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Rating: PG (language, violence)

Summary: A continuation of Murder 101. Norman Ventriss is a powerful man with a powerful, well-paid lawyer. A lack of hard evidence has resulted in clearing his son, Brad, of murder charges in the death of Dennis Chung. Now Brad is out to "teach the teacher," intent on showing Blair Sandburg how the right of birth sets everyone's place in society. What he fails to realize is that Blair and Jim have a right of birth of their own.

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* 1*

2:55 PM

Blair was forgetting something. Stopping briefly to dig through his grocery bag, he took another inventory of the supplies he’d purchased for his special vegetarian chili. Everything seemed to be there: green and red peppers, onion, stewed tomatoes, kidney beans—canned, since there would be no time to soak the dried variety—and fresh eggs for cornbread. He knew there were already enough spices in the loft. What could he have possibly forgotten?

Shrugging off the feeling, he stepped into the elevator and began working out the time-line in his head on the way up to the third floor. It was three o'clock now. The Jags were playing in Detroit, so they had an early start time. With any luck, Jim and the rest of the gang from Major Crimes should be there around five. That gave him two full hours to make up the pot of chili and set it to simmering before game time. As long as everything went according to plan, he would be popping open a beer and claiming his place on the sofa by five sharp.

Of course, even the best of plans can fall apart in an instant. And that was exactly what happened the instant Blair Sandburg opened the door to the loft.

* * *

"Come on, Simon," Jim demanded angrily behind the closed door of his captain's office. "You can't be serious. It's bad enough they let Brad Ventriss off the hook. Circumstantial evidence, my ass. It was his father's influence; you and I both know that."

"Jim—"

"Now they let him file a restraining order against us? A restraining order, for christ's sake!"

"Yes, Jim. A restraining order, against both you and Sandburg."

"That's rich."

"He claims you—actually Sandburg, mostly, stalked him in an attempt to frame him for murder. The way Rainier sided with him when Sandburg went after Brad for cheating only gave him more ammunition to use against the both of you. There's nothing I can do, Jim. It's out of my hands."

"So Brad wins all the way around." Jim's voice went cold. "Whatever happened to justice, Simon? I mean real justice, the kind that can't be bought?"

"Now hold on, Jim. You're starting to sound like Sandburg. Think about it. There were never any charges filed for the software theft and we never had any hard evidence. The best we could do was link his girlfriend to the murder scene, and even that link was tenuous."

"Which is exactly why we need to go back out there and dig up something concrete that will finally nail his ass."

"Which is exactly why he filed those restraining orders. Jim, you're out. You are not to go anywhere near Brad Ventriss, or his father, or his company, Questscape. You hear me?"

Shaking his head, Jim took a deep breath in an attempt to quell his rage. "I hear you Simon," he answered finally. "You know damned well I do."

The entire office shook when Jim slammed the door behind him—or maybe that was just the feel of his own nerves unraveling. Something was going down. He could feel it, and Brad Ventriss was right in the middle of it. Though he had no way to explain it, nothing with which he could argue the point with Simon, the sound of those words, 'Jim, you're out,' felt like a death sentence—but whose?

* * *

3:00 PM

Still clutching the bag of groceries with his left arm, Blair stood with his back to the door and a gun in his face.

"Welcome home, Mr. Sandburg."

The voice was familiar—so were the three goons who had greeted him as soon as he’d stepped into the loft.

"Brad?" Blair looked past the thugs to find his former student sitting in the living room, arms draped casually across the back of the sofa. Brad Ventriss did not bother to fully turn his gaze toward Blair, but Sandburg had no difficulty recognizing the young man’s arrogant profile.

"Oh, so you do remember me," Brad answered, smiling. "I was afraid maybe you forgot who you were dealing with again."

"Let me guess," Blair sniped back, "getting off scott-free from a murder rap wasn't enough of a rush, so you figured you'd break into a cop's home in the middle of the day and see what that got you."

"You think you're being funny, don't you?" Clearly perturbed, Brad rose, finally giving Blair his full attention. "Let me tell you what's really funny."

He nodded to the goon standing to the left of the door. Nodding back, the goon's real reply came when he slammed a meaty fist into Blair's abdomen. Doubling over, Blair let go the grocery bag and then slowly dropped to one knee. He let his gaze follow a green pepper rolling into the kitchen as he struggled to regain his breath.

"What's funny," the sound of Brad’s voice moved closer as he continued talking, "is you thinking you could actually touch me. What's even more funny is you thinking you could actually beat me."

Another fist slammed into Blair's jaw, spinning him backwards into the wall. He ultimately landed on the floor beside the groceries, his hand crashing onto the carton of eggs. An instant later he found himself spitting blood onto the brown, paper bag. 'Hey, Jim,' he thought absently. 'Sorry about the mess, man.'

"Where's your power now, Sandburg? Where's your cop friend?"

"Jim's downstairs," Blair said quickly. He tried to take a deep breath, and then had to struggle to avoid sounding overly winded.

"He'll be up here any second now," Blair added, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And this time he'll have you cold. You won't get off this time, Brad. You screwed up. You know that don't you? You screwed up big time."

Brad laughed softly. "I think you got that backwards. I don't screw up. You're the one who's screwed. Detective Ellison is still halfway across town. He won't be back here for a couple of hours yet. You see, Mr. Sandburg; I do my homework."

"No Brad; not you. You hire people to do it for you, like whoever you hired to watch Jim and me."

"That's right," Brad acknowledged with a nod. "People do things for me because I have the power and the position to do things for them—or against them. Those are the rules of society, Mr. Sandburg. I'm surprised you haven't learned them by now. But I'm going to do you a favor. I'm going to teach the teacher."

With one beefy goon on either side of him, Blair was not in the best of positions to struggle. Still, he was not completely out of options—at least, not yet. His hand curled around one of the cans that had fallen near him. As the two goons began to lift him up, he swung his arm back as far as he could, and then smacked one of his attackers with the can.

There was a shout and a brief moment of freedom. Blair twisted and made a dash for the door. Yet the odds were still against him. Though one goon was down, two others remained. Blair had just enough time to make a grab for the doorknob before he found himself firmly in the hands of two men with grips of steel.

The man he hit was now standing right in front of him, one hand clutching his bloodied cheek, the other pointing an accusatory finger. "You'll pay for this, mother—"

"Yes," Brad broke in. "You will."

* * *

4:30 PM

Seeing his captain approaching his desk, Jim shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry about what I said earlier, Simon," he offered. "I know you did as much as you could. You even put your own career on the line by getting that warrant against Brad and Suzanne."

"You got that right."

"It's just.... I don't know. Call it a feeling."

Simon's eyebrows rose. "A feeling? What happened to the whole speech about letting your emotions take you out of the game?"

"Touche."

"You know what you need?” The captain seemed to make a concerted effort to lighten his tone and his mood. “A few beers, a couple bowls of hot chili—"

Jim held up a hand. "Don't count too heavily on that chili, Simon. It's one of Sandburg's vegetarian concoctions. Just so you know, I've already got a pizza order pending as Plan B."

"Either way," Simon said, chuckling, "it'll be a good night to unwind, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah." Jim pushed away from his desk and began to slip into his jacket. "What do you say we get started on that unwinding?"

* * *

Blair was in the back seat of a gunmetal gray Mercedes. The man he had hit sat to his left, and persistently held him in an icy glare. Goon #2, the one who had greeted him with the gun, sat to his right. Goon #3 sat in the front passenger seat. Brad was driving. They were moving northward and out of the city.

"Why are you doing this, Brad?" Blair found himself asking.

"Shut up." Brad held his eyes to the road.

"You won, man. We all know you have a fortune stashed away in an off-shore bank. Why didn't you just get out of the country and live like you were planning to all along?"

The car swerved to the right with the high-pitched squeal of tires scraping rather than rolling across the road. The motion threw Blair against the goon he had hit.

"I said shut up!" Brad demanded as he pulled to the shoulder. Putting the car into park, he turned to face Blair. "One more word out of you, and I swear I'll let your new friend loose on you right here and right now." With a quick nod, he indicated toward Blair’s tomato can target.

Blair pushed himself away from the goon’s hard shoulder and looked over at the man, giving him a quick smile. Then he cleared his throat and turned back to Brad.

"Look, Brad—"

"Shut — up!"

Thick fingers wove into Blair's hair. His head was forced back so hard it felt as though his whole scalp was coming loose. "The man told you to shut it."

Man? Brad's just an arrogant kid. Though he could not help but consider the thought, Blair was careful not to voice his sarcasm. "Okay, okay," he choked out instead. Whatever Brad had planned for him, there was no way it could be good.

* * *

* 2 *

5:00 PM

"You sure you got enough beer, Jim?" Henri Brown called from further back in the corridor as Jim dug out his key to the loft.

"Depends on how thirsty you are."

"Oh, I'm thirsty, alright, especially since Rafe is driving."

Jim heard nothing of the rest of the conversation when he noticed minute scratches on the metal inside the lock of his door. It had been picked.

He held up a warning hand to stall his guests and then gestured to encourage them to 'Keep talking' while he focused his senses on whatever awaited them inside the loft. What he discovered kept both his senses and his nerves on high alert. Rather than the welcome spice of chili simmering on the stove, he detected the faint odor of rotting eggs. There was the sound of the faucet dripping into the kitchen sink and of the tick of the clock on his nightstand upstairs. He neither heard nor smelled anything to indicate a living presence.

Forcing himself to disregard the icy chill that ran through his veins, he let his cop instincts take full control as he did a silent countdown, cuing the other detectives as to the precise timing of his entry. An instant later, the door crashed open and six detectives from the Major Crimes division of the Cascade PD surged inside. They were greeted with clear signs of a struggle and a very cold, very empty loft.

* * *

By the time Brad finally stopped the car, they had reached the end of the road—literally. Little more than a long dirt path running deep into a forest, the road came to an abrupt end at the massive trunk of an ancient pine tree.

"You know what the three, basic necessities of life are?" Brad asked as he shifted the car into park.

Apparently, the question had been purely hypothetical; no answer was either required or desired. Blair had barely opened his mouth before the goon with the smashed face dug his fingers into Blair's hair yet again. This time he wrenched Blair's head back even more forcefully than before.

Now standing beside the car and barely within Blair’s hindered peripheral vision, Brad ticked the answers off on his fingers. "Food, clothing, shelter." He grinned broadly and Blair was sure he heard unvented laughter in Brad’s words. "You've got twenty-four hours to think about that."

With his fingers still locked in Blair's hair, the goon dragged him out of the car. The action caused Blair's neck to twist in ways it was never made to move. Struggling was definitely not an option. He knew any careless move could cause his neck to snap completely. Part of him waited for that very thing to happen, despite Brad's suggestion that he was safe—or at least reasonably so—for the next twenty-four hours.

You've got twenty-four hours to think about that.

With the goon’s hands still wrapped around Blair’s hair, another goon forced Blair’s arms behind his back. Someone carelessly—painfully—removed his jacket, seeming intent on removing Blair’s right arm along with it. He was still trying to determine whether or not his shoulder had been dislocated when plastic cable ties were pulled tight around his wrists.

Finally, his head was released. Yet the very instant the hand pulled free of his hair Blair was yanked backwards as someone grabbed the plastic ties with a sudden jerk that felt as though it tore skin from his wrists. The same degree of careless force that could have snapped his neck earlier now threatened his arms as he was tugged away from the road. Unbalanced, he fell. It didn’t stop them. Instead they just dragged him bodily over pine needles, twigs and bramble deep into the woods.

When they finally stopped, there was more tugging as the cable ties around his wrists were somehow fixed to a chain apparently anchored to a tree behind him. And then, finally, he was left alone. No more hands in his hair. No more twisting. No more dragging.

In those first few moments of almost blissful inattention Blair’s thoughts were clouded with pain and confusion. But as awareness returned he came to realize how much they truly had left him alone. He heard the car pull away; and then he heard nothing more than the sounds of the forest around him.

"Twenty-four hours," he said aloud. "Great."

* * *

5:15 PM

"Brad Ventriss did this." Jim's squatted down beside a dented, bloodied tomato can as his gaze wandered back to the blood-stained grocery bag near the door.

"We don't know that." Simon's voice was stern. "We don't know anything yet. We have to play this one by the books. That means get a forensics team in here, canvas the neighborhood, the whole business."

"There's no time."

"How can you know that? We don't even know for sure Blair's been taken. For all we know, he fell, got hurt and went to the hospital to get fixed up."

Jim rose to his full height. "Don't give me that, Simon. We have evidence of forced entry, signs of a struggle and Sandburg's Volvo is parked outside. How much more evidence do you need?"

"Enough to tell me who did this. Until we get something more than your hunch, we look for leads."

"I'm going after him, Simon."

When Jim made a grab for the door knob, Simon firmly locked his hand around Jim's wrist. The captain's grip was like a vise.

"Don't you dare." Simon's tone had the bite of finality. "You go anywhere near Brad Ventriss with that restraining order he's got against you, you not only risk your career—and your own freedom, I might add—but, Jim," his voice softened, "you do that and you could very well risk Blair's life. If Ventriss does have him, our best shot of getting him back is to keep you out of the investigation—completely."

Blindsided, Jim Ellison scanned the faces of the detectives gathered around him. Every one of them was also a friend to Blair—and every one of them was damned good at solving crimes.

"Let us handle this, Jim." Simon spoke now more as his friend than his boss. "You work with the forensics team here. And then...." He paused.

"And then what Simon? What am I supposed to do after that? Just hang around here and twiddle my thumbs?"

"Wait for a ransom call."

Jim laughed coldly. "Ransom call? Brad Ventriss has everything he could ever need or want. There won't be a ransom call, Simon. He's only after one thing: revenge."

* * *

6:00 PM

Though the sun was just beginning to set, it was already dark in the heart of the forest. With the darkness came a bone chilling cold. Blair was already missing the jacket Brad had ensured he'd been stripped of.

"Food, clothing, shelter," Blair repeated as he tried to find a more comfortable position, which was next to impossible with his arms pulled behind him and scraping constantly against the bark of the tree. "I'm not starving just yet, but the clothing and shelter part—yeah, that I could use about now." His wrists were already raw from trying to work his way out of the cable ties. His throat was not a whole lot better. Shouting for help had proved to be a useless endeavor. There was no one to hear him. Not even Jim could hear him this far from the city.

Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure up an image of the loft—chili simmering on the stove, the Jags up by ten points, a swallow of beer cooling his throat, Simon complaining about a bad call on the court, Jim putting another log on to burn....

The sound of something rustling in the leaves somewhere behind him brought Blair back in an instant. Fire would be a good thing right now, for a lot of reasons. Yet even if he had a match he would never be able to reach it, let alone light it.

"Jim, man, I could really use the cavalry here."

They would have seen the mess in the loft by now. Forensics would already be trying to figure out whose blood was on that can. Of course, they would learn nothing. None of Brad's goons had police records. That had become painfully obvious after Jim and Blair had both tried to identify Blair's attackers the first time Brad had come after him.

The rustling drew closer.

"Hey," Blair shouted, hoping either to scare whatever it was away, or to encourage whoever it was to come closer. "Hey," he shouted again, despite the growing soreness in his throat. "Who's out there? Can anyone hear me? Hey!" When he stopped to listen again, the rustling did not return. He was well and truly alone.

* * *

8:00 PM

Feeling like a caged cat, Jim paced. Interviews with the neighbors had turned up nothing. Apparently no one had been at home at the time in question. Nor had anyone on the street seen anything unusual—or if they had, they were not talking. Forensics was long gone, and Jim had already done what he could to clean the mess left behind. There was nothing for him to do now but wait. He felt useless. And he felt betrayed.

No matter how good his friends were at their jobs, no one had his senses. He should be out there with them. One minute in a room with Brad Ventriss was all he needed to determine whether or not the kid had been anywhere near Blair Sandburg. And then one minute alone would be all Jim would need to encourage Ventriss to tell him exactly where Sandburg was.

'You do that and you could very well risk Blair's life.' Simon's words had been cold—and coldly true. They were the only thing that kept Jim pacing in the loft rather than getting right into Brad Ventriss' face.

"Where are you, Sandburg?" He asked aloud as he gazed out over the city lights from his balcony window.

Almost as though in answer, the phone rang. He reached it before the third ring. "Ellison," he answered tersely.

"Jim," Simon said, "we've got something. A man from the bakery downstairs just called Rafe. He'd been out when Rafe was in there looking for witnesses."

"He saw something." Jim stated it as a fact.

"He saw Sandburg. Says he called out to him, tried to get Blair to introduce him to his friends. He thought it was strange that Sandburg ignored him."

Jim's heart seemed to stop. "What friends?"

"A kid he assumed to be one of Sandburg's students, and three that he figured to be football players."

Jim closed his eyes, partly to envision the scene in his mind, partly to chase away his weary anxiety. "It's them, Simon—Brad Ventriss and his hired thugs."

"Rafe and Brown are heading back there now," Simon answered, seeming to disregard the conclusion Jim had drawn. "They'll try to get a clear description; see about getting him to ID Brad. If all goes well, we could have a warrant within a few hours."

"A few hours? Simon, you know how much can happen in a few hours? You can't—"

"Yes," Simon cut in loudly, "I can. We have to play this one right, Jim. We can't afford any mistakes. Sandburg can't afford for us to make mistakes. When we go after Ventriss, we have to nail him cold or we can forget about nailing him at all."

Jim sighed, shaking his head against the onslaught of nerves and emotions. "Yeah," he finally admitted. "I know." It was an admission that would force him to accept his own helpless imprisonment.

After he hung up the phone, Jim crossed back to the window. Sandburg was out there somewhere. He could be hurt—or worse. And there was not a damned thing Jim could do but wait here while other detectives did his job for him—detectives without his senses and, perhaps even more important, without his unique connection to Blair.

* * *

"Dammit," Blair complained softly.

It was useless. The cable ties were too strong and too tight. Breaking them was clearly not an option. Cutting them would be his only hope, yet his jackknife was still in the pocket of his jacket—which was somewhere far away from here in the possession of Brad Ventriss.

Brad Ventriss. How could anyone grow up with such an archaic sense of society? It was as though Brad still believed it was the middle ages. He was the king of his domain. Woe to the poor idiot who refused to bow to his greatness. And for now, Blair was that idiot.

"No way, man," Blair said aloud. "Right of birth does not make you better than me." He shouted it to the trees, and then he took a deep breath.

"Stronger,” he continued in a softer voice, “okay, yeah, maybe I'll give you that." Yet he reconsidered the statement even as he said it. "Or maybe not. There's a whole lot more value in strength of character than in strength of arms." He chuckled. "Strength of arms. That's a good one. That's.... Sounds like I'm giving him a place at the round table. He can have a place there alright, right in the middle of a platter with an apple in his mouth."

Though focusing on Brad gave him a welcome diversion from his current predicament, Blair's thoughts all too quickly moved him right back to where he’d started, trapped alone in the wilderness and tied to a tree like a forgotten dog. "I wish I had stronger arms right now," he said then, “at least strong enough to break these ties. An apple wouldn't be bad either." His stomach growled in answer.

* * *

* 3 *

10:00 PM

It started to rain. Jim found himself drawn to the sound of drops pattering against the building, the balcony, the street below. When a car passed by, splashing through a small puddle as it went, Jim shivered.

There was something wrong with this rain. It chilled him without touching him. It seeped under his skin, into his heart. It mocked him, taunting him with the secrets it kept, stubborn secrets about his missing friend. How many of those secrets would be washed away by morning?

Jim's shoulder twitched, partly due to another repressed shiver, partly because he was startled by a knock on his door.

"Hey, Jim." Henri Brown greeted him with a sympathetic smile as Jim wordlessly invited the detective and his partner, Rafe into the loft. "How you holding out?"

"I've got to get out of here, H," he answered honestly. "I feel like the walls are closing in on me." He paused then, studying the faces of the two detectives. "You've got something," he added expectantly.

Rafe smiled. "The baker gave us a positive ID."

"Brad Ventriss?" Jim was almost afraid to breathe.

"Brad Ventriss," Rafe confirmed with a nod. "They were also spotted getting into a gunmetal gray Mercedes—no license plate."

Jim made a grab for his coat. "Let's get on it."

"Ah, Jim," Henri put his hand on Jim's shoulder. "Simon's on his way over here. He wants you to stay put until he can talk with you."

Jim froze. "What's to talk about?" He asked cautiously.

"The baker's statement gives us enough evidence to treat this as a kidnapping. That makes it a federal—"

"No," Jim cut in. "He can't do that. They'll drag their feet, let red tape get in the way. No. We've got to get out there." He opened the door to find Simon blocking his path.

* * *

Blair was already chilled before it started to rain. It began as a drizzle, something he heard more than felt thanks to the canopy of the trees overhead. Yet that drizzle all too quickly became an interminable downpour. Though the trees continued to shield him from the full impact, still enough water came through to thoroughly drench him.

"Tell me it can't get any worse than this," he said aloud.

The cramped muscles in his arms had already shifted from an uncomfortable ache to a persistent, burning pain. His abused neck and shoulder muscles fared little better. Now the shivering he had thus far been managing to control was beginning to take on a life of its own, causing him to twitch in ways that prompted agonizing reminders of his predicament.

Blair tried again to alter his position. It was useless. The ground was uniformly wet, though a bed of pine needles did manage to protect him from sinking into mud. Whether or not that was a good thing, he could not be sure. A little mud might actually help him to squeeze his hands free of his plastic handcuffs. Water alone had already proved to be ineffective.

"Jim, man," he complained softly. A moment later he shouted, "Somebody! Anybody! Get me out of here!"

All that greeted him in response was the persistent patter of the rain, and a new rustling in the underbrush.

"Hello?" Blair fought to blink away the drops assaulting his eyelashes. Even if he had been successful, the sheer darkness of a rainy night in the middle of a dense forest would have made it impossible for him to see whatever was out there.

The rustling grew closer. Blair curled his hands around the branch he had managed to claim some hours earlier—after what had seemed like several hours of trying.

"Hey!" He tried to pound the branch into the ground as he shouted. The effort was weak, at best. The ache in his arms and his awkward position turned what he had hoped to be a frightening thud into a dull thump. It clearly was not enough to impress whatever nocturnal woodland creature had taken an interest in him. That much became obvious when his visitor started to growl.

* * *

MIDNIGHT

"What's going on here?" Mr. Norman Ventriss demanded as he approached his foyer and the crowd of officers and agents waiting to greet him.

"Mr. Ventriss," a dark-suited man replied, "I'm Special Agent Fogarty with the FBI, and this is Special Agent McClean." He indicated the woman standing beside him. "We're here for your son, Brad."

Confusion and anger colored the businessman's face. He scanned those who had gathered outside. "You." He shouted to the familiar figure of Captain Simon Banks. "You're responsible for this. You have no right—"

"Sir," Fogarty interrupted. "This is a federal investigation. Cascade PD is just here to assist."

"What federal investigation? My son was cleared of all—"

"We have reason to believe your son was involved in a kidnapping."

"That's absurd."

"We have a federal warrant to search the premises," Agent McClean added, "and in particular a Mercedes registered to Brad."

As though on cue, a squeal of tires called everyone's attention to the Mercedes careening out of Mr. Ventriss' massive garage. It did not get far. Thanks to a well coordinated pool of federal and local law enforcement vehicles, Brad Ventriss' attempted escape ended seconds later. Minutes after that, an agent discovered a crumpled jacket in Brad’s trunk. Simon recognized it instantly, right down to the jackknife in the pocket. The jacket belonged to Blair Sandburg.

* * *

The rain was relentless—as was Blair's growling companion. Whatever was out there, it hovered close by, refusing to leave him alone. Fortunately, it also seemed hesitant to draw closer.

It was waiting. Soon enough, Blair's stamina would leave him. Soon enough, the predator would move in, daring to investigate the new creature in its midst. Until that time, Blair would have to continue his periodic shouting. He would have to continue making those pathetic threats with his ineffectual beating of the stick—because when his visitor did decide to move in, Blair would have no chance to fight it off.

'Twenty-four hours,' Brad had said. It might as well be an eternity.

* * *

2:00 AM

In the interrogation room outside the Major Crimes division at the Cascade PD, Special Agent Rick Fogarty positioned himself on the table directly in front of Brad Ventriss. "I'm going to ask you this one last time. Where is Blair Sandburg?"

"I already told you I don't know and I don't care."

"He was last seen getting into your car with you at 3:15 yesterday afternoon."

"Prove it."

Fogarty smiled and nodded. "We have an eyewitness. We also have an associate of yours in custody whose blood matches that found on a can in Mr. Sandburg's home. That same eyewitness placed that associate with you and Blair Sandburg and two others getting into your car yesterday afternoon. I assure you, Mr. Ventriss, if you don't talk, your associate will—and then all bets are off."

"I object to this line of questioning," Brad's lawyer broke in. "We were not informed about this so-called associate. I need a moment to discuss this with my client."

"You can have a minute," Fogarty answered. "But that's all. The clock is ticking."

Watching from the next room, Jim Ellison glared coldly through the glass. Now that evidence was at hand and Brad was in custody, the need to keep Jim unheard and unseen had diminished considerably. He listened as Fogarty entered and Simon greeted the agent, yet he refused to draw his gaze away from the arrogant kid responsible for whatever had happened to Sandburg.

"What's this about an associate?" Jim heard Simon ask the agent. "Is there something you're hiding from us?"

"Consider it a calculated bluff."

"It won't work," Jim offered, still staring through the glass.

"What?" Fogarty questioned.

"Brad Ventriss believes he's above all this. He also believes that whoever he's got working for him would know better than to implicate him. Your bluff won't get him to talk." Jim finally turned to address the agent directly. "You need to get in his face. You need to scare him and his father, both. Until they're made to realize we're in control, they will continue to think they are. And they will be."

An hour later, Jim's observation held true. Brad had said nothing.

"This is getting us nowhere." Jim said before he stalked out of the observation room.

Simon was quick to follow. "Jim? Jim! Where are you going?"

"Where I can get answers."

* * *

Blair was exhausted. Worry, anger and fear had kept his adrenaline pumping at an all-time high and it was taking its toll on his strength. The constant rain and the general dampness of the woods were no help. Shaking uncontrollably now, he had lost the ability to focus his thoughts on anything other than the cold. Even his eyelids were losing their own battle with the elements. What was the point in eternally blinking away the raindrops when he could see nothing in the darkness anyway? What was the point in fighting to stay awake?

A deep growl provided him with a reminder.

"Go away," he said softly. Shouting had long ago proved to be a waste of effort. Yet when the growl was answered by another, and then another still, Blair knew, useless or not, the effort was necessary.

"Go away!" He shouted, his voice hoarse and disturbingly soft. He pounded his stick against the tree. That, too, sounded softer than it should. Maybe his ears were clogged with water—or maybe his weariness had just grown too great.

I will fight no more forever. The words of Chief Joseph came to him unbidden as a wolf howled nearby. Yet the great chief's surrender had been far more significant than Blair’s own. Blair much preferred the idea of surrendering to wolves than to the mindless brutality of man—especially to the arrogant ignorance of privileged sons like Brad Ventriss.

He's a coward, Blair realized then.

Brad Ventriss never did anything for himself. Whenever he had a problem someone else was always there to make that problem go away. He used whoever he could, however he could. His girlfriend, his father, his lawyer and his hired goons had all successfully kept him looking squeaky clean despite his obvious guilt in crimes as small as cheating and as horrific as rape and murder. The coward could not even deal with Blair directly, instead choosing to leave him out here, alone. As long as Blair was out of sight and out of mind, Brad could not be implicated in any wrongdoing.

Did he really intend to return after twenty-four hours expecting Blair to grovel at his feet and thank him for his mercy? Or was it his intent all along to abandon Blair out here, literally erasing Blair from his life?

No, he's too much of a coward to do that. A body—even one stuck out in the middle of the woods—presented a problem of 'hard' evidence, and hard evidence was something even Daddy's lawyer could not dispute. No, Brad would return. He would expect Blair to have then been beaten into submission.

But what if Blair was already dead? Sandburg smiled, despite the implications. Better still, how would a coward like Brad Ventriss handle it if he found himself in Blair's situation? If Brad were the one out here, he would demand recompense for the rain and would expect the wolves to submit to his will. When they failed to do so, he would cry 'foul!'

He would still be crying while the wolves picked him clean. Even then Brad would refuse to accept that his so-called rules of society were meaningless against the laws of nature.

Another wolf howled in the night, seeming to punctuate the truth in the odd turn of Blair's thoughts. Strangely comforted, he closed his eyes.

* * *

* 4 *

4:00 AM

Jim pounded on the door of Suzanne Nadine's apartment until he was sure half the building had to have been awakened. It still took another few minutes before she bothered to answer.

"Detective?" She said groggily. "What the hell are you doing here? It's the middle of the night."

"It's early in the morning," he corrected as he pushed his way past her and into her living room. "And I'm here to find out what happened to Blair Sandburg."

"Look, I already talked to—"

"You didn't talk to me yet. Now you will. Where's Blair Sandburg?"

"I don't know anything." Still feigning weariness despite the increased cadence of her heartbeat, Suzanne closed the door behind her.

"Your boyfriend has him hidden away somewhere. You're going to help me figure out where that is."

"My boyfriend?"

"Brad Ventriss."

She sighed and sat down on the couch. "My father won't allow me to see him anymore. Said he'd cut me off completely if I did."

"That's too bad. But you and I both know you never do what your father says. Where is Blair Sandburg?"

"Should I be talking to you without a lawyer?"

"You damn well better," Jim said coldly. "Sandburg is a friend of mine, and if Brad Ventriss did anything to hurt him...." His jaw clenched, but he left the sentence unfinished.

"Brad would not hurt him. He's not a bad person."

"Not a bad person, huh? Then why did he kill Dennis Chung?"

"He was cleared of that and you know it."

"I know what the courts decided. I also know what's true. Brad Ventriss killed Dennis Chung—and you saw it happen."

Grown breathless from fear or anger—or both—Suzanne jumped up from her place on the couch. "I don't have to talk to you. I want you out of here. Now!"

"I'm not leaving until you tell me where to find Sandburg."

"I don't know anything about that. Just get out of here, or ... or I'll file charges against you for harassment."

"Go ahead. I can get another job. Blair Sandburg can't get another life. Where is he?"

Suzanne studied him for a long while, seeming uncertain what to do next. Then she sank back onto the couch and grabbed a pillow, hugging it tightly against her chest. "Look, I don't know anything. I really haven't seen Brad in a while. He's having problems with his dad, and he's mad at the world. He had to pay back Questscape, and his dad is keeping a tight rein on him these days. I really don't know anything about him going after Mr. Sandburg."

"He did. And he had three men with him to do his dirty work. You wouldn't happen to be able to tell me anything about them, would you?"

"The other detectives asked me the same thing. I told them I don't know anything about those guys."

"You know something. Talk to me."

She glared at him, saying nothing.

"I've got nothing to lose except my friend," Jim continued, "and I'm not about to let that happen. You are my only clear link to answers right now, so I swear to you I won't leave you alone until you tell me what I need to know."

He gave her a glare of his own as he allowed time to let his words sink in.

"Now," he said after a moment, "what about those men?"

Suzanne's expression eased from animosity to curiosity. She studied Jim, perhaps searching for his level of commitment to Sandburg as opposed to that which he had for his career. She must have found her answer in his eyes, because she sighed in resignation. "Look, all I know is they hang out at some bar downtown—The Rook, I think it's called."

"Good." Jim's acknowledgement was a cold offering. "Now what can you tell me about Brad? Where might he take someone if he wanted to get them out of sight?"

"How should I know?"

"I imagine you know Brad better than anyone else. You know his haunts. You know his habits. If he wanted someone out of the way, where would he take him?"

She shook her head. "I don't .... Wait. There's this place out near Briggs Mountain. He took me there a couple of times. It's out in the middle of frickin' nowhere. It was just a bunch of trees."

"What was his interest in it?"

"His father owned it—some sort of long term investment. Brad wanted to log it. You know, sell the timber? But he couldn't get his dad to agree. He thought it was such a waste, all those trees." Her gaze grew distant, as though a bothersome memory floated back into view. "I remember now; he said something once. He said .... he said someone could get lost in there and no one would ever find 'em"

Jim stiffened. "Could you find it on a map?"

"But I never saw a cabin or anything. If he took Mr. Sandburg there, where would he keep him?"

"Could you find it on a map?" Jim repeated.

Suzanne seemed confused. "Yeah. I think so. The general area, anyway."

That was all Jim needed to hear. In a sudden impulsive move, he slapped a handcuff around her right wrist and locked the other one around a leg of the table beside her.

"Hey," she shouted. "What the hell—"

"Don't worry," he said as he headed for the door. "It's temporary. I just want to make sure you don't do anything stupid while I go out to my truck and get that map."

* * *

Something huffed in Blair's ear. He swatted at it absently, more intent on lifting his face into the soothing spray of a waterfall. The jungle seemed particularly hot today, and the water brought a welcome reprieve.

He felt a tugging at his hair. "Go away." He found it odd that his words came out as an almost otherworldly mumble.

A growl finally pulled Blair out of the depths of sleep. He dove from the jungle warmth into his frigid forest prison, and then choked out a mouthful of water. For a long while he coughed his lungs clear, fighting as he did so to protect his face from the new onslaught of torrential rain. When he was finally able to maneuver himself back into an upright position against the tree, he realized he was not alone.

"Ho boy," he whispered to the three wolves that had gathered around him.

* * *

4:30 AM

"I'm … my way … now, Simon." Jim's words were made choppy by an unstable cell phone connection. Clearly, he was already driving out of antenna range.

"Do you even know where you're going?" Simon asked.

"… know enough … a … starting point—"

"Jim? Hello? Jim?"

The connection was broken.

"Damn." Hanging up his own phone, Simon peeked out from the door to his office. Despite the early hour, the bullpen was a flurry of activity. "Rafe, Brown, Taggart, Conner," he called out. "In here. Now!"

After they had gathered, he wasted no time getting to the point. "We finally have some tangible leads. Apparently, Ventriss' muscle hangs out over at a place called the Rook, downtown. Henri, Rafe, I want you to do whatever it takes to track them down. Conner and Taggart, you are going to find out the property boundaries for land titled to Norman Ventriss located somewhere in the vicinity of Briggs Mountain."

"Excuse me, Captain," Conner began, seeming bewildered, "but what could that—"

"That, Detective, might just be where we'll find Sandburg."

Her eyes went wide. "Right. We're on it."

"What about the feds?" Joel Taggart asked as he headed back out into the bullpen.

"You let me worry about them," Simon answered. "You just focus on finding Sandburg."

* * *

Simon found Norman Ventriss in the hallway outside the interrogation room.

"Just how long are you going to keep my son in there?" The elder Ventriss complained.

"As long as it takes for us to get some answers," Simon answered sternly. "And hopefully, that will be sooner rather than later."

The captain took a seat beside Brad's father. "We have a lead on Brad's accomplices. With any luck, we could have one or all of them in custody by the end of the day." He paused, waiting for Ventriss to meet his gaze. "One of them is bound to try to cop a plea by giving up Sandburg's whereabouts. Then it will just be a matter of whether Brad will go to prison for kidnapping or ... worse."

The other man took a deep breath and shook his head. "How did it go this far?"

Simon knew the answer to that. Norman Ventriss had always saved his son's butt, no questions asked. Brad had never had to face the consequences of his actions. Yet there was no point in stating the obvious now, even if it wasn't obvious to Mr. Ventriss.

"I understand you have some property up near Briggs Mountain?" Simon asked instead.

Ventriss hesitated, clearly puzzled by the change in topic. "Yes, I do, but—"

"We think that might be where Brad's hiding Blair Sandburg."

"That's insane. There's nothing up there, no shelter of any kind. Where would he hold him? There's nothing but woods."

"All the more reason why we need to get your son to talk to us. It's been a cold, wet night. If Sandburg had to endure it exposed to the elements...." Though Simon left the rest unsaid, he eyed Ventriss with a glare that spoke volumes.

Defeated, disappointed, and even showing a touch of concern, Ventriss nodded slowly. "If you let me talk to him, I'll see what I can do."

Yet as Simon started to rise, the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "For what it's worth," Ventriss offered, "I am sorry. I didn't raise Brad to be this way. I always promote good business ethics. You know yourself that I've even shared an investigator with my fiercest competitor. We compete honestly, Captain Banks. How did I not instill those same ethics in my own son?" He sighed. "Maybe that's the price you pay for success. I guess I spent so much time building up the business that I didn't have enough left to devote to raising him."

Simon met his gaze. "For what it's worth to you, Mr. Ventriss, I've never had a pile of money. I didn't build a successful business. But I did build a career, and in doing so, I never spent enough time with my son either."

"Then you understand."

"No, sir, I don't. You see, I'm damned proud of my son. And apparently, he's proud of me. Do you know he actually wants to throw away a full scholarship in order to go to the police academy? He wants to follow in his old man's footsteps." Simon smiled. "Imagine that. God knows I don't want him throwing his future away. But ... I think I might just be starting to understand."

* * *

The wolves were strangely docile. They spent a long while nuzzling Blair's hair, licking his sore wrists and clawing uselessly at the cable ties shackling him before finally settling themselves around him. Two lay down on either side, flanking his legs. The third sat down at his feet and raised its nose into the fine mist that hopefully signaled an end to the persistent rain.

It was as though these predatory forest creatures had gathered not to attack, but to protect Blair Sandburg. He could already feel the welcome warmth washing off of the two beside him, seeping into his chilled legs. It was almost enough to ease his shivering. It was at least enough to ease him into sleep.

As Blair's eyes drooped closed once more, he gazed out at the wolf at his feet and realized it had assumed the role of his watchman—or, perhaps, his sentinel. It was filling a role another sentinel would surely soon take over, the role of his blessed protector.

Comforted, Blair fell into a dream of jungles and wolves, and a single, watchful black panther.

* * *

* 5 *

6:00 AM

The rising sun was still beyond the horizon when Jim reached the spot Suzanne had pointed out to him. Pulling over, he stepped out of his truck and could sense immediately how right she had been about the solitude here. The highway seemed like an aberration, cutting through the heart of a completely different world. The forest was thick, and deep, and ancient. It had a primal feel to it, an edge that reminded Jim of the jungle he had called home for so long in Peru. It was the kind of place that would ravage the likes of Brad Ventriss and Suzanne Nadine. High society belonged at the bottom of the food chain here. Fortunately, neither Jim nor Blair fit that bill.

Sandburg was out here somewhere. Jim felt it with a certainty mere logic could never explain. Yet 'here' encompassed at least a hundred square miles. Finding Blair amongst those trees would be like finding the proverbial needle.

This sentinel was up to the challenge.

* * *

Simon navigated the mountain roads with the speed and finesse of a grand prix driver. His lights, siren and an escort of state police vehicles helped to ensure an uninterrupted course. All in all he had to have made record time in reaching Norman Ventriss' pristine forest property. Yet so many hours had already passed, he could not help but wonder whether he had made the journey fast enough.

"It should be coming up on your left," Ventriss said from the passenger seat. As Simon slowed down to get a better feel for his surroundings, Mr. Ventriss turned to address his son, who was seated in the back beside Henri Brown. "Which access road did you take, Brad?" There was something unnerving in the elder Ventriss' tone. He sounded too casual, almost as though they were looking for nothing more than a picnic spot.

Disturbed, Simon looked towards Brad in the rearview mirror. The kid's jaw was set in a hard, stubborn line that made his thin lips barely distinguishable as he shot his father a heated glare. Clearly, Brad Ventriss was disturbed by his son’s defiance as well.

Disturbed was the right word alright, the captain realized. That kid was about as disturbed as they come. His refusal to answer his father now, despite having already admitted to taking Sandburg out here, only served to emphasize his twisted nature.

"Brad!"

The kid was so cool he did not even flinch at his father's dramatic change in tone.

"Which road?"

He still waited another moment before replying. Simon knew the brat was just trying to insert a degree of control in a situation that had already gone way beyond any hope of controlling. Just as the captain was thinking about stopping the car and inserting his own form of control over the kid, Brad pointed forward with his chin. Perhaps he was simply trying to avoid raising his hands and displaying the handcuffs he wore. Nonetheless, it was enough of a gesture of haughty arrogance to make Simon clench his teeth.

"The one before the road curves," Brad said finally, "next to the guard rail."

Simon saw it immediately. Pushing back his anger, he used his radio to notify the other vehicles.

"What's the status on that helicopter?" He asked then, casting a quick glance up at the too dark sky. "It should already be out here."

"They had to wait for passengers, sir."

"Passengers? What—"

"Agents Fogarty and McClean."

"Son of a...." He said under his breath as he pulled onto the dirt path that led deep into the woods. All he saw ahead of him was darkness.

* * *

Some time before Simon Banks was led directly to the access road, Jim followed a much more indirect path. Using the sentinel abilities he alone possessed, he found the spot where Brad's Mercedes had left the highway. The tracks of tires that had never been designed for off-roading were unmistakable. Still, in the darkness of that early morning hour, it was only because of Jim's heightened vision that he was able to see them at all. And it was only because of Blair Sandburg's guidance that Jim was able to use all of his heightened senses so successfully now.

It was ironic somehow, yet also fitting to imagine that the sentinel would find his guide because his guide had already shown him how. Jim took comfort in that thought, if only for a moment. His guide and friend had been violently taken from his home and stashed somewhere out here in the wilderness, likely without shelter. A few hours on such a chilly night could be enough to cause hypothermia. Sandburg had been out here for the entire night, and the majority of that night had been filled with rain. Jim needed to find him, fast. There had already been too many delays.

When both the road and the tire tracks came to abrupt end about six miles in, Jim parked his truck. He was out and on the ground almost from the second he turned off the ignition, and immediately keyed in to his sense of sound. Grateful for the chance to finally eliminate the engine noise without having to rely on filters, he focused himself on listening to what this forest had to tell him. And in yet another cosmic irony, the forest chose that moment to call out to him in the lonesome yet demanding cry of a wolf.

Jim felt compelled to find that wolf.

Part of him clung to logic. He knew that he was following a carelessly marked trail. People had been here recently and had made no effort to hide their tracks—tracks that included footprints and something far more disturbing. Something or someone had been dragged along this trail. A body? Blair’s body?

No. Jim forced the thought from his mind. Sandburg was not dead. The wolf howled again and Jim clung to that sound as evidence of Blair’s survival. In the short time they’d had together, a time barely measured in years, Blair Sandburg had opened up a previously buried part of Jim Ellison’s soul, one that accepted the life of a sentinel in pure defiance of true logic. It was that part of him Jim was relying on now as he allowed himself to believe that Blair Sandburg's wolf spirit was somehow calling out to him.

Fortunately, both logic and cosmic callings worked together this time around. Within minutes Jim found that wolf and two others. They were gathered around the semi prone figure of Blair Sandburg.

* * *

Jim was cautiously trying to ease his way past the wolves when their attention was suddenly diverted. Even as his own keen ears detected the arrival of several vehicles, he saw that the wolves had heard the commotion as well. As one, they turned their focus away from him and toward the spot where Jim had parked his truck. They tensed, hackles rising, staring into the darkness beyond the trees. Jim tensed as well although it was clear their wrath was not directed at him.

"Easy," he said softly as he took a careful step closer to Sandburg.

The wolves, focused in the direction of the road, snarled and snapped at nothing.

After another few steps, Jim finally reached the wolf shielding Sandburg's left side. "Easy."

It turned to him, eyeing him suspiciously. A growl rolled deep within its throat; yet it did not bare its teeth. Jim met its feral glare. He knew he could not submit, but would the wolf?

"Easy," he said again as he slowly lowered himself to the ground. He kept his eyes on the wolf. The wolf kept its eyes on him.

"Easy, there." Jim reached toward Sandburg, curling one hand around his friend's shoulder and squeezing. "Blair?"

The wolf stiffened at Jim's louder tone. "Easy," he said again, giving Sandburg's shoulder another squeeze.

Though the wolf continued to watch him, it began to back away. Jim took the opportunity to lean in closer to his friend. "Sandburg," he called more urgently.

The wolf stopped growling. It calmed, lowering itself to its haunches. Still it watched him, seeming curious to see what Jim would do next while its companions continued issuing their savage warning to the approaching officers.

Concerned that Sandburg had not yet stirred, Jim finally dared to pull his gaze from the wolf. "Blair," he called out.

His friend's eyes blinked slowly open, but they remained unfocused. Blair’s face was too pale.

Jim touched his cheek and was stunned by how cold it felt. Moving to Blair’s neck, Jim found a pulse, but it was too soft and too slow. "God, Chief."

Moving faster than he should given the proximity of the wolves, Jim pulled off his own jacket and laid it across Sandburg. The sudden action seemed to aggravate Blair’s animal sentries. Their pacing increased; their snarls became more intense. Jim turned to face them, expecting the worst. Only then did he remember about Simon and the teams of police officers and rescue workers that had been en route. He had been so centered on Sandburg and the wolves he had tuned out everything else. Now it seemed as though an army approached. The primal, patient forest had suddenly come alive, its solitude invaded by a barrage of flashlights and tramping feet.

"Stand back!" Jim risked shouting.

The wolves continued to pay him no heed.

"Jim!" Simon Banks responded before reaching the bizarre woodland scene. And then, when he finally caught sight of the situation, "What the …?" Simon stopped cold and held his hands out in a silent warning to the people behind him.

"What do you know," Brad Ventriss chimed in, laughing. "Living proof he's no better than a dog."

Enraged by the comment, Jim glared at the kid. Brad was standing beside Henri Brown, whose hand was wrapped tightly around his arm. Despite the handcuffs he wore, the kid looked smug and arrogant, and completely unfeeling.

"You son of a bitch," Henri said, beating Jim to the punch as he gripped Brad's arm tighter and wrenched him aside.

Jim would have done far worse. If it were not for his duty to Sandburg, he would have plowed right through those wolves to pound the crap out of Brad Ventriss. Surprisingly, the wolves themselves seemed to share his anger. Every one of them turned their aggressive display directly to the kid. They stepped slowly towards Brad and Henri, savagely biting at the air. Encouraged rather than concerned by the shift, Jim grabbed Sandburg's jackknife from his own pocket and felt another twinge of irony as he sliced it through the plastic ties that had locked Sandburg in place for all these hours.

Jim suddenly knew why he had felt so compelled to tamper with evidence by taking the knife from Sandburg's coat at the station earlier. The spirit world was certainly working in Blair Sandburg's favor this day. Judging from the wolves' current reaction, it seemed to be equally working against Brad Ventriss. Maybe justice was finally coming full circle. Ventriss' birthright be damned; a whole different birthright was in play out here.

"Get them away from me!"

Jim looked up after hearing Brad Ventriss' plea. The kid's eyes were riveted to the wolves though the animals remained a few feet away. It was the first time Jim had ever seen fear rather than entitlement etched into those high bred features. Seeing it there now gave the detective more satisfaction than he had thought possible. It would have been even more satisfying if the wolves would actually attack.

Henri Brown seemed to share Jim's thoughts. Releasing Brad's arm, he stepped to the side. The wolves ignored him. They were only interested in Brad.

"Well would you look at that," Henri said. "They don't seem to like you any more than we do."

Brown took a few more steps away and crossed his arms casually in front of him.

"Hey!" Brad called after him. "Do something!"

"What do you think, Captain?" Brown asked. "Do you know anything about wild animals?"

"Only the human variety," Simon answered, glaring at the kid.

"This is harassment!" Brad shouted. "I'll file charges!"

"What? Against the wolves?" Simon shook his head and returned his attention to the arrival of the helicopter. "Get those paramedics over here!" He commanded.

"Dad!" Brad yelled at his father, now standing behind Jim and the other officers working furiously to restore some warmth to Sandburg. "Do something!"

Mr. Ventriss moved closer to his son. "What would you have them do?"

"Shoot 'em!"

"For what? This is their place, not yours. They're not hurting you; they just want you out."

"What's wrong with you? They're attacking me!"

"No. They're warning you. There's a difference. If you stay put, they'll leave you be."

"What the hell? Dad, come on! What's with you?"

Mr. Ventriss' gaze grew sad. "I've been asking myself that question all night, Brad, about you. What happened to you? How could you do something so cruel, so calculatingly cold to another human being?"

"What? That slump?" Brad indicated towards Sandburg. "You know what he did to me!"

"What he did to you?" Mr. Ventriss repeated. "Or what he did to teach you where you were going wrong in your life? I believed you, Brad. I really did. I thought he was out to get you. But now...." He shook his head slowly, sadly.

Brad stared at his father, appearing dumbfounded. "Now? What now? Nothing's changed. He tried to get me kicked out of school. He ...." Brad's gaze grew heated once more. "He tried to frame me for murder. He deserved this. He deserves more."

"You could have killed him."

"I should have."

Clearly stunned, Mr. Ventriss said nothing more.

"Get me out of here," Brad demanded then. "I don't need to take this."

Yet for perhaps the first time in his life, Brad Ventriss was ignored. Henri Brown, Simon Banks, even his own father had turned away. All they cared about was Blair Sandburg. Only the wolves were interested in Brad.

"I don't have to take this," Brad said again, and then he began to back into the trees. He started slowly, wary of the wolves. When they held their position, he decided to run. That was his mistake. He had barely gone ten yards before the wolves were upon him.

Several detectives smiled when they heard the kid scream. Still, they hesitated only a moment before chasing the wolves away with carefully placed gunfire. It would have been too cruel to hurt the animals.

* * *

Camped out in the chair beside Sandburg's hospital bed, Jim was tuned in to the change in his friend's heartbeat. He rubbed the sleep out of his own eyes before Blair was fully awake.

"How you doing?" Jim asked after a moment.

Blair smiled at him weakly. "Warm. Dry. Comfortable. It's ... nice. A guy could get used to this."

"I don't suppose I'm going to get you out camping for a while."

"Find me a lodge with a toasty fireplace and a Swedish bartender, and I'm there, man."

"I hear Sven makes a mean martini."

It was good to hear Sandburg laugh—for about ten seconds, and then the laughter turned into a fit of coughing.

"Easy there, Chief." Jim helped prop his friend up until Blair was able to breathe comfortably again. "You almost drowned out there in the rain."

"Tell me ... about it," Blair struggled to answer.

Watching closely as Sandburg settled back against the pillows, Jim waited for him to continue.

"Something strange happened out there, man," Blair said after a while. "Maybe it was a dream. I don't know. It must've been a dream."

"I doubt it," Jim offered.

Blair looked at him curiously. "It... it wasn't like a vision, like at the fountain, but—"

"Wolves," Jim interrupted, discomfited by Sandburg's reference. "They were real. There were three of them. As far as we could tell, they looked after you."

"That ... that's wild. I mean, that's just ... it's unbelievable, man. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"Not a clue," Jim answered, smiling at his friend's enthusiasm and the resilience it signified.

"Me neither," Sandburg admitted. "But it's ... got to mean something."

"Well, it does give me a whole new appreciation of wolves."

"I'm with you, my brother."

"You don't know the half of it, Chief."

"What?"

"The wolves wanted to take out Brad Ventriss."

"Well, they're wolves, Jim."

"They didn't go after anyone else. They only wanted him."

"What? No way, man. Are you serious?"

"He is," Simon said, coming into the room. "Fifty-two stitches worth. Oh, and rabies treatments to boot, just in case."

"Hey, watch what you say, Simon," Jim cautioned, concerned to see Sandburg starting to laugh and cough again.

"Of course," the captain continued, "he is threatening to file charges against us, something about endangerment or whatever."

"No," Sandburg seemed concerned. "Can he do that?"

"It won't stick," Simon answered. "Even his father's with us on that count."

"No way." Clearly, this news was coming at Blair as one surprise after another. "His father? How'd you swing that? The man hates my guts."

"Not anymore, Chief," Jim offered. "As a matter of fact, I think he's learning to admire you."

"Okay, now that I cannot believe. There's just no way—"

"Believe it," Simon said. "Norman Ventriss is a changed man."

"What, did I wake up in the Twilight Zone or something?"

"If you did," Jim said, "then we all woke up right along with you."

"And there's no place like home," Blair said cryptically. "Now give me some news I can believe."

"We picked up the last of Brad's three hired thugs about an hour ago," Simon offered.

"Okay, someone pinch me already," Blair said. "Nothing ever goes this perfectly. Ow! I didn't mean that literally."

Jim ignored the reprimand and put his hand innocently into his pocket. "There is some bad news, I'm afraid."

Blair gazed at him expectantly.

"The Jags lost."

* * *

Epilogue

There was nothing but the cold … and the wet … and the dark. He was suffocating, drowning in nothingness. Life was a black void, an empty hole through existence. There was nothing within, and nothing without. There was nothing at all but the wet, cold blackness.

Jim.

The name formed in his thoughts, taking shape in the return of feeling, of damp, rough bark scraping his skin raw, of sharp, unbreakable plastic digging into his wrists, slicing into veins. He could feel his blood flowing into the ground, mixing with the rain, seeping deep into the heart of the earth.

And then from that same earth a cradle took shape around him. Made of dirt and grass and stone, it enveloped him, enfolding him in a shield and then caressing him with the warmth of eternity in the smell of heady musk.

Blair. It called to him, its voice urgent and afraid. Blair.

A wolf howled in the night, pleading and mournful.

Blair, it seemed to cry.

He opened his eyes, saw eternity gazing back at him, it own eyes yellow, feral and taunting. They demanded him to submit—but to what? To the blackness, the cold, empty void? Or to the warmth of an earthen cradle? Either way, it meant death after all.

The devil laughed at him, its thin lips and empty eyes like a parody, reflecting the human mask of Brad Ventriss.

Obey me, the devil commanded. I own you.

“No.” But the word was small, pitiful. He shivered and tried to push himself deeper into warmth.

“No,” He cried again as an icy hand reached into his chest, fingers curling around his lungs.

Blair. The wolf’s howl grew desperate. He felt its paw pressing demandingly against his arm. The warmth he needed was there, in its thick fur, in its hot, healing breath. Blair.

He opened his eyes again, and eternity was gone. His earthen cradle became his bed. And neither devil nor wolf remained. The eyes he saw peering down at him were familiar and welcome. They reflected warmth, compassion … concern.

“Jim,” He panted, finding the icy pressure that was too slow in releasing his lungs.

“You’re okay, Chief.” Jim’s voice was soft, comforting. “It was just a nightmare. You’re home. You’re safe.”

“No.” He started to shiver, remembering with sudden stark clarity the feel of the rain on that black, endless night in the forest. It was real. It had all been very real.

Jim pulled him into a warm embrace. Blair accepted it, letting himself sink into it much as he had tried to sink into the earthen cradle of his dream. Where that answer would have led to death, this one led to life. This was the right answer, he knew. The only answer.

Saying nothing, he let Jim rub life back into his arms and back. The shivering eased, the warmth of this reality, of this moment chasing the forest from his thoughts until Blair began to feel an obligation to pull away. He was about to do just that, and to apologize for being so—what? Needful? But before he could even form an understanding of his own thoughts Jim offered those very words instead.

“I’m sorry, Blair.”

Surprised, Blair did pull away, but only so he could see his friend’s eyes. “What?” He asked.

“I’m sorry. I should have been out there looking for you sooner. I don’t know why I let Simon talk me into—”

“Jim, you have nothing to apologize for, man. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tensing, Jim rose from the bed. “If I had done things my way, we would have found you sooner. You wouldn’t have had to—”

“If you had done things your way Brad could have used that restraining order to get you into lockup, and then you wouldn’t have had the chance to find me period.”

Blair jumped out of bed to follow Jim into the kitchen. “And if that’s not enough to convince you,” He continued, “if you went after him like you wanted, it would have been a hell of a lot harder for Simon or the feds to get that warrant for Brad—if they were able to get it at all.”

Positioning himself in front of his friend, Blair forced Jim to look at him. “Come on, Jim,” He demanded, placing a guiding hand on his friend’s arm; it was an instinctive gesture intended to soothe a sentinel’s inner storm. “Think about it. You got there when it mattered. You got there when you needed to. You saved my life.”

“It was too close, Chief.” Jim shook his head, his eyes glistening with moisture. He glanced away.

“Close only counts in horse-shoes,” Blair offered lightly.

Jim looked back at him, saying nothing.

“You know,” Blair mimicked the gesture of throwing a horse-shoe. “Horse-shoes? You don’t have to get a ringer to get points. You can still get points for getting close.”

“I know the saying, Sandburg,” Jim responded dryly.

Blair sighed, giving up his attempt at levity. “You saved my life, Jim. Again. You are my blessed protector, man. So far the cosmos has done a pretty good job of making sure you get there when you need to. I trust in that. I trust in you.”

Jim met his gaze, but said nothing.

“Jim, man; you have to trust in you.”

The gaze held a moment longer, until Jim broke the connection with a sigh heavy enough to act as a release valve, easing the obvious tension from his shoulders. And then Jim turned away. He grabbed the tea pot off the stove and moved to the sink to fill it with water.

“Remember when you came to the station and tried to find a record on Brad Ventriss?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Blair answered, curious about where this was going.

“You didn’t find anything, and I didn’t care.”

Blair waited for more, but Jim had apparently finished his statement.

“So?” Blair said, finally.

Putting the pot back on the stove, Jim switched the burner on before giving his full attention to Blair. “You told me he drugged and raped a student, and all I cared about was the fact that he didn’t have a record.”

“You were right, man. There was nothing we could do. No police report was filed on that case or any other. You had a murder to investigate. It was a matter of priorities.”

“You were angry. You were concerned about a student, and rightfully so.”

Blair shrugged. “At that point in time Brad was my problem to solve, not yours. There was nothing yet to link him to—”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Jim pointed at him accusingly. “You don’t get angry, Sandburg. You get excited, enthusiastic, but you don’t get angry. When you have a problem that gets that deep under your skin, I should know there’s something seriously wrong. But I ignored it. I ignored you. Where were my blessed protector instincts then, huh?”

Blair found himself smiling, confident in his reply. “Right where they were supposed to be, Jim. You’re instincts told you to focus on solving Dennis Chung’s murder. That’s how we finally got to Brad. Don’t you see? If you had shifted your focus, if you had wasted time trying to help me pin Brad with rape charges or anything else, who knows where it would have led us? Or misled us. You did what you had to do, when you had to do it.”

“And I left you to do what you had to do, when you had to do it. And the only thing you could do then was to hit Brad up with charges of cheating; and all that got you was fired from your teaching job, not to mention beat up.”

“And you were there for me then, too. Remember?”

“What?”

“One of Brad’s goons was about to take a baseball bat to me, Jim. You got there just in time, just like you always do. I mean, come on, man. You have never, never let me down when I really needed you. You have always been there.”

The sentinel detective didn’t seem too sure what to say next. He was either running out of arguments, or running out of steam. Maybe he was even losing his motivation to argue.

Blair took Jim’s silence as an opportunity to ask, “Do you trust me?”

“You know I do,” Jim answered, seeming bothered to have to make such an admission.

“Then use the fact that I trust you as a reason to trust in yourself.”

There. Blair could see his words hitting home. Jim’s deep gaze pulled away only because the teapot started whistling. After making two cups of herbal tea, he joined Blair at the table, where they sat in silence for a long moment before Blair asked the most pointed question of the night.

“I’m not the only one having nightmares, am I?”

A small shake of his head was Jim’s only answer, followed quickly by a sip of tea.

“So what do we do about getting rid of them?”

“How about a Jags game?”

“What?”

“They’re home Friday night. I might have a line on a couple of tickets.”

“Sounds great. Yeah. I’m in.” Blair took a few more sips of tea before he added, out of the blue, “Tofu sausage.”

“What?” Jim’s expression reflected annoyed confusion.

“That night I was going to make the chili I could have sworn I’d forgotten something. It just dawned on me that’s what I forgot to buy. Tofu sausage. It was key, man. I mean, without it, all I would have ended up making was chili soup. You’ve got to have the sausage in there to give it the right consistency.”

“Correction. You’ve got to have meat in there to give it the right consistency. Tofu sausage,” Jim’s lip curled in revulsion. “It’s a good thing I had a back-up plan.”

“What back-up plan?”

“Pizza.”

“I was going to all the trouble to make chili, and you were planning to get pizza instead? I’m hurt, Jim. I really am.”

“Then don’t try to force feed me with tofu sausage.”

By the time they’d finished their tea and headed back to bed, Blair’s thoughts had been so completely diverted away from the nightmares of what had been—or what might have been—sleep finally became a chance to refresh rather than relive. His blessed protector had saved him again. He could only hope he had been an equally successful guide.

<end>