Our Unconquerable Soul.

by Sealie

Chapter One.

"Where are we going, Jim?"

Blair looked through the green pickup truck’s windows at the passing greenery; clean swept sidewalks, neatly demarked houses. He hadn’t explored this part of Cascade with the detective since they had met a few months ago. He was used to old piers, abandoned warehouses and grimy sidewalks when he helped the Sentinel with his cases. Blair pushed his nose up against the window. The houses that peeked from behind banks of Oak trees and rambling hedges looked expensive. Forbidding pillars with wrought iron gates stood sentinel at the entrance of one particularly Victorian looking residence.

"Rich," Blair said deliberately. Why would the Sentinel, possessor of preternaturally enhanced physical senses, need his assistance today?

"Oh, yeah," Jim said absently, as his large hands turned the steering wheel and they started up the cobblestone path to the enormous house.

"Why are we here, Jim?" Blair gestured at the house.

"The next door neighbour called the precinct and said there’d been a murder."

"You don’t seem to be taking the report very seriously," Blair said, evidently confused. "And isn’t this area out of your precinct’s jurisdiction?"

Jim shifted down the gears and his truck pulled up outside the house’s main entrance. Both friends peered up at the house that seemed to loom over the car.

"Dah da dah da da, duh duh duhhd..." Blair began.

"The ‘Adam’s family’ theme?" Jim rolled his eyes.

"Look at it!" Blair demanded.

The house was certainly a throwback to an affluent and spooky era. Jim aimed a swat at the student, who deftly avoided it by jumping out of the pickup truck. Deferring, as he did in most introductions, Blair remained at the bottom of the high steps leading up to the Victorian residence. Jim rapped the doorknocker and winced as the rap echoed through the house.

Impatiently, Blair bounced from foot to foot. "You said that there had been a murder?"

"Yep," Jim looked down at him from the top of the step. "It seems that Simon’s Aunt owns the house next door - she reported a disturbance to the local police last night and, well, they found that nothing was ‘amiss’." Jim grinned. "So when the police didn’t find anything she rang Nephew Simon this morning..."

"You’re not taking this very seriously." Blair pointed out intelligently.

Jim shrugged. "Simon’s placating his aunt."

Blair kicked the bottom step. Why was he here? There was little, or no, chance that Jim Ellison would have one of his ‘zone outs’ -- a period mimicking an epileptic fit -- during this case. He shook his head; he could have been working on a literature review for Professor Chambers instead of trailing around after Jim on the off chance that he had a zone out.

"I read the beat officers’ reports and they searched the grounds and talked to the owner and they found nothing suspicious." Jim shrugged and banged the doorknocker again.

"Where does the Captain’s Aunt live?"

Jim consulted his notebook and then pointed to the equally ornate house peeking through the trees on the south side.

The house was a good seventy-five yards away, Blair noted.

"What exactly did the lady say in the report?"

"I don’t think that anyone is in." Jim stuck his nose against the pebbled glass. "She said that she heard three screams."

"Really," Blair scratched the side of his neck as he considered that piece of information.

"Really?" Jim echoed. "What’s going through that warped little mind?"

"Warped?" Blair echoed. "What does the house look like inside?"

"Have you seen ‘Psycho’?" Jim said with a quirky little smile, which belied his obvious uneasiness. Even from the bottom of the steps Blair could see the hairs standing up on the back of the Sentinel’s neck.

"Very funny," Blair drawled. He pushed his glasses up his nose to hide his own response to the Sentinel’s uncharacteristic body language. He debated with himself whether or not to ask if they could go to Simon’s Aunt’s house first.

Then the door opened. A pleasant faced Catholic minister smiled at the twosome. Jim saw the white collar and backtracked down the steps. The young man smiled down at them.

"How may I help you?" He raised an eyebrow at the disreputable looking anthropologist but didn’t comment.

"Detective James Ellison." He held out his badge for the Father to study. "This is my associate, Blair Sandburg. I’m here to follow up on the report from last night."

"Come in, come in." The Father’s voice had an Irish lilt. He turned from the door obviously expecting the twosome to follow. Blair shot a hesitant glance at the Sentinel. Jim smiled encouragingly and ushered his friend into the mausoleum.

All gangly and uncertain, Blair skipped ahead at the Father’s heels. The porch was opulent, walled in rich mahogany. The door to the equally opulent hall was inlaid with stained glass. Blair looked in askance at the plush, red hall carpet. He was wearing his walking boots - he expected to be asked, any moment, to remove his footwear. He had vague memories of one of Naomi’s friends living in an old house like this one. That house had been a giant toy store of hiding places and adventures. He had been introduced to the authors C.S.Lewis and E.Nesbitt and Susan Cooper in that house. This house, however, was frankly unnerving. Blair pushed his hands deep into his jacket’s pockets and reluctantly allowed the priest to conduct him into the sitting room.

~*~

Jim walked slowly after them giving time for Blair to charm the Father. As he wandered after the two men, Jim allowed himself the time to study the vestibule. One of the tables decorating the hall was a Chippendale and the figurine on top looked like Chinese jade. Jim’s brow furrowed as he studied the sideboard, taking in the old patina and high polish. The jade dancing lady was similarly ancient. He was quite knowledgeable about Chinese jade. His father had an extensive collection, mainly for its monetary value. As a child dusting the collection, under his father’s eagle eye, he had become very familiar with the feel of the smooth stone.

"Jim!" Blair hissed and made ‘come-over’ motions. Apparently the student did not like being left alone with the priest.

Lackadaisically, Jim left his study and followed Blair into a luxurious sitting room.

"I’m very sorry," the Father was saying, "I didn’t introduce myself: Philip Callaghan."

He sat down and gestured for the detective and his observer to join him. Jim sat himself on the couch opposite the Father and stared at Blair until the antsy student joined him.

"Basically, I’m just following up on the report yesterday," Jim said calmly. "The person who reported the disturbance..."

"I really can’t comment on what Mrs. Banks said she heard." Father Callaghan smiled. "What was it - three screams?"

The young priest exuded calm and control.

"Yes - it was three screams," Jim said slowly, once again consulting his notebook.

Blair was jiggling next to him. It was disturbing the detective’s concentration. Raising an eyebrow the priest cast a frankly curious glance at the student.

"Look, I’ll tell you what." Father Callaghan abruptly stood up and brushed off his black trousers. "I’ll go get us a nice cup of tea and ask the house keeper to join us. Mrs. Lissy was here last night. You’ll want to talk to her too, I expect."

Blair sat quietly until the Father left the room, then the student erupted.

"Geez, geez, geez." Blair’s eyes were wild.

"Blair!" Jim said sharply and caught the student before he could bolt from the couch.

"What the Hell’s the matter with you?"

"I don’t know – I just don’t like the feel of this…" He waved his hands around uncertainly. "Bad vibes, man."

Jim grabbed for, and missed, Blair’s hands. Blair was a bouncing, energetic dynamo on the way to blowing a gasket. His eyes had taken on a wild glint that Jim did not like in the slightest. Blair dove off the couch, easily evading Jim’s grasp. He began to pace between the couch and the coffee table.

"Take a deep breath, Blair," Jim ordered.

Jim lunged and missed Blair again. He knew that he could physically contain Blair, but he wanted to calm him down without inflicting physical damage. Giving up actually getting his hands on his flighty friend, Jim stood and concentrated on corralling him in a corner.

"You were fine until you saw Father Callaghan. What in the Hell brought this on?"

Blair knotted his hands in his hair and fixed his frantic gaze on the Sentinel. Jim breathed a quiet sigh of relief; now they could communicate. The grad student was definitely upset. Strangely, it was almost as if a switch had been thrown - one minute Blair was happy and laughing, the next a quivering wreck. Jim inhaled slowly and evenly and locked his gaze on Blair’s, deliberately drawing him into taking a deep breath. The kid swore by meditation, and inflicted it on the Sentinel at every opportunity. Now it was Blair’s turn for some mental housecleaning. Blair latched onto his friend’s breathing pattern, breathing an equally calm rhythm. The wildness in Blair’s eyes eventually quieted.

"Wow, yuck, I don’t like this place."

Jim released his gaze.

Still too uneasy to sit still, Blair wandered around the room fingering objets d'art, commenting on the antiques. Jim ignored his ramblings, giving the student his requested space until he had himself under control. Or at least as much as the student was capable of at any given time. Aimlessly searching the room, Jim caught a glimpse of light in the far wall and realised that the woodwork concealed a doorway. Automatically honing his vision, his sight pierced the small crack at the edge of the door and studied the room beyond. He could just see what was probably a towering bookcase.

"There’s some really weird looking books in there," Jim announced.

"Where?" Blair asked intrigued.

Glad for a change of subject, anything to distract Blair from the perceived tension in the room, Jim pointed at the walls.

"Through those doors."

"How can..." Blair began.

Father Callaghan re-entered the sitting room with a tray. Jim absently noted that the service was silver and the tea set was fine china. Blair had regained his equanimity - which was apparently what Philip Callaghan had intended. The Father played mother, pouring the steaming tea from the warmed pot into the cups followed by milk and sugar.

"Pardon me, would you like tea?" Father Callaghan looked at the three cups.

"Yeah, sure," Blair said, with a shred of his normal eagerness. Jim knew what was going through the student’s mind: ‘Ooooh, new cultural experience - the British tea time’.

Jim hid a grimace, when he drank tea he usually found a nice pot plant to water. Smiling tightly, Jim picked up one of the paper thin porcelain cups.

In the air of tense politeness Callaghan began.

"As I understand it, the police officers received a call from Mrs. Banks at about midnight last night - she said that she heard three screams and that she thought that they had come from here. All I can say is that I did not hear screams at midnight. The police officers arrived about one o’clock. They had a look ‘round and, well, found nothing suspicious."

"And you were up at one o’clock in the morning?" Jim questioned.

Callaghan looked over the rim of his cup. "I was reading, it was a good book. When it is a good book I’ll stay up all night."

"What was the book?"

"Katherine Kurtz’s -‘Two Crowns for America’."

"I’m not familiar with it."

"It’s just out in paperback."

"Didn’t you say that Mrs. Lissy was gonna come in?" Blair finally joined in the conversation.

"Yes, she just wanted to finish the dishes."

As if their words had called her, a typically rotund housekeeper beetled into the drawing room. The woman stopped dead and threw a penetrating stare at the tall detective. Blair perked up, as if prodded, and stared back at the woman who was looking at the Sentinel. There was a sub-current to the whole scene that was beginning to give Jim a headache.

"Hello, my name is Detective Ellison and this is my associate, Blair Sandburg," Jim said.

"I’m very pleased to meet you." Mrs. Lissy brushed her apron free of non-existent crumbs and settled next to the grad student.

Jim wondered at her placement. He would have expected her to sit next to her employer rather than beside the intruders. Blair flashed her a very strained smile. The housekeeper exuded serenity and she did not wait on anything as prosaic as standard interview technique.

"As I said to Father Philip," Mrs. Lissy recounted, "I didn’t hear a thing, but then again I could sleep through the call of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse."

"Was there anybody else in the house?" Jim interjected into her explanation.

"No," Philip said simply, "just me and Mrs. Lissy."

"Can we look around the grounds?" Blair asked suddenly.

Father Callaghan stopped dead for a heartbeat and then smiled easily. "Yes, of course."

Jim smiled to himself, he thought that that seemed like a pretty good idea. He would have to congratulate his tagalong observer after they had escaped from the mausoleum.

"What you’ve said pretty much corroborates what you told officers Dillon and Murphy last night. Have you any idea what Mrs. Banks’ might have heard?" Jim said penetratingly.

Father Callaghan looked Jim in the eye. "Nothing on earth."

Blair gulped down his tea and then clattered the cup down on its paper-thin saucer. Then Blair either sneezed or coughed or something else. His cup tipped off the saucer scattering tealeaves and dregs over the tabletop.

"Oh, geez. No - Oh, sorry." Blair wiped futilely at the mess.

"No, dear, it was an accident." Mrs. Lissy took over. A dishcloth appeared as if by magic.

Blair kept apologising. Father Callaghan was the soul of courtesy. Jim shuffled off the couch out of the way of the whole mess. Blair was still apologising and now was backtracking to the door. Apparently the grad student had had enough of the situation.

‘What on earth is the matter with him?’ Jim wondered, as he joined the two men out into the hallway.

A figure caught the corner of his eye. Automatically, Jim spun on his heel and saw nothing. The corridor was empty.

"Detective Ellison?" Father Callaghan questioned.

"I thought I saw something - must have been a trick of the light."

Blair was suddenly at his side and peering up the stairway in the general direction where Jim thought that he had seen the figure.

"What’s the matter?" Blair asked under his breath – no doubt checking for an incipient zone out.

Jim shook his head, caught Blair’s elbow, and propelled him towards the ornate, stained glass door. A calligraphy wrought letter ‘L’ in the centre of the glass loomed before the anthropologist. Then the door was open and Blair was on the porch step and Jim was shaking Father Callaghan’s hand. Both Mrs. Lissy and Father Callaghan watched them from the porch as they walked uneasily down the steps. Jim paused at the bottom step and peered up at the house.

‘If this got any more strange, I’d expect to see a white hand twitching back a curtain and a gothic face peering from an attic window,’ Jim thought.

~*~

"I don’t believe I did that." Blair was kicking a defenceless tree.

Jim was crouched at Blair’s feet, ignoring the overreacting student. They had covered the south side of the residence looking for anything suspicious - so far they had found nothing. Jim left his study of a trio of bent grass stalks.

"Yeah, it’s kind of entertaining seeing you--" Jim paused evilly, "--floundering."

"Floundering!" Blair shrieked.

"Bad choice of words," Jim said glibly.

"I don’t care - how come you’re not floundering?"

"Well." Jim scratched the side of his neck. "There was something weird about that house."

Blair’s eyes suddenly became intrigued, latching on to the imprecise words.

"Sandburg, look at this." Jim deliberately pointed to the grass stalks, interrupting the imminent spiel. "There were five people standing in circle on this lawn sometime last night."

"Yes?" Blair said eagerly.

"Mrs. Banks heard three screams. For the screams to carry to Mrs. Banks, a good seventy-five meters away, from the interior of the Callaghan residence is…unlikely. There was, though, a good wind last night, which was blowing south easterly. The screams could have come from here and with a carrying wind it is possible that she could have heard a disturbance. And there were definitely people standing here last night."

"Or yesterday afternoon," Blair said, playing devil’s advocate.

"No. There would be more discoloration of the leaves if it had occurred yesterday afternoon. Plus the morning dew would be lying differently."

"Why would five people be standing out here at midnight?" Blair asked sensibly.

"Oh, they weren’t standing here at midnight."

"How do you know that? Did the grass tell you?" Blair said ingenuously.

"No, Father Callaghan. He specifically stated that he didn’t hear screaming at midnight. I wonder what he would have said if we’d asked him if he had heard any screaming at any time during the night?"

"The police officers looked around and they found nothing, though. Maybe it was the policemen who made your footprints." Blair exuded pleasure in his deduction. "But you said five people, didn’t you?"

"Yes," Jim said slowly. "Plus the two police officers stayed around the exterior of the house - they checked the windows for forced entry. I guess they assumed that Father Callaghan might have had an intruder." Jim crossed his arms, glaring down at the evidence only he could see. "There are five distinctly different tracks here, rather than two officers re-treading their footsteps over the lawn."

Jim rocked back on his heels and returned to his study of the patterns in the grass. Two adults, judging from their footprints, had came from the front entrance of the house and another adult had walked from the kitchen door. Two other people had been in the garden walking around the perimeter. It struck Jim as strange that five people would walk to this point on the lawn.

Calculating the space between the footsteps, these people had ran to this point in the middle of the garden. They had stood for a while, then two people had ran to the south wall of the house - where had the other three gone?

Jim scrutinised the house. The fact that three people had disappeared made no logical sense. Yet the evidence lay before him: five people had made their way through the wet grass; formed a circle; stood for a while (judging from the depth of the footprints) but then three of them had disappeared.

He followed the footprints, aware that Blair was bouncing with badly concealed enthusiasm, but he had to take the investigation to its conclusion. The two people had run towards the house, keeping close to each other. Around the house there was a pebbled path. The police officers had walked over the stones obliterating any other evidence.

"And, Sherlock?" Blair asked, his body vibrating with eagerness.

Jim chewed his bottom lip, confused by his deductions. Jim blew out slowly and then launched himself into the fray.

"Five people ran to the centre of the lawn did something and three disappeared and then the ...remaining two returned to this point."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes, there are no tracks leading away from the circle."

"Why would five people run around a rectory garden in the middle of night?" Blair asked intrigued. "And disappear in mid-air - ‘cos that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?"

"It happened, Chief, the evidence is here before our eyes."

"Your eyes," Blair pointed out. He chewed on his thumbnail, deep in thought. "Okay. Are we going talk to Father Callaghan again and ask him if he heard *anything* during the night?"

"No," Jim said flatly, stopping Blair mid-stride. The Sentinel paused, searching for the right words, but he couldn’t find a common experience to describe what he felt. He knew that Blair was at his elbow, his eyes beseeching, searching for a way to help him.

"What’s the matter, Jim? There’s something wrong here, isn’t there."

It wasn’t a question.

"I can’t…"

"Verbalise it?" Blair supplied.

Jim shook his head. He turned confused eyes on the student gazing so earnestly at him.

"What do you feel?"

Blair breathed out a short, sharp breath, evidently thrown by the change in direction. He thrust his hands in his pockets and considered his next words.

"Naomi took me to Culloden in Scotland when I was about seven. A lot of clans died in a big battle there. I remember," Blair squirmed uncomfortably, "a… sense of horror… decay in the air. You could almost see the bodies churning under the ground. It’s like that." Blair clasped his arms against his chest.

The Sentinel stepped backwards away from the soil beneath his feet – he knew what lurked there. The man of the modern twentieth century shied away from his feelings. Jim shook his head, dismissing his unease.

"Maybe we should talk to Mrs. Banks?" Blair ventured.

Jim agreed with Blair’s real thoughts - anything to get away from this house. Muttering under his breath, Jim stomped heavily away. Blair trailed, miserably, in his wake.

~*~

Captain Banks’ Aunt’s house was a similar style to the rectory. Jim did a quick turn around the garden before they rang the doorbell. A tiny woman, immaculately dressed, greeted them. Blair smiled his happy, open smile as he carefully showed the old woman his observer identification and told her that Simon had sent both himself and the detective. The house teamed with cats and had that distinctive aroma associated with a house dominated by pets. Mrs. Banks drew them to the kitchen and made them coffee in solid mugs.

A fat, ugly cat leaped onto Mrs. Banks’ lap and glared balefully at the partners.

Jim sneezed and glared back, equally balefully.

"It’s very nice of Simon to send you over."

Jim sneezed again and pulled out his notebook. "Well, Mrs. Banks, I guess he’s concerned about your report."

"I’m intrigued, Mrs. Banks..." Blair said politely.

"Zoë." She smiled.

"Er, yes, Mrs. B..." Blair smiled his megawatt smile. The student felt so much more at ease since they had left the gardens of the refectory. He felt like singing and dancing. Meeting Simon’s genuinely nice Aunt was an added extra. She reminded him of an old wise teacher he had once known. Instinctively, Blair knew that there were stories, legends and life’s wisdom thrumming in her veins, waiting to be plumbed by an eager student. Regardless of whether, or not, she could add any insight into the affairs of her next door neighbour – Blair could tell that he was going to have a productive morning with Mrs. Banks.

Mrs. Banks raised her finger, her expression chiding.

"Zoë," Blair corrected himself. "You said that you heard three screams? Are you sure that you heard three screams?"

Mrs. Banks raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "If I said that I heard three screams, young man, then I heard three screams."

"That’s really interesting." Jim leaned across the table. "Describe them."

"The first one was at about eleven thirty - I don't know exact time, but the next two happened at eleven thirty seven." Mrs. Banks stood up, dislodging the cat, and tottered over to the kitchen window. "I looked out and could see what looked like a fire across between those trees."

Jim and Blair joined the old woman and peered through the glass.

"Were they short screams or long drawn out screams?" Jim asked.

Mrs. Banks pursed her lips and looked heavenwards. Neither man said a word as she evidently searched her memory.

"The screams were cut off."

"Cut off?"

Mrs. Banks levelled a clear hazel gaze at the twosome. "When you start screaming and somebody slaps you - you stop mid scream. That’s what it sounded like."

"What kinda fire?" Blair asked.

"Smoky fire. The type of fire when you burn wet logs."

"Black smoke?" Jim questioned.

"I couldn’t really tell. The security lights around the rectory were on, but they were very low."

Jim was scribbling all the details down in his notebook. Blair wondered about the notebook – rarely had he seen Jim with his notebook. Blair hid a grin; no doubt the Captain wanted a full report, so Jim was covering all his bases.

"What did you do for a living, Mrs. Banks – Zoë?"

"A long time ago I was one of the Librarians at Rainier University. Ah, those were the days, I could tell you stories, young man…" Mrs. Banks sighed as she reminisced.

Intrigued, Blair’s eyes glowed.

~*~

"What are you looking at, Philip?"

Philip Callaghan turned away from the window. He looked at his companion. Bethany wiped at her red eyes. The young woman bordered on the ethereal and Philip worried about her constantly. Throughout his life he had met people who seemed to be a step out of the way of the world. Sometimes they were too good - sometimes they were too sensitive. Rarely did they last long in the world.

He sighed softly as he pulled her into a hug. She resisted for a moment and then dropped her head onto his shoulder. Philip stroked the long, jet-black hair.

"What were you looking at?" Bethany repeated.

"A big green truck - the detective’s truck. They went over to Mrs. Banks’ after speaking to me. They’ve been there a long time."

"It’s probably a courtesy call."

Bethany moved slightly, uncomfortably, shrugging off his comforting hug. Philip released her immediately.

"No - they suspect that there is more here than meets the eye."

"He wouldn’t be wrong would he?"

Bethany grimaced, and moved out of Philip’s personal space. She caught and twisted at a lock of her hair.

"Maybe you should go back to bed, Beth," Philip began.

"I don’t want to sleep! We don’t have time." She fought for self-control. "Do we?"

"I don’t know what to do." Philip folded his arms across his chest, sinking in on himself. He paced to the bare fireplace and rested his head on the lintel.

"Sorry," Bethany said quietly. "Philip, we’ll have to contact another Legacy House. We’re the only ones left - we can’t do this alone."

"Alone?" Philip left his contemplation of the fireplace. "I think that the older detective is sensitive - maybe the little one too. Perhaps we can use them?"

"The Sight?" Bethany asked. "We can’t chance using an unknown - call Chicago and ask for help - ‘cos it’s coming back and I don't want to face it with just a stupid Roman Catholic Priest who thinks that Holy Water solves everything as my partner."

~*~

They had finally escaped from Mrs. Bank’s home, but not before Blair had deftly extracted a few choice stories about the Principal of the University, and Simon’s childhood, from his Aunt. Absently, Jim wondered when Blair was going to use the ‘Night Young Simon Stayed Out Late And Climbed Through His Sister’s Window Frightening Her Half To Death Pretending to be a Vampire’ Story. He hoped that he would there. Blair slipped into the pickup and locked his door. Jim cast a studying glance back at the rectory.

The house was no different outwardly to any other in the suburb but for whatever reason it seemed watching and aloof.

"Jim, can we gooooo?" Blair whined.

Jim joined his friend.

End of Chapter One

Chapter Two

The chaos of the Major Crimes was familiar and welcoming. Jim slipped past the desk sergeant, absently picking up his messages. Blair, on tiptoes, craned his head and read the notes over his friend’s shoulder - nothing applied to him. Notebook in hand, Jim headed straight into the Captain Banks’ office. Blair had the distinct impression that his unofficially official partner did not want company so he let Jim enter the office alone. He had other things to do. Blair settled before Jim’s computer and stretched – he paused to crack his fingers then he started typing. He was happily surfing the net when Jim escaped from the Captain’s office.

"So what have you found out?" Jim asked as he rested his hand on Blair’s shoulder.

"Father Philip Callaghan is a Roman Catholic Priest. He has no record. No outstanding tickets with the DMV. He was an associate of the Luna Foundation."

"What’s the Luna Foundation?"

"I’m not entirely sure." Blair called up the web page. "They appear to be both a charitable organisation and involved in collecting and restoring antiquities."

"Was an Associate? So he isn’t involved with this Luna Foundation anymore?

Blair shrugged. "He was a teacher in a seminary and took a leave of absence to work with the Luna Foundation for two years. He is currently taking a short sabbatical and assisting a Father Katualas at the Church of St Michael. It was Father Katualas’ rectory we visited this afternoon."

"So he’s okay, then?"

Blair shrugged again. "He appears to be an upstanding member of the community."

Jim, abruptly, released Blair’s shoulder. "But something doesn’t feel right."

Blair rocked back, precariously, in the chair. "Mrs. Banks is an excellent witness. She doesn’t vacillate or contradict herself and her account hasn’t changed overnight. What you saw in the garden doesn’t make sense. And that place gave me the heeby jeebies."

"Both of us the heeby jeebies. Who was feeding who?"

"‘Cuse me?" Blair asked, perplexed.

"Did I pick up on something because you were...upset or you started getting ants in your pants ‘cos I was picking up on things?"

Blair’s face screwed up as he considered the question. "Apart from the fact you’re thinking we have some kind of feedback thing going here - which we’ll discuss later - you seemed pretty calm when we went into the rectory."

"So why did you start--" Jim grinned evilly, "--floundering?"

Blair didn’t rise to the implied insult. "I was just uncomfortable - I told you it was like visiting a mass grave."

"And that made you act like a complete space cadet?"

Blair rolled his eyes dramatically and he deliberately lowered his voice. "What did you see on the stairs? You did a full sensory search, I saw your pupils dilate and you got that tilt to your head which means you’re *listening*."

Jim leaned over Blair’s shoulder, apparently studying the computer, as he spoke under his breath. "I didn’t see anything, Chief."

"What do you think you saw?"

"I thought I saw a figure, or someone moving. It was like one of those stupid Gothic Romance novels that Caroline used to read."

Blair scratched the back of his neck considering his next words. "Did you scan the house to pick up anymore heartbeats?"

The change in subject made the Sentinel blink. "No, I didn’t."

"That’s not like you," Blair mused.

"I was too busy trying to get you out of there before you spontaneously combusted."

Blair smirked. "So what are we doing next? I mean there’s been no crime committed. All Mrs. Banks reported was a few screams. You didn’t find any ‘evidence of foul play’. What did Simon say?"

"You got any plans for the evening, Chief?"

Jim smiled, as Blair became all flustered; as per normal, the student did not wanting to commit until he had all the facts. Blair feverishly scanned the Sentinel’s face hunting for a clue. Then he spotted Simon sitting in his office, chomping on his cigar, scrutinising them.

"We’re going back there - aren’t we? Tonight."

"Got it in one, Chief."

~*~

Mrs. Banks was ecstatically pleased to see them. Blair cheered up immensely when he realised that they were staking out the rectory from Mrs. Banks’ house.

"So how did Simon authorise this?" Blair flung his hands out encompassing the cluttered attic room. Mrs. Banks had set two plush armchairs in the alcove of the attic window.

"Authorise what?" Jim asked. "It’s not as if I need surveillance equipment, is it?"

"You mean..."

"We’re just visiting Aunt Zoë and Nephew Simon will be ‘round later after he’s dropped Daryl off with Joan."

Mrs. Banks beetled in with a tray loaded down with tea and sandwiches. One of her many cats slunk around her ankles as she picked her way through old cardboard boxes and memorabilia cluttering the attic. Jim leaped up and helped her set the tray on an old crate between the two chairs.

"This is the life, man," Blair enthused. "No ratty little hotel room or freezing, cold truck. A nice, warm attic, a cup of tea and... bacon sandwiches?"

"Bacon sandwiches?" Jim perked up.

"Simon always said that he preferred bacon sandwiches above all else when he was on stakeout," Mrs. Banks explained.

"Yes," Jim said sagely, "it can’t be a stakeout without bacon sandwiches. It’s in the constitution."

"The cholesterol..." Blair began but wilted in the face of the Mrs. Banks’ pleased smile. "We need cholesterol in the right quantities."

The grad student chomped down on a sandwich with relish. Jim couldn’t resist the warm, caressing scent a second longer. The savoury taste sensation exploded over his senses. Salty and effervescent. These were bacon sandwiches like his mother used to make. He concentrated on the cosy memory of his mother’s kitchen.

"Son, I knew that they were good but I didn’t realise that they were that good."

Time had passed; Mrs. Banks was tidying away the tray. He had consumed the whole selection of sandwiches while in the middle of a zone out. Blair was guarding a small plate and a lonely sandwich with an outstretched hand.

"My sandwiches, you glutton. If you get indigestion it’ll serve you right."

There was tenseness around the anthropology student’s expressive eyes that showed that he had been aware of the mini-zone but had been unable to act. Frustration always rattled Blair’s cage. The worst torture Jim could inflict on his sometimes aggravating roommate was to leave him out of the loop. Blair’s revenge, after such teasing, was often painful, humiliating and prolonged.

"How did you cook these, Zoë?" Jim asked making his tone polite. He wasn’t quite comfortable with addressing Simon’s elegant older relative by her Christian name.

"Lard in a frying pan on a high heat. I didn’t cut any of the white fat from the bacon - it crisps up nice and savoury."

Blair was gagging on his sandwich. When the kid deigned to make bacon sandwiches, all the fat was cut off and the meat grilled. Jim decided that this stake out could be fun.

~*~

Blair peered out into the darkness, as blind as the proverbial bat. In the armchair next to him, the Sentinel sat sentry, piercing the darkness with his preternatural senses. Blair revelled in the feeling of absolute trust in the Sentinel - he had never liked the darkness as a child. The lights around the rectory were out. Tonight, he could see a little by the light of the stars in the firmament. Without the reflection of the city lights off lowering clouds, it was as dark as if they were camping in the depths of the Canadian outback. His world was cosy and warm. He burrowed into the blanket Mrs. Banks had given him before going to bed.

"You really liked those sandwiches, didn’t you?" Blair said into the darkness.

"Yes," Jim said sibilantly. "They were just like the ones my mom used to make."

The wishful dream in his friend’s voice made Blair wince. Rarely, never, had Jim spoken of his mother. They had not swapped stories of their families. In fact Blair had wondered if James Ellison was an orphan; he had so little to say about his family and he was so incredibly self-sufficient. Blair might not have had a father, but he had a mother who loved him unconditionally - Blair instinctively guessed that Jim didn’t have that gift.

"You zoned on them, didn’t you?"

Jim hummed and hawed before speaking. "Nah, not really. It was more thinking about my mom in the kitchen."

‘He zoned on a memory of a sensation?’ Blair thought, intrigued.

"Yeah, my mom used to make these milkshakes," Blair prodded, hoping to open a chink in the Sentinel’s armour.

Jim did not need any stimulus, he was lost in a world of memories.

"I must have been one, maybe a bit older; I only had about four teeth." The smile in his voice was evident. "I wobbled up to her. She was working at the bench. There was this most wonderful smell. It drew me to her. I remember twisting my fingers in her skirt - ‘cos I didn’t want to fall over - I hated landing on my soggy diaper. It was a woven skirt, you know, that sort of bevelled feeling. I must have tugged ‘cos she looked down at me and just smiled. Then with a conspiratorial expression she gave me a little piece of bacon."

"What did it taste like?"

"Nothing on earth," Jim’s voice smiled. "I’d had that disgusting mushy stuff since I had been weaned and here in my mouth I was suddenly sucking on this amazing mass of textures and exploding pinpricks of salt. I sucked on that piece of bacon all day."

‘He doesn’t realise what he’s just told me!’ Blair thought eagerly. ‘There’s a chapter, maybe a whole thesis, in what he’s just said. I always knew that Jim’s memory was phenomenal, but he’s got a complete recall of an event as a baby. And it’s all sensory - based on taste and texture. Children’s eyes aren’t fully developed until they’re about nine - I’ll have to check on that. He can remember being a kid. A child psychologist would sell their soul to spend ten minutes trawling through his memories. And it sounds like his senses were on line as a kid.’

"What’s your first memory, Chief?"

"Was that your first memory?" Blair asked.

"Nah, I remember Mom rocking me at my Christening. You’re avoiding the question."

"Hmmm," Blair ran his fingers through his dishevelled curls. "Naomi had this papoose she liked to carry me in. I loathed it. Once I was wrapped inside of it, I couldn’t move or grab anything. I remember that it was very frustrating."

"That explains a lot!" Jim laughed out loud.

"Explains what?" Blair demanded.

Jim’s cell phone chirruped, interrupting the conversation. The vague Jim-shaped blur moved in his seat. The phone clicked open.

"Ellison... Oh, hi Simon, you missed a plate of bacon sandwiches. When are you coming? No, how?"

Blair listened to the intriguing one way conversation - it sounded as if the Captain would not be coming to his Aunt’s house.

"Yeah, okay. Nah, we’ll stay - your Aunt’s great. It’ll be worth staying up all night to try her breakfast. Say hi to Daryl."

"Simon not coming?" Blair had followed that much of the conversation.

"No, Daryl fell out do the tree in his back yard and broke his wrist. Simon’s in the ER."

"Is he all right?" Blair asked, concerned. He shook his head. "Isn’t he a bit old to be climbing in trees?"

"He’s fine. Hairline fracture. They were playing softball... I guess the ball got stuck in the branches and he went climbing."

"That’s how I broke my arm - falling out of a tree."

Jim snorted. "What were you doing?"

"Scrumping. Scrumping? Yeah, bit of an obscure term, it means stealing apples. There were these great apple trees. Oh, they were perfect for climbing. There was this really big one - nobody could get to the top branches - they were too heavy. I was small as a kid." Blair chortled at the plainly obvious statement. "One of the big kids hoisted me up into the tree and up I went like a squirrel."

"So did the branch break?"

"No! Mrs. Danbush came out and yelled at me. I fell off the branch. She was very sorry." Blair laughed.

The hilarity died in the back of his throat as he remembered the psychopath David Lash, the nut case, who had kidnapped him from the loft and tried to steal his identity. Blair had fought the psycho with memories, one of which had been the Mrs. Danbush memory. He had shown Lash that he hadn’t a hope in Hell of taking his place, if he did not even know the simplest little memory. Blair mentally shook himself, he wasn’t going to dwell on Lash. The man had tried to taste his life, and had failed. Blair wasn’t going to allow the psycho to pollute his memories and steal his dreams.

"You all right, Chief? Your temperature’s just spiked."

"I think it’s the bacon sandwiches," Blair quipped.

‘He’s that aware of me,’ Blair thought, flabbergasted. ‘If my heart raced faster, he would know.’

Blair wished at that moment that he could see the Sentinel and read his expression. Sitting as he was in the darkness, he could only go by the man’s voice. Maybe Jim was more comfortable in the shadows – rarely, say never, had he revealed any thoughts on his mother. Tonight, Jim had let a little portion of his soul fly free.

"What are you thinking?" Jim’s voice broke his concentration

"Excuse me?" Blair blinked furiously.

"If your brow got any more furrowed your face would turn inside out. There’s some seriously deep thoughts going on in that little mind. Care to share them?"

‘Of course, he can see me perfectly’. Blair realised. ‘As far as Jim’s concerned, I’m sitting in daylight.’

"Nothing," Blair said offhandedly. "I was just letting my thoughts run riot."

Blair snuggled down in the blanket. He knew that Jim would be embarrassed if he pointed out that they were having a simple, friendly conversation. They had lived together for only a couple of months. They were still cat-footing around each other. That wasn’t entirely true, Blair reflected. They were comfortable, but they were still learning the rhymes and reasons of their lives together. Blair smiled in Jim’s direction, content now with Jim’s scrutiny.

"You never do that? Just let your thoughts fly in all directions?" Blair asked.

"I suppose so," Jim hedged. "Not deliberately, though."

Blair chortled, "I don't do it deliberately - well, not all the time."

Jim laughed, a pleasant sound of comradeship.

"Hey!"

Jim’s figure rose, blocking out the starlight, as he stood in the attic window. Blair wriggled against his side. With a snort, Jim made space. Blair peered aimlessly through the window. If the inhabitants of the rectory were involved in something nefarious tonight, they didn’t want to be seen. They were not counting on a Sentinel’s presence.

"What can you see?" Blair whispered fervently. He rested a palm on the cold glass. Unable to see he caught Jim’s sleeve and followed the cloth down to his knobbly wrist. He wrapped long fingers around his friend’s wrist so that they rested on top of the steady pulse.

"What are you doing, Chief?"

"Monitoring you - your pulse slows when you go into a zone out."

"Hmmmm," was Jim’s only comment. The detective did not pull his arm away. The pulse was beating faster rather than slowing.

"What can you see?"

A short, sharp breath through Jim’s nose heralded his words. "I see a shimmering, like a heat wave, but there is no light. Come on!"

Jim jerked away his hand and made his way unerringly across the cluttered attic. Gingerly, Blair fumbled in the Sentinel’s wake. After the second time he had banged his toes against a box, he flicked on his flashlight. Since the Sentinel was half way down the stairs, Blair was not going to ruin his night vision with the tiny light.

Clinging to the banister, he followed Jim. The front door was swinging open. Jim was long gone. Carefully, Blair closed and locked the door with the key Mrs. Banks had given him. The street lamps on the road illuminated this side of the house. Blair picked up his pace. The high wall separating the two gardens of the houses was a good three metres high. Jim was skirting along the wall, heading towards growth of clinging vines. He was going to climb over the wall. Blair hurried to catch up, running around the pickup parked outside the front door. With a skill, probably born in the jungles of Peru, the Sentinel tested a vine and then oozed up to the top of the wall in a blink of an eye.

Then Jim screamed.

Blair stopped dead. He had never heard such a sound of terror from a human being. Slowly Jim toppled from the wall, falling in a boneless heap on the ground.

"JIM!"

Blair skidded to halt at the Sentinel’s side. Jim’s eyes were open, but bugged and straining. His neck was arched, the tendons so prominent that they cast shadows. A closed breath hovered in his throat. Fingers pawed futilely at the air, scrabbling against something wasn’t there. Jim was a portrait of pain.

"Jim? Jim, can you breathe?"

A shimmering miasma clung to the Sentinel’s body. Thoughts ricocheting through his head - Blair decided that Jim was suffering from an allergic reaction. Despite Jim’s greater weight, Blair grabbed his shoulders and tried to drag the lump of a man from the cloud. Ice-cold air oozed past him, chilling his soul.

"Blair," Jim choked, "stop it!"

Shaking his head, Blair ignored the Sentinel’s words, trying to pull him from the toxic waste. Jim’s hands batted against the cloud, almost as if he was holding it back.

"Run... Blair."

The death was here. Terrified, Blair released the Sentinel. Staggering backwards, he almost fell as a stone turned beneath his foot. Jim was gasping and fighting for air. Blair could feel the imminent death in the air.

He ran.

Blindly, he headed for the truck. Running straight into the front fender he bounced off the metal. He clawed his way along the side and yanked open the driver door and climbed in.

He scrabbled under the seat and pulled out Jim’s steel crowbar.

Weapon in hand, he bolted back to the Sentinel’s side. Making a swipe, which would put a golf champion to shame, he swung the crowbar through the cloud. Molten hot iron flowed through his hands. The pain overpowered his reason. A scream, which echoed Jim’s, was silent. His heart pulsated with a staccato, hammering beat… stopping, and then starting again. He held on, clinging not controlling, riding on the back of pain-filled terror. Slowly, he began to push. Resolute, he pushed.

White light flashed against his tightly closed eyelids. He heard a new cadence to Jim’s screams as they reached impossibly high levels.

Then, the sudden absence of pain was a terrible as the shock of pain. The crowbar slipped from numbed fingers. His legs suddenly had no strength. He sank to his knees at his friend’s side. The pain awoke in his hands. Rocking with the agony, he cradled swollen fingers in his lap.

"Jim, man, Jim? Are you all right?" He couldn’t uncurl to touch the Sentinel.

The breath whistling through Jim’s bruised throat was painful to listen to. The sound was, though, music to his ears. Jim slapped weakly at the ground. Blair wasn’t too sure what he was trying to convey.

"Pain," he gritted out.

"Focus," Blair responded, as if trained. "Focus. Breathe past the pain."

The Sentinel’s harsh, gasping breathing slowed and became more regular. Blair found himself following the rhythm.

Miraculously, Jim dragged himself into a sitting position. The white, sweaty sheen to his skin was fading. Blair wished he had the Sentinel’s powers of recovery. Maybe he just needed to be a buff, six-foot plus mass of genetically pure Neanderthal throwback.

Blair huddled further in on himself.

"Chief? What’s the matter?"

"Inside," Blair could only say.

Jim nodded once, and displaying his preternatural strength, he staggered upright drawing Blair with him. Blair fitted himself under Jim’s shoulder and, both as unsteady as each other, they wobbled back to the entrance of Mrs. Banks’ house. Jim fumbled with the handle but Blair had locked the front door.

Propped against the door, Jim choked out. "Keys?"

"Pocket, man..." Blair gestured with his curled hands and Jim had his first view of the blisters marring Blair’s hands.

"Geez, Blair."

"Get the keys. Open the door."

Jim rooted in Blair’s pocket, hauling out the keys. Blair bit his lip as Jim brushed another blister just over his hip. It took so long, then the key turned in the lock and they were falling into Mrs. Bank’s hall. The lights were still out; somehow they hadn’t woken Aunt Zoë.

"What we gonna do?" Blair gasped, as they headed to the kitchen and Mrs. Bank’s first aid kit. "Call Simon?"

"And report what? Toxic waste emission?" Jim had the presence of mind to turn on the kitchen light.

"Call an environmental protection agency?" Blair giggled. He sagged into a wooden bench beside a large trestle table. Jim sat opposite him, straddling the bench and falling forward until his head rested on the wood.

"I hurt all over," Jim announced.

Blair moved to rub, soothingly, between Jim’s shoulder blades. A fresh stab of agony and his hands refused to co-operate. Hissing, he set his hands on the table. A large blister marred the whole palm of his right hand following the line of the crowbar. Already filled with straw coloured fluid the blister bulged a good half inch from his hand. Each right fingertip had its own yellowing blister. He had a matching, smaller, blister on the palm of his left hand. The blisters on the left fore finger and index finger were already weeping. The flesh, not blistered, was a violent, angry red and throbbed with the beating of his heart. Bracing himself he managed to twitch his fingers. No tendon damage. Hopefully, and he prayed that he was correct, the burns were superficial.

Jim heard his hiss and lifted his head.

"Sorry, Chief."

Grimacing, Jim lurched over to the sink and filled a bowl with cold water. Bottom lip clenched between his teeth, showing his pain, he carried the bowl back to the table.

"Here, rest your hands in this."

Gritting his teeth, Blair complied. Leaning over, Jim scrutinised the burns through the water.

"We need to go to the E.R., Chief. These have gotta be checked."

"We both need to go to the emergency room," Blair countered.

"Okay," Jim complied.

His easy acquiescence surprised the student. He guessed that it was a ploy to force him to go to the E.R.. Two could play at that game.

"Can we go when it’s light, man? There’s no way I want to go out there when it’s dark," he finished sheepishly.

"I’ll call Simon."

"Poor Simon - he’s probably just got home after being there all night with Daryl."

Jim staggered away from the table. He paused, leaning against the door jamb. He was plainly searching for words. Blair could practically read his mind. Similar thoughts and nightmares were running rampant through his mind. His effervescent brain was coming to a hypothesis that he really did not want to make.

"Chief... What the Hell happened out there?"

"I dunno," Blair shrugged. "I really don’t know."

"I’ll call Simon and get a unit over here. I don’t want Zoë to be on her own."

Jim slipped out into the hall.

‘I wonder if Jim would mind if I invited Zoë to stay with us in the loft for a few days?’

End of Chapter Two

Chapter Three

"It’s gone back?" Bethany rubbed her hands nervously, twisting her fingers together. "I can’t sense it."

Her harsh breathing echoed throughout the library. The gasps almost sounded like crying. Philip set aside his book of psalms. A shudder rocked Bethany’s frame and, simultaneously, Philip felt the thing stir. He had been reading constantly since the sun had set. As he had prayed, he had been distantly aware of a horror prowling around the Legacy house. The thing was trapped, unable to enter the rectory or escape from the gardens.

"Why did it stop?" Philip asked hoarsely.

"I don’t know... It thrummed with joy. Then scurried back to the Underside." Bethany shrugged, unable to explain further.

A screech of brakes disturbed them. Philip crossed to the bay window and twitched back the heavy curtains.

"What’s happening?" Bethany asked, but she didn’t leave her post by the fireplace.

"All the lights are on at Mrs. Banks’ house. It’s too far to see what’s happening."

"I feel pain," Bethany said quietly. "My hands hurt."

Philip turned from the window. Bethany was looking at her hands, moving them in the light of the flickering fire. The otherworldly look on her face told him that Bethany was not talking about herself.

"Who’s hurt?" Philip asked quietly.

"A child... No, a childlike person. He’s concerned about another person - a person who is very important to him - more important than he realises."

Bethany lifted her head and her grey eyes blanked as she strove to see beyond the room.

"He’s moving away."

An engine firing and wheels speeding away drew Philip’s attention back to the window. He saw a dark, executive’s car driving away from their neighbours.

"Something happened at Mrs. Banks’ house," Philip announced to an empty room.

Bethany had left.

~*~

Feeling pleasantly mellow, thanks to the pain medication the E.R. doctor had insisted upon administrating, Jim listened unashamedly to the other doctor treating Blair. The student was playing his old tricks, downplaying the burns. The doctor wasn’t taking any of Blair’s misdirections and obfuscations. He knew now that Blair’s burns were not serious - painful but not permanent. Second-degree burns had penetrated to the second layer of skin on his hands. The doctor was, however, at a loss to explain what had caused the burns apart from heat. The burns were not characteristic of fire, chemical or radiation. An elderly doctor, called to consult, had postulated possible lightning burns but they weren’t typical either.

Simon was pacing outside Jim’s cubicle chewing on an unlit cigar. The captain had immediately driven to his Aunt’s house with Daryl huddled in the back wrapped in a blanket. To say that Aunt Zoë was annoyed by that turn of affairs was something of an understatement. She had taken her great-nephew straight back to Simon’s house and now was indulging her favourite relative’s every little whim. Jim thought that Simon was a very clever man.

"Hey, man," Blair mumbled. He stumbled into Jim’s cubicle until he stopped against the examination bed. Simon hovered behind him. The student also had the dazed look of a medicated patient. His entire right hand and wrist was encased in a pristine white bandage. The left hand wore a similar bandage, the palm was strapped, but his thumb and third finger were unwrapped. Blair’s demeanour had risen to new levels of dishevelment. Somehow the kid had managed to refasten a few of his shirt buttons but he had given up once he had achieved ‘coverage’. The top button of his jeans was loose and his belt unfastened.

"Hey, Buddy, how are you feeling?" Jim pushed himself onto his elbows.

"No pain, man." Blair held up his clubbed right hand. "Three weeks. Minimal or no scarring. Gotta go to the Burns Unit and get the bandages changed every few days... Unless?" he finished hopefully.

"No problem, Chief. I’ll look after your antibiotics for you," Jim held out his hand for the pills. Jim wouldn’t have put it past the student to accidentally on purpose lose the tablets or substitute some herbal remedy.

Blair rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, man. You were listening..."

"You were only in the next cubicle," Jim pointed out. "What have you done with the antibiotics?"

"The nurse put them in my shirt pocket. I can’t get at them." Blair demonstrated. He couldn’t get his wrapped hand in the top pocket.

Jim beckoned him over and took the tablets into protective custody. Jim also took the opportunity to set Blair’s shirt to rights. He paused before reaching for the belt.

"Blair?"

"No, man, leave it. I’ve got another blister on my hip. My jeans are too tight."

"How?"

"I’vegotatheory," Blair whispered, casting a furtive glance at Simon. "Idon’twanttotalkaboutit-here."

Jim was quite willing to discuss what had happened in the loft - he would prefer not to spend the night in the psychiatric wing.

~*~

Swaying from side to side like a drunken sailor, Blair tottered up the stairs to the loft apartment. Simon had his hands full with a lump of a Sentinel.

"Sandburg, if you just sat on the stairs a moment, I could get Jim up to the loft then come back and collect you."

"Leave me alone out here? No way, man."

Bracing himself against the wall with his shoulder, Blair managed a few more steps.

"How are you holding up, Jim?" Simon asked.

"Numb," Jim mumbled.

"I should put you two in protective custody until you’re old and grey," Simon mumbled. He hauled on Jim’s arm, settling the lighter man’s arm more comfortably over his shoulder. Jim tried to help, flopping one foot, then the other in front of himself on the stairs. Simon thought that it would be easier for him to put the man in a fireman’s lift rather than dragging him up the stairs.

"Why aren’t we using the elevator?"

"Blair broke it the other night," Jim whispered. "He tried pressing the emergency button to see if it worked and the motor blew out."

"Was he stuck?"

"No." Jim flopped another numb foot on a stair tread. "Mrs. McIllwraith, the old lady who lives on the ground floor, said that she had tried it the other night and it hadn’t worked. Sandburg jammed the elevator door open with her walking stick before playing with the button. Otherwise we would have been calling the fire station."

Simon shook his head, "I’m really surprised he didn’t lock himself in."

"You’re surprised?" Jim deadpanned.

"I can hear you," Blair announced. He had reached the landing and had propped himself up against the door.

Simon lugged Jim up the last few stairs and then supported the man as he fumbled in his pockets for the key. Eventually they got the door open. Blair piled into the apartment with a profound sigh of relief. Using his nose, in lieu of a finger, he moved through the loft flicking every light switch. Simon raised an eyebrow, as Jim did not utter a word. It was also strange that the environmentally conscious flower child was flagrantly using electricity.

Simon deposited Jim on the couch.

"Tea? Coffee? Beer?" Simon asked.

Jim cocked his head to the side and looked at the wall clock. Simon followed his line of sight. Hours had passed - it was three o’clock in the morning.

"Beer," Jim said, his tone was flat.

"Blair?" Simon asked.

"Camomile tea with a spoonful of honey."

Simon puttered in the kitchen preparing the requested drinks and making himself a cup of strong coffee. Blair finished his prowl around the loft and then settled next to the Sentinel on the couch.

"So are you going to tell me what happened?" Simon asked.

His detective and his detective’s shadow were looking at him with drugged expressions. Simon knew that he was about to be treated to either a story worthy of Tolkien or the unadulterated truth. He wasn’t entirely sure what he preferred at this point in time.

Both men suddenly looked at each other and shared identical expressions - a cross between confusion, agreement and, curiously, trepidation.

‘Mentally preparing their stories so they would tally,’ Simon mused to himself.

Blair nibbled on his bottom lip, then shrugged. The ball was firmly in the detective’s court.

Jim coughed once before speaking. "I... have no idea. Sandburg?"

"Oh, thanks,