They sat in the oak panelled kitchen, each with their own cup of relaxing tea patiently waiting for the observer to speak.

"Okay, it was nothing that I could put my finger on but *I* was definitely getting vibes, man," Blair stuttered to a halt. Mentally, he reviewed his gushing; deliberately he centred himself. "There was nothing overt," he began, moving into scientific language, "but Jim you’re not habitually..." He struggled to put nebulous emotions into words. "You’re impatient, Jim, but you not normally snappy without a reason. And I don’t make a habit of ... flaunting my...."

"Intelligence," Jim said dryly, there was an amused gleam in his eye,

A twitch of the lips, which could have been a smile, graced Blair’s face.

"Hmmmmm," Blair responded, resisting the temptation to stick out his tongue. "And Philip - you’ve never even raised your voice in my presence."

"So what are you saying?"

"I’m saying: that shrunken corpse negatively impacts on our emotional state in a subtle manner."

Jim blinked and rocked back on his chair, nursing his cup of herbal tea. They waited for him to speak.

"This is more you field than mine, Chief," the Sentinel said deliberately. "We were just snipping at each other. We can control that and continue with the forensics."

Blair rocked back on his own chair, mimicking his Sentinel, setting his feet on the table.

"Yes," he hedged. "Now that we’re aware of it. Father, what do you think?"

"There are procedures we can use to minimise exposure but most of the battle has been won since we’re aware of the manipulation. It’s very subtle. I’m surprised that you noticed it."

"I just know you guys, you know. You weren’t acting right. And that thing’s horrible." His pen began to dance in his fingers. "I think we should find out who she was and..." words failed him.

"Bury her with due ceremony," Philip said with quiet authority.

"Yeah, man. I think that she’d be a lot happier."

"So, Blair." The priest leaned across the table, lacing his fingers together. "You think that there’s some kind of malevolent activity around the effigy, but you also believe that this lady’s soul... spirit... is still present?"

The colour leached from Blair’s face.

"Uhuh. Maybe, I’m just being dramatic. I don’t like the thought that that thing’s watching us, especially knowing that someone’s mother’s trapped inside."

The pen continued to dance in his fingers almost mesmerising them.

Father Callaghan took a slow draw of his tea before speaking. "How do you know that the kidnapper’s watching us and this lady’s soul is trapped within the desiccated husk?"

Abruptly the pen stopped. Blair’s eyes darted nervously from priest to Sentinel. That the Sentinel had not contributed anything to this facet of the conversation had not went unnoticed by the Guide. When they delved into the mystic aspects of the Sentinel’s nature, Jim first response was to recoil.

"Educated guess, " Blair muttered. "After that shit with the daemon, I find that ghosts, spirit guides and waking dreams isn’t that difficult to accept. That thing," Blair jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the laboratory," was put there for a reason. The clothes aren’t dirty or wet; it was in a drain, for God’s sake - so the kidnapper put it there. Why? ‘Cos he can use it somehow. The only thing I can think of is that he can use it to know what’s going on."

"That’s an interesting theory, Chief." Jim’s measured tones imparted some calm to the conversation. "We need to find out if the body’s clothes, skin and hair colour matches any of the descriptions of the previous kidnap victims. We need to keep someone at the site to check if this guy comes back for his toy. I’ll call Simon. Chief, you go the library here and see if you can find any similar occurrences. Father Callaghan, can you check with any of your associates about exorcising the body? We don’t go back into that room until we’ve got more information."

                                                                        ~*~

The heavy oak panelled door of the rectory library drifted shut with a quiet sigh. The Sentinel hovered in the hallway listening to the noises within the room. A heavy chair was dragged across the carpeted floor, and the soft hum of the library’s computer filled the Sentinel’s ears. Satisfied that the anthropologist was blissfully ensconced, Jim went to find the priest. Tracking the man’s heartbeat was simplicity itself. He found him in a master den, filled with typically masculine knickknacks and a few curios. Father Callaghan sat at a large oak desk flicking through a bulky address book.

Jim coughed lightly but the priest was already aware of his presence.

"What can I do for you, detective?"

An easy gesture directed the Sentinel to the assortment of seats in the room. Jim avoided the couch and settled himself in the chair opposite the priest, sitting in the subordinate position. The priest closed the address book and brought his full attention to bear on the detective.

"Yes, Jim?" he pursued when the detective remained silent.

Jim strove to put his concerns into understandable English, eventually he decided on, "What did you think of Blair’s display in there?"

The priest hummed under his breath for a moment. "You mean the way that he identified that there was a problem or that he was convinced that the figure is sentient and watching us."

"Both," Jim said tersely.

"Do you think he’s wrong?"

"This is like talking to the precinct’s psychiatrist. No, I don’t believe he’s wrong but how did he know?"

"If you’re asking me if Blair is psychic, I don’t know. He doesn’t display any overt abilities, such as precognition, that we can test."

Jim ground his teeth together. He had entered into the conversation with vague unformed questions of his own and a need to talk. The priest had recognised this and was asking nicely thought out questions but the man was shooting in the dark.

The priest was still speaking, "As Blair has said, he is a student of human behaviour. From the first moment I met Blair I was impressed by his depth of feeling and intuition."

"He’s like that with the Sentinel stuff," Jim admitted reluctantly, not at all comfortable discussing his abilities with the priest. "I’ll have a problem and *BAM* he solves it, especially when we are out in the field. I wonder where he gets the answers from."

"He’s studied sentinels for many years, maybe he absorbed the answers from there?"

"Maybe," Jim enunciated, "maybe not. A month or so ago, a good friend, a Chopec shaman... the man who guided me while I was in Peru, died. As he died," little breaths came like hard bullets, "he passed on the mantle of shaman to Blair."

"How did Blair handle that?"

Tensely, Jim laid his hands palm down on the table. "Completely freaked out at the scene and then immediately pulled it together well enough to reactivate my sentinel abilities, which were temporarily on the fritz, by putting me in touch with my spirit guide."

"So Incacha made Blair your shaman?" the priest ventured, looking a tiny bit affronted. Since Callaghan knew the Chopec native’s name, Blair must had mentioned the affair. Apparently the grad student had made a few omissions, like that he had been dubbed a shaman.

"Incacha making Blair a shaman is a bit like telling Uri Geller how to bend forks. A shaman looks after the physical and spiritual needs of those around him, at least in the Chopec. Blair was filling in that role, especially down the precinct, before he was dubbed a Shaman."

Father Callaghan leaned forwards intently. "If Blair is already your shaman, what is the problem?"

"It’s not cut and dried. Fuck!" Pushing down with his hands Jim launched himself to his feet. "I have dreams. I have a spirit guide. I’ve spoken to it... him. I’m fairly sure that Blair doesn’t have a spirit guide. He does it all from inside, he doesn’t need any outside guidance - or he’s so in tune with...." He began to pace like a caged panther. "Look, I’m... concerned. As our roles continue to evolve, I don’t know where this shaman stuff is going to take him."

The priest’s doleful eyes became commiserating. "You can only trust in yourselves and God - whomever you perceive him to be."

"Platitudes," Jim groused.

"No, it is not," he rebuked gently. "You’ve spoken to spirits, touched the ‘otherside’ and forged a time honoured partnership of brotherhood. I think you’re blessed. You have a genetic predisposition - according to Blair - for enhanced senses. Maybe that makes you more aware of the beauty around us, more sensitive to the wonder of God’s creation. Thus he can act through you."

"Still doesn’t explain Blair," Jim muttered.

"Blair is your partner. Think of it as a kind of symbiosis. He is aware of you, he picks up on your moods - it is about friendship. Perhaps it is simply that degree of empathy which makes him your guide and coincidentally your shaman?"

Dissatisfied, Jim took his leave. The priest didn’t stop him, merely returning to the task from which he had been interrupted.

Jim stormed along claustrophobic corridors. He felt the urge to check up on his Guide, shaman, partner, observer... whatever.

He slipped silently into the old, well stocked library. Light breathing directed him to a set on book stacks in the far corner of the room. Crouched on his haunches, Blair held a computer print out in once hand and a book in the other. He noticed the Sentinel immediately.

"Hey, big guy. I was just coming to look for you."

"Why?"

"I dunno." He shrugged expressively. "Gotta vibe - wondered what you were doing."

                                                            ~*~

After a quick brunch they returned to the laboratory. Following methodology laid down by the Legacy organisation, Blair remained outside the lab watching the action through a close circuit television. To say that he was put out by the circumstances was something of an understatement. The two-way mike attached to the Sentinel’s ear buzzed as Blair muttered sub-vocally.

Father Callaghan flipped open the canister.

"Mother of Mary," he blasphemed.

"What? What? What!" Blair’s tinny voice sounded loudly in the room.

As the sentinel surged forwards to examine the canister an irreverent portion of his brain noted that he’d turned down his hearing in the ear harbouring the ear piece. Sometimes the Sentinel stuff did work subconsciously.

"It’s gone, detective," he said brokenly.

                                                                        ~*~

"I don’t believe it!" Blair curled up into a ball in the blue and white truck’s passenger seat.

They had searched the lab from top to bottom, utilising sentinel senses, to no avail. That the figure had managed to escape from the securely sealed canister seemed unlikely. Spiriting it away by arcane means seemed equally unlikely. Yet the evidence was undeniable. It had disappeared.

"Mystical crap aside," Jim muttered, "how likely is it that Father Callaghan or another member of the household moved it?"

Blair watched the moving traffic before speaking. "I prefer that over teleportation or that thing is scurrying around the wainscoting watching Philip."

Blair twitched as something with long spindly spider’s legs walked over his grave. Twisting, he peered down between his legs looking under the seat.

"It could be in here, man."

"Get a grip, Sandburg. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary."

Muttering under his breath, Blair lifted his feet off the floor and sat cross-legged.

"Are we going back to the precinct?"

"Yes, I want to check the victims’ database to see if we have a match with the shrunken thing."

Blair decided to change the subject. He pulled his backpack into his arms - clutching the familiar shape closely, and withdrew a book.

"I found some stuff in the library - but most of it referred to voodoo dolls when I cross referenced effigies and figures. The books are all recently published. I mean voodoo! Anyone with any sense knows that effigies and pins is tabloid television voodoo. I guess the Legacy purchase every book that has anything to do with the mystical side on the off-chance that there might be something in it."

"Get to the point."

Blair glared. "This type of magic is called sympathetic magic. There are two divisions of sympathetic magic: homeopathic and contagious. I suspect we’re dealing with contagious magic." Slowly, he read from the book. "Where things which have been conjoined must remain ever afterwards, even when dissevered from each other, in such sympathetic relation whatever is done to one similarly affect the other." Setting the book aside, Blair continued to think out loud. "I’ve found two articles about animating stocks and fetishes, but nothing specific to shrunken bodies."

"You’ll find it, Chief."

Blair basked in the surety in his friend’s tone.

                                                            ~*~

Leaving Jim to play footsie with the F.B.I. agents, Blair settled himself at Jim’s desk. An F.B.I. agent’s laptop was set on the desk.

‘Serves them right for invading a sentinel’s territory.’ Blair grinned wolfishly. ‘Big mistake.’

Unobtrusively, he switched it on and started hunting through the non password protected files.

He downloaded to a disc a number of documents relating to previous victims, plus a few extras, and then he moved over to Jim’s computer.

One mother, Evelyn Huntingtower, matched the effigy.

Blair closed the files and saved them in another folder on the computer’s c:drive. He hid the disc in plain sight in Jim’s motley collection of discs.

"What are you doing?" Choppy, short words reached his ears.

"Hi Cassie," Blair leaned back in his chair and greeted the forensics officer.

"What file were you looking at? It looked like an F.B.I. file?"

Blair made frantic shushing motions. "Why don’t you just announce it to the whole world, man!" he hissed.

"Sorry," Cassie stage whispered, earning a curious look from Henri Brown.

"It’s nothing. I was just working on some stuff." The file was closed. Blair double checked. All Cassie could have seen was the merest glimpse.

"What’s this?"

Blair lifted his head and watched as a finely plucked eyebrow rose questioningly.

"What’s what?"

An equally manicured nail pointed to Jim’s desk pad, which doubled as a doodle pad for the anthropologist. Underlined, starred and highlighted was a list of things-to-do. Number one was to re-search the site where little Marcus had been found.

"Why do you want to search there again? My team went over it thoroughly." There was a hint of wounded pride in her tone.

"Er, well," Blair hedged, scrabbling for an excuse. "I lost my Mantobi bracelet when we were looking for Marcus. It probably as good a place as any to look."

"Oh, yeah," Cassie drawled. Suddenly she turned on her heel.

"Cassie." Blair stood, scattering papers. "You want to get a chinese in the break room later?"

"Maybe." Smiling enigmatically, she flounced out of the squad room.

‘I know it. I know it,’ he thought miserably. ‘She’s going to go back there.’

He shared a knowing glance with Henri - who had a similar opinion to Jim Ellison’s when it came to the new forensics expert, despite the anthropologist’s best attempts to make them view her more charitably.

’What now?’ Blair wondered. ‘Would she find anything?’

As his mind spun he looked to the captain’s office. The head of F.B.I. field operations plus two of his subordinates were in conference with the captain and his premier detective. Ellison was pacing back and forth - a measured controlled movement that spoke of his unease with the situation. Sharing their discovery with the agents would be a quick route to the Happy Farm for the psychologically challenged. The agents were probably wondering why Jim was so interested in the previous victims. But this was getting the anthropologist nowhere fast. Interrupting Simon in his office usually resulted in a dressing down. He wasn’t particularly bothered about that, but alerting the F.B.I. agents that something was up was a definite no-no.

Decision made - Blair scribbled a note to his partner and left it stuck on the computer.

                                                                        ~*~

He caught up with Cassie in the precinct garage. Automatically holding his breath, to stop inhaling the vehicle fumes, he danced his way in between the patrol cars. Cassie was loading up her van with her paraphernalia, most of which she tested for different companies.

"Hey," Blair sidled up and grabbed one of the crates and helped her put it in the back of the van. "You don’t really have to do this. As you said: you’ve checked."

She dropped the crate with a thud. "Look me straight in the eye and tell me that you’re not going back there?"

Blair bobbed uneasily from foot to foot.

"See! You and Ellison are planning on finding something that you think that I’ve missed. So I’m going to look again, before Bloodhound Ellison finds it and makes me look like a fool."

"It’s not like that, Cassie," Blair protested.

"Yes, it is!" she said sharply. "I don’t know how he does it but he does."

She slammed the sliding door shut, almost catching the anthropologist’s fingers. Forcing her way past him, she climbed into the van, reaching behind her to slam the door in his face. Blair caught the door and jumped in next to her.

The forensics officer turned on him. "You’re coming?"

"Uh huh." Blair held out his cell phone and waggled it.

"You’re going to call Ellison?"

"If and when it becomes necessary."

"I do not need back-up," she said caustically.

Blair’s response was to fasten his seat belt and cross his arms, mimicking Simon at his most authoritative.

"Do you do this with Ellison?"

Muttering under her breath, she pulled her black velvet, floppy hat over her curls and proceeded to ignore the anthropologist. As she reached for the ignition, Blair beat her to the keys.

"Don’t do this, Cassie. Wait for Jim to finish with Simon and then we’ll all go together. He won’t be long. We don’t even know if what we’re looking for will be there."

"So you are looking for something specific."

Blair could have kicked himself.

She gunned the engine and screamed out of the garage with the observer clutching the dashboard.

                                                                        ~*~

Jim deliberately stopped grinding his teeth together. ‘I am calm. I am calm. I am calm.’ The mantra came easily to his lips, but Blair’s coaching did not help. The F.B.I. agents weren’t as irritating as normal, in fact they were downright accommodating. It was what they weren’t saying that was tormenting the Sentinel. If the Feds were investigating the supernatural aspects of the case, Jim felt he had to tell them what he had discovered. However, until he knew that they were sufficiently opened minded to consider the possibility, he was not going to bring up the subject.

"Jim," Henri Brown called out. He was pointing at the detective’s desk. "Sandburg left you a message."

Glancing at the note, Jim swore under his breath. "Kids."

"What are they up to?" Brown asked.

"Tell Simon, when he escapes from the forces of evil, that Wells and Sandburg went back to where we found Marcus. I’m going to go get them."

"You want me to come?"

"Nah, how much trouble can they get into? Don’t answer that. Just keep your cell phone free."

                                                                        ~*~

They stopped at the campsite, at the edge of the Cascade Woods, some two hundred yards from the storm overflow into the Fox River that eventually reached the Pacific Ocean. The forensics officer pulled on her Cascade P.D. coveralls, pointedly not offering the grad student a pair. Weighed down with her equipment, Cassie strode off in the completely wrong direction. Evilly, Blair debated whether or not to allow her to walk to Canada or turn her around.

"It’s this way, Cassie."

"I knew that," she snapped, but tempered it with a smile.

The coniferous forest was cooling in the late afternoon sunlight. The uneven ground was covered with fine needles and damp mosses. Cassie struggled onwards until Blair remembered his manners and offered to help. Together they picked their way to the entrance of the outfall.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"I’ll know it when I see it."

A dike was formed from cement sculpted into steep sides. The outfall pipe emerged from the south wall. In the distance, Blair could see the housing development that fed the pipe. Between the river and the houses was the sewage works, which intercepted the sewerage material from the residences and, no doubt, occasionally dumped into the river.

"Not very big, is it," she said. "I’m surprised that Ellison let you go in there."

"I was the smallest." Blair did not add that the Sentinel had monitored the tunnel before he had let his guide more than one foot into the depths.

Cassie picked her way down the dike, making mincing little footsteps to keep her balance. Blair leaped down to join her. Yellow police tape flapped in the slight wind. Crouching, she peered into the pipe.

"What I’m looking for might be out here," Blair said, before she could crawl into the pipe.

"And you’ll know it when you see it," she sniped. Then with mercurial suddenness she changed track. "You can tell me," she wheedled.

"I’m looking for a doll."

Her mouth made an ‘o’ of understanding. "If you think it is relevant, why didn’t you turn it over to the F.B.I.? I know, you want the credit."

Blair snorted. "I don’t want to embarrass Jim if I’m wrong."

Cassie accepted the blatant fabrication. "Why do you think it is important?"

Kicking over a riverbed stone with his foot, Blair paused before answering. "It kinda resembles one of the kidnapper’s previous victims but only vaguely."

"And if you find one here you’ve got a lead..."

"Exactly - look between the stones. It might be wedged in."

As she hunted, Blair cast his eyes heavenward. ‘Where are you, Jim? You should be here.’

A piece of dead rabbit was almost mistaken for the long hair of another figure. Cassie was methodical, working along the side of the river as Blair covered the mouth of the pipe. Standing, she lobbed a stone into the water and then picked her way, over the river stones, back to Blair’s side.

"Let’s check inside," she began, brooking no argument.

"I..." A noise stopped him mid-word. A muted wail hiccuped in the distance.

"What was that?" She leaned past him and peered into the tunnel.

"A cat?" Blair ventured.

"Charlie," she said decisively.

Blair caught the tail of her coat as she launched herself into the tunnel. "Stop! It could be anything: fox, cat - the kidnapper."

Cassie wiggled out of her coat and disappeared.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Blair swore. He dropped onto his hands and knees and squinted. The darkness had already engulfed her. Still swearing, he yanked out his cellphone and angrily hit the buttons that would connect him with the Sentinel.

Jim picked up immediately. "Ellison. That better be you, Sandburg."

"Cassie’s gone into the tunnel. I’m going after her. I’m leaving the cell open."

Blair ducked into the pipe and immediately lost the cell phone signal. Muttering, he cast it outside, hoping that Jim would be able to pick up his voice via the phone.

"I’m gonna kill her." The wail sounded again, reverberating off the concrete walls. It sounded like a child’s cry. Scuffing his knees he picked up speed. Twists and turns confused him. He went further than he had before. The ground disappeared beneath his hands and he tumbled downwards.

He landed in something wet and icky. Gagging, he pushed himself up on his elbows. It was pitch black - he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

"Cassie?" he whispered. The echoes told him that he had ventured into a larger tunnel. Composing himself, he listened - he had directed the Sentinel through many sensory tests - he knew how to listen. Scuffling sounded to the left. He couldn’t tell what was moving but it might be Cassie. Counting under his breath, Blair crawled forwards.

Then the screaming began.

Feminine screams reverberated around the passage. Where, where? He couldn’t tell. The scream rose in pitch, followed by a wet crunch and then a higher childish wail. A flash of light blinded him - flaring against his eyes - forcing him to his knees. For an instant he saw a woman’s shape silhouetted against his eyelids. Knowing it was Cassie he fumbled in her direction.

Another scream assailed his ears. Reaching blindly, he tried to touch her. A scream, a thud and then someone fell against him. They went down in a tangle of limbs. Heavy, damp breath wheezed against his throat. He jerked away from the touch of lips - not knowing who held him.

"Cass?"

"Oh, god. Blair? Shssssh. It’s coming." She descended into coughing.

"Breathe," Blair soothed, patting her cheeks and shoulders. Her back was wet but it was warm. As he fumbled he came across a small bundle hugged against her chest. His fingers investigated, feeling a small, still face and rosebud lips. The child; Charlie.

"Oh, my god." His heart stopped for a stuttering moment. Then he felt the faintest flutter of breathing against his fingertips. Charlie was barely alive.

"Go, go, go," she implored, as she transferred the child into his arms.

"Come on." Wriggling out from under her body, he struggled to his feet pulling her upright, the child sandwiched between them.

A noise slithered ahead of them. Creeping, coming closer, threatening. Blair backed away, dragging the failing woman with him. The child whimpered. Their breathing sounded harsh in the tight tunnel, unerringly leading the slithering noise closer.

"Come on, Cass."

Her knees gave way and she slipped out of his grasp. Futilely, he tried to catch her. Pain blossomed in his chest - throwing him backwards. Hot agony radiated down his left arm. Somehow he kept the child clasped to his side. Cassie lay upon his legs - she was silent. With shocking suddenness, the weight was dragged away. Unpenetrable darkness loomed over him. The child was joggled and the observer struck. Blindly he flailed, connecting with leathery skin. He kicked and was rewarded with a strangled grunt. He followed through with another strike. Sobbing, he continued to kick and kick. Connecting, not connecting. Fetid air washed over him and, galvanised, Blair kicked with all of his strength.

He was free.

Automatically, he scrambled backwards. He backed into a wall with bruising force. Slowly, he stumbled along the wall, listening for absolutely anything. The child was still tucked up against his side, but where was Cassie? It was as dark as the deepest pits of hell. His entire left side was numb. There was someone lurking and he couldn’t find Cassie.

He stumbled and fell on the slope on which he had tumbled down into this hellhole. The way out. Blair listened with all his heart and soul for his co-worker. Nothing - not even a sinister slither. Footsteps sounded somewhere above him. He prayed that it was his Sentinel. He couldn’t leave; he hadn’t found Cassie. Wincing, he shifted the child, tucking a curly head under his chin. And then he took a step towards the monster.

Please, Jim, find Cass - find us. We’re here. Listen to my pounding heart.’

The echoes sounded closer together - running footsteps. It had to be Jim - the Sentinel would not be constrained by poor light. Once past the entrance he would be able to stand and to run.

The footsteps skidded to a halt, on the ramp directly above him.

"Jim?" he tried. The name caught in his throat choking him.

"Chief?" Hands touched his body, trailed over his cheeks and down his neck. They paused at the sharp pain at his breast. Red-hot pain drowned out all coherent thought. Blackness, whiteness - shocking nothingness, which was almost a relief - washed over him. Slowly, Blair became aware of his friend’s sensitive fingers touching his rib cage as he leaned against him. They were wasting precious time.

Mutely, Blair nodded into the darkness, begging the Sentinel to find their friend. An arm was flung over his shoulders. The child was cradled between them.

"What, Chief? Cassie? Is Cassie still here?"

They stood rooted to the spot. Blair’s heart thrummed unevenly as the Sentinel searched outwards with his senses. He knew when the Sentinel found her; when the blessed protector froze. Poised, the Sentinel was listening for a heartbeat that had been silenced.

Cassie was dead.

They stood silently until Blair began to shiver, shock finally overcoming his defences. Jim held him closer, reaching for the little boy. Blair refused to relinquish Charlie, but he submitted as Jim gently turned him and drew him up the slope and towards daylight.

He was pushed ahead through the pipe, Jim taking up the rear. Legs dressed in pressed trousers and polished shoes blocked the entrance.

"Sandburg?"

A tree trunk of a man reached down and Blair automatically cringed. Large hands caught his shoulders, dragging him out of the pipe. A dark face, hidden behind lenses, yammered down at him. Another man, nearly as tall as the first, tried to take the child. Blair bared his teeth.

"Hey, hey, Sandburg," the first man said cajolingly. "Let Henri look after the kid."

His knees were buckling. Only the hold the enormous man had on his shoulders was keeping him upright.

"Chief?" The warm voice of his Sentinel embraced him. "Let me look at Charlie, please."

Eyes narrowed, he examined his friend and then slowly passed the limp child over. Jim accepted him with a sad smile, smoothly dropping to his knees, draping the child over his lap. Competent hands checked him out and sensitive ears listened. The sound of sirens drew Blair’s attention from the tree trunk holding him. An ambulance was bouncing up the dirt path paralleling the river. Brightly dressed men and women leaped out.

"Is he okay, Jim?" The big man nodded at the child.

"I think he’s been drugged."

Blair shrugged out of the man’s hold while he was distracted, and stumbled across to a convenient boulder. He slumped down next to it, almost burrowing into the earth. Blair lost himself in sadness.

Detached, he was aware of someone flashing a light in his eyes. His shirt was lifted away and flesh below his collarbone was probed. The pain was a step away, removed from perception. A familiar face was hovering behind the stranger. Lips were moving - but he wasn’t listening so he couldn’t hear. Impersonal hands were turning him. He was lifted and settled on a stretcher.

                                                                        ~*~

"What the Hell happened out there, Ellison?" Banks hollered even though he didn’t raise his voice.

They were standing just outside the E.R. entrance. The detective rested his hand on the stone wall. It was preferable to being inside and suffocating. The shell-shocked victim who had been wheeled into E.R bore little resemblance to the vibrant observer they knew so well. The cigar in Banks’ mouth was chewed to a nub.

"As near as I can guess, Cassie got it into her head to return to the site and Blair went with her."

"Why wasn’t the site under surveillance?"

"Oversight." Jim punched the wall, hard. "Marcus told us that he hid in the pipe. I sensed him in the woods. I never guessed that this creep might be in the tunnels. I should have. Especially after the school."

"And going into the tunnel after the kidnapper?"

Jim rested his forehead on the place he had so recently punched. "Blair just said that he was going in after her."

"Detectives?" A soft voice interrupted them.

Both men turned on the diminutive man standing in the doorway. "Doctor? How’s Sandburg?"

"Doctor Sung," the man identified himself. "Mr Sandburg will be fine. He has minor laceration just below his left collarbone. It only took three stitches to close."

"But there was so much blood," Jim said directly. The kid’s t-shirt had been awash with blood.

"I believe that your man had been drugged by a neurological cocktail that included an anticoagulant."

The black haired doctor held out a plastic bag. Resting in one corner was a bloody piece of what looked like flint.

"I’m afraid we may have compromised your evidence, we chipped off a fragment and sent it to our labs. I’ve never seen anything like it - it’s like something out of the dark ages."

The Sentinel’s sight automatically honed in on the stone. Black balsamic flint had been carved into a tiny arrowhead. This case got stranger and stranger.

"Blair’s all right?"

"I believe so - yes." He took a deep breath as both police officers bristled at his circumspect wording. "There is some desensitisation on the left side - we have no reason to assume that it is not temporary. His pupils are non reactive, which first led us to think that he had been drugged, and he is uncommunicative."

"So you’re keeping him in for observation."

"At least until we are sure that there are no complications and the drugs have been sluiced from his system."

"When can I see him?"

"Now. We’re waiting for a bed - until then he is in cubical four."

"Thanks, doc." Jim left Simon to finish the interrogation of Doctor Sung and retrieve the physical evidence.

The small cubical was curtained off. Listening, Jim ascertained that Blair was awake. Slowly he pushed back the curtain. Yes, indeed, his Guide had been drugged. Sleepy, dull eyes gazed blearily up at him. The bed had been raised and Blair was propped upright on a mound of pillows. An I.V. snaked into the back of his left hand and an urinary catheter emerged further down the bed from under a regulation red blanket. His bruised right wrist bore a new pristine bandage. A pulse-ox sensor was attached to his right index finger.

"Hey, buddy," Jim pasted a forced smile on his face.

There was no answer.

"Doctor says that you’re going to be all right. Charlie’s going to be fine too." He hadn’t actually checked, but since Blair needed to hear some positive news, he was going to lie. "You saved him."

A fat tear trickled down the kid’s cheek. "Hey, hey, buddy. None of that." He couldn’t help himself; he reached down and brushed it away. What could he say? Blair had to be blaming himself for Cassie’s death. The way Brown told the story, Cassie had walked out in a snit and Blair had chased after her. Yes, there was blame to be apportioned but it didn’t all lie on the anthropologist’s shoulders. Cassie had acted irresponsibly. Brown should have either went after them, or informed the officers in the captain’s office that they had left. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty. He should have driven faster. He should have been there.

"You both saved the kid," the Sentinel choked out.

                                                                        ~*~

Back in his own bed, Blair stared up at the plastic glow stars he had glued to the ceiling. He had spent one night in hospital, the first visit since the Golden incident, and then he had been released.

‘Everything comes in threes: the fire people, getting shot in the leg and now stabbed by a fiend. No more hospital visits. I hope.’

Now he was home. Once he could move his fingers and when his pupils would contract, there was no reason to keep him. Gingerly, Blair shifted and then probed at the wound protected by a thick layer of gauze. Such a little scratch should not have caused so much trouble.

Jim had mentioned something about a cocktail of drugs. That was as good as an excuse as any for why he had retreated deep inside of himself and hid. Accepting that there would be no sleep tonight, Blair kicked off his covers and wandered out into the living room. He moved aimlessly from door to window, stroking the back of the sofa, circling around the fireplace.

The city looked peaceful through the closed windows. Cassie’s funeral was tentatively timed for beginning of the following week, when she too would be put to rest. The cold of the night passed through the glass, chilling him. He would be able to see better if he stood on the balcony. Twisting the handle and stepping out of the loft would be simplicity itself. He couldn’t bring himself to open the door.

"Sssssh. Back to bed."

The Sentinel had somehow managed to come down from the loft and reach his side without disturbing him. A gentle hand gripped his shoulder and drew him away. Blair didn’t disabuse his partner of the notion that he was sleepwalking. Somnolent, he stumbled back to his bed, falling into it, not protesting as covers were drawn over him and tucked in.

"Sleep peacefully, kid."

The order brought the little death of sleep.

 

End of Chapter One

                                                                        ~*~

Chapter Two - Death in the Family : The Collector

The crew of Major Crimes had done its Sentinel proud. The detective had harboured some doubts about the atmosphere when his observer came into make his statement. It was not improbable that an idiot would have blamed Sandburg for Cassie’s death. Yet, they were all treating the observer with care and attention. Even before he had been shepherded into an interrogation room by Simon Banks and the F.B.I. agent Oscar Mutawbi to make his statement, Henri, Rafe, Collins and Hakon had asked after him, subtly reassuring him that all was well.

Jim set himself in the break room, sipping the god awful brew they called coffee as he listened. He was going to be interviewed next. There was little that he could say - he had entered the tunnel found Sandburg and the kid - then he had found the forensics officer.

The autopsy report on Cassie lay on the coffee table, mocking him. He had read it - like Sandburg, she had been hit by flint darts - unlike Sandburg her breathing had been paralysed by the neurotoxin and she had suffocated. A flack jacket would have saved her life.

Cocking his head to the side he listened to Sandburg’s interview. Reassured, he noted that both captain and agent were treating the observer with kid gloves. No doubt his observer papers would be suspended and he would be taken off the case, pending an inquiry. The Sentinel was not looking for the resultant explosion.

The case was not progressing well. They were no closer to determining the identity of the kidnapper. Mulling over what they had discovered so far, Jim set his feet on the coffee table, crossing his legs.

"Detective Ellison?"

The field director filled the doorway. Jim made a mental note to ask if he was related to Simon, when opportunity presented itself.

"Have you finished with Sandburg?"

"He’s with the stenographer reading over his statement. Simon is with him. May I sit?"

"Yeah," Jim said easily. "You want some coffee?"

"Always."

Jim found a semi-clean cup and poured a hot cup of coffee. He allowed himself an unfettered look at the agent using the reflective glass in the cupboard above the sink. Instinctively, he felt he could trust this man. Maybe it was the physical similarity with Simon, or maybe it was his majestic presence.

"What’s your story?" Jim inquired. "Seals? Marines? Rangers?"

"Doctorate in law. I then joined the F.B.I.."

"You’re kidding?"

The agent accepted the coffee with a knowing grin. "All it proves is that you can handle stress. Perfect qualification for the F.B.I. or any governmental organisation. I was tempted to study Greek myths and legends."

"I’m shocked speechless."

"Hardly. Now, detective, why did your partner return to the site?" There was a calculating gleam in the agent’s eye.

Jim had listened to the interview; he knew what his partner had said. "He went with Cassie, to keep an eye on her."

"What was she looking for?"

"I don’t even think she knew what she was looking for," Jim said with perfect honesty. He decided to ask his own question before the conversation degenerated into verbal sparring. "What’s so unusual about the ransom notes?"

"Why do you ask?"

"We haven’t seen them."

"Forensics has them. That is hardly unusual."

It probably wasn’t, but invariably Blair tried to get a hold of evidence so the Sentinel could run his ‘walking forensics lab’ routine, or rather, use his sentinel abilities. This time, even with Simon’s guarantee, he had been unable to obtain permission.

"Why do you want them?" Agent Mutawbi countered.

Jim stirred some sugar into his cup while he thought of his answer. He didn’t even take sugar.

"Another clue, maybe. I want the bastard," he growled.

Oscar sat back on the low slung chair, nursing his coffee in broad, square hands. Evidently, he decided to come clean. "They’re drawings, not a letter. There is a fairly accurate rendition of the child and a typical child’s picture of a family. An arrow links the kid with the mother."

"And that’s considered a ransom note?" Jim demanded, flabbergasted.

"A third drawing comes a day later showing the mother joining the child."

"By then any parent has informed the police that their kid has gone missing! Who’d believe a drawing is the ransom note?"

"True. Any responsible parent." Oscar tapped his fingers against his coffee cup, his demeanour introspective. "A parent puts the pictures aside thinking nothing of them. Marcus’s grandfather was an F.B.I. agent. He was aware of the importance of the drawings and called us in. The first parents simply didn’t figure it out - the kid had gone a week before they got around to calling the police. The second, the Huntingtowers, accurately guessed that there was more to the drawings and called in a private security firm who thought using the mother as bait was a good idea. It was not. Neither mother nor child was seen again. The Benjamins called the police half an hour after Dillon Benjamin had gone missing. The mother disappeared three days later and the father was found gutted in a dumpster. That’s only three that we know of – but there are other unexplained disappearances that are probably accountable to this creep. Usually when one parent goes missing with minors, you assume that it is a custody battle."

"So this guy is illiterate."

"We believe so."

"Why keep the drawings under such secrecy?"

"They’re drawn on cured human skin."

                                                                                    ~*~

In the light of their conversation, Jim’s statement was only a matter of bureaucracy. Sandburg had scurried out of the interrogation room when finished and headed to their desk muttering about doing some work. Oscar had had a messenger deliver one of the most recent drawings to the Major Crime department. The agent was bending over backwards to be accommodating. Hermetically sealed in plastic, the drawing seemed innocent. Knowing that it was drawn on human skin made it macabre.

The Sentinel slit the seal. A melange of odours washed over him. A musky scent triggered memories of the school, reaffirming that the scent he had detected under the caretaker’s building did belong to the kidnapper. The skin of the victim bore no scent. It was what was missing which confused the Sentinel - he could sense no harsh modern chemicals. This had been tanned by old methods of sun and teeth. Missing? Yes - there was something missing.

Needing more, he concentrated further.

                                                                                    ~*~

Banks ducked out of his office. Automatically he took stock of his people - everyone appeared busy. Sandburg was wrapped around Jim’s computer, it was deliberately angled so no one could see what he was doing. The kid looked like he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Wan, and sporting grey stubble, he was a scarecrow wearing Sandburg’s clothes. Ellison should take him home. While his observer’s paper work hadn’t been pulled, he was on suspension pending an examination by the precinct’s psychologist. He also looked as if he needed a couple of days in bed... or at least being pampered. Knowing that Ellison was still in the interrogation room looking at some evidence, he decided to send them both home. He guessed that it wouldn’t work but he was going to try.

He knocked and entered. Ellison stood, stock-still, holding an F.B.I. evidence bag. The tension in his body told Simon that there was, most definitely, a problem.

"Jim?"

There was no answer. Two long strides and he was at his subordinate’s side. Ellison’s expression was blank. This must be the zone out factor of which Sandburg had spoken. He hadn’t seen one. As near as he could guess, it had been some time since Jim had suffered what he thought of as a type of epileptic fit.

"Ellison!" he said sharply.

No response.

He followed through with a sharp shake and then called out in shock as Jim folded in on himself, slipping to the floor. Simon could only flow with him, preventing his head cracking against the floor. First aid training took over as he checked his man’s pulse and breathing - the detective was fine apart from being unconscious. He shrugged out of his coat and balled it under Jim’s head.

He couldn’t call the medics; they would diagnose it as some kind of fit and the Sentinel would be pulled off the streets so fast there would be burns. Simon darted out of the interrogation room, setting the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door. Taggert looked at him a bit strangely as he barrelled into the squad room and bodily hauled Sandburg out of his chair with a terse, "let’s go for lunch."

"It’s only eleven o’clock," he protested.

"Tough, I have a meeting with mayor at one. We have to go now."

"I’m not hungry," was Sandburg’s retort as he was frog-marched out of the room.

The kid only put up a token resistance, as if he really couldn’t be bothered with the whole affair, as Simon propelled him down the corridor and into the interrogation room.

"JIM!"

Blair scuttled forwards, dropping to his knees at the Sentinel’s side. Long hands latched on either side of the unconscious man’s face.

"Wake up, Jim." Blair’s tone was uneven and stressed. "Come on, man."

There wasn’t a flicker of acknowledgement. The Sentinel remained unresponsive.

Simon slowly knelt next to Blair. "Maybe it’s not a zone," he hazarded.

"What else could it be?" Blair snapped. His attention returned to Jim. "Come on, man. Wake up, already."

Jim’s breathing became audibly compromised as failing lungs struggled for air. Startled, Blair drew back and then slapped the Sentinel. The blow resounded throughout the room.

"Jesus, Blair!" Banks caught the student’s wrist before he could strike again.

"No," Jim croaked. Moaning, he brought his hand up to his face, wincing at the forming bruise. "What happened?"

"You zoned, badly," Simon answered when it appeared that Sandburg was going to remain silent.

"I couldn’t bring you out," Blair whispered. "I had to hit you. Are you all right?"

Gingerly, Blair laid his hand on the Sentinel’s chest as if reassuring himself that he was still breathing. Moving slowly, Jim brought his own hand up and clasped the student’s.

"I’m fine, Blair. I just realised something when I touched some evidence and I got lost looking for something that wasn’t there."

"What?" Simon demanded.

Still lying flat, the detective answered. "I didn’t smell the kidnapper from the school in the tunnel where you found the kid."

Simon immediately saw the implications. "There is an accomplice."

"Yeah." Jim struggled onto his elbows. Moving to help, their captain tucked his hands under the detective’s arms and hauled him upright. Jim wobbled and then found his balance.

"This form of kidnapping isn’t usually associated with accomplices," Simon said sagely. "A psycho doesn’t normally share his trophies."

"I smelt the evidence." Jim crossed his arms.

"Don’t you have anything to offer, Sandburg?" Simon sniped.

"If Jim says that there’s an accomplice, there is an accomplice."

"I *know* that. But how am I going to sell this to the F.B.I. with no demonstrable evidence."

Blair retreated to a far corner of the room before speaking. "You asked me during my interrogation if I had seen the kidnapper - I said I didn’t."

"You were lying." Simon scowled.

"No," Blair snapped back. "But I did kick him - a lot. I had the impression that he was big, maybe the same size as Jim or bigger. Too big to go wandering through drains."

A wide smile crossed the police captain’s face. "How did we miss that? Excellent. I’ll talk to Oscar. You take Jim home - he needs a rest. You sit yourself down quietly and see if you come up with anything else. This is personal now - we’re going to get these guys."

"I don’t need a pep talk," Blair muttered loudly.

"I heard that, Sandburg." He speared the grad student with his best authoritarian gaze. "You’re not making this a personal vendetta. I know where you are coming from, so does Jim. You are not responsible for what happened. Yes, there will be an inquiry. Yes, you made a mistake, but Cassie made the bigger mistake. If you’d stayed in the squad room and let her go off alone you’d still be blaming yourself *and* Charlie would be dead."

"I shouldn’t have..."

"Stop second guessing yourself, Kid. That way leads to madness."

Blair’s eyes became suspiciously bright but no tears fell.

"Take your partner home, Blair. You’re officially off the case, but even I know that that is unenforceable." He softened his rebuke with a smile. "Do what you do best: think."

                                                                        ~*~

The loft was deathly silent. Jim plumped his pillows and straightened his quilt. While ostensibly tidying his room, he was keeping out of his Guide’s way. He looked over the railing that defended his bedroom, down into the living room below. Blair was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the dark television. He was staring at the swirling screen saver on his laptop. He’d been there for several hours, thinking.

To say that the Sentinel was worried was something of an understatement. He had expected this: grief; misery; depression and sadness. He didn’t know if Blair had experienced the death of a friend. Relatives seemed few and far between in the Sandburg family tree. It was entirely possible that this was Sandburg’s first experience with a close death. The silence was heartbreaking. Jim was a hairbreadth away from phoning Naomi and inviting her for a visit.

Jim sat on the edge of his bed. He too felt the grief. Cassie had been a colleague. Cassie might have become a friend; the true grief was that opportunity had been lost. He could hold one cherished flame against his breast. Blair was alive. Blair was as miserable as sin, but he was alive.

"Jim, you want some coffee?"

He launched himself to his feet. "Yeah. You wanna call out for chinese?"

"Kung Po Chicken with fried noodles?"

"Good for me."

Slowly he ventured down stairs, timing his descent as Blair crossed to his phone, so they met. Avoidance technique blown out of the water.

"You doing okay?" Jim reached towards his grieving Guide.

"No!" Blair’s hands came up, blocking his comfort. "I’m not. And..and…and don’t tell me the shit happens. Okay? People are dead. And I…I…I can’t switch it off. First Janet, then Incacha, now... now.... Shit," Blair said eloquently. "I don’t wanna talk about it."

He worried feverishly at his bottom lip.

"Chief..."

"No," Blair snapped. "I…I…I’ve lost my appetite. I’m going to lie down for awhile."

Ducking his head down and staring at his feet, he pushed passed the Sentinel. The glass door slammed shut, but the lock didn’t catch and the door opened just a little bit.

"I just wanted to talk," Jim said softly, hoping for a reaction.

He had forgotten about Janet, killed by the security officer working for Cyclops Oil. She had just been trying to help them investigate the destruction of Chopec land and it had resulted in her death. They had shied around the subject of Incacha’s death, mainly because he, big bad sentinel, didn’t want to talk about it. Blair had asked a few circumspect questions, testing the waters, so to speak, then the subject had been dropped. Now he was being tarred with his own brush. Blair didn’t want to talk about Cassie. He laughed hollowly at himself. Not once had Blair brought Janet’s death into a conversation. His garrulous Guide, while trying to get him to talk about the loss of his shaman, had not once mentioned his own friend.

You suck, Ellison,’ he chastised himself. The problem was that he didn’t know what to do.

Cleaning the kitchen seemed like a good idea.

He had sterilised the tabletops and had moved onto the oven when he heard soft footsteps stop outside the front door. A mellow Irish voice called his name.

Drying his hands on a dishtowel, Jim opened the door.

"Hi, Father Callaghan."

"I didn’t want to knock in case you were sleeping or something..."

"Come in." He stepped back. "Blair is asleep."

Philip slipped into the apartment. It was his first visit; he made an obvious and cursory examination of the living area.

"Nice."

"Yeah, I like it. You want a cup of tea?"

"Please."

Jim lost himself in polite necessities, making a ‘proper’ cup of English tea. Blair had lectured him at great length about the cultural implications of the English teatime. The anthropologist had even demonstrated the ‘proper’ way to make a perfect cuppa, on the off chance that priest visited. Dutifully, Jim excavated the teapot from the recesses of the cabinet under the kitchen sink.

The priest settled himself on a kitchen stool. "I was concerned when you didn’t get back to me. Have you made any progress?"

"Ah, of course, you don’t know."

Philip waited patiently for him to elaborate.

"We got the kid back...

                                                                        ~*~

... so we’re still no further to knowing who this creep is," Jim finished.

The priest set aside his, now cold, cup of tea. "I found the figure," he announced. "Do you remember Bethany?"

"Yeah, your colleague? The one who’s a bit... strange."

"She’s very gifted, it demands a heavy price. As you can attest," he chided gently.

Jim ducked his head in apology. "Go on."

"She had retrieved it from the lab. She said that it called to her."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. I don’t know what she did, but it doesn’t register on any of our instruments now as being psychometrically charged. She removed the malign influence."

"And you haven’t found out how she did it?"

"You don’t know the way Bethany operates. I can no more understand what she does than I could understand Einstein’s Relativity equations. The point is that Bethany can’t explain it either."

"You consider her a useful member of your organisation?"

"I am aware of her limitations and her gifts. And how well do you think she would operate in the ‘real’ world? To a certain extent we protect her."

Remembering his brief meeting with the ethereal Bethany, he had to admit that everyday life would chew her up and spit out an insane ball. Not that she had a full deck of cards at the best of times.

"Did she tell you anything?" he asked, not letting his thoughts show on his face.

"Only that Evelyn was not at peace. And wouldn’t be until Samuel was with her."

"Ah hah."

Blair had printed off the documents he had acquired from the F.B.I. computer. Jim retrieved them from the student’s backpack. He handed them to the priest. Samuel Huntingtower was the seven year old son of Evelyn - the second family victimised by the kidnapper. The file was terse - neither mother nor son had been seen since the kidnapping. Was the child alive? Or was his soul tied to his own shrunken corpse?

~mumble~

Jim froze. His ears pricked up, listening.

~mumble~

He angled his head, peering into the student’s room. The door was ajar. All he could see was Blair’s sock covered feet, as he lay on the top of his bed covers.

"Jim?" A hand was waved in front of his face. "Is this zone out thingy?"

"Shsssh." Jim raised a finger to his lips.

Restlessly, Blair twisted on his bed.

"Don’t remember..." The words came clearly to sentinel ears. "No... The book? Uh?"

A long drawn out moan filled the air. Father Callaghan twisted on his chair and stared at Blair’s bedroom. Jim caught him before he could rise.

"Wait a second."

The bed creaked loudly. Sleepily, hair mussed, Blair wandered out of his room, completely oblivious to the two men sitting at the table.

"Hello, Blair, how are you feeling?

Jim moved his finger to and fro in a shushing motion and mouthed, "He’s sleepwalking."

As silent as a ghost, the Sentinel slipped off his seat and paralleled Sandburg’s path. He reached for his friend’s arm to redirect him back to his bed.

"Let him be," the priest whispered.

Hovering, Jim nodded tersely.

"Backpack. Backpack," Blair muttered, looking and finding the bag tucked under the kitchen table.

He upturned the bag on the table. Computer discs, pencil case, note pad, file, paper and a pile of books tumbled out. Pawing through the pile he selected one of the books. Brow furrowed, he flipped the pages, scanning the paragraphs.

"No... No... Not that one... I did? Read it before..."

A third of the way through the book, he found the passage he was looking for. Still fast asleep, he started reading. The priest was so still he had to be holding his breath. On tiptoes, Jim crept forwards and read over his guide’s shoulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Collector (Forsvinne Ta Mann (lit. The man who takes and disappears)) - is a little known figure in the mythology of the Viking Age. The Collector steals children who misbehave. The first story dates back to the nineteenth century. As such, it is not considered to be a true figure of Norse mythology but rather a corruption of an older myth, in much the same way as Robin Hood, Maid Marion and his Merry Men are based on older legends. Victorian writers were known for sanitising urban tales for children. The darker aspects to this tale have been lost in time, although the phrase: ‘behave or the goblins will take you away’ - and variants thereof - is a well known threat to children all over the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We’re looking for a goblin?" Jim hissed.

The grad student closed the book. His expression was pensive. "Here you go, Jim." He held the book out, offering it in mid-air, nowhere near where Jim was standing.

"Whoops." Philip leaned forwards, grabbing the book as it fell.

Off in his own little world, Blair slipped off his stool, unerringly heading back to his bedroom. Jim danced out of his way, as the kid walked straight towards him. Jim shadowed the sleepwalker into his room.

"Hobs, brownies, goblins, little people," Blair intoned as he fell into bed.

Standing in the centre of Blair’s room surrounded by African masks, dream catchers, incense burners and crystal, Jim wondered what the Hell was happening.

"Jim?" Father Callaghan breathed. He stood at the threshold of the room. "Does that happen a lot?"

Slipping out of the room, Jim quietly closed the glass doors.

"No, that’s new." Rubbing his forehead tiredly, he slumped into the sofa. "God, he’s always talked in his sleep. This sleepwalking thing spooks me."

The priest remained standing; lost in thought. "Who’s he talking to?"

"What?"

"He’s talking to someone. Surely you noticed. Who?"

"Himself, I guess. The Sandburg zone is a weird and wonderful place."

"You’re sure?"

"It’s not something that I given much thought to." Jim dismissed the subject. "What do you think of the Collector?"

"Are you going to wake up Blair and bring him in on this conversation?" Philip countered.

"Yeah, suppose I better. It’s the sort of conversation he excels at."

Jim gripped the bridge of his nose and exhaled before standing.

"I’ll make some coffee." The priest retreated into the kitchen.

Jim crept back into the room. Curled up on his side, Blair slept with his expressive hands tucked neatly against his chest. Disturbing the kid seemed like such a pity when he looked so comfortable. However, he wouldn’t appreciate being left out of the loop.

"Hey, Blair. Chief," he called. "Wakey wakey."

Sleep-fogged eyes opened.

"We’ve had a breakthrough in the case. You want to join in? Or sleep?"

"No, man. I’ll get up." He yawned hugely and rubbed his eyes. "Have I got time to grab a shower?"

"Yup, chinese take-out still suit you for dinner? Father Callaghan’s here, by the way."

"Oh, we’re not going to the precinct?"

Jim affectionately patted his drowsy partner on the shoulder. He left him to finish waking up. The detective was halfway to the door when Blair spoke.

"Jim... I’m sorry about before. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just out of sorts." His words were fragile.

"S’okay. When you want to talk. I’m here."

"I know you are," Blair said quietly.

                                                                                                ~*~

 

Part III