revealing something else. "I'm here with you, remember?"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks, Jim. Let's go there and get that son of a bitch."

"You just tell me if you want to leave, okay?" They passed the rest of the trip in silence, Ellison checking his partner every block or so, concerned at the lack of conversation. Sandburg was never quiet for this long at a time, unless he wasn't feeling well or was exhausted, and even then he usually found the energy to keep talking. To all appearances, he wasn't sleepy or in any pain, so this unaccustomed silence was wearing on the sentinel.

"You sure you're all right?" he asked, as he slowed down and parked behind Brown's car. "Talking with Donna Holgan must have been rough on you."

"I'm okay. It was just hard to think about it. She's a nice lady and she never looks like I'm shocking her when I tell her things. Makes it easy to say stuff like that to her. I'm glad you were there, though." Blair looked with interest at the house the forensics van was parked in front of. "Is that the house?"

"Yes, that's the address. Do you recognize it?"

"No." Blair looked the other way, out his side window to an apartment building across the street from Crawford's house. "I remember the blue thingies on top of that roof, though. I must have seen them when we drove away later." He undid his seatbelt and got out of the truck. "Hey--I just remembered something, Jim. When we left, we went out the front door of the house. The car was parked on the street, right where Brown's car is parked now. I remember coming out and looking at the blue things on top of the apartment building and thinking how dorky they looked."

Ellison looked up to see what he was talking about and saw two blue, sloped turrets on either side of the roof of the new complex. He locked the truck and headed across the street, then realized he was alone. Turning around, he saw Sandburg still standing by the truck, looking apprehensively at the house. "You coming?" Ellison called out.

"Yeah. I know this is dumb, but I've got to ask again, man. He's not there, is he? I just have to prepare myself if he is. I mean, I'm going to go in there with you, but I've got to know if he's going to be there."

"No. The house is empty, except for our own crew."

"Maybe he's hiding." Sandburg still hadn't moved. "Could you tell? Do you know for sure that he's not there?"

"I don't think he's there. They've searched the place pretty carefully by now. I'll listen when we get inside, okay? And even if he is, I'm here. He won't touch you. Got that?" He waited for the faint nod. "Hey, Chief, I thought you wanted to get this guy?"

"I do." Sandburg skittered across the street to join him, shadowing him up the front stairs. An officer at the door had them sign into the crime scene, but Blair seemed calmer, more sure of himself as they entered the house. "This is it," Sandburg said, quite firmly as they stepped into the hallway. "This is where I was."

The initial forensics team was just finishing up, repacking their equipment to take to their van, so the two men waited in the hallway for a minute until the living room was clear. Rafe and two other officers were canvassing the neighborhood for possible witnesses. There was a ghost car parked at either end of the block, watching for some indication that Crawford was returning to his home.

Pictures had been taken of the entire house, sketches had been made and fingerprints lifted, but the secondary team had not arrived yet to handle the actual physical evidence and prepare it for its trip to the Evidence Lockup. This was the best time for a detective like Ellison to do his work. He took a quick tour of the layout of the place, noting that Sandburg stayed quietly at the entrance, eyes fixed on the activity in the living room. The house was a three-bedroom bungalow, with no second floor or basement. The living room and two smaller rooms were on the street side of the house and the larger bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and dining room were on the alley side. A door through the kitchen led to an enclosed back porch with two doors--one to the back yard and one to the garage.

Detective Brown was in one of the smaller bedrooms, which looked like an office. A large oak desk dominated most of the area, with a desktop computer and printer on a smaller table to one side. All available wall space was taken with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The room was immaculate, every paper in place, the books carefully placed on the shelves by subject. Leaning in the corner was a video camera mounted on a tripod. The window, like all the windows in the house, had blackout material taped over the glass with louvered wooden blinds as the window dressing.

"This guy doesn't like light," Ellison commented. "Or he likes his privacy."

Brown's head was tilted, trying to read the titles of the books on the shelves. "The office was locked when we came. Guess he didn't want any of his guests in here." He gestured to the books. "Interesting reading material. I don't know what most of this stuff is, though. Medical texts. Psych texts. Did you bring Sandburg with you? Maybe he could take a look at it. He's the professor."

Jim nodded and they returned to the entrance of the house where Blair still waited silently. The forensic officers were just leaving and Ellison shut the door behind them.

Brown tugged on Sandburg's ponytail affectionately. "Hey, kid. Glad to see you moving about. You gave us a scare yesterday."

"You were there? Wow, man. I must have been, like, totally out of it. Thanks." Blair touched the other man's arm, relaying his gratitude.

"Well, just take care of yourself, okay? You still look pretty shaken up." Brown headed into the kitchen, then out onto the porch. "If you need us, Jim, Rafe and I will be looking around outside and in the garage."

"We'll be here for a while." Ellison took Sandburg's elbow and drew him into the living room.

As if the movement triggered his Guide mode, Sandburg took charge once they were alone again, falling into an established pattern. "Can you tell how long it's been since Crawford was here last? You once said you could read the heat pattern where a body had been. Maybe he sat down in a chair or something."

"There've been too many people in here. I have no way of knowing who belonged to what." Ellison glanced around the room, his eyes detailing the place his partner had been held. It was tidy and clean, the furniture standard---probably from a rental place. "You know the drill, Chief. Don't touch anything. Now where were you when he phoned me?"

"There, initially." Sandburg pointed to a chair across the room. Ropes had secured him to the wooden chair, and now lay cut into pieces on the carpet.

"And the little boy?"

"Over there." Another chair, with fewer ropes. "Bastard." A child's toy truck rested by one chair leg.

Ellison frowned. While Crawford was a meticulous house keeper, there were certainly signs that he'd had children residing in the house, and he had at least made some attempt to provide toys and books for them. One of the children who had been released had described watching cartoons on TV and eating hotdogs. "Did he keep Marty tied up all the time?"

"No. Hardly ever. Not if I was good."

"What do you mean, 'good'?"

"If I did what he wanted."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Stuff. Stayed quiet. Paid attention to what he was doing." Sandburg moved over to the television, staring at the video boxes on top of it. "Marty cried a lot."

"Why was that?"

Sandburg whirled around to stare at him in anger. "Because the guy was a fucking lunatic. Because he made us cry. He would keep at it and at it until we started crying, and then he would stop and go away. Or sit and write the results down in his book." Anger turned into despair. "What the hell was he doing? We were real people. I mean, when I do tests with you, Jim, I'm doing something important. I'm using that information to help you with your senses---You believe that, don't you? I'm not doing it just so I can feel like I'm controlling you, so I can dominate the situation. You know that, don't you?"

"Easy, Chief." Ellison crossed to stand beside him, one hand resting on Sandburg's shoulder. "I know that." Blair scrunched his eyes closed, taking some deep breaths to calm himself, and Jim stayed beside him until he could breathe normally.

Sandburg pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. "Sorry. I'm not mad at you," he whispered, retreating a short distance away.

"I know. It's okay to be angry about it." Ellison gave his partner a minute to pull himself together and took a quick look at the two bedrooms. One was obviously Crawford's, but the other bedroom also had a double bed that appeared to have been recently slept in. In the corner of the room was a box of children's toys. A combined TV/VCR unit sat on top of the four-drawer bureau, two video tapes beside it--The Jungle Book and an unlabeled tape. The only window, one to the street, had the same blackout material and wooden louvers as the rest of the house. And like the office beside it, this room also had a lock on the outside of the door.

Crawford was confident, if nothing else. Ellison shifted his impression of the man. These abductions weren't spontaneous. They had obviously been planned, for whatever sinister purpose, down to the purchasing of toys and movies to keep the children entertained. What Crawford hadn't expected, though, was Sandburg surviving. Just how much that may have affected his plans still remained to be seen.

The detective returned to his partner, monitoring the young man's heart rate. Sandburg was staring blankly over toward the dining room.

"Blair, you said he locked you in a closet. Which one?"

"What?"

"Which closet did he lock you in?"

Sandburg blinked slowly, looking around the room. "I don't remember, I guess. I'll look at them. This is the right place, I'm sure of it, but it's like the details are all mixed up in my brain. I tried to do what Detective Holgan said and sort out the individual days but time had a whole different meaning here, man. There wasn't, like, a morning and then an afternoon, and then an evening. I wouldn't remember falling asleep, but then I'd wake up in a different place in the house from where I last remembered being."

"I'm going to take a good look around before the second team gets here." Ellison put on gloves and searched the living room and dining room, being careful not to disturb more than he had to. Blair led him through three intense focusings with his senses, but he came up with nothing other than the relief of hearing his guide's voice in its familiar cadence and tone.

"Let's take a look at the office. I'd like your opinion on his bookshelves." Ellison walked down the hallway and into the office, realizing after a moment that Blair hadn't followed him. He went to the doorway and looked at his partner standing at the end of the hall, not moving, all the color drained from his face. "What's wrong?"

"Not supposed to go in there."

"He's not here, Chief."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. There's just you and me in the house." He listened carefully for a moment. "No other heartbeats."

"He said he'd be mad if we went into his office. He said he'd kill us."

"He won't hurt you, Chief. He's not here. But you don't have to come in here if you don't want to. Just wait out here and I'll search this room." Ellison touched Sandburg's shoulder briefly and walked into the office again, aware of the silent shadow accompanying him. "Can you check to see if there is any pattern to his reading material?"

Blair stared at the shelves while Jim tackled the desk. "There are a lot of psychology texts, Jim," he said finally. "Also a shelf on occultism, one on biographies, and the bottom one has magazines--Newsweek and Time and Psychology Today." He moved on to the next bookcase. "Most of these are on hypnosis. The middle shelf and top two shelves are medical textbooks and manuals. The bottom shelf has a bunch of documents, mainly photocopied." He pulled out one stack, paging through them. "They're copies of government reports, magazine articles, newspaper columns. All kinds of stuff. And there are two large manuals on pharmaceuticals."

"That makes sense, considering this." Ellison held up a diploma in Crawford's name that he had pulled from a bottom drawer. It showed he had successfully completed a course allowing him to be a pharmacist's assistant. It was dated eight years previously. Ellison wrote down on his notepad where he found it, then went out to the back porch and passed the information on to Brown, asking him to check to see if Crawford was currently, or had been recently, working for a pharmacy in the city or area.

Sandburg was waiting for him in the hallway. "I think he might have been employed somewhere, Jim. I remember him saying he was late for work, and that we had to eat our sandwiches and finish our drinks quickly."

"Do you remember how long he was away?"

Sandburg shrugged. "Honestly, I can't even remember him leaving. He was probably drugging our food."

Simon Banks joined them, glancing around the living room, his eyes immediately finding the two chairs with the cut bindings on the floor. "What have you found out so far?"

Sandburg filled the captain in, his hands in motion as he talked, looking a little more animated. Ellison moved to the main bedroom, still listening, but Sandburg stopped talking when he went out of sight.

A moment later, Banks joined him. "We've got some more information on Crawford and it fits in with what Sandburg's statement says," he said, keeping his voice low. "Seems Crawford was charged with the sexual abuse of two young men back in 1988 in San Francisco. The charges were dropped, though. We're trying to get some more information."

"Young men? Not boys? How old were they?" Ellison asked, checking the private bathroom out first.

"The initial report didn't say. We're waiting for further information on the case to be sent over. There's more, Jim. Crawford called the station just before I left."

Ellison closed the medicine cabinet and looked over at the captain for a moment before continuing his search under the bathroom sink. "What did he want?"

"Said he's going to get another hostage. He threatened to kill him if the news gets out to the public," Banks said, standing at the doorway of the bedroom. "This guy is a serial killer. He's killed three children, and attempted murder on Sandburg. We have no reason not to believe he'd do just that. The story is bound to get out in the next few hours, no matter how carefully we guard it. We can't keep something like this under lock and key. It's too big."

"Did you trace the call?"

"Yeah. We got a trace on him this time, but it was to a phone booth, and he was long gone before we got there."

Ellison closed the door to the bathroom and looked around the bedroom. Of all the rooms in the house, this was the room Sandburg had not yet entered and showed no desire to go near. It had another television and a large bookcase of privately recorded video tapes, numbered, but not named. On top of the bookcase, Ellison found a binder with a list of what was on the videos. Crawford had eclectic tastes, from classic movies to self-help tapes to illegal porn films.

Empty hangers in the closet and two bare drawers in the bureau seemed to signal that Crawford might have packed a suitcase and vacated the place. Two boxes of pornographic magazines were on the floor of the closet, and another box of gay magazines was in the man's bathroom.

"I'm going to check on Sandburg. He's too quiet out there." Ellison returned to the living room to see his partner sitting in the chair he had been tied up in, arms wrapped around his leather backpack, rocking slightly, tears running down his face. "Shit." He moved quickly across the room and crouched down in front of Blair, resting one hand on his leg. "Hey, Chief. What's wrong? We can go now, if you're ready...Blair, why don't we get out of here?"

"He's going to get someone else? Will he kill them, too? Will he come and kill me?" The voice was wrong. It was Blair's, but yet it wasn't. It was a timid, heartbroken query that had the hair on Jim's neck standing up on end. "I'm sorry," Blair sniffed, his fists in his eyes, trying to hold back the tears that streamed down his face. "I'm sorry. Please."

Jim shifted to rest an arm across Blair's shoulders, drawing him close. Something was most definitely wrong. He'd seen Blair frightened on other occasions, but never had he reacted like this. Blair Sandburg would spit in his captor's face, scream at him, and smart mouth him, almost antagonizing his captor into shutting him up for good.

"It's not your fault he's still out there and you're alive."

"Yes, I didn't do what he wanted." A sob caught in his throat. "I didn't want to do it. He said-- that-- I- was--" Blair was gasping for air.

"Don't worry about him, okay? You're with me."

"Don't hit me."

"I won't," Ellison said, surprised. "I'd never hit you. Chief? Can you hear me? Focus on me, okay?"

"I did what you said not to do. I sat on the chair. You said not to touch anything. I'm sorry. Please. I was trying to remember something so I could help and I forgot." The rocking got more pronounced.

"I understand. It's all right. Blair, did you remember something? Can you tell me?" A book and two bound reports on the end table caught Ellison's eye and he picked them up. "What did you remember, Chief?"

"I remembered being scared," Blair answered, in a small voice. "I remember crying all the time and asking him to let me go."

"What was his reaction when you did that?" Jim asked, his full attention back on his partner.

"He called me a big baby, and he spanked me. But he wanted me to cry. He did." Blair wiped his eyes on his sleeve, but his shivering got worse. "It hurt, Jim. I want to go home. Why did he say that? Why did it scare me so much?" The sobs broke then, and he doubled over and cried, his fists rubbing his eyes, heartbroken and terrified.

Ellison rubbed his back and supported him, frantically trying to figure out what was happening. "Easy, Chief. Crawford wanted you to feel frightened, that's why. You didn't do anything wrong." Ellison looked up at Banks and mouthed, 'What should I do?'

The captain shrugged, obviously at a loss to know how to proceed.

Jim moved his hands to cup Blair's face as soon as the tears tapered off. "Chief, I want you to think about something for me. I know you didn't remember it before, but I want you to tell me if you do remember him touching you, okay? Or if he hurt you in any way? Did he hit you?" Ellison frowned as Sandburg seemed to dissolve in front of him again, but schooled the look from his face when the young man looked up at him.

"He didn't. Except for spanking me. He said he would hurt me, but I don't think he did."

"But you'd tell me if he did, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah. I'm okay, though. I just feel funny. A bit dizzy. Can we go home now?" Sandburg asked, again. "My head hurts."

"It does?" Ellison touched the top of Blair's head. "Up here?" he asked, resting his hand on the bump he could still feel through the curls.

"No. Here." Sandburg touched his temples, wincing, struggling to keep from crying again. "I don't want him to come back."

The detective stood, turning the touch into a gentle pat on Blair's cheek. "Can you wait just a little while longer?"

Sandburg sniffed, nodding silently, tears pooling in the scared eyes.

"I'm almost done here. I just want to check the kitchen first and then I'll be right back. Are you okay for a few minutes?"

"Yeah." Blair rested his forehead on his backpack, still clutched to his chest. "Don't go away though, okay?"

"You can hear my voice. I'm just going to talk to Simon." He waited again for the nod that Sandburg had heard him.

Simon followed Jim into the kitchen, his voice low. "What was that all about? Is he having a breakdown of some kind? He seemed fine one minute, then was all weepy the next." Simon glanced out the doorway to where Blair sat shivering in the living room. "Are you sure you shouldn't be keeping him at home? Maybe it's too early for him to be out."

Ellison swung around, one finger upraised as if he were onto something. "Before we get to Sandburg, listen to this for a minute. What was the profile on Crawford so far? He liked to intimidate, to feed off the fear of children, but when the children were found, there were no marks on them, other than when he suffocated them. So what was he doing to them then?" Ellison held up the reports. "These were on the coffee table. This first one is a CIA study on interrogation. Where did he get it from? It's restricted information. And this other report is a study by Crawford himself on sexual abuse and trauma in children translating to phobias in adults. It was published by the University of California, Berkeley."

"One of the boxes of magazines in the bedroom closet that I went through had magazines about prepubescent boys. So was he after little boys or men? It's rare to have a pedophile also interested in adults. Their sexual objects are children. If he abused any of the children he abducted, we have no evidence of it. None of the children still alive have made any comments that would lead us to believe they were used sexually."

"You said Crawford was charged with sexual abuse in a case involving young men. Well, Sandburg said Crawford made him watch videos. Crawford jerked off when he was in the room. What if Crawford only went so far, but couldn't go through with the actual physical act. The desire was there---hell, look at those magazines and videos, the idea was certainly attractive to him-- but maybe he couldn't actually go through with it, for whatever reason. Maybe he was building to that, but we haven't been able to tell from his M.O. Something was stopping him."

"So he did what? Grabbed Sandburg because he couldn't rape a child? The kid looks young, but he's definitely not prepubescent, even in Crawford's wild imaginings. The kid's--what?-- in his late twenties."

"He's twenty-eight...Simon, you just saw him out there now. Blair was acting normally when you got here, his usual hyper self, talking about the man's collection of books and everything. He was nervous, scared stiff, but he was still Blair. Then, something happened. Something out there scared him. He was sitting on a chair right next to these books and reports. Maybe he's reacting to something he can't remember yet. Or he's remembering something he can't process because something isn't letting him."

"Frankly, Jim, it looks more like he's acting like a child."

"Exactly. How old would you peg that version of him, sir?"

Banks stared back at him. "Age-wise? Four or five. Are you asserting that Crawford scared Sandburg so badly he's regressed to a preschooler? Crawford didn't have time to do something like that. That kid has gone through situations much worse than this and he hasn't snapped. Why now?"

"I think Crawford was manipulating them for some reason. What if he was trying to bring out that childlike fear in Sandburg?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. To get some thrill in inducing a childlike fear in an adult body, a body he could ravage without shame."

"What are you saying? That this guy feels that killing children is okay, but not raping them?"

"In his mind, maybe. Maybe. I don't know. Look at this from another angle. He said he was doing research. Into what? He's got a video camera set up, ready to go, but until we look at all the tapes, we won't know what he's been videoing. We couldn't find any notebooks where he's recording anything, so he probably has all that with him. He was making them cry. Sandburg's said something along those lines several times now. He was making them cry, exposing Sandburg and maybe the child to pornographic video tapes. Blair would wake up tied to one of the beds, and not remember being put there. He would wake up naked and not remember how it happened. So what was Crawford up to?"

"And how does he intimidate someone into being four years old?"

Ellison held up the book he had taken from the end table.