Sentinel Secrets

Wave 9 reminder

Sat, 01 Mar 2008 21:23:53 GMT

Good March 1st to all.

Just a friendly reminder about wave 9 being due by March 15th.

I know with many commitments that most of us are going around trying to do to much is so little time. But if you are thinking about it, we are 2/3rds way through the time.

If you are thinking about submitting give me a heads up to watch out for your entry.

sentinelsecrets @ gmail . com

Wave 9 to commence

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 00:25:22 GMT

Wave 9

Good evening Sentinel Fans.

With the options I presented, it looks that the words of LOVE are the majority winner.

I've added below a list of words that are borrowed from the lj group the has 40 loves. If it's a theme there is bound to be a lj community to write to it. J

So I'm bringing to you the next wave.

I stress to not to embellish your stories. If you do this to your normal stories, you will give yourself away. This is guess the author on the story itself. I highly stress this point.

Stories should be submitted through sentinelsecrets @ gmail . com.

I'm going to give a month and a half. With people finishing stories for Moonridge and other obligations, I would like to offer time to think about us here at Sentinel Secrets.

No sign up necessary. I will post at times reminders about the posting. So to kick myself in my own butt to get a story done.

Thank you for your time and efforts in the past and look forward to more in the future.

Paula C.

Love:

01.	Smile	02.	Laugh	03.	Touch	04.	Cry
05.	Hug	06.	Lovers	07.	Sex	08.	Embrace
09.	Sun	10.	Moon	11.	Stars	12.	Wind
13.	Summer	14.	Winter	15.	Spring	16.	Autumn
17.	Fallen	18.	Comfort	19.	Swim	20.	Acceptance
21.	Hope	22.	Bed	23.	Cook	24.	Clean
25.	Smoke	26.	Candles	27.	Skin	28.	Lips
29.	Eyes	30.	Hands	31.	Words	32.	Actions
33.	Silence	34.	Deafening	35.	Dance	36.	Date
37.	Kiss	38.	Magical	39.	Flirt	40.	Swoon

Sentinel Secrets, Wave 9 poll

Sun, 13 Jan 2008 19:18:18 GMT

Hello folks, hope off of you had a good Christmas and New Years. Over the last two days I have been looking over the different fan fiction themes groups that I watch and though about offereing several themes to you to choose from for the next wave. I'm looking at February to be the writing month, March 1 the post day, and then March 1 to 15 to read and guess, with the 15th as the revealing of the authors.

It's been a good ride so far and I look forward to more to come.

The poll will be from now till nest Sunday, January 20.

Please comment on what theme you would be inclined to write a fic on.

[ ] drunk fic, the them could be tipsy, drunk, forget, or confession

[ ] dark Use one of the prompt from 50_darkfics

[ ] kink rounds_of_kinkhas a list if you need help on these

[ ] loves based on a prompt from 40_loves

Please comment so all members are represented.

Wave 8

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 01:41:35 GMT

Hello to all. Thank you to all for reading the four stories that had been posted here August 5th.

And going through the guess over the period most (95%) of you got them all correct.

Story one, was done by our own Starwatcher for Zuccini .... (and shedid make go, where are my tomoatoes .. looks at plant that keeps growing but not producing)

Story two, Tommyboybbi, Surprise!

Story three, Maaaaa Revisionist History

and

Story four, Snycock Treasure Chest.

There were many comments and emails about who wrote what, and that is absolutely great. Hope to see you one more time for 2007.

I just gave a comment ainm about TS Secret Santa, so we'll see what she says about that. Then I guess this will be a close for 2007.

2008 will be another year and a wave or two I think.

What do you think group?

And yes, I'll screen comments from this point on. Trolls, got to hate them.

spam comments

Sun, 19 Aug 2007 12:37:31 GMT

As of late, we have received several spam comments to stories.

I'm thinking of perhaps friend locking the site after this wave.

Again, I don't mind friending people to sentinelsecrets. I think the friends list is a great list of lj sentinel fans here. I go through occasionally to add to my friends list.

Wave 8, have you guessed

Sat, 18 Aug 2007 23:19:56 GMT

Have you guessed yet?

Reveal will be Monday night.

If you haven't commented to the story or emailed sentinelsecrets @ gmail . com yet, you have 48 hours to do so.

Thank you for participating.

Paula C.

Writing challenge

Sat, 18 Aug 2007 23:18:07 GMT

Writing Challenge

I am challenging authors to write a short story that is a missing scene from one of the following episodes: Cypher, Seige, Flight, and Warriors.

This can be gen or slash, under 5,000 words.

Due time for Cypher related stories will be October 31

Due time for Seige related stories will be January 30, 2008

Due time for Warriors related stories will be April 30, 2008

Due time for Flight related stories will be August 30, 2008

* note: you can turn these stories in at anytime, don't wait till last minute.

At this time, I am slowly working on pulling together a quarterly fanzine for the Sentinel, Cascade Times. This will be produced in 2008 starting in January.

Please contact me (noted below) if you are planning to participate so I can make notes in the planning of the fanzine.

Submitted stories can be sent to cascadetimesnl @ gmail . com.

If you wish to see the progress and/or participate in the planning of this fanzine, you may join us at http://tv.groups.yahoo.com/group/TSPenpals/

There will be additional challenges to be offered as well to partake in.

Wave 8, story 4

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 01:16:26 GMT

Wave 8

Who wrote me? Maaaaa, Starwatcher, Snycock, or Tommyboybbi

Take a guess, post a comment, feed the authors. Reveals will be on August 20^th.

Story 4

Slash

“Good collar, guys.”

Jim nodded in thanks as he accepted the mug of coffee Simon was holding out towards him.

“Not the least of which was that we managed to embarrass the Feds a little bit,” Blair piped up, grinning as he took the mug Simon was offering.

Jim suppressed a smile, looking down at the liquid in his cup. Once Blair had started at the academy, Simon’s behavior had changed. Now Simon offered Blair coffee, asked his advice about cases, had stopped calling him “kid”. He certainly never told Blair he wasn’t a cop, even though he technically wasn’t one – or at least wouldn’t be one until tomorrow.

He felt a pang at that, the urge to smile fading away. The guilt knotted in his stomach again; entrenched, familiar. Tomorrow. The day Blair was going to graduate from the police academy. The day he was going to officially become a cop, officially accept the badge and the gun, officially become his partner, and officially give up his dream of being an anthropologist…all because of him, all because he had fucked up.

Simon’s chuckle broke into his reverie. “The look on Carrington’s face, Sandburg, when you said, ‘Never mind, man, I’ve already got a confession’…”

“It’s not every day he gets scooped by a – what did he call us? – a ‘testosterone-laden Neanderthal and his hippie sidekick’.” There was a pause, and then Blair’s voice shifted, deepened with concern. “Jim? Jim, you okay, buddy?”

He felt Blair’s hand on his arm and looked up into wide blue eyes. “You zoning on the coffee?” Blair asked.

He took a deep breath, shook his head slightly. “No, no, I’m okay, just tired. Long day.”

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” Simon said, with his typical gruffness. “Get the hell out of here, go have a beer or two or three.” He sat down behind his desk, waving the two of them towards the door.

Jim had put his coffee down and was reaching for the doorknob when he heard Simon’s voice. “Oh, Sandburg, I almost forgot…here.” He turned to see Simon handing Blair a slightly worn cigar box.

“Thanks, Simon, I appreciate it.” Blair took the box and tucked it under his arm. “You want to join us?”

Simon grimaced. “No, Sandburg, unfortunately, since I’m the captain, I have to work on the fourth-quarter budget projections. Have one for me, though.” He shot a look at Blair. “Although try not to have *too* much fun tonight…tomorrow’s a big day.”

Blair rolled his eyes, although his smile was pure pleasure. “You think?”

Chuckling, Simon clapped Blair on the shoulder. “Go on, get out of here,” he said.

He could feel Blair’s eyes on him as they were pulling their coats on. “Jim, are you sure you’re okay?” Blair’s fingers curved lightly around his wrist, half-hidden by his coat sleeve, and he felt a surge of guilt at that, as well. Ever since they’d become lovers, Blair had been more cautious and restrained about touching him in public, worried about giving them away. *How many more things are you going to take away from him, Ellison*? he thought. *How many more parts of himself does he have to give up before he decides he’s had enough and leaves*?

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, roughly, fighting the urge to jerk his wrist away. Seeking to change the subject, he gestured towards the cigar box Blair was holding. “What’s that for? You’re not planning on taking up smoking, are you?”

“God, no,” Blair said, smiling a little crookedly. “It’s for…uh, it’s a little project I’m working on.” He looked up at Jim, concern in his eyes. “Does the smell bother you?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll just keep thinking Simon’s in the loft until it fades.” Feeling suddenly defiant, not caring who saw, he slung an arm around Blair’s shoulders and turned them towards the elevators. “Come on, partner, the first round’s on me.”

***

Jim woke suddenly, the dim gloom of his bedroom telling him more effectively than any clock that it was hours yet to dawn. He reached out, only to find the space next to him empty. Warm, but empty. He listened, and quickly located Blair sitting on the couch in the living room.

He rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers, and padded quietly down the stairs. “Hey, Chief, what’s up?” he asked, settling next to Blair.

Blair glanced at him. “Can’t sleep,” he said, with a rueful smile. “Too wired, I guess. Thinking about tomorrow.” He had a beat-up cigar box on his lap, the corners of which had been reinforced with duct tape. The cigar box Simon had given him that afternoon was sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

The lid of the box on Blair’s lap was up, and Jim could see that it was filled with a variety of objects; photographs, a thin strip of rope with some pale ivory beads, a few matchbooks, a piece of stained glass, and some postcards. He also noticed that there was a mug of Emperor’s Song tea sitting next to the box on the coffee table. His heart sank slightly. Blair bought that tea from a Chinese herbalist downtown. It was expensive, and sometimes hard to get, so he only drank it on rare occasions. “So, what’s all this?” he asked, waving his hand to encompass the boxes.

Blair’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he gave a little laugh. “Oh, it’s just this thing I do,” he said. “I know it’s kinda silly, but…I like to keep a box of mementos, things to help remind me about some of the important events in my life.” He gestured at the box on the coffee table. “Simon was nice enough to give me one of his old cigar boxes, ‘cause, as you can probably tell,” he lifted the box on his lap, “this one’s getting a little old.” He stirred the contents of the box with a finger. “I was just going through these before I transferred them to the new box.”

Jim felt a pang of guilt so strong, he felt like he’d been stabbed through the heart. It was so wrong that Blair’s life had been reduced to this; that he had to content himself with looking at dusty trinkets and pictures instead of actually doing, teaching, going on expeditions. “Christ, Blair, I’m so sorry,” he groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “This is all my fault.”

“What *are* you talking about?”

“This.” He leaned back against the couch, waving his hand at the box on Blair’s lap. “You shouldn’t have to sit here, pining for what your life used to be…and you wouldn’t have to, if I hadn’t been such an insensitive asshole…”

Blair was silent for a moment. “Oh, man,” he sighed, “I thought we were done with this.” He put his hand on Jim’s arm. “Jim, buddy, I think you’re missing the big picture here. I look at these things in celebration, not regret.”

“But…the tea…”

“What about the tea?”

“You don’t make it very often.”

Blair nodded. “Yeah, well, this is a pretty big deal for me, here. I’m graduating from the academy tomorrow. It’s a big change in my life, a rite of passage, and I felt like I needed something of suitable gravity to mark it.”

“Which is exactly my point…”

Blair blew out his breath in a long, exasperated sigh. “You are such a…such a….” Apparently unable to come up with an appropriate moniker, he flipped the lid of the box open and took out a photograph. “Okay, look,” he said, handing the photograph to Jim.

A younger Blair stared out at him, smiling, hair shaggy but shorter, dressed in khakis and a t-shirt, and extending his middle finger towards the picture-taker.

“That’s from my first expedition,” Blair told him, grinning. “I was a senior at Rainier. It was a huge honor to be asked to go; Buckner kind of finagled it for me at the last minute. I bought a new pair of hiking boots, and no one warned me to break them in first…so I spent most of the trip nursing *huge* blisters on my heels and ankles, which Raul – the guy who took this picture – never failed to tease me about.”

Jim couldn’t help chuckling. He could just imagine how Blair had been at that age; cocky but also insecure; embarrassed about his mistake but determined to keep up and pull his weight. “I bet you never forgot about breaking your boots in again,” he said, handing the photograph back to Blair.

Blair snorted. “You can say that again.” He pulled the strip of rope and beads out. “This was a gift from the chief of the Kombai tribe I lived with in New Guinea. I saved his son – a herd of wild pigs stampeded the village and I pulled the kid out of the way. The chief adopted me, made me into one of the Kombai, and gave me this necklace.”

Jim took the necklace reverently, turning it around in his hands. “What kind of beads are these?” he asked.

“Dog’s teeth,” Blair replied, grinning widely when Jim glanced askance at him, one eyebrow raised. “It’s what represents money, wealth in their culture – it’s what the men give as dowries.” He accepted the necklace back from Jim, placing it carefully in the box. “I don’t usually wear it; it’s too precious.” He looked off into the distance, the wide grin still on his face. “Man, that was an *amazing* experience. It wasn’t my first expedition, but it was the one where I really got what anthropology was all about, you know? Trying to understand other cultures, other people; finding the differences and the commonalities among us all.” He went back to poking around in the box. “Not that you need to travel anywhere to appreciate the need for that. We could all use a little more understanding, especially at home.”

Jim felt a moment of shame, mixed with awe. For Blair, anthropology was clearly more than just a field of study. It was a part of who he was, a way of seeing the world and the people in it, and he wasn’t going to abandon it just because he wasn’t in academia anymore. Why hadn’t he been able to see that?

But Blair had pulled out another object and was showing it to him. “Hey, remember this?”

He frowned at Blair. “It’s a key, Sandburg.”

Blair laughed. “You don’t remember, huh? ‘One week, one week, man, and, I promise, we’ll be out of your hair’.”

He smiled, unable to resist Blair’s good humor. “Miss all that space sometimes, eh, Chief?” He slid his arm around Blair’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“Oh, God, no,” Blair replied, snuggling in against his side. “Not when I had to share it with those rats.” He looked up at Jim affectionately. “This is much, much better.”

He turned his head and kissed Blair gently. “I’m glad you stayed for more than a week. Even if I do have less hair because of it.” Something in the box caught his eye, and he reached over, moving some of the contents out of the way. He pulled out a matchbook, the name “Domenic’s” emblazoned across the front. “Is this from?...”

Blair’s face lit up, a sheepish grin curling across his face. “Yeah.”

The memory warmed him, and he tightened the arm he had around Blair. About a week after the press conference, when things had quieted down somewhat, he’d taken Blair out to dinner at Domenic’s, a quiet Italian restaurant in their neighborhood. They’d split a bottle of wine between them, which had led to some very serious conversation, and, back at the loft, some very serious necking. That was the night they’d become lovers.

“So, do you get the bigger picture?” Blair was saying, poking Jim in the ribs, right where he was most ticklish. “Remembering the past doesn’t have to be a painful ordeal, you know? It’s a way of honoring and understanding who you were and how far you’ve come; celebrating your life, in a way.” He looked up at Jim, his blue eyes calm, a gentle smile on his lips. “There’s always a silver lining, you just have to find it.” The smile deepened. “I know ‘repression’ is your middle name, man, but you should try it sometime.”

He’d been a fool, he could see that now. He’d been so caught up in guilt and remorse for the way he’d behaved, for the changes he’d brought to Blair’s life, that he hadn’t noticed that Blair had adapted to those changes happily, losing none of what made him who he was in the process. A fierce wave of love and desire washed through him. He dropped the matchbook back into the box, closing the lid and pulling it out of Blair’s hands, placing it on the coffee table. “I can think of a few past memories I’d like to celebrate right now,” he said huskily, stretching out on the couch and pinning Blair underneath him.

“Oh, man, I like the way you think,” Blair murmured, just before Jim took his mouth in a kiss.

***

Jim closed the door to the loft, stripping off his dress jacket and draping it over one of the kitchen chairs, then loosening his tie. Blair was doing the same, and then he flopped onto the couch, kicking off his shoes and putting his sock-clad feet on the coffee table.

“Oh, man, I am *beat*,” Blair sighed. “That ceremony went on *forever*.”

Jim thought about saying something about the feet-on-the-coffee-table rule, but then decided against it. Blair was right, the graduation ceremony had been long. And hot. Instead, he went into Blair’s old room and retrieved a wrapped package from where he had hidden it under Blair’s old bed. He came back into the living room and, sitting next to Blair on the couch, handed it to him.

Blair looked at him in surprise. “What’s this?”

“Graduation present.”

Blair grinned and eagerly tore the wrapping paper off. But his eyes grew wide as the gift was revealed; a wooden box, expertly crafted, with a delicate, sinuous pattern inlayed on the top in darker shades. “Wow, Jim, this is…this is *gorgeous*.” He looked at Jim, amazement and appreciation mixed in his gaze. “Thank you. Thank you *so* much.”

He pushed a lock of hair that had escaped Blair’s ponytail back behind his ear, and smiled. “You’re welcome. I figured you could use something permanent to put those mementos of yours in. That way you won’t have to keep begging cigar boxes from Simon.”

Blair laughed, eyes shining, hands roaming over the box. “Thanks, man. It’s beautiful. A treasure chest for my treasures.”

*You’re my treasure*, he wanted to say, but that sounded way too sappy, so he settled for something else. “I’ve…uh, I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last night,” he began.

Blair gave him a sideways glance, head tilted. “Oh, yeah?”

Jim cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, and I…I thought you had a good point. About memories being something good rather than something to be avoided. So I thought…uh, I thought….” He trailed off, feeling at somewhat of a loss. This had seemed to be a much easier speech when he was rehearsing it earlier.

“You thought you’d share a few stories with me, since I shared some with you last night,” Blair said, a knowing grin on his face.

“Yeah,” he said, relieved. Blair always knew what he meant, even when he couldn’t say it.

“Sounds good, man,” Blair said cheerfully, settling back against the couch. “Go for it.”

He reached out and opened the box, taking out a photograph. Blair’s eyes brightened, and he knew Blair had recognized it as the picture of him and his unit that Blair had found when he had been kidnapped by Oliver. He put an arm around Blair’s shoulders, smiling as Blair leaned in against him. “This is Sam Holland, as you know, but this guy, behind him, that’s Pete Sarris. Veronica’s father. Pete was a funny guy, liked to play practical jokes on everyone. One night, after we’d all been out drinking, we got back to base only to find…”

The End

wave 8. story 3

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 01:09:21 GMT

Wave 8

Who wrote me? Maaaaa, Starwatcher, Snycock, or Tommyboybbi

Take a guess, post a comment, feed the authors. Reveals will be on August 20^th.

Story 3

Gen

Revisionist History

It’s funny how things look different in retrospect. When a certain point in life is reached, when things have settled and relaxed. When a cause for celebration is nothing more than making it through a rough day and ending up in a warm place. When a rough day is a metaphor for Life and a warm place is a matter of perspective.

+-+-+-

Blair stood very still, looking up into the vast cloudless twilight sky. The air was tepid, with a heavy, tangent breeze that manhandled his hair and rippled his clothing. He blinked rapidly a few times, quelling the tears that pooled in his eyes unbidden, but not unwelcome. He breathed in deeply, slowly, appreciatively.

Jim was several yards away, fidgeting…an incongruous movement for him.

The sounds of the picnic breaking up below them drifted up on the air. Tired children filled with too much junk food and giddy from running amok for hours, begged equally tired parents to stay just a few more minutes. Gentle chiding, some yelling, a few muttered curses made up the responses. Goodbyes, good wishes, plans made to get together more often and not just at department sanctioned events. Kids and picnic leftovers bundled into cars and then tires crunching over gravel, making their way to the road that led back to Cascade.

It had been a good day, full of the pleasures of simply being alive, even if they’d had to drag each other to the annual summer picnic.

Jim, literally, by snapping shut the book Blair had his nose buried in and pulling him by a fistful of shirt down the stairs and out to the truck and physically tossing him in, ignoring Blair’s squawked protests and girly whining about a little bit of bruised flesh and tugged chest hair, stating emphatically that if he was being coerced to attend, then by god, Blair was going too.

Blair, a bit more metaphorically, by being the coercer, and then duping Jim into participating in the games and actually having a good time, because dammit, if he was being forced to participate well then he could damn well stop being a dick about it and join in the celebration.

The tastes of cold beer, hot dogs topped with the works, and no less than three different kinds of potato salad still lingered on Jim’s tongue. His muscles ached a bit, protesting the bizarre use they’d been put to during gunnysack and three-legged races with Daryl and several giggling daughters of various members of Major Crime. And a wheelbarrow race that’d ended with him bowled over in an ungainly heap, sprawled half-on, half-off Blair, who’d taken the brunt of the crash and the full impact of a face-first landing in a mud puddle.

Jim smiled, remembering Blair’s spluttered emergence from the muck, spouting mud and slanderous remarks about Jim’s lack of co-ordination.

Jim glanced over his shoulder and watched the parade of taillights snake down off the mountain, mesmerized for a few moments by the dots of red and occasional blink of headlight whites as curves were negotiated.

“Don’t zone,” Blair warned, sotto-voiced as he continued stargazing.

“Nah,” Jim responded leisurely with a smug grimace. But he still shook himself.

The overlook was on the backside of the mountain. In Jim’s youth it’d been a Lovers’ Lane, accessible by a dirt road from the state park below. Now there was only a footpath, seldom used, overgrown with weeds and brambles. The view was gorgeous during the daytime, showcasing peaks and valleys of the Cascades. And it was more spectacular at night with no city lights to compete with the sky.

Jim checked below one more time, to be sure their co-workers, friends and family, were safely on their way. He moved closer to Blair then, and stood next to him. He looked out over velvet black silhouetted treetops swaying gently against the deep gray-blue light of evening. A few minutes more and the last shreds of twilight faded, leaving a canopy of brilliantly dazzling stars overhead.

Blair acknowledged Jim’s presence next to him by shrugging his shoulders and jutting his chin toward the heavens.

“How far can you see, Jim?” he asked. He closed his eyes for a moment and lowered his head. When he looked up again, it was at Jim, not the sky.

Slightly ruffled by the question, Jim peered upward, narrowing his eyes and consciously dilating his pupils. He studied the cosmos briefly, then stammered, “Blair, Chief, I don’t think I ---,”

“It’s not a test, Jim,” Blair replied with an exasperated chuckle.

“Oh,” Jim answered with an exhaled breath. “Sure.” But he wasn’t sure at all. He looked at the sky again, trying hard to ignore the expectant buzz that permeated Blair.

Blair nudged Jim with his shoulder, good-naturedly. “What do you see, Doofus? Here?”

Jim gave him a sour, sidelong glance, just as Blair reached up and tapped his chest and then briefly rested the palm of his hand over his heart.

Blair dropped his hand a second later, and they both felt the imprint it left behind, as they looked skyward.

Taking a deep breath, Jim once again viewed the expanse of sky, using ordinary senses, including the one Blair had requested. Seemingly infinite, the universe opened itself to him, pulling him into its mysteries.

“Makes you feel kind of insignificant, in the scheme of things, huh? Humbled,” Jim observed in hushed tones.

“Insignificant? No way, man!” Blair retorted exuberantly. He rounded on Jim, his legs and arms elastic in his excitement, his eyes huge and round and full of wonder. One arm shot out toward the sky, its hand waving, the other hand slapped Jim’s chest. “You? Me? We’re it, man. In all the vastness of time and space, the whole kit-n-caboodle, there’s no one else like us. That’s significant, that’s major, Jim, that’s, that’s---,” he petered out, his mouth still working, but at a loss for words after only blurting out a mere two dozen or so, most likely some sort of record for him.

“What’s going on Sandburg? What’re you babbling about?” Jim asked. His brows furrowed and he grabbed Blair’s hands, pinning them between his own tense fists.

“It’s time to move on, Jim. To get past it all, to celebrate, you know?” Blair whispered. “Today is the first day of the rest of our lives, right? Corny, yeah, but---,”

“You died, Chief.”

“I’m alive, Jim.”

“I mistrusted you.”

“I gave you good reason.”

“Alex.”

“Iris.”

“Not the same, Chief, not by a long shot.”

“Maya?”

“You might have to throw in a few more to even things up.”

“That’s just it Jim, I don’t wanna keep score anymore.”

“I read the diss after you asked me not to.”

“You read an unedited introductory chapter of a fraudulent piece of garbage.”

Blair’s voice cracked a little over the word fraudulent but other than that his voice was grimly steady, and strained, as if he’d spoken the words hundreds of times and never wanted to say them again.

Jim snorted, and stifled a chuckle, which came out as a rueful, hollow sound, completely mirthless. He shook his head, not sure if he was ready to capitulate. He loosened his hold on Blair’s hands, but didn’t let go.

There’d been a distance between them for so long now…since Alex. A gap they both looked into every day and avoided, never widening, never shrinking. They went through the motions of daily existence, doing what they had to, making nice. Could it be as simple as ignoring what had happened between them and moving on?

Jim guffawed, causing Blair to jump. Nothing was ever simple with Sandburg.

“You’re just going to re-write our past here, is that it Chief?”

“The victors always write history, Jim. Everything we’ve done, or not done, or screwed up, or did right, all of it, man, it’s all brought us to where we are right now. We’re together, and stronger for what we’ve been through. We win. It’s time to celebrate, Jim.”

The moon, not yet risen, lightened the horizon with a luminous glow. The stars dimmed momentarily and then brightened once again, refusing to be blotted out, bolstered by their own brilliance.

Jim let go of Blair’s hands and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in close to his side, where he belonged. He nodded once, quickly, and looked up again, seeing the infinite possibilities.

The End

Wave 8, story 2

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 01:06:57 GMT

Wave 8

Who wrote me? Maaaaa, Starwatcher, Snycock, or Tommyboybbi

Take a guess, post a comment, feed the authors. Reveals will be on August 20^th.

Story 2

Gen

"SURPRISE!!!!" was yelled at deafening volume. With a steady hand on his back, Jim quickly changed his control and walked into the room with little trouble. Jim admired quickly how things changed, not long ago he would have stumbled backward and found the noise deafening.

Looking around the loft, he found balloons all over the loft. He was directed by the hand to turn towards the kitchen where the table bestowed a large birthday cake with his name and candles that threatened the fire code of the building on it.

"No cracks about the fire hazard," he heard Blair mumble under his breath behind him. The hand patted his shoulder and then left him. Jim looked around to see Blair head to the island which was laden with beverages and the ice bowl.

"Hey Jim," Simon said as he came up beside him. "You know, I didn't think this could happen?"

"What happen Sir?"

"A surprise party for you. I mean, with all that you can hear and see and such, that partner of yours pulled it off. I shouldn't have bet him the ten bucks that said you would figure it out before the actual event."

Jim looked at Blair as he approached with two cups of punch, one in each hand.

"So, you were surprised right? No idea that this was happening?" he asked as he handed over one drink to Jim.

"No Chief, no idea that this was happening."

"Cool," he smiled then looked at Simon. "Okay Simon, pay up time. How much was in the kiddie for the bet?"

Simon moved and pulled out his billfold and started counting out the money. Jim watched as eight twenties were put into Blair's palm. That was some bet to not know about. He would have to look into it later; he had a party to partake in.

"So where are the presents?" he asked loudly. "You can't have a birthday party without some presents." He went walking around the loft, talking with guests and looking for the stash that he found under the kitchen table.

Wave 8, Story 1

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 01:04:47 GMT

Wave 8

Who wrote me? Maaaaa, Starwatcher, Snycock, or Tommyboybbi

Take a guess, post a comment, feed the authors. Reveals will be on August 20^th.

Story 1

Gen

Zucchini, Tomatoes and Corn, Oh My!

Early March

"Hey, wow, did you see this?" Blair was curled up comfortably, carefully perusing every article in his section of the Sunday paper.

His friend didn't even glance up from mentally composing a scathing letter to the editor as he read of the proposed city ordinance that would limit the age of vehicles allowed to drive in downtown Cascade. "How many times have you insisted that the 'Lifestyles' section is more culturally relevant than the 'pompous arrogance of short-sighted, monkey-brained, alpha-posturing world leaders'? Since you see fit to grab that part first, no I haven't 'seen this'. I'll get to it eventually; today is perfect for staying put," Jim added, glancing at the cold rain beating against the balcony doors.

Blair folded the paper inside out and faced it toward Jim, tapping the relevant headline. "No, look," he insisted, "this is great news.

Jim easily compensated for the distance between his position in the yellow easy chair and Blair's in the far corner of the couch as he read, City to Allow Garden Plots on Vacant Lots. "So the city is conning a lot of would-be farmers into cleaning up vacant lots and planting pretty flowers without paying them a cent for their efforts. Sounds like a royal rip-off to me."

"You're missing the whole point, man! This will be vegetable gardening. Well, maybe a few flowers if someone is so inclined -- did you know that planting marigolds can help keep the bugs away from other plants? But lower-income families can rent a plot -- only three dollars a month -- and grow their own fresh vegetables, healthier and cheaper than what they get in the store. And it'll give kids something to do in the summer, help keep them out of trouble and give them a sense of self-satisfaction when work they've done with their own two hands benefits them and their families. You'd be surprised what a difference just growing things can make in people's lives. I've read studies --"

"Thanks, Chief, you've convinced me; I don't need chapter and verse." With a rustle of paper, Jim prepared to drop the conversation. The silence lasted only a few heartbeats.

"I think I'd like to do it," Blair mused, half to himself. "Just imagine the taste of home-grown tomatoes and corn, carrots and sweet peas; man, your taste-buds will think they've died and gone to heaven."

Jim raised a curious eyebrow. "Why? You already get most of our fruits and vegetables from the farmer's market, and you know which ones grow their stuff organically, or at least pesticide-free. You've demonstrated that food picked when ripe is far superior to the stuff that's picked early and allowed to ripen during shipment; my taste-buds and I thank you. But what difference will it make if they do the work, or you do?"

"Well..." Blair gazed around the room with unfocused eyes; his expression suggested he was seeing confinement instead of a comfortable, open living-space. "You're probably right that I won't notice a difference; but it'll be interesting to see if you do. But mostly I just... kinda miss it," he finished quietly.

"Miss what?"

"That connection with the Earth, man. There's something... elemental... about getting your hands in the dirt and nursing the seedlings to healthy crops, and protecting them from disease and predators, even if the 'predators' are just bugs and birds. Problems in a garden are a lot more straightforward and easier to solve than problems in a classroom -- or the PD."

Jim was intrigued. "You sound like you're talking from experience, Chief. So, what -- you helped the women in the fields when you went on anthropological expeditions? I would've thought you'd be taking notes from the tribal elders."

Blair straightened, his brow furrowed in a slight frown, and lips pinched in apparent disapproval. He steepled his fingers almost prissily as he proclaimed in a monotonous half-whine, "'Every anthropologist should be a multi-faceted individual with a broadly inquiring mind; equally adept at speaking with, and gaining knowledge from, all members of a tribe, men, women, and children. Do not allow yourselves the preconceived ideas that one group or another has nothing of value to offer. An anthropologist who has neglected one segment of the tribal population has cheated himself as well as the subjects he studies, and leaves gaps in our accrued knowledge of the world and its peoples'."

In the face of Jim's expression -- composed equally of appalled dismay mixed with a sad certainty that his friend had finally slipped a cog -- Blair collapsed backward into the cushions, laughing heartily. "Sorry, Jim; if you could see your face..." He chuckled again, then explained, "That was Professor Gene Cordell, one of the most boring speakers I've ever studied under. But he did have some solid information, and I did pay attention. Surprisingly enough, it's not that difficult to work with the women in the morning, play with the children in the afternoon, and listen to the stories of the hunters or the elders in the evening; I think Professor Cordell would be proud of me, don't you?"

"That depends; were you graded on your obfuscation skills, or is that something you picked up on your own?"

"Hey, don't knock it; there are times when obfuscation is an important anthropological survival tool." Blair winked broadly, amid continuing snickers. "But I really did pay attention to 'women's work' -- it's interesting to see the similarities and differences in customs of cooking or gardening or whatever. That was later, though; I learned most of my gardening skills from Uncle Buck when I was twelve. At first it was discipline, and I hated it. Uncle Buck had a hoe that he named 'Old Guss', and it was the bane of my existence. Later, though, I really got into it, and when I bit into the first tomato that came off 'my' vine -- well, it was pure magic. Working in a garden is as good as meditation -- and you get something for it, besides. And the brothers at Saint Sebastian's have a large garden; I helped out there when I visited. For me, it's like... getting back to my roots." Jim snorted, and Blair shrugged. "No pun intended, man."

"Well, you certainly don't need my permission. If you think you can fit it in between school and the PD and the sentinel stuff, have at it. Just be sure you don't bite off more than you can chew." Jim retired discreetly behind his newspaper.

Blair groaned theatrically. "Oh, man, you've been waiting for that, haven't you? But I guarantee, you'll eat your words before the summer's over." He ducked the tossed pillow, caught it and threw it back, and went back to his own reading.

Ten minutes passed, and then Blair straightened and slapped himself -- gently -- upside the head. "Compost!" he exclaimed.

"Sandburg, you come home smelling like compost, and you're sleeping on the roof," Jim said, without looking up.

"Hey, I'm not that fond of the smell, myself; I'll have to make sure I handle it last, and stop somewhere -- the gym, maybe -- to shower and change afterward. But properly-managed compost only has to be turned every ten days or so, and that's only if you're in a hurry, but of course I am, kind of. If I start now, it'll probably be ready by the middle of May. And there's nothing better to enrich your garden soil than good compost. Do you suppose one of the dairies will deliver some manure? I'll only need a cubic yard or so; a bin bigger than three foot square is just --"

"Tell you what, Sandburg," Jim interrupted. "You refrain from inflicting me with the nitty-gritty details, and I'll refrain from saying 'I told you so' if your garden grows nothing more than a few weeds."

"Ha!" Blair retorted. "More like, I won't hit you with 'I told you so' when you're reaching for your third ear of grilled sweet corn and you bite into it with butter dripping down your chin."

"Loser cooks for the winner for a week -- takeout not allowed?"

"Done!"

Jim turned to the sports section while Blair grabbed paper and pen and started to plan the perfect garden. Tomatoes, of course, and sweet corn. Zucchini; he knew some killer recipes. Carrots and maybe sweet peppers. Squash? Couldn't hurt. Maybe...

"Hey, Jim, green beans or sweet peas?"

"Peas."

Blair scribbled a few more lines, then carried his notes to the computer. Hooray for the Internet; he wouldn't have to wait for seed catalogues to be delivered.

A few moments later, Blair stared at the computer screen. Who knew? Forty varieties of tomatoes? Nineteen of squash, twenty-six of carrots? And this was only from one catalog! How the hell was he supposed to choose?

Obviously, he'd have to visit a few of the local garden centers, and talk to people more knowledgeable than himself. But a little prior research would help him understand the suggestions, and allow him to discuss the pros and cons of different varieties. Blair reached for his pen, and soon had several pages of notes. This was gonna be so cool!

* * * * * * * * * *

Early April

The day had started out mild, with warm sunlight suggesting that Spring had finally arrived, despite the forecast of storms tomorrow. Blair had left early, face split by an eager smile. "Leave my share of the chores and I'll do them tomorrow. Can't waste a day like this; gotta make hay -- or a garden -- when the sun shines. Besides, we've got a communal planning meeting scheduled; Saturday is the best day to get everyone together at once. Well, most of us, anyway. See ya' later, man." He was out the door like a gusty April breeze, swirling quickly and gone.

Jim finished a leisurely breakfast, then decided to clean all the kitchen cabinets; no reason he couldn't get an early start on Spring cleaning. With that out of the way, he and Sandburg might have time to wax the floors tomorrow. He put on a Santana CD and cranked up the volume; some music was best appreciated when it filled the room, despite sentinel senses.

By three, he was aware that the promised storm wouldn't wait till tomorrow to hit. Dark clouds were hanging low while the wind whistled viciously through the streets, and the temperature had dropped fourteen degrees. Jim built a fire and soon had it burning strongly; by the time Blair got home, his perpetually-cold friend would want all the warmth he could get.

The leading edge of rain was hitting the balcony windows when Blair blew in as precipitously as he had left, laughing and shaking the drops from his hair. "Ooo-WHEE! How changeable can the weather get, anyway? Still, April showers bring May flowers, and I don't suppose it matters whether they're on a rosebush or a tomato vine." He hung up his coat, toed off his wet, muddy sneakers onto the newspaper that Jim had spread under the coathooks, and headed into the kitchen. "After all that, I need a beer. How about you?"

"I'm good," Jim replied, lifting the half-full bottle by his elbow and relaxing into his book now that Blair was home safe.

"Oh, right, right; I didn't notice." Blair carried his beer into the living room, where he sank cross-legged to the floor with his back to the fire, almost close enough to singe his flannel. "Man, you are a prince!" he declared. "The past couple of hours reminded me of the reasons I don't> want to be farmer; if gardening is more than a hobby, there's too many times you have to suck it up and keep working in the bad weather, regardless." He scooted a half-inch closer to the delightful heat.

"You're welcome." Jim hid his smirk; Blair was soaking up the warmth like a big cat. But maybe wolves also liked to bask when they weren't hunting. "So, did you have a good -- as in productive -- day?"

"Oh, man, it was stupendous! Everyone was there except for Big Al and Susanna, and they'd already told us what they wanted. So we got everything planned and staked out. It's gonna be so cool -- a real community effort, instead of each family separate." Blair set aside his beer and scrambled to his feet, hurrying toward his bedroom. "In fact, I need to make notes; there'll be a great paper in this by the time we finish."

He returned with a spiral notebook, grabbed his beer, and plopped on the couch. Balancing the notebook on his knee, Blair started sketching as he explained the proposed garden. "Okay, you know that block on Lavaliere, between thirty-eighth and thirty-ninth, with 'Big Ben's Carpet Warehouse' store on one end and the 'Rama-Dama Hardware and Lumberyard' on the other? That's our north boundary; the vacant lot is south of those walls. And the best thing is, all the buildings around the other sides are three stories or less, and except for those two big stores, everything is across the relevant street, which means plenty of sun can reach the ground. It's a great spot, and pretty central in that community; we couldn't ask for better."

"Sandburg, that's not the safest part of town," Jim objected, "and it's over ten miles away."

"That's why Henry Ford invented cars," Blair replied, still drawing on the page. "And people live there permanently, some of them right across the street; I think I can spend a few hours a week without risking life and limb. Okay, look. We've divided the area into four major parts, separated by paths through the middle -- north-south and east-west -- and with a path going around the outside perimeter. Then each big area is divided into eight sections, laid out four wide and two deep. So all of the plots meet a path on the short end -- no traipsing through someone else's plot to reach your own -- and half of them have another path on the long side. Those are for the folks who have mobility difficulties; hopefully, they can go more directly to the plants they need to tend, with less walking."

"'Mobility difficulties'? What, you have grannies with walkers trying to garden?" Jim's voice was challenging in his disbelief.

Blair shook his head in disgust. "Join the real world, man; gardening is highly recommended for the elderly, or someone with arthritis. It gets them out in the fresh air, it's gentle, low-impact exercise, and it gives them other people to socialize with. One of the salespeople at Rama-Dama -- Cindy -- is working a plot, and she's convinced management to donate a couple of those low, wheeled gardening seats, so everyone will be able to maneuver easily. And then there's Susanna and Caleb, who are both wheelchair-bound, so we're building a couple of raised beds right here." He used his finger to indicate the stretch of land next to the carpet and lumber stores. "First we'll put plastic over them to make cold-frames, so we can get an early start with tomatoes and peppers. When they're all transplanted to the garden proper, the plastic comes off and Caleb and Susanna can put in their main crops."

Jim was intrigued in spite of himself; the planning seemed almost as detailed as a military maneuver. "What's this block right in the middle? And that little square between the raised beds?"

"The big one in the middle is compost; we decided to make two bins, back-to-back. With that location, no one has to walk too far to get a load and take it back to their plot. The soil isn't in great shape; we'll all need to use the compost -- which, by the way, is already starting to look composty." Blair's voice was decidedly smug. "The one against the back wall is the tool-shed; we figured it'd be easier to lock them up at night instead of carrying rakes, hoes, and spades back and forth when we want to work. Everybody has a key to the padlock."

Jim snorted his disgust. "I give it two nights before some hopped-up meth-head who needs a fix breaks in to hock your tools for his next score. You'll spend more in replacing tools than you'll save in growing your own vegetables."

"Maybe," Blair acknowledged. "We talked it over and decided we're willing to risk it. We're banking on community feeling; about three-fourths of the adults are bringing their kids into it, getting them involved, and a bunch of those are teenagers. Hopefully, if they have a feeling of 'ownership', they won't let -- or help -- their buds steal anything. And like I said, several of the families live right across the street; they'll be able to keep an unofficial eye on things." He shrugged, and continued putting the finishing touches on his sketch. "If we're wrong, and someone does steal them, then we'll keep the replacements at home. But people generally live up to -- or down to -- what others expect of them, so we're just expecting them to be honorable."

"I think you're heading for a fall, Sandburg, but I admire your principles. I just hope that won't be another 'I told you so'." Jim lifted his neglected book and located the paragraph where he'd stopped reading.

"Jim, I know being a cop affects your world-view, but you could try being a little more open-minded. I'll be the one saying, 'I told you so'." Blair ignored his friend's dismissive grunt, and pulled his laptop out of his backpack. He started a new document, then sipped his beer as he considered a working title. Okay. 'Social Interactions Within the Paradigm of Community Gardening.' Yeah, that sounded suitably intellectual. He started typing.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late April

"So, how goes the garden, Sandburg?" Jim asked casually. Not that he really cared, of course, but listening to the kid rattle on would help while away the tedium of this stakeout.

Blair's smile flashed brightly, even in the dimness of the cab. "Oh, man, better than I even expected! Next weekend we'll be putting in most of the seeds, and the weekend after we plan to transplant the tomatoes and peppers from the cold frames into the main garden. It's coming together just great!"

Jim snorted. "Most people wouldn't give the accolade 'great' until they started eating what they'd grown, but you don't even have any seeds in the ground. I think your definition needs work."

"That outlook is too narrow," Blair insisted. "If this was an experiment in community social interaction, we'd already have an A-plus. The kids have been staying after school to use the Internet, or going to the library to do research in organic gardening and pest management; they have all sorts of plans for getting the best growth possible from every square foot. And the adults -- everybody knows somebody who knows somebody, you know? Pete has a friend who's a farmer; on Friday he's coming with his tractor to spread the compost around. He'll use the harrow to work it into the soil, so we're spared the backbreaking work if doing it by hand. And Concetta knows one of the grooms at the riding stables out near the country club; after the seeds sprout, he'll bring a couple of pickup loads of used bedding straw so we can have a good mulch."

"I'm impressed, Chief," Jim admitted. "Do I detect your fine hand in persuading everyone to work as a team?"

Blair shrugged a shoulder and shook his head with a half-grin. "Not really. I've made a few suggestions to point them in a couple of directions they might not have thought of, but then they pick up the ball and run with it. I don't want to be the stuffed-shirt professor who just gives orders so everyone will do things his way, you know? I want everyone to be able to look back and know they did it themselves -- and they'll be able to do it again next year, and the next, and the next, no matter who's in the group, or who gets too busy to show up and help." He chuckled and winked. "Of course, that doesn't keep me from telling stories about methods used by the indigenous people in various parts of the world, that can be so easily adapted to our garden."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

"Like -- we can plant potatoes along with the corn. The potatoes grow deeper than the roots of the corn, and the top growth chokes out the weeds between the rows of corn. Since potatoes aren't dug up until after the corn has been eaten, we can get two vegetables from one patch of ground.

"Or like -- fish heads and guts make great fertilizer. We'll go to the fresh-fish market down by the docks, and bring back a couple of baskets of their trimmings; just drop in a bit of gooiness before you drop in the seeds."

"This 'we' better not include me, Sandburg," Jim growled. "And don't even think about asking to borrow the truck."

Blair threw him an exasperated look. "Like I wouldn't know what you'd say before I even asked. Not that I want that stuff in my car, either, even though it'll be fresh. I figure I'll set it on the trunk lid, tie it down real good, and just drive slow."

"Sounds like you really have it all planned out," Jim said, more intrigued than he wanted to be. He kept his eyes on the suspect house, trusting Blair to use the comment and keep running with it.

"Oh, yeah! Susanna -- I told you about her, in the wheelchair? -- she knows more about organic gardening than all the rest of us put together. We're planting dill next to all the tomato plants; it'll attract the tomato hornworms, and they'll be easy to pick off and squash. And everyone who drinks beer is donating one can or bottle." He waited expectantly; the question just had to come.

Jim didn't disappoint. "Let me guess. You pour it around the cucumbers and anyone who eats them gets pickled."

Blair chuckled. "That might be an interesting taste experiment. But if you set out beer in shallow bowls, it attracts slugs and they'll drown."

"Sounds like a waste of good beer."

"Not when you consider the damage they do," Blair argued. "A couple of cans of beer is a small price to pay for unchewed-on veggies."

Jim lifted a hand for quiet, head tipped to one side. "Hold on, Chief; I hear a car starting, and I think it's his."

A moment later, the garage door was eased carefully upward, with as little noise as possible. The blue Mustang backed cautiously into the street, then drove off slowly, running without lights. Jim let it get a block ahead, then eased the truck forward to follow.

Blair picked up the mic. "Shall I call it in?"

"Advise them that we're in slow pursuit up Connelly, but to wait until we call for backup. We want this guy to lead us to the source; can't take a chance on him running if he sees something suspicious."

In the subsequent successful capture, the question of beer and vegetable gardens was shelved until later -- or, for all Jim cared, till never.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early June

Jim dragged himself wearily up the stairs. It was ridiculous how beat he felt, just from spending a day in court. He didn't feel like doing a thing. Maybe he could get Sandburg to order a pizza, then put a slice in his mouth for him. But Jim didn't know if even that was worth it; he'd still have to do his own chewing.

When he opened the door, he was struck by the light scent, kind of spicy but earthy. "Sandburg, what gives?" he demanded.

Blair saved the document on his laptop and pushed back his chair. "Hey, Jim, glad you're home!" He smiled at his partner and hurried into the kitchen. "I've got a treat for us tonight. Some of the early tomatoes and peppers are ripe already, so I've made green tomato soup with ham. Plenty of ham; I won't force you to eat a meatless meal," he added with a wink. "You go wash up, and I'll start grilling the cheese sandwiches to go with it."

Jim was too tired to argue, but once the bowl was in front of him, he stared doubtfully at the contents. "Green tomato soup? I thought you said they were ripe."

"We planted different varieties, so we'd have them ripening all summer long. I picked some ripe and some green; the recipe uses both. And don't give me that face."

"What face?"

"The face that says, 'I do not like green eggs and ham'. After all his fussing, that guy discovered he liked it after all. So save the complaints and give it a try; at least one bite won't kill you."

"Such reassurance," Jim muttered, but he swallowed a spoonful under Blair's watchful eye. Hmmm... interesting. He lifted another spoonful. Different... but not actually bad. He dipped his spoon again. And -- he picked up a golden-brown triangle -- it went real well with the cheese sandwich.

"That was good, Sandburg; thanks," Jim said when there was nothing left but crumbs on the plate and dregs in the bowl. It was amazing how much better he felt after a good meal; still tired, of course, but no longer at the 'rode hard and put up wet' end of the spectrum. "Think you can make it again some time?"

Blair chuckled, and waved a hand toward the large pot on the stove. "It's soup, man! Nobody makes enough for only one meal. We can save some in the fridge for later this week, and freeze the rest for the nights we're too late or tired to cook. But, yes, I can always make more -- one thing we'll have plenty of this summer is tomatoes."

"How?" Jim asked. "I mean, if you have so many varieties of tomatoes that you'll have some all summer, how did you have space to plant anything else?"

"I told you we were making a community garden, instead of each family acting alone." Blair shrugged easily. "You know, the output from just a couple of tomato or squash vines can feed six or eight families. So we planned it all out. Like, six of us are growing early tomatoes, six growing mid-season, and six have planted late-season varieties. Whatever's ripe, we all take home what we want or need, and if anything's left after that, we share it in the neighborhood. We kind of put in our orders -- what everyone wants more of or less of -- and planted accordingly, from corn to zucchini. It's working so well that Caleb and Miriam are already talking about doing the same thing next year, and getting more people involved." Blair rose and started carrying the dishes to the sink.

"Sounds suspiciously like Communism, Chief."

"Big surprise -- it is a form of communism. 'From each according to his ability, to each according to his need'," Blair quoted. "The thing is, communism can work -- if the group is small, and everyone can see who pulls his weight and who doesn't. It's when you get past the 'neighborhood' level that it falls apart. As soon as things are complicated enough that you need supervision and leaders and people who know other people only as names instead of individuals, that's when some of them start working the system to their advantage -- which automatically disadvantages everyone else." He pulled down some freezer-savers from the cupboard, and began to pour the leftover soup into them.

Jim watched thoughtfully. "So, it doesn't matter what you're actually tending; you can have part of anything in the garden?"

"Pretty much," Blair said cheerfully. "Some things I didn't request -- never did cotton to broccoli, and I figure jalapenos would be too hot for you, no matter how little I used."

"Think you could bring a couple or three good-sized green tomatoes for the weekend?"

"Not a problem," Blair assured him. "Why d'you want 'em?"

"Sally used to make fried green tomatoes; she got the recipe from Mrs. Delaney down the street."

"Raised in the South?" Blair guessed.

"Oh, yeah; her accent was pure cornpone. But fried green tomatoes were a real treat when I was a kid, and it's been a long time since I had any. Might have 'em with pork chops for dinner on Saturday."

"Sounds good, man. I'll pick some up Friday afternoon."

* * * * * * * * * *

Mid July

Henri studied his cards while he dipped a tortilla chip in the garden salsa spooned onto his plate. "This stuff is damn good, Hairboy," he said, crunching happily. "What all's in it?"

"Oh, some tomatoes, green pepper and onions, mixed with a little bit of olives, basil and parsley -- and all from our garden," Blair boasted, grandly buffing his fingernails on his shirt. "Well, except for the olives." He discarded a card and nodded to Simon -- the dealer for this round -- who passed him another one.

"Nothing fermented or moldy this time?" Joel asked slyly.

Blair chuckled. "Not unless you force me. Fair warning; if I lose, someone else will pay the price."

"I like this pineapple-and-zucchini bread," Rafe said, cutting himself another piece. "Who would've thought they'd go together so well?"

"Nothing surprises me anymore," Jim said. "The kid had me eating carrot pancakes this morning -- and liking them."

"Well, I'm surprised," Simon rumbled. "I thought gardening would leave him too little time to fall into trouble." He stared meaningfully at the butterfly bandaids that closed the two-inch cut on Blair's forehead. "I know you're talented, Sandburg; couldn't you use a little of that talent to stay out of trouble?"

"Hey, it's not my fault the guy couldn't look where he was running!" Blair protested. "I was just walking with Sandra in the park and then boom! At least it slowed him up enough for the uniforms to catch him."

Jim shook his head. "Forget it, Simon. Talking won't help. I'm ordering complete protective gear for him -- shin- and knee-pads, elbow pads, helmet with faceguard, kevlar vest, the works. Maybe then we can cut the injuries down to once a quarter." He pushed two chips into the middle of the table. "I'm in."

"Says the man known to every EMT in the city," Blair retorted. "I hear they have laminated 'Jim Ellison Identification' cards so all the newbies will know who you are." He tossed his own chips onto Jim's. "Yeah, me too."

Gardening and casualties were forgotten as the group settled down to the serious business of poker.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early September

"Hey, Jim, take a gander; tell me what you think." Blair handed him a sheet of paper, still warm from the printer. Jim closed the case file folder he'd brought from work, and acceded to his partner's request. Blair stood anxiously in front of him as he read:

AUTUMNAL EQUINOX

We're having a big Harvest Picnic

and a Celebration of Life.

We'd like you to join our festivities.

Good food, good friends, and a few games.

Date: Saturday, September 21st, 1996

Time: 11 AM - dusk

Place: The Rama-Ben Community Garden

from Lavaliere to Sunderson, between 38th and 39th

The garden and its members will provide

a variety of hot and cold vegetable dishes.

Bring your own meat and drink.

For more information, call

Caleb Winters @ 555-3709

Concetta Garcia @ 555-2693

"So, how's it look? Do we need to put anything else in the invitation? Do you think people will come?"

"Who?" Jim asked. Sandburg usually ran ideas past him first, but this had come out of the blue. What was going on?

Blair was bouncing -- in excitement? In nervousness? "Everyone, of course! Friends and family, but we're going to invite the people in the area who didn't participate. And I want to invite the guys in Major Crime, and some of the other people from the PD. Maybe even pass the flyers around the precinct that covers that area -- the Thirty-Third, isn't it?"

"Why?"

"Well, jeeze, Jim -- citizens and police at the same party; it's bound to improve relations between the groups. Especially since it's kind of a spontaneous idea from the people themselves, instead of an official 'mixer' dictated by any kind of authority."

"No, I mean -- Labor Day was just three days ago. Why didn't you have your party then?" Jim felt as if he had missed a step, somewhere. "Whoever heard of an equinox celebration?"

Blair snorted. "Oh, the Celts, the Romans, the Saxons, the Druids, the Mayans, various Native American tribes... shall I go on? The equinoxes and solstices have been recognized by cultures around the world for thousands of years, and people have celebrated them all in various ways. The Fall Equinox celebrated the successful harvest, with its assurance that life would continue through the cold winter. The cycle of seasons was meaningful, and important. Stonehenge was aligned so that the solstices and equinoxes could be accurately determined. This is big stuff, man."

"Okay, but what makes it better to celebrate this instead of, say, the next full moon? And will you light somewhere? I'm not going to take your toys away."

Blair perched on the arm of the yellow chair, hands flying as he tried to express his enthusiasm. "Not better, just -- it's just a spontaneous upwelling of feeling, probably elicited by some primitive instinctual response. A good harvest is like a sign of good fortune for the coming year, and even the heavens are aligned -- equal light and equal dark -- to show their approval. Since it's common to almost all times and cultures, it must be practically hard-wired into the human psyche." He paused, looking thoughtful. "I should add that to my paper -- or maybe start another one. I could compare and contrast the activities used to celebrate the Autumn Equinox across the different cultures and eras." He bounced up as if to start immediately, but Jim interrupted.

"Hold it, Darwin; let's finish this first. There's going to be a party." Blair nodded. "Hosted by...?"

"Every single person who was part of our gardening project! And we're all bringing a couple of big pans of our best vegetable dish, to share with each other and all our guests."

"And those who bring meat, or something else that needs to be served hot will cook it on...?"

"Everyone who has a grill will bring it around ten, and get the charcoal started. I can take ours, right?"

Jim merely waved a hand in permission. "And plates, cups, ice, utensils?"

"Delegated, man. What, you think I have to do everything? The ladies of the community are taking care of that part of it."

A broad smile crossed Blair's face. "I've got it all planned. I have a killer recipe for a vegetable lasagna, and a tomato-and-zucchini fettuccini. I'm thinking about a ham-and-tomato quiche, too, but I'll have to figure out the logistics. Do you suppose if we cook it here, it can be heated up again on a grill? Maybe I should make it one night, and save it, and try heating it on the grill the next night. What meat should we bring? Pork chops are good, but they can be hard to cut on a paper plate with a plastic knife, but hamburgers are so ordinary. Maybe --"

"Fish," Jim said abruptly. "We'll go down to the docks and get some really fresh fillets. There's nothing like green tomato relish on fried or grilled fish; Mrs. Delaney taught Sally how to make it, and I used to watch. I'll make a big batch."

"Oh, yum!" Blair's enthusiasm was reaching Olympic heights. "And Susanna's bringing scalloped tomatoes, Caleb's bringing summer squash stuffed with pepperoni, and Cindy's talking about a really great zucchini dish she makes -- she cuts it down the middle, cooks it, then mixes the insides with onion, tomato, Italian pork sausage, and croutons. She puts everything back in the rind, then puts it back on the grill. Right before it's finished, she sprinkles it with Mozzarella and waits till it melts before serving. I can't wait to wrap my taste buds around that."

Jim smiled tolerantly and reached for the discarded file folder. "Well, it sounds like you have your end planned out, and I don't have to do anything right now. Next time you go to the garden, bring back half a dozen big green tomatoes, and I'll make the relish; it tastes better if it's been allowed to sit for a week or two." He turned his attention back to the case file while Blair booted up his laptop, muttering to himself. "Recipes. Bet I can find a bunch on the net. We still have lots of carrots, and all those potatoes..."

* * * * * * * * * *

Saturday, September 21

They couldn't have had a better day for an outdoor shindig if they'd ordered it, Blair thought. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, mild breezes kept the temperature moderate, and the former garden looked good as an outdoor community festival center. Several of the girls had asked that the dried cornstalks be saved after all the ears had been picked. Those stalks were now tied in a giant, teepee-like sheaf in the middle of the grounds, with a circle of squash and zucchini around the base; they'd light it at dusk, to form a giant bonfire that would signify the end of the festivities. The officers from the Thirty-Third had showed up with bunches of helium-filled balloons, which were now tied to the assortment of folding chairs and lawn chairs that people had brought; the brightly-colored globes bobbed gaily in the air currents, unable to escape their tethers.

In one empty garden plot, Joel -- Joel? Who would've thought? -- had gathered a group of teens for a game of horseshoes. In another, the group around Big Al was laughing uproariously as they tackled the fine old art of bobbing for apples. A bunch of pre-teens shrieked happily as they played tag, while others kicked around a soccer ball. Over it all floated the occasional strains of music. One of the older girls had brought her boombox, and had become the de facto disc jockey for the day. Fortunately, she kept the volume to reasonable levels -- perhaps to avoid draining the batteries too soon.

More than a dozen folding tables held an assortment of food -- not only vegetable dishes, but also bread, hot rolls, and chips of various kinds, not to mention cookies, pies, and cakes. The adults -- those not playing with the children, or manning one of the many grills -- mingled and chatted easily. Blair could discern no separation between gardeners and non-gardeners, or between neighborhood dwellers and police personnel. He felt ridiculously pleased. Certainly, he had had only minor input into bringing this celebration to life, but somehow it felt like a personal vindication. If met halfway, people could -- and would -- get along, instead of breaking into splinter groups.

Another laughing shriek split the air, and Blair turned again to be sure that Jim wasn't having difficulty with his senses. Far from it; Jim was holding court -- there was no other word for it -- at the grill they'd set up, teasing the ladies and joking with the men as he tended the fish they'd brought, serving each portion with a generous helping of his green tomato relish. Despite the ever-changing crowd of people, the chaotic activity and the rather high noise levels, Jim seemed to be handling the input with aplomb. Maybe being outside helped, Blair speculated; sounds could escape without bouncing back from enclosing walls, and Jim's senses could anchor themselves with the natural surroundings -- even if the area was limited to only part of a city block.

Blair allocated about twenty percent of his consciousness to 'keep an eye on Jim', another twenty percent to 'observe the interactions for inclusion in my paper', and used the remaining sixty percent to simply enjoy the day. He took a turn at horseshoes, winning that round handily, then dropping out to let others have a chance to shine. On the other hand, he was no more successful at bobbing for apples than anyone else, and wondered what evil genius had invented the game.

Enough playing. The delectable smells had been enticing Blair since he and Jim had arrived; it was time to do something about filling his complaining belly. He grabbed a pair of plates and moved along the tables. The variety of dishes made choosing difficult, but he soon had both plates filled with small helpings of a wide assortment of food, in an attempt to taste everything.

Blair carried the plates to where Jim manned the grill, gave one to his partner, and accepted a perfectly-grilled fillet onto his plate, to which he added a large dollop of the green tomato relish. A raised eyebrow asked if Jim wanted to join him; a half-shrug and a grin told him that his friend planned to stay until he had cooked and served all the fish they'd brought.

Blair looked around and, spying a cluster of his fellow-gardeners, crossed to join them. Susanna and Cindy were playing with Susanna's newest granddaughter, an alert six-month-old, while they traded stories of the trials and tribulations of raising children. He joined the conversation easily, with anecdotes that demonstrated similarities and differences in child-tending practices from cultures and countries around the world.

As dusk approached, the teen disc jockey turned the music louder, and several couples began dancing. The impetus spread, and Blair smiled to see what could only be described as 'mixed couples' as teens demonstrated and taught the current dance steps to younger children, or peers of their grandparents. Jim joined Blair, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, watching as the dancing reached an instinctive crescendo. The music ended just after the sun sank below the buildings on the west side of the street. There was an almost breathless pause as Big Al moved to a vantage point where he had a view of the horizon between buildings. The gathering waited... and waited... until Big Al shouted triumphantly, "It's down!"

Everyone cheered. Then, by prearrangement, the eldest woman -- eighty-eight years old and known to everyone as 'Grandma Perkins' -- and the youngest male -- Cindy's four-year-old nephew -- approached the central display of cornstalks. Grandma Perkins used a prosaic long-barreled lighter and, with little Cory's hand over hers, they lit an outer stalk and stepped back.

The dry stalks caught quickly, and the entire sheaf was soon burning vigorously as the crowd cheered again. Jim leaned down to speak quietly to Blair. "They've taken precautions against the fire spreading, right?"

Blair nodded. "Two hoses," he gestured to them, one to each side of the blaze, "both with the water turned on. All we need to do is twist the nozzle open if we need them."

The crowd grew quiet as they watched the bonfire burn down to ashes, and then several of the teens jumped gleefully on the hoses and doused the embers until they were safely cold.

It was over. With the sun down, the air was growing decidedly chill, and the day of festivities had left all participants pleasantly tired. People chatted haphazardly as they packed up the remains of the feast, and loaded tables and chairs to carry them home. Jim lugged the grill to the truck, while Blair juggled folding chairs, thermos and one last jar of green tomato relish.

Just before they climbed into the truck, Blair look back at the now empty garden. "You know, it was a lot of work -- more than I remembered -- but it was really worth it."

"Making new friends and working with people who share your goals is always worth it, Chief. I'm glad it lived up to your expectations."

* * * * * * * * * *

Blair dropped his burden on the kitchen island. "Okay, man, you owe me, remember?"

"What are you talking about, Chief?"

"I promised not to say 'I told you so', but you're cooking dinner for the next week -- and no takeout."

"Sandburg, this is a bet I don't mind losing, and with all the goodies you've brought home lately, finding something to cook won't be a problem. What do you say to beef-stuffed zucchini tomorrow?"

"I say, red wine or white with that?"

"We're men, Chief. Beer, of course."

"It's a date, Big Guy. And maybe we should start making plans for next summer."

"Sandburg!"

* * * * * * * * * *

The End

* * * * * * * * * *

My thanks to LKY, who graciously gave me permission to use her beloved Uncle Buck as part of my story.

* * * * * * * * * *

wave 8 delay

Wed, 01 Aug 2007 01:32:26 GMT

Hello folks.

There will be a slight delay in posting wave 8.

With all that has happened in July I lacked my constant badgering and I have 1, yes 1, entry.

I can whip one up by Friday.

So, I'm saying, if you wish to particiapte, you can submit through Sunday August 5th.

Theme is a party. Graduation, birthday, retirement, something. A picnic even.

So don't forget to email me a story at sentinelsecrets @ gmail . com

Thank you all,

Paula C.

Wave 8

Thu, 14 Jun 2007 11:28:29 GMT

I'll be home, or running many errands iwth my mother the next few days ... So I was thinking.

Wave 8 for July.

and I'm thinking.

Celebration of life. A party. Why would they have a party? Blair finally defends his dissertation? It's someone's B'day? It's a holiday? Anniversary?

and the story was written by.... envelope please

Mon, 16 Apr 2007 23:45:52 GMT

Did you guess right? Did you get your taxes done in time? Did you forget to email me your guesses? Well, it's to late, so comapare what you were thinking to what was acutally done.

Story 1, by Tommyboybbi - Speculation

Story 2, Earth2Skye - In the Eye of the Beholder
.

Story 3, Starwatcher - Bird's Eye View
.

Story 4, Snycock - Holy Grail
.

My reported guesses were from my fellow authors.

                    Earth2skye         Starwatcher       Snycock

Story 1              yes                        no                    yes

Story 2                *                           no                   yes

Story 3             yes                           *                    yes

Story 4            yes                        yes                      *

3 o 3 1 o 3 3 o 3

Well, that is that.

Time to start on those "Clue" ficathons. Keep an eye out for more stories. And Moonridge is coming up too.

Guesses, Guesses, anyone, anyone

Sun, 15 Apr 2007 13:14:21 GMT

I still don't have my other computer back yet, so here I am on the backup.

This weekend is the drawing of the end of the guesses. Email me at bbi _ tommyboy @ yahoo . com with your gueeses.

I'll give to 7 PM Eastern time tomorrow (Monday) night to give people a chance to email me to post who did the best guesses and such.

I would like to thank my fellow authors for participating in this wave. Each story was unique in reading and thinking what is being seen through the eyes of their fellow officers.

I look forward to your emails.

Paula C.

Wave 7 Guessing

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 22:51:52 GMT

We have four lovely stories to guess on this time around.

You have through April 15th to guess who wrote which story.

Comments welcome to each one. Guess who it is. comment to the story. Feed the writers.

Looking forward to guesses.

I'll put up which email to get me at (still without my main computer) but I'm doing the best.

These four stories are gen in nature.

Paula C.

story 4

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 22:48:34 GMT

April 2007

Wave is open

Four stories, who wrote me?

Guess who wrote this story.

Was it Earth2skye? Snycock? Starwatcher? Or Tommyboybbi?

Story 4

Holy Grail

Winter, 1977

Simon Banks turned the collar of his coat up, shivering in the early December air, and pulled his gloves off and reached into his pocket to pull out the heavy iron ring. His fingers unerringly found the right key, and as he slid it home in the lock and turned it, he gazed critically at the worn gilt lettering painted on the door. Rossburg Bar and Grill. Maybe Dad would let him repaint that while they were closed over the holidays.

He pushed the door open and slid inside, the cool dim light shining off the familiar and welcoming surfaces. Despite all that had happened, he had to admit that he loved working in this place, loved tending to the family business. Maybe staying in Rossburg wouldn’t be so bad, after all…and, if Peggy stayed, maybe…

He shook his head sharply to end that line of thought. He wasn’t here to daydream, he was just here to check out the place and make sure that everything was battened down tight before the blizzard threatening the Cascade Mountains hit. As he shut the door behind him the roar of the wind outside was cut off and he became aware of a sound coming from the back storeroom; a repetitive, rhythmic banging. He hurried back there, shucking his coat and scarf along the way.

Sure enough, the lock on one of the casement windows in the storeroom had come loose and the window was swaying open and banging in the fierce wind. He pulled himself up on the ledge, grabbed the window and pulled it closed; inspected the lock. It looked broken. He let go for the moment and hunted around in the storeroom for something he could jam under the lock to hold it closed. On one of the shelves he found a pile of the wooden shims that Dad used to level the tables. He grabbed a few and, after a few minutes’ work, had the lock jammed shut. There. That should hold things until the storm was over and he and Dad could replace the broken lock.

He turned and surveyed the storeroom. Some boxes—just containing napkins, fortunately—had been knocked off the shelves, probably by the wind gust that had broken the lock and pushed the window open. There were dirt and leaves all over the floor as well. Simon picked up the boxes, inspecting them for damage, and put them back neatly on the shelf.

He went out into the hallway and pulled the broom and dustpan out of the small closet. As he headed back into the storeroom, he heard what sounded like something scraping at the window. It sounded like something was trying to get in. He dropped the broom and pan and pulled himself up to the window again, but he couldn’t see anything, and he didn’t want to undo his temporary lock just to open the window. He could hear the gusts howling outside, pushing litter up the empty streets and rattling the bare branches on the trees. Must have been the wind, he thought. He jumped down and set about sweeping up the dirt and leaves.

Once he was finished, he returned the broom and dustpan to their accustomed places and checked the other rooms in the back, as well as the basement. Nothing out of place, everything closed and locked up tight, ready for Nature’s fury. He went back into the main room and grabbed his coat and scarf, pulled them on, preparing to leave. Just then a fierce gust of wind shook the front windows and the front door banged open sharply. Two figures stumbled across the threshold into the bar.

Simon’s heart jumped into his throat, and he realized that he must have forgotten to lock the door in his haste to get back to the storeroom. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing pulse. Probably just two of the bar’s regulars, hoping for a little libation before the storm. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to sound older and taller than his 20 years, “but we’re not open. I’m just checking the place out before the storm….” He trailed off as one of the figures turned its face to him and he realized that it was a woman, and a stranger to boot.

She had long, black hair and round, dark eyes, and was dressed in what looked like a flannel nightgown, a coarse woolen shawl clutched around her shoulders, thick woolen socks and sandals on her feet. She was shivering. Her arm was curved protectively around the second figure; as she turned Simon could see that it was a young boy with short, dark hair. He was wrapped in a threadbare coat, his bare hands shoved in the pockets. Flannel pajama bottoms showed beneath the hem of the coat, and he was wearing tennis shoes without socks. He was thin, and pale, and bright red spots shone high on his cheeks. He looked at Simon with wide, dark blue eyes framed by thick black lashes.

“Please,” the woman gasped, “please help us. My son is very ill. We don’t have any place to go. Please, please could we stay here, at least until the storm is over?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s got a fever.” As if on cue, the kid coughed; a thick, wet sound. Simon hesitated, trying to think how he was going to explain this to Dad, and the woman must have taken his hesitation for refusal, because her dark, expressive eyes filled with tears. “Please,” she begged. “We’ve nowhere else to go.”

“Of course you can stay here,” Simon replied. He’d figure out a way to explain it. Right now both the kid and his mom needed to get warm.

First things first, though; he shucked off his coat and made sure the front door was locked. He didn’t want any more strays coming in. Then he built a fire in the fireplace and pulled two of the low benches around in front of it. The woman tried to help him, but he waved her off. When he was done, she settled gratefully onto one of the benches, clasping her son tightly to her side, basking in the fire’s warmth.

Simon ran down to the basement and found a pile of old woolen blankets. He brought them back upstairs and he and the woman made beds up on the benches.

“Now, I want you to get some sleep, sweetie,” the woman said to her son, tucking him in to one of the makeshift beds.

“I think we have some aspirin at the bar,” Simon volunteered.

“Oh, thank you—“ She stopped and looked at him closely. “I’ve just realized, I don’t know your name…that’s so rude of me…and you’ve been so helpful…”

“I’m Simon, ma’am; Simon Banks. My family owns this place.”

She put her hand out and gave him a wide smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Simon. I’m…Rachel, and this is…this is Jacob.” She motioned to her son, staring solemnly at Simon from a nest of blankets.

Simon didn’t believe for a second that those were the pair’s real names. For one thing, she’d hesitated, albeit almost imperceptibly, when she’d said them. And for another thing, he could tell that black wasn’t her real hair color, it was red. He’d been close to her when she’d been helping him make up the beds; he’d seen her roots, could tell it was a bad dye job. But something told him that confronting her wouldn’t do any good.

“Do you want that aspirin?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes and fussing with the blankets around Jacob. “I don’t believe in Western medicine. He’ll be fine; he just needs some sleep.”

“You look like you could use some rest yourself,” Simon said.

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” She stretched out on the other bench, covering herself with one of the blankets.

Simon went behind the bar and picked up the phone; dialed his home number. His father answered.

“Banks’ residence.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Simon! I was wondering where you’d got to. Everything okay at the bar?”

“Yeah, pretty much. There was a window open in one of the back storerooms—“ and as he said that, Simon paused and wondered if maybe the cause had been more human than natural, after all—“but I jerry-rigged it until we can replace the lock.”

“Sounds good. You on your way home, then?”

“Well, actually, Dad…” Simon scratched his head, looking askance at his two visitors. “A woman and her kid came in while I had the door open….”

“People we know?”

“No…” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “But, Dad, they look pretty rough. The kid can’t be more than seven or eight years old, and he’s sick—got a pretty bad cold. And his mom doesn’t look much better. I think I should hang out here, with them, during the storm.”

Silence on the line. Then his dad cleared his throat. “You’re a good boy, Simon,” he said.

Simon felt his cheeks warm. “Thanks, Dad. Say, how’s Mom doing?”

“She’s doing pretty well. She’s sitting in the living room, watching the snow fall.”

“Tell her I love her, okay? I’ll be home in the morning.”

“Okay, son. Take care. Call us if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“Love you, too, son.”

He hung up the phone and went over to check on his charges. Both appeared to be sleeping soundly. He checked the supply of wood and then put another log on the fire. Grabbing his coat, and a few of the blankets, he headed up to the front of the bar and made a comfortable seat for himself in the bay window, looking out on the street. The snow fell heavily, quietly, blanketing everything in white and silence. He pulled a book out of his coat pocket and started to read.

Time passed quietly; Simon looking up from his book now and then to watch the storm. After a while he was startled to see the kid—Jacob, his mother had called him?—wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, standing next to him and watching him solemnly. “Hey, kid, you should be in bed,” he said.

“Not tired anymore,” the boy replied, punctuating it with a thick cough.

Simon sighed and closed his book, marking the page he was on. He reached over and laid the back of his hand against the kid’s forehead. He still felt pretty warm, although his eyes were not as bright and he looked less flushed. “You want something to drink?” he asked. “Ginger ale or something?”

The kid nodded, a bright smile stretching across his face.

Simon rose out of the window seat and went behind the bar. Jacob watched him quietly as he pulled out a glass, put ice in it, and filled it with ginger ale. He put a coaster on the bar and put the glass on top of it, and then motioned to Jacob. Grinning delightedly, the boy clambered up onto one of the barstools. He lifted the glass in both hands and took a long drink. “Thank you,” he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his pajamas.

Simon smiled. “You’re welcome.”

“Have you worked here a long time?”

“Ever since I was about your age. My family owns this place.”

Jacob picked up the glass and took another drink. “What are you reading?”

Simon put his book up on the bar. “The Autobiography of Malcolm X,” he said. “He was a civil rights activist, a member of the Nation of Islam, but…”

“I know who he is,” Jacob said, with some asperity. “Na—Mom took me to a protest where a man talked about him and Dr. King.

“What did he say?”

“He said that both men fought hard for civil rights for Black people, and they were both ass…ass…assassinated, but that the newspapers talked more about what Dr. King said, because he was against violence and Malcolm X wasn’t.” Simon raised an eyebrow. The kid was pretty sharp. Jacob looked up at him, a slightly abashed smile on his face. “Actually, the man at the protest didn’t say that; he used different words, longer ones that I didn’t understand. But that’s the way Mom explained it to me.”

“That’s a good explanation,” Simon replied. “Malcolm said, ‘By any means possible’, by which he meant that sometimes those fighting for civil rights might have to use violence. But later, before he was killed, he told people that he regretted saying that, because he believed that it made people think that he wanted to use violence.”

“You know a lot. How come you aren’t in college?” Jacob asked.

Simon sighed. “I was supposed to be. I was supposed to go to Howard the fall before last. But my mom, she got sick, and we didn’t have the money anymore.” His stomach growled, and he looked over at Jacob. “You hungry, kid?”

Jacob nodded.

“How about a hamburger?”

Jacob regarded him with those solemn eyes again. “I’m a vegetarian,” he informed Simon.

Simon shook his head in wonder. He didn’t think he’d even known the word ‘vegetarian’ when he was eight. “How about a grilled cheese sandwich, then?” he asked.

Jacob’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Okay!”

Simon grabbed the keys to the kitchen from their hook under the bar and motioned to Jacob. “C’mon, you can help me,” he said.

Jacob squirmed eagerly off the bar stool and followed him into the back. Simon switched the griddle on and then turned to Jacob, crouching down so his face was level with the kid’s. “This is very hot,” he said, pointing to the stovetop, “and I don’t want you to go anywhere near it, okay?” Jacob nodded slowly, his eyes huge. “You can help me by making the sandwiches, and I’ll grill them.” The kid nodded again.

Simon dug around in the refrigerator and pulled out bread, butter, and cheese. He pulled a stool up in front of one of the countertops; he grabbed Jacob under the armpits and swung him up on the stool, and then handed him a butter knife. “You start buttering the bread, I’ll slice the cheese.”

He found a sharp knife and sliced cheese off the large block, then handed the slices to Jacob who assembled them, with the buttered bread, into sandwiches and put them on a plate. When they had several made up, Simon took the plate over to the griddle, which was now nice and hot, and grilled them. He left a few ungrilled, turning the griddle down to low and putting the plate with the extra sandwiches in the fridge, in case the kid’s mom wanted some when she woke up.

He and Jacob carried their plates out to the main room, and he held Jacob’s while the kid climbed back up on the bar stool. He topped off Jacob’s ginger ale and poured himself a Coke, and sat next to Jacob at the bar.

They ate in silence for a while, then Jacob said, “Thanks, Simon, this is really good.”

“No problem, kid.”

When Jacob was finished, Simon took their plates into the kitchen. On the way back, he went over and looked out the front window. The storm was still going strong, thick white flakes falling heavily, coating the terrain. He heard Jacob turning the pages of the book he’d left on the bar. “I wish could have taken some of my books when we left,” Jacob said wistfully.

Simon went behind the bar again and poured himself some more Coke. “Why did you leave?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Jacob’s expression immediately became troubled. “I…I don’t know,” he replied. “Mom just woke me up in the middle of the night and told me we had to go.” He sighed. “That’s usually the way it happens. Sometimes I get to take a few books, or some of my toys. Most of the time she remembers to pack us some clothes, but I guess she didn’t this time.”

Simon frowned to himself. Whatever was going on, it didn’t sound good for either the kid or his mother. He made a note to himself; he was going to talk to Rachel, once she woke up, and maybe to the police as well. The two of them couldn’t just keep running like this.

He grinned as he was suddenly struck by an idea. “Hey, kid, you like comic books?”

“Yeah,” Jacob replied, a shy smile spreading across his face.

“Hang on a sec.” Simon crouched down behind the bar and started rooting around; after a few minutes he triumphantly pulled a box out of one of the cabinets below the bar. He opened the box and pulled out a sheaf of comic books. “These are left over from when I used to hang out here when I was younger. I’d keep a stash around so I’d have something to read if I got bored. You can have them.” He put them on the bar in front of Jacob.

“Cool!” Jacob enthused, flipping through the stack. He pulled one out eagerly. “This guy, he’s my favorite!” Simon craned his head to look.

“Daredevil?”

“Yeah! It’s so awesome how he has these, like, super-senses! Well, except for his sight, of course. But he doesn’t even need it! He’s so cool!”

Simon grinned at the kid fondly. “I was always a little partial to The Hulk, myself,” he said.

“No, no way, Daredevil’s the best. It would be so cool to be able to do this kind of stuff; hear things that are really far away, be able to track people by their smell…” He looked up at Simon, his eyes wide. “Do you think there are really people who have super-senses like this?”

“No, kid,” Simon said, chuckling, “I think that’s a comic book idea.”

But Jacob wasn’t looking at him anymore, his attention back on the story. Still chuckling, Simon went over and stirred the embers of the fire, put another log on. He checked on Rachel, but she was still sleeping, her breathing deep and regular.

Jacob was still engrossed in the Daredevil comic when he went back up to the bar. Simon picked up his book, but didn’t really feel like reading. Instead, he pulled a stool over to the far side of the bar and turned the television on, keeping the volume low so he wouldn’t wake Rachel.

He flipped through the channels, stopping when he found the Army-Navy game on CBS. It was nearly the end of the third quarter, and things were looking bad for Army; they were down 14-3. “Kid, you want to watch the game?” he asked.

“Nuh-uh,” Jacob replied, not even looking up from the pages of the comic book. “Na—Mom says football’s just a crypto-fascist metaphor for war.”

Simon rolled his eyes and turned back to the television. It looked like Army had just punted, after going three-and-out. Navy took possession of the ball and moved up the field, but just as they were within about 15 yards of Army’s end zone, the center muffed the snap to the quarterback, and Army recovered the fumble. From what the commentators were saying, it sounded like Army was benching their starting quarterback and sending in the backup. Well, Simon thought, he certainly couldn’t do any worse.

The first play from scrimmage was successful, a run of about eight yards. On the second down, the quarterback shot a nice little pass to the tight end, threading it beautifully between two defenders. Simon raised his eyebrows, impressed. The second-stringer was actually pretty good.

Play was halted as the third quarter expired and the teams switched sides. Six minutes later, the second-stringer had floated a long, lovely pass to the wide receiver, leading him almost perfectly, and, after the extra point, the score was 14-10. Navy received the kickoff and managed to control the ball for nearly the rest of the quarter, but Army did prevent them from scoring a touchdown, and the field goal attempt went wide. Army got the ball back with less than two minutes left and only one time out. It didn’t look good, Simon thought.

But the quarterback seemed to be operating on an almost supernatural level. His handoffs to the running back were perfect, and he seemed to be able to find receivers no matter where they were on the field or how closely guarded they were. He hadn’t thrown an interception or an incomplete pass since he’d come in the game. He moved them steadily down the field towards the end zone.

“Kid, you’re missing a really good game here,” Simon said. He glanced over at Jacob, who looked up from the comic book.

Army was at the 12-yard line, on fourth down, with 45 seconds left in the game. The quarterback took the snap and backed up, looking down the field at the end zone, searching for a receiver. Simon inhaled sharply as the Navy safety slipped his blocker and headed for the quarterback. The quarterback was turned away, looking downfield for a receiver; there was no way he was going to see the safety in time to avoid the sack. It looked like the game was over for Army.

But somehow, incredibly, the quarterback seemed to know the safety was there, even though he couldn’t have seen him, not even out of his peripheral vision. He dodged the safety’s leap and took off running; spun around another lineman, graceful as a cat; and sprinted across the goal line with 10 seconds remaining. The extra point was good and it was Army 17, Navy 14.

The Army fans were going crazy in the stands. Army kicked off, but the defense smothered Navy’s attempt at a Hail Mary, and the game was over. The cadets surged onto the field, howling in joy.

Simon turned to look at Jacob again; the kid was staring at the screen, eyes huge. He grinned, turning back to the game. Crypto-fascist metaphor for war, my ass, he thought.

The on-field commentator was on the screen now, pulling the quarterback over to stand next to him. The quarterback was tall, about six feet; and rangy. Simon thought that he didn’t look much older than him. His dark brown hair was cut in the standard cadet buzz. Despite his long limbs and the hint of teenage awkwardness that still hung around him, there was a natural grace and ease in his bearing, almost feline in quality.

“And here’s the architect of that amazing comeback by Army, junior Jim Ellison,” the commentator said. “Jim, tell us how you did it.”

“It was really a team effort, Todd,” Ellison replied politely. Simon had the feeling that the cadet was profoundly uncomfortable being the center of attention.

“But you clearly were having more success than Johnson today.”

Ellison shrugged. “I was just lucky. Everything seemed so clear; I felt like I could see the whole field, hear every sound. I was able to focus in on the receivers and get the ball where it needed to go.”

All of a sudden, Simon noticed that the room was filled with a clear blue light. Must be reflection from the snowfall outside, he thought. Something moved in his peripheral vision—reminding him oddly of a jungle plant—and he turned his head to look outside, but the look on Jacob’s face captured his attention.

The kid was still staring at the screen, but his features were suffused with a joy and a look of wonder that was beyond reason; at once ancient and new. On the screen, Simon saw, Ellison was answering another question, looking into the camera with an endearingly shy half-smile; he had piercing blue eyes that seemed to be boring straight into the kid’s dark blue ones.

And it seemed to Simon that he could literally see a bond between them, a bright shining link that hummed and undulated, connecting the two. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “Who is he?” he whispered, not sure why or what he was asking; not sure that Jacob would even hear him.

But the kid did. He turned luminous blue eyes to Simon, his face still alight with that amazing joy. “He’s my Holy Grail, my life’s purpose, my reason for being,” he replied, and Simon noticed that his voice was deeper and more resonant than it had been earlier. “He’s everything I’ll ever want or need.”

Simon felt a sharp pang for a moment; a sudden, fierce desire for that kind of knowledge, that kind of certainty, that kind of union. And, in the next moment, with a perceptible snap that was neither audible nor tangible, everything had returned to normal. The clear blue light was gone. Nothing moved at the edges of his vision. The post-game interviews had given way to commercials. And Jacob was swaying on his bar stool, eyes closed.

Simon scrambled forward and caught the kid just as he slid off the stool. Lifting the slight body easily, he noticed that Jacob was burning with fever again. He carried the kid over and put him back in the bed he’d been in earlier, covering him securely with the wool blankets.

Jacob stirred, restless; a frown creased his forehead. He grasped at Simon’s sleeve and muttered something. It sounded like he was pleading. Simon went to the bar, picked up the Daredevil comic book, and put it in Jacob’s hands, settling the covers back over him. The frown left Jacob’s face and he sighed, smiling slightly; relaxing into the nest of blankets, clutching the comic to his chest.

Simon stood and rubbed a hand over his head, down the back of his neck, slicking the hairs back down. The kid was feverish, delirious; that would explain the weird statements, his changed voice. The light—that was because of the snow outside, for sure. The bond, the connection between the kid and Ellison…well, he must have imagined it. Chalk it up to an adrenaline rush at the end of the game. But it was fine. Everything was normal now. Nothing strange or otherworldly had happened at all.

He washed the dishes, and then puttered around the bar for a while more, before banking the fire and settling down in the window seat, blankets wrapped around him. He slept soundly, dreamlessly, and woke as the sun was just gilding the tips of the mountains. The storm had passed, and the snow lay clean and pure over the streets and rooftops.

Simon stretched, quietly; he slid out of the window seat and went to check on Jacob. Laying the back of his hand on the kid’s forehead, he was relieved to feel that he was much cooler than he’d been the night before. Looking over at Rachel, he saw that she was still asleep. He stirred up the fire and put another log on.

He shrugged his coat on and wrote a quick note to Rachel and Jacob, telling them that he was just going to go check on his parents; when he got back, he’d make breakfast for the three of them. He placed the note between the two benches and weighed it down with a bottle of whisky.

It didn’t take him long to walk home; his dad was already up, shoveling the front walk. His mom was still asleep. He helped his dad clear a path from the front door to the street, then, while he hunted for some old clothes that would fit Rachel and Jacob, his dad filled a canvas bag with food – bread, peanut butter, apples, cheese, and some candy bars.

He trudged back to the bar, carrying the bag of food and the clothes. But when he opened the door he could immediately sense that something was different. The benches had been moved back into place and the blankets were folded neatly in a pile at the edge of the hearth. The fire had been banked. And, on the bar, a bottle of whisky anchored a white piece of paper.

Rachel had written the note on the back of the one he had left. “Dear Simon,” he read, “thank you so much for your kindness towards me and my son. We deeply, deeply appreciate you and your family’s compassion and understanding.” She hadn’t signed it. Underneath her note was written, in a childish scrawl, “Dear Simon, thank you for the Daredevil comic. I had fun talking to you. I hope you get to go to college someday.”

He dropped the bag of food and the clothes on the floor and sprinted out the door. The only tracks he could see were his own; of Rachel and Jacob he could see no sign. Nevertheless, he stood outside the bar for a long time, hoping that Rachel would change her mind and come back.

Fall, 1992

Simon was reading through the file in his hands when he heard the knock on the door. “Come in,” he called.

The man who entered would have looked taller if he hadn’t been slouching. He stood, offhandedly, in front of Simon, his eyes fixed on a point to Simon’s left, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was dressed in worn, torn jeans; a faded t-shirt and sneakers; a baseball cap sloped backwards on his head. He wore a handlebar moustache and a goatee that looked about twenty years out of style, and an earring in his left ear. Simon realized, with a jolt of annoyance, that he was chewing gum.

The reports he’d been reading all claimed this guy was good. Good, but erratic; brilliant at times but seriously out of control and self-destructive at others. Chief Warren had figured this would be a fitting challenge for his newest Captain. “So,” Simon began, “Ellison, James Joseph. Promoted to detective a little over a year ago; been working with Vice since then. Why do you want to come over to Major Crimes?”

Ellison gave a one-shouldered shrug, still not meeting Simon’s eyes. “Cases sound more interesting,” he said, laconically.

“We work quite a bit with the other divisions: Homicide, Narcotics, Vice, even Juvenile now and then. Think you can play nice with the other detectives and officers?”

“Everything’ll be fine if they just remember to leave me alone,” Ellison replied coldly.

Simon stepped up, his face close to Ellison’s. “Listen up, Detective. I’m not a micro-manager; I’ve got better things to do with my time than baby-sit my men. But I do expect honesty and a good-faith effort to cooperate and get along with others. There are no prima donnas here, get it? I don’t care how much of a hotshot you were in Vice. If you’re going to work in Major Crimes, you’d better lose the attitude.”

Ellison’s eyes, a piercing blue, flicked over and met Simon’s. Simon saw defiance, and under that, fear and uncertainty. It cemented his impression of Ellison as someone who had talent and skills, but who was just looking for an excuse to cut loose. Not someone you wanted on your team. In Simon’s experience, these were the kind of guys who pushed the line at every opportunity; who were insubordinate; who ended up causing major headaches for their captains.

But there was something about the guy…against all his better judgment, Simon’s gut was telling him to accept Ellison, take a chance on him. He sighed and flipped through Ellison’s file again. His eye lit on something and he looked up.

“You were in the Army?” he asked.

Ellison nodded. “Rangers, and then Special Ops.”

A dim memory stirred at the back of Simon’s brain…a football game, on the television in his parents’ bar…and a second-string quarterback who had been a hero. “Did you play football at West Point?”

“Briefly. End of junior year and most of senior.”

Simon leaned back against his desk. “I think I saw you play. On TV. It was 1977 – you came off the bench and scored two touchdowns in the last quarter.”

Incredibly, the hard-ass exterior dissolved; Ellison gave him a sudden smile and Simon clearly saw the echo of the young, lanky boy he had seen on TV, flushed with triumph. “That was a good game,” Ellison said. “Unfortunately I turned my ankle and had to sit out the following year’s game. Navy kicked our asses, 28-0.”

Simon grinned in commiseration. “That must have been tough.”

“Well, we had a good run in the late 80’s, sir, although they beat us last year. Hopefully this year will be different.”

Simon silently noted the “sir” with surprise. Maybe Jim Ellison had the makings of a good detective after all. “Okay, go talk with Rhonda, my secretary; she’ll assign you a desk in the bullpen. There’s a staff meeting tomorrow morning at 8 am sharp.”

Surprise flickered in the pale blue eyes; surprise, and something Simon couldn’t quite identify. “I’m in, then?”

“You’re in.”

And, as fast as that, the cocky, arrogant exterior was back. “Right. See you tomorrow morning, Cap’n.” He turned and left the office without waiting for a reply from Simon.

Simon sighed. He hoped he hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of his career.

Fall, 1996

Simon stood in front of the elevator to the garage, glancing back into the bullpen as he waited. Jim was talking to the kid—Sandburg, he’d said his name was?—who was leaning up against Jim’s desk. As he watched, a wide, brilliant smile broke out on the kid’s face, pulling an answering one from Jim; something that was nothing short of miraculous, Simon thought, given the way that Jim had been acting just a few short days ago. As he watched, Jim put a hand on the kid’s back, guided him through the bullpen and towards Personnel. Simon couldn’t help thinking that there was something unusual, yet familiar, about the connection between them.

The elevator opened and he got in, punching the button for the basement level. Hadn’t Jim said the kid was his cousin’s son? Family ties. That would explain it.

He grinned to himself as the elevator doors opened and he headed for his car. He didn’t think Jim’s cousin’s plan was going to work. Enthusiastic or not, he didn’t see the kid lasting more than a week. One firefight—or, more probably, a few days of exposure to Jim’s driving—and he would be heading back to his nice, safe academic world, where he could do his grail searching from the library rather than the streets of Cascade.

Still, there was something about the kid…something about his eyes…

He shook his head, starting the car, and turned his attention to his impending meeting with the mayor.

story 3

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 22:47:08 GMT

April 2007

Wave is open

Four stories, who wrote me?

Guess who wrote this story.

Was it Earth2skye? Snycock? Starwatcher? Or Tommyboybbi?

Story 3

Byrd's-Eye View

"One last thing," Simon Banks announced before he brought the Major Crimes' weekly staff meeting to a close. "Tomorrow morning, a Ms. Jolie Byrd will be joining us from Wenatchee. She was --"

"Where?" Megan asked.

"About two hundred miles southeast, on the Columbia River; look it up." Banks sounded testy at the interruption.

"So what brings her here?" Henri chimed in.

"I don't know, detective. Use your skills to find out. Now, as I was saying, Ms. Byrd was their lead detective, and comes highly recommended. I intend to have her work one week with each team, so she can get a feel for who we are and how we handle crime in the big city. I expect you all," he swept the group with an awe-inspiring glare that intimidated no one, "to be on your best behavior. Let her get used to us before you start in with your normal shenanigans."

"Shenanigans?" Blair affected wounded outrage. "Captain, you malign our reputations. Individually and as a unit, Major Crimes is the --"

"-- biggest group of ten-year-old clowns it has ever been my misfortune to work with," Simon finished for him. "However, you're a damned talented bunch of clowns, and your reputation as the best unit of detectives in the state is well-earned." He paused to let the self-congratulatory smiles sweep among the group. "All I'm asking is that you keep the antics low-key for a few weeks; give Ms. Byrd a chance to toughen up before hitting her with both barrels. If we want more people to share the load, we have to make sure they don't run away after just three days. H? No practical jokes. Connor? Remember you're no longer in New South Wales. And Ellison? No... growling," he concluded lamely, uneasily aware that he could neither enforce nor explain a directive of 'no zoning'.

"All right people," Simon barked, releasing the group, "you have criminals to catch, and sitting here won't help solve cases. Get out of here and get to work!"

* * * * * * * * * *

"Oh, Blair!" Rhonda called as the young man breezed through the door. "Jim said he thinks he overlooked something at the McMasters' crime scene. He went out to check it, and he wants you to meet him there as soon as you can."

"What?!" Blair stopped short. "He knows better than to tackle a crime scene without me! With Jim's luck, he'll..." Glancing at the pretty, dark-haired woman who was sitting in front of Rhonda's desk, Blair continued, "...end up chasing the perps without backup, as usual. Why didn't he call me? I could've met him there."

"He tried," Rhonda told him. "Maybe your battery is dead?"

Blair yanked out his cellphone, and discovered that the readout screen was indeed blank. "Oh, hell, yeah," he sighed. "Okay, thanks Rhonda. If Jim calls, tell him I'm on my way."

He threw a quick glance at the stranger who'd been chatting with the secretary. "Are you Jolie Byrd? Welcome aboard. Sorry I gotta run, but I look forward to talking with you later." With a quick wave, he was out the doors, seeming to leave a sentence hanging in the air behind him.

"What was that?" Jolie asked, a scowl creating a vertical line between her green eyes. "And what zoo did it escape from?"

Rhonda stared for a second, slightly shocked. Even though not everyone in the police department was friendly toward Blair, at least they knew enough not to bad-mouth him around the members of Major Crime. Blair was such a charmer, Rhonda hadn't expected a negative reaction from another woman. Jolie must be one of those who thought they had to 'out-guy' the guys, who worked at being harder, tougher, meaner, and more cynical than any three men put together. If she turned that attitude toward Blair, the whole of Major Crime would close ranks against her; her stay would be short, but unpleasant for all concerned. Maybe a word to the wise would be sufficient.

"'That' was Blair Sandburg, our resident anthropologist and Jim Ellison's partner. He's extremely intelligent, very friendly, very capable, and extremely well-liked."

"How did an anthropologist get to be a cop?"

"He's not a cop; he's a grad student at Rainier who's riding along with Ellison while he does a study about the police department for his dissertation. But that's beside the point; he's as loyal to his partner as any cop on the force. You should get to know him before you make any judgments. In the meantime, remember what your grandmother probably told you -- 'if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all'."

Jolie appeared unconvinced. "And your captain lets him get away with looking like a hippie reject?"

Her caustic tone irritated Rhonda, who just now realized that maybe Jim Ellison's frequently-clenched jaw helped prevent him giving in to the urge to commit mayhem; she might have to try it herself. In the meantime, she drew in a deep, calming breath before she explained, "Haven't you ever heard that you can't judge a book by its cover? Blair's long hair and flannel layers don't change the effectiveness of his contributions to his partner and the whole department. And he IS a civilian; there's absolutely no reason he has to look like he just graduated from the Academy."

"Sounds unprofessional to me," Jolie muttered. "But I suppose I can ignore him for a couple of weeks till his ride-along's finished."

"And then there's the old saying about not jumping to conclusions. Blair's been riding along with Jim for about eighteen months, now, and no one in Major Crimes would object if it turned into eighteen years." Rhonda allowed a bit of 'caustic' to enter her own voice; what kind of detective needed a two-by-four across the head instead of taking a hint? She stood, and her voice was cooler as she said, "If you'll follow me, I'll take you to meet Captain Banks, now." Maybe he could straighten out this new detective.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Come in, Detective Byrd; have a seat." Simon waited until she was settled in the comfortable chair, then opened the folder in front of him. "You have an excellent service record, and Captain Brunson gave you a glowing recommendation; he said he was sorry to see you go. So, why do you want to transfer to Cascade, and specifically to Major Crimes?"

Now that she was operating within expected parameters, Jolie relaxed. She tried to project 'capable' and 'sincere' as she answered, "I have family here. My mom and dad are developing some health issues, and I want to be close by if I need to help out. And, frankly, my job in Wenatchee was getting routine; I think I'll enjoy the challenge of working in Major Crimes."

"We could use the help," Simon admitted. "Sometimes it seems like Cascade is becoming the crime capital of the western seaboard. Which means that it'll be a bit of a culture shock from what you're used to, and of course, we probably do things different from how you did them in Wenatchee. Accordingly, I've assigned you to ride one week with each pair of detectives. After that's finished, we'll see about assigning you a permanent partner."

"Thank you, sir; I appreciate the opportunity to get to know everyone," Jolie replied diplomatically. "I am wondering, though, about -- I think his name is Blair Sandburg? Your secretary told me he's not a cop, so what's the department's official position? And will he be part of one of the teams I work with?"

"Sandburg's official position." Simon leaned back in his chair, rolling a cigar between his fingers. "Good question. 'Officially', his position is tenuous; he doesn't carry a gun and he certainly can't make arrests. But he's one of the smartest men I know. Half the time, his esoteric anthropological ramblings go right over my head. BUT, the arcane knowledge he spouts has given us insights that developed into leads that helped us close over a dozen difficult cases. Ellison was a good detective before Sandburg joined him -- Cop of the Year, last year -- but his closure rate has jumped twelve and a half percent since he hooked up with the kid.

"And Sandburg's not stingy with his input; he's interested in everything and everybody, and the closure rate for everyone else who's not his partner has increased almost eight percent." Simon chuckled, unaware of the fond look on his face, which his new detective noted with some misgivings. "I admit, he can drive me crazy; besides being able to talk the hind leg off a mule, he tends to jump into a situation first, then look for a way out. But he does it for the right reasons -- the good of his partner first, and the good of anyone nearby; he can't stand to see an innocent person hurt, and he thinks everyone is innocent."

"But doesn't his 'look' send the wrong message?" Jolie asked. Privately, she thought the captain and his secretary might be 'protesting too much'; the flaky hippie she'd seen couldn't be that good. "How can he get any respect with the image he projects?"

Simon chuckled again. "He argues that it works in his favor; since he doesn't look like a cop, victims and witnesses are more inclined to open up to him. And I guess you haven't seen Henri Brown, yet; there's not a lot of difference in degree of 'professionalism' between loud Hawaiian print shirts or flannel layers. Basically, Blair Sandburg is a positive force in my department, and I'd be a fool to ignore that." He winked, inviting his new detective to share a joke. "Don't tell him I said that; I don't want him to get a swelled head.

"But you'll see for yourself in a couple of weeks, when you ride with Ellison and Sandburg. I'm assigning you to Joel Taggart and Megan Connor first. Besides you, Connor is our only female detective; I thought you might appreciate her viewpoint on working in Major Crimes."

Jolie stood, realizing the interview was over. "Thank you, sir. I look forward to working with your people." She nodded formally, and exited the office.

* * * * * * * * * *

"So, Byrdie, what do you think of Cascade and Major Crimes so far?" Megan slid into the front seat of Joel's big sedan, smiling with frank appraisal at the woman beside her.

"Megan, there's no need to tack the 'e' sound onto 'Byrd'," Joel replied from Jolie's other side, his reproof gentle, but firm. "It can sound... childish, which is hardly fair to a fellow detective.'

Megan flashed her broad Aussie smile. "Guilty," she acknowledged, without a trace of conviction. "But I think it's 'friendly' instead of 'childish'. Two syllables roll off the tongue easier than one -- Joel, Megan, Sandy, Byrdie..."

"Rafe, H, Dills," Joel countered as he pulled out into the traffic, "none of which need two syllables."

Megan shrugged. "Those wouldn't feel right. Ask Sandy; I'm sure he can explain it."

"Sandy?" Jolie asked. "Captain Banks mentioned those other names, but I don't recall that one. Is she one of the secretaries?"

"The rest of us know the man as 'Blair' or 'Sandburg'," Joel explained. "Megan tagged him with the nickname her first day here -- before she'd even left the airport, in fact. None of us can decide if snap nicknames are a 'Megan' thing or an 'Australian' thing, but whoever does will collect a fifty-dollar betting pool."

Megan shook her head as she winked at Jolie. "That's a man, for you. It never occurs to them to ask the closest person we have to an expert -- and Sandy could use the money for books."

"You're talking about that longhaired scatterbrain who's not even a cop, right? Civilians don't belong in the middle of a police department; what makes him so special?" Jolie was beginning to feel a bit hostile toward the young man that she'd seen for all of thirty seconds; she'd never liked 'fair-haired boys', regardless of coloring or gender.

"I think it's camouflage," Joel said. "Blair is so smart that a lot of people might be uncomfortable around him if they realized it, so he kind of keeps it undercover. And he's not 'scatterbrained', exactly; he just has so many ideas bubbling up that sometimes they fall all over the place. But even without that, we'd want him around because he's our only competent 'Ellison-tamer'." He heard Megan's snort, and tossed a wink in her direction.

Megan continued the explanation. "I didn't know Ellison before Sandy became his partner, but he had quite a reputation -- surly and antagonistic, with the worst attributes of lone wolf and loose cannon. That all changed when Sandy came on board... well, not ALL changed, but at least Ellison acts human now, most of the time. What *I* think is..." her voice dropped to a confidential murmur, "Sandy helps Ellison control his psychic abilities."

Jolie's jaw dropped. "You're kidding!" she exclaimed, at the same time Joel thundered, "MEGAN!"

Joel took a deep breath. "You shouldn't spread unsubstantiated rumors," he admonished his partner. He moderated his voice as he glanced at Jolie. "And you shouldn't listen to such claptrap. Jim Ellison is an excellent detective because he keeps up with all the latest innovations, and he's able to integrate them into his working methods. And Blair helps out with insights and conclusions that come to him from his background in anthropology. It's not necessary to suggest 'psychic abilities' to explain what they do."

"I've seen it," Megan argued. "Right in front of me, he divined the address that belonged to a burned key. But I've worked with other psychics in Australia, and controlling the gift can be a bloody pain. Somehow, Sandy helps Jim control the gift, or helps him be more consistent. Something like that. It can't be explained -- just accepted." She turned to the woman beside her and said, "But we keep it a secret within the department; Ellison doesn't want outsiders laughing at him or hounding him. So, mum's the word, right?"

"I should hope 'mum's the word'!" Joel sounded uncharacteristically grouchy. "Can you imagine Ellison dealing with reporters in his face, asking him to bend spoons and predict the next Kentucky Derby winner? He'd head for the hills, with Blair right behind him, and Major Crimes would be the poorer for it."

Jolie was rearranging the puzzle pieces. "So, Ellison brought Sandburg into the department, and the only reason Sandburg stays is because Ellison needs him, somehow?" Both Joel and Megan gave confirming nods. "Are they lovers?" Jolie asked, abruptly.

Joel chuckled softly while Megan hooted her amusement. "Not bloody likely!" she gasped. "No one would be surprised if Sandy swung both ways, but Ellison has a poker up his arse; he couldn't bend over and nothing else would fit in there, anyway. They only act like a married couple."

"They're brothers of the heart," Joel explained softly, while Megan nodded agreement. "Each of them fills an empty space for the other, and gives him roots. Friendship like that is to be treasured; to suggest that it couldn't exist without a sexual component cheapens it.

"But," he shrugged easily, "no one in Major Crimes would be terribly surprised if we found out differently. And if we ever do, someone will have a nice little windfall; the betting pool's up to six-fifty, the last I heard."

* * * * * * * * * *

"Chief, I've been getting a sort of 'early alert warning' from Detective Byrd," Jim said as they drove toward the PD one warm, sunny morning. "She's disinclined to like or trust you, and since I hang out with you, she's doubtful about my competence as well. She could cause trouble."

Blair lifted a careless shoulder. "What's the diff, man? Coworkers don't have to like each other to maintain a professional attitude while working together. Besides, I haven't even turned on the Sandburg charm yet; chances are she'll fall for me like a skier in an avalanche."

"Sure she will; you and Casanova are blood-brothers, right? Dream on, MacDuff."

"Hey, it could happen!" Blair protested. "But that doesn't matter; I'm more concerned about her noticing if you use your senses at sentinel levels."

It was Jim's turn to shrug. "I'll be careful, but it shouldn't matter; no one else even suspects, even after all this time."

"Megan does; she just came up with a different explanation. And I think she noticed *because* she didn't know you before, and the same thing could happen with Jolie."

"You're losin' me, Chief; care to explain?"

"After people know us for awhile, they stop paying attention. If they have us filed under 'known entity', anything we do automatically becomes part of 'known entity' in their minds. It doesn't matter if they can't exactly explain everything they see us do, because as far as they're concerned, their friends are, by definition, 'normal'. So clues you find by using your senses happen simply because you're an 'amazing detective', or 'really sharp' -- like how Joel thinks the rest of Major Crimes could do what you do, if they just took the right courses.

"Conversely, a new person is trying to build a picture to place in the 'known entity' file, so he -- or, in this case, she -- is tabulating and analyzing our actions and behaviors to fill in the blanks. If we do something outside of normal human parameters, it's remembered, and our new person looks more closely for unusual behaviors, trying to decide whether it was an aberration, or part of the pattern."

Jim grunted with mild frustration. "I hear what you're saying, Chief, but I don't know what to do about it. I can't tell where the limits of 'normal' are, anymore. If I see something or hear something, I have no markers to indicate I'm operating at twice normal, or three times normal, or whatever."

"Yeah, and trying to keep the dials at a set point doesn't work. I've noticed, as soon as something goes down, your senses crank up automatically, to give you the information you need. Which makes sense -- if you didn't have that instinctive reaction, your responses would be too slow to be useful." Blair chewed a hangnail as he considered the problem. "I guess I'll have to turn off the Sandburg charm and turn on the hippie-dippie, fast-talking, geek-boy nerd persona. With any luck, Joli'll be so caught up in her irritation with me that she won't even notice you."

"Well, at least your fast-talking nerd persona isn't a stretch; it's so natural, you'll be able to keep it up indefinitely. And no one in Major Crimes will even notice it, so it's the perfect cover."

"Up yours," Blair replied without heat. "It's too bad; it's a lot more comfortable to be on good terms with one's coworkers. But maybe later I can tone it down and convince her that I've started to 'mature', and change her mind about me."

"Or you could make the supreme sacrifice and avoid hitting on one woman in the entire Cascade Police Department," Jim chuckled.

"Just because you can't get a girl, Ellison, doesn't mean the rest of us are required to limit ourselves. But if you behave yourself, I'll find out if Jolie has a friend that might suit you."

"Two years from now, when she finally deigns to talk to you?"

"Yeah, well, there is that."

* * * * * * * * * *

After a morning of following up clues that forensics had given them, Henri and Rafe treated Jolie to lunch at 'Mama Beth's Diner'. "Best home-style cookin' this side of your own mama's kitchen," Henri assured her as they sat down. "Even GQ Rafe, here, doesn't turn up his nose at it."

Jolie chuckled and perused the menu. After placing her order of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn on the cob, she regarded the men across from her. Captain Banks might be right, she thought; there wasn't a lot to choose in sartorial splendor between Hawaiian print or flannel plaid. And, next to Rafe's tailored suit, Henri's loud colors were even more glaring.

"I bet everyone has asked you this, but I never claimed to be original," Henri said. "So, what do you think about Major Crimes now that you've been with us a few weeks?"

"I'm impressed," she admitted. "Major Crimes seems to be a very tight unit, and you all work well together. But I'm a bit surprised at how well some of the teams mesh. On the surface, for example, you and Detective Rafe have as much in common as oil and water. But your closure stats are very impressive, and that doesn't happen when teammates don't get along."

Rafe raised his water glass and saluted Henri. "Oh, H is definitely a diamond in the rough," he said after taking a sip and lowering the glass. "But the point is, he is a diamond. I estimate that, with ten or fifteen years of diligent effort, I'll have him suitably polished, and then people won't be surprised at how competent he is."

"And in the same ten or fifteen years, I'll have Rafe loosened up enough that people will be able to see the human being inside the starched shirt. That's my boy," Henri quipped, "a definite work in progress."

"But doesn't it bother you to have a civilian as part of the group?" Jolie asked. "I'd think it would be a bit... constricting, always having to explain or argue about procedure."

"You mean Hairboy? Nah, he's a cop in all but name. Hell, he even does half of Ellison's paperwork; handy kid to have around."

"I think it's because he's an anthropologist," Rafe suggested. "He's used to understanding different cultures, and doesn't argue about them, just accepts them and does his best to fit in."

"But if Sandburg won't carry a gun, isn't Ellison at a disadvantage, having a partner that can't back him up?"

Rafe shook his head while Henri laughed outright. "Hairboy doesn't NEED a gun; if he can't talk his way out of trouble, he can turn any object into a weapon. He's used vending machines, baseballs..."

"...A fire-hose, a walking stick, a crane..."

"Basically, Hairboy will back Ellison up no matter what it takes. He's making a real name for himself. Once he finishes his dissertation, we'll be sorry to see him go."

"Not least because somebody else will get stuck with partnering Ellison, and NObody can handle him as well as Sandburg does," Rafe concluded.

Jolie stabbed a piece of meatloaf and chewed angrily. "But why? I don't care how smart and talented Sandburg is, he's still a civilian, with limitations in how much and how well he can help a real cop. Why does Ellison let him keep hanging around?"

Henri and Rafe glanced at each other, exchanging unspoken question and answer. Finally, Rafe leaned forward and said softly, "Jim's got something special. We don't know what it is, or how it works, and we don't rock the boat with nosy questions. But he knows things, or finds things, somehow -- and Blair is a big part of that."

"I was part of the 'Switchman' investigation," Henri said. "Before Hairboy showed up, Ellison was about to self-destruct. After Hairboy, things changed, and Ellison was able to manage -- whatever-it-is -- ten times more effectively."

"Megan thinks he's psychic," Jolie murmured.

Henri shrugged, and Rafe shook his head. "It seems a bit far-fetched, but something's going on," Rafe agreed. "As I said, we don't ask questions. Whatever it is, it works, and that's all we need to know. After all, when it comes to catching the bad guys, all we care about is that the job gets done."

"And if Hairboy helps us do that, we don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

Jolie nodded and finished her meal in silence, chewing over the information as she chewed her lemon layer cake.

* * * * * * * * * *

Blair reached the PD shortly before noon. He and Jim had planned to have lunch together, then spend the afternoon tracking down witnesses and interviewing them. As he stepped into the elevator, Blair saw the new detective approaching from down the hall, and held the doors open. When she visibly hesitated, staring at Blair with narrowed eyes, he unleashed his most winsome smile. "Ah, com'on, Detective Byrd; I don't bite, and I showered this morning -- no BO. Surely you can stand to be in my presence for the two minutes it'll take to get up to Major Crimes?"

Jolie gave a noncommittal nod and stepped into the elevator without speaking... but Blair was almost certain he'd seen a tiny flash of amusement in her eyes. Encouraged, he rambled on. "Of course, for me, elevators fall under the heading of 'dangerous transportation, proceed at your own risk'. But I figure here at the PD is pretty safe -- unless the Sunrise Patriots show up again. On the other hand, they prefer threatening with guns instead of --" Abruptly, the elevator car shuddered to a halt while a loud warning buzzer assaulted their ears.

"Oh, man, you have GOT to be kidding me!" Blair exclaimed after the buzzer went silent. "What kind of karma do I have to have for this to happen to me TWICE?"

Jolie stared at him, then glanced around the tiny compartment. "Twice? Must be BAD karma -- maybe you were a jailer during the Spanish Inquisition."

Blair nodded. "You may be right; I'll have to do some meditation, see if I can cleanse my aura. Meanwhile, let's see if maintenance is on top of this."

He picked up the emergency phone and pushed the big red button. "Hello? . . . Yeah, we have two people here, and our elevator stopped moving. What's going on?" He listened to the voice that offered not-so-reassuring platitudes. "Well, we're not going anywhere, but make it as soon as you can, okay? In the meantime, call up to Major Crimes and tell them where we are -- Detective Jolie Byrd, and Civilian Observer Blair Sandburg. Ya' got that? . . . Okay, thanks."

Blair hung up the phone with a sigh and turned to Jolie. "Well, that sucks. The cable has frozen for reasons unknown. They're working on it, but it might take an hour before they get it fixed. No sense standing around all that time; might as well have a seat." He bowed and grandly waved Jolie toward a nonexistent easy chair, then crossed his legs and sank down to the floor.

Jolie followed suit, staring now with more curiosity than suspicion. "So, what happened the last time?" she asked.

"Oh, man, it was a nightmare! Some over-intellectual idiot with delusions of grandeur thought he'd rob the bullion exchange at Wilkerson Towers. He hijacked an elevator with me and three other people and a bomb in it as a diversion. Every once in awhile he'd drop it a few floors, and kept threatening to drop it all the way if he didn't get his ransom. At least this time, the waiting will be a lot less exciting. When it comes to elevators, I don't mind 'boring'."

Joli settled herself more comfortably; if the hippie could talk 'cop-shop', he might not be so bad after all. "I know what you mean. I'm always amazed at the methods the perps will use to try to force an issue. We had one guy last year, put steel plates -- bullet-proofing -- in the side and back windows of a bulldozer and threatened to destroy the power station and wipe out electricity for the whole town. But with the windows blocked, he couldn't see around him. While the negotiator kept him talking, we sneaked in from behind and under, and siphoned out the gas. When he got frustrated and tried to 'attack', he didn't get more than fifty feet before the 'dozer wouldn't move anymore. Then we just waited him out; eventually he surrendered without a shot fired."

"Great tactics," Blair said. "I think the average citizen is more inclined to trust the police when they see potentially dangerous situations handled without gunfire. If they know shooting is a last resort, they'll have more confidence in calling the police when they need them."

"Rhonda said you're doing your dissertation on the police department; is that part of it?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm trying to examine the police subculture, and how they function as a type of tribal guardians -- sort of Sentinels of the City."

As Blair waxed enthusiastic about the men and women he'd learned to know and admire, Jolie shared several experiences she'd heard about or participated in. Blair soon pulled a pad of paper out of his backpack and started making notes -- he might be able to use some of these ideas to help Jim expand his senses. Time passed unnoticed until a loud *CLANG* interrupted them, and the phone rang. Jolie reached it first.

"Yes? . . . Thanks; we'll be ready." She turned to Blair. "There's some technical glitch that they can't fix, so they've hauled a secondary winch up to the floor above us. They'll hook onto the cable and lower us to the floor below, then pry open the doors to let us out."

"Sounds good," Blair breathed. "I was gettin' tired of hanging around. Not that I have anything against the company!" he finished hurriedly.

"You're not so bad yourself, Sandburg. I might even classify you as -- tolerable." Jolie winked, with a half-grin.

"That's me -- satisfactory Sandburg. I aim to please."

The doors opened and, with another grandiose bow, he motioned her forward. They exited onto the fourth floor and looked around.

"Three more floors," Blair observed. "Stairs?"

"Stairs," Jolie agreed, leading the way.

* * * * * * * * * *

Jim slipped out of the truck and took cover behind a rusted-out van, Blair and Jolie following close at his heels. He drew his gun and nodded toward the seemingly-abandoned warehouse in front of them. "I saw one guy pass a window; it makes sense that the others are with him. Byrd, you cover the front; I'll go around to the back."

Jolie could see the main door easily, but the windows were small, and high on the walls. "How could you see anything from here?"

"He's very long-sighted; one of the reasons he was picked for Special Ops," Blair said.

"Right," Jim agreed. "Sandburg, you stay here and stay down."

"No way, man; you need me!" Blair insisted.

"Sandburg --"

"You wanna argue, or you wanna take those guys out?"

"All right. But stay behind me and keep your head *down*!"

Jolie watched as Ellison traveled a circuitous route to the back of the warehouse, keeping to cover to avoid detection, with Sandburg a single step behind. While she waited for Ellison to make his move, she rewound some mental images, and examined them closely. Sandburg was even more ubiquitous than she had expected -- always near Ellison, and always touching or being touched. Come to think of it, Sandburg had had a hand on Ellison's arm as the detective examined the warehouse -- and anybody who was that long-sighted wouldn't be able to read a simple newspaper...

Her grandmother had told her stories from the old country, passed on from her grandmother, and her grandmother before her. Jolie had always enjoyed the tales, but classified them as no more realistic than sprites or pixies. Could it be...?

At the sound of shots, she rushed forward. The two men who ran out the main door were unarmed; faced with a gun held in a determined hand, they followed directions to lie flat with their hands behind their heads. Jolie waited, somehow very sure that Ellison -- and Sandburg -- had the situation well in hand.

* * * * * * * * * *

As they watched the last of the black-and-whites carry the seven perps away, Jolie gave in to her curiosity. "So, if the last two were hiding so well, how did you find them?"

"I'm a detective; I put two and two together."

"Yeah, Jim's got great instincts, and he's learned not to ignore them."

"Instincts and... something else?" Jolie asked quietly. "My ancestors come from the Isle of Mann, and my grandmother told me stories of the arreyeder and his cumraag. That would translate as 'sentinel', I think -- or maybe 'guardian' -- and 'companion'. That's just amazing!"

"That's just a kiddie fairytale," Jim growled. "You should have outgrown it years ago."

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "Jim's one of the best; he doesn't need to be this 'arreyeder' to do his job.

"Doesn't need to be, but he is. And now I know why he lets you hang around. The cumraag never leaves the side of his arreyeder."

Jim clenched his jaw and stared at the upstart in front of him, while Blair reached desperately for a logical explanation. "No, really, he's not that -- WE'RE not that -- it's just... just..."

"Just a very important secret, and you can be sure I'll keep it." Jolie smiled her understanding. "We've left the small tribal units too far behind for you to be open about your abilities; you wouldn't be able to do your job if the media -- or all the perps running loose -- knew about them. I promise, I'll never let it slip. But I'll be honored to work alongside you -- both of you."

* * * * * * * * * *

"So, detective Byrd, you've been with us for a month." Captain Banks leaned back in his chair to observe his newest recruit. "Everyone you've worked with has given you high marks; they approve of your skills, your professionalism, and your attitude. I think you'll fit in very well here, and I look forward to making you part of the team. But how do YOU feel about it?"

"I'm grateful Captain. You have good people, and I can't imagine a better team to join. I accept; I look forward to working with all of them, and I think I'll fit in very well, here. Thank you."

He stood and offered her his hand. "Well then, Detective Byrd, welcome to Major Crime."

Story 2

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 22:44:01 GMT

April 2007

Wave is open

Four stories, who wrote me?

Guess who wrote this story.

Was it Earth2skye? Snycock? Starwatcher? Or Tommyboybbi?

Story 2

In the Eye of the Beholder

Monday morning, 8:05am, Cascade PD parking garage:

“Sandburg you should have stayed at home, dammit. You need more rest! Besides, the case isn’t going anywhere anyway.”

Wow, they are here early. I'd just gotten myself a cup of coffee and had propped my feet up, the better to read my morning paper when Ellison’s words reach my ears. Usually I don’t see these two before 9am. And what’s that car he’s driving? That’s not Ellison’s truck.

“No way, man. I’m fine,” Sandburg answers, but it takes him ages to get out of the shiny red pickup and he moves like an old man.

Ah, right. Now I remember. Ellison crashed his car again last week and the kid got hurt. Atkins says this time, at least, it wasn’t Ellison’s fault, and that he was rammed off the road. But I’m not gonna believe that until I see evidence. After all, I know first hand that Ellison has crashed more cars in the last few years than the rest of the precinct combined. At least this time it was his own truck and not one of my pool cars.

As I watch, Sandburg’s made it out of the car after finally letting Ellison help him. Damn! Kid’s got a shiner that covers the whole right side of his face, and it looks as though he’s been stitched up above his eye. Using a cane, too. No wonder Ellison’s in a fit. The kid looks worse than road kill.

“Jim! I’ve been holed up in the loft for a two full days, man! Enough’s enough. Besides, I want that guy, man! He nearly killed us!”

Oh, whaddaya know? Maybe Atkins was right and Ellison wasn’t responsible after all. Poor kid, though. Seems he took the brunt of the crash. Ellison's sporting a bandage around his left hand but that’s about all I can see.

“Sandburg. You've got a concussion! The doc told you to take it easy for a full week. And you can still barely walk. How do you suppose that knee’s gonna heal if you keep running around on it?”

As if Ellison has a chance in hell of slowing Sandburg down. That kid’s got more energy up his butt than an energizer bunny. I can’t remember when I’ve last seen him not jogging to and from his car when he comes or goes. He’s not moving so fast now, though. Seems that knee is really painful. At least he’s got the sense to let Ellison help him along. Kinda sweet of him actually …

“I told you, man. I’m not gonna keep running around once we’re up at your desk and I have those records. I just know we’ve missed something, and I’m not gonna stop looking until I find it.”

Told ya, Ellison. I chuckle to myself as an image suddenly springs to my mind. What with those silly rumors going around the station and Ellison’s looks… Maybe he should have brought some of that kinky leatherwear the two of them are bound to have at home with him today. He could use it to chain the kid to his chair. It’s probably the only way he’s gonna get him to stay on his butt in any case.

Monday, 8:10am, Cascade PD, elevator 1st floor:

Great, Ellison and Sandburg again. Just my luck to be running into them wherever I go. Maybe I should take another elevator ...

“Morning Lawrence. Where to?”

Right! You can just wipe that smug smile off your face, Ellison! As if you don’t know that I’ve been put in Cold Cases after that incident with the O’Reilly victim you and your nosy partner stuck your noses into. How was I supposed to know she’d really been raped? She was a hooker for god’s sake!

Better not giving him the satisfaction of seeing how well he got to me, though, so I answer. “4th floor.”

Ellison doesn’t spare me any further attention, just presses the button. Then I see that he seems kind of worked up. ‘S got his jaw working and is giving Sandburg that famous Ellison glare. I almost shudder in memory but also feel a bit of satisfaction. Trouble in paradise, heh? Seems as though he’s been giving the brat a good chewing out. Now that I wanna see....

“Chief, let’s make a deal. I’ll bring you those files and you get two hours to look through them while I have another chat with Dan about Sonya Meyers and see if forensics found out anything on the car that rammed us. If, by then, you haven’t found anything to support that theory of yours, you let me drive you home. I know you already have a raging headache, and you didn’t take your pain meds this morning either.”

Awwww, shit. Now isn’t that sweet? Kid gets banged up a bit and Ellison becomes all big-brotherly. S’even checking Sandburg’s temperature, now, all gentle like on his forehead. Maybe Rowland and Turner’ve got the right idea after all. Wouldn’t have figured macho man Ellison for a fairy but there’s gotta be some reason he keeps the Hippie around. And it’s not as if the kid doesn’t look the type. That long hair and always touching Ellison and all…

Sandburg doesn’t really seem to be in the mood, though, at the moment and brushes Ellison’s hand away, rolling his eyes in faint annoyance.

“Lunch, man. You give me until lunch. If I haven’t found what I’m looking for until then and nothing else’s come up to point us in some direction, I’ll be a good boy, go home and even let you tuck me in.”

Yuck, that’s disgusting. Good thing we’ve arrived on the fourth floor and I’m off.

Monday, 8:14am, Cascade PD, hallway 7th floor:

“... anyway?”

“I can’t tell you until I find it, Jim. I just have this idea and it’s giving me the feeling that I missed something last week. Besides, I’m not gonna go risk another argument with Simon without being 100% sure!”

Damn, I could have sworn Ellison would keep Hairboy at the loft for at least another day, from the way he hovered around him at the scene last week. But here they are, stepping out of the elevator, and Joel’s gonna win the pool again!

“Okay Chief, whatever you say.” Ellison answers, then turns to me. “Hey Brown.”

“Hey Jim, my man. Hairboy!”

“Morning, H. How’s it hangin', man?” Sandburg greets me then, too, but his chipper mood seems kinda strained. Which gives me an idea ... Maybe I can do something about that bet after all …

“From the looks of it, loads better than you, Hairboy. You look like shit. You sure you should be here today?”

Can’t blame a guy for trying, eh? I figure, if the other guys haven’t seen him yet …

“Not you, too, man! I’m fine, dammit!” Hairboy erupts seeming honestly pissed. Guess I hit a nerve. “But if the two of you wanna continue to discuss my health without me, go for it. I’ll just wait at Jim’s desk until you’re done.”

He storms off as fast as his knee allows. I almost wince at the sight of him favoring it so heavily. Seems my detective skills haven’t deserted me, though. These two’ve oviously been going at this argument for a while. And damn, does Jim look unhappy for having lost it.

“You guys all right, bro?” I can’t help but ask, hoping that I’m not risking bringing down the Wrath of Ellison in Hairboy’s absence. On the other hand, it doesn’t ever bode well when there’s trouble in the Ellison-Sandburg home. It’s better to be warned.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re good,” Ellison answers, and he looks damn tired as he wipes a hand over his face. I know Hairboy’s a handful even on normal days. Being cooped up with a sick version of the kid for two whole days must have really taken it out of Ellison.

“Listen, H. I gotta go. I promised I’d get Sandburg a cup of coffee and those files he wants to take a look at. I better hurry before His Obstinacy loses his patience and does it all himself. I swear, one of these days I’m just gonna cuff him to the bed.”

He waves and hurries off, leaving me to chuckle and shout after him. “You do that Jim.”

Which reminds me: Jim Ellison in full mother-hen mode is probably kinda hard to take, too. He’s so damn protective of the kid!

I'm still not buying that the two of them are doing it, though. No way. Hasn’t Megan ever seen how they both hit on Julie when she comes around to bring the mail? And let’s not forget Sam or that Iris chick Blair had a thing with; or that red-head Jim had the hots for a few months back. I’m telling ya, those guys are hetero through and through!

Monday morning, 8:15am, Cascade PD, Major Crimes bull pen:

Bloody Hell! What’s Sandy doing here? If Ellison’s just dragged him in with him today …

“Morning Sandy,” I greet him. “Are you sure you should be here today? You …”

He interrupts me.

“Megan stop! I don’t want to be told how I look. I know. And I’m fine! Please guys, really. Leave me be, okay? I just want to take a look at some files.”

Huh, aren’t we a touch on the cranky side today? Well, I guess Ellison’s not to blame then, after all. It even seems as though he might have tried to keep Sandy at home, too. Ah, speaking of the devil.

“Morning, Connor!” Jimbo greets me but storms right past toward where Sandy’s just taken a seat at his desk.

“Okay, Chief. I’m going to get you those files. But I want you to stay put in the meantime, you hear me? If there’s anything else you need, I’m sure one of our colleagues here will be glad to give you a hand.”

He throws me a pointed look as I’m currently the only colleague around. I’m not happy to be ordered around by Ellison, but this is for Sandy, so I nod.

“Certainly, Jimbo.” Can at least nag him a bit by using that nickname.

Which he thoroughly ignores while he continues to stare at Sandy.

“Do we understand each other, Sandburg?! You – Stay – Put!”

Aaww, I really love it when he gets all protective of Sandy. The way he looks at Sandy. So concerned. And then he pats him on the shoulder, even pulls a chair up for Sandy to rest his leg on. That big hunk. For Sandy he’s got a soft spot the size of the Great Victory Desert. And a mole can see that Sandy’s really just pretending to be all disgruntled about it. This just a game! His eyes are twinkling for heaven’s sake! So sweet.

Really, I’ll eat my hat if there isn’t any more going on between those two.

“Chill man, I’m sitting, am I not? You’re worse than my mother! No. Make that any mother I’ve ever known, man. Did you know that in the tribes of the …”

“Save it, Sandburg. Just stay put.”

Ellison walks out the door and, as soon as he’s turned his back Sandy actually grins after him then winks at me mischievously before booting up the computer. The two are such a pair. And so deserving of each other.

I shake my head in a mock warning at him. ‘Better be careful, Sandy, the next time it’ll be Ellison again, giving you hell when you’re trying to take care of him.’

Monday Morning, 8:23am, Cascade PD, Records Department:

“Wow. Detective Ellison! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I can’t believe that Detective Ellison just walked in here. He always either calls in to have some files pulled or sends Blair. Not that I mind chatting to Blair. He’s a real cutie. But Ellison … Ellison’s a hunk.

“Good morning Linda. I need a few files. Here’s a list.” He seems in a bit of haste and hands me a slip of paper. Seeing the names and numbers, I remember the case he and Blair are working on and that they had an accident last week.

“Of course, I'll get right on it. How’s Blair?”

He rolls his eyes a bit, but then he forces a smile on his face for my benefit.

“Thanks for asking, Linda. Blair’s getting better. He’s actually waiting for those files upstairs.”

Oh, right. That spurs me on and I return to the front desk not 10 Minutes later, a stack of files and boxes piled high on my arms.

“Here you go, Detective. Tell Blair I said ‘Hi’.”

“I will. Thank you, Linda.” He takes the files and turns. I stay and stare shamelessly at his broad retreating back and that fine, shapely ass of his, clad as usual in trousers too wide and conservative for my taste, but I take what I can get. I hope it’s not just wishful thinking on Jules’ part that he’s not lost to our side. But – if it’s gotta be another man – I’m glad it’s Blair.

Monday morning, 8:25am, Cascade PD, Major Crimes bull pen:

“Oh, hey Blair, have you seen my partner?”

I’ve just returned from getting a search warrant at Judge Morris’s office and H. was supposed to meet me here. We really have to go now if we want to get to Tonya Mortimer’s house before she leaves for work.

“Oh, hey, Brian. Yeah, we met him out in the hall a few minutes ago. Looked as though he was headed for the break room.”

I should have figured. H. was probably hoping he’d meet Julia there and grab a donut from her before she starts her rounds. “Thanks Blair.”

I’ve almost turned when I remember that Sandburg’s presence here this morning is a little surprising and I take my first good look at him.

“Jesus Blair, you look …”

Blair raises a hand and I stop. “Like road kill? Like something the cat’s dragged in? Yeah, heard all that before. Thanks, man.” Even though he tries to grin around his bruises, there’s a hard edge to his tone. I frown at his unusual edginess.

“You all…” I start but somehow my gaze meets Megan’s across the room and she shakes her head staring wide eyed and putting a finger to her lips, giving me a clear warning from behind Sandburg’s back. “Uh... take it easy then,” I rephrase mid-sentence. “Since I’m headed there anyway, want me to get you a coffee?”

His features lighten up and I breathe a sigh of relief at having avoided whatever danger Megan was hinting at. “That’d be great, Brian. I promised Jim I’d stay put, but he’s gone to fetch some files and I could really use some caffeine now, man.”

The mentioning of Ellison stirs something in me; it reminds me again of just how … close … he and Blair are. It’s never more apparent than when one of them is hurt. Always hanging around one another, whispering in each other’s ears. And they can’t seem to leave their hands off each other, too…

I swallow and force a bright smile onto my face. “Sure,” I say, my throat feeling a little strangled. “One coffee coming right up. Just milk right?”

“Yeah,” he nods, already returning his attention to the computer screen and I hurry off.

It’s stupid, I know. For one, there’s no proof, really, to believe that there’s more going on between these two than just friendship, however unconventional their partnership seems to be. It’s just that … that they are … really, really different from the usual partners I know … and with them living together and … and with Sandburg being an anthropologist and so not the kind of guy Ellison would normally put up with … it just makes me … think.

And what if they are … uh more? What is it to me, if they are g… gay?

But I can’t wave it off like that. If they were … if I knew they did ... Dammit, it just makes me feel uncomfortable, I can’t help it.

Monday morning, 10:11am, Cascade PD, Major Crimes bull pen:

I don’t know how Blair does it. He’s been poring over those damn files for hours with nary a minute of distraction. He just looks from file to file and back to the screen of Jim’s computer, types something on the keyboard then scribbles in a notebook and starts the process again.

I look over at Jim. He sits there morosely, occasionally taking a peek at one of the files, too, but I’m pretty sure he’s got no idea what Blair’s working on. The two haven’t spoken all morning and, since he returned from wherever he was an hour ago, Jim’s involvement in whatever Blair’s doing seems to be limited to keeping the kid’s coffee cup filled. Otherwise Ellison just looks unhappy and exhausted with worry.

From experience - the times I was asked to keep Blair company when Jim had to work while Blair had to stay behind, sometimes because he was sick or injured, sometimes just because it was too dangerous - I know how tiring it can be to keep the kid in good spirits while simultaneously having to make sure he stayed put, followed doctor’s orders and took it easy. The incident from when he fed me that fabulous ostrich chilly and then took off after I’d zonked out … uh digesting … is legendary after all. But it’s actually harmless compared to the last time I stayed with him.

He’d managed to catch some nasty flu bug on a stakeout where he and Jim had hung out amongst a crowd of homeless guys and then had to stay home, mostly delirious with fever, while Jim continued to do the job on his own or with one of us. Witnessing those fever-induced nightmares alone was enough to almost make me regret my offer to take care of him. Poor kid dreamed the most awful things about Jim being ambushed and killed while … I don’t know, what was that word he used? … ‘brooding’ or ‘snoozing’ or ‘zoning'?... Anyway, something weird but definitely scary. I had quite a job getting him to calm down when he woke up. He was barely able to stand then but, God, was he determined to get to his partner! I really thought I’d have to cuff him to the bed, but eventually he got better.

And then, when the worst finally was over, the sneaky bastard gave me the slip anyway.

He’d been whining all day about catching at least a few rays of sunshine, and I gave in and took him for a very short walk in the park. Halfway through he suddenly got very tired and had to sit down, or pretended to anyway. For when I returned with the bottle of water he’d asked me to get for him, he was gone.

I think the only reason I’m still alive after that stunt is because Blair really did save Jim’s life that day. Somehow Jim had been made by the bad guy and would have walked straight into the a trap if Sandburg hadn’t distracted him. Fortunately for me, it was only the story of how Blair fainting in just the right second so that the sniper bullet went overhead when Jim bent down, that stuck. Well that, and how Jim subsequently managed to tell the backup exactly from where it had come from. Stupid killer was so sure of his hidey hole that he was still there when they stormed the place.

So Jim not being there always was what made keeping Blair at home hardest for me, because it meant the added complication of Blair worrying about his partner, but the day that kid hasn’t got better things to do than hanging around the loft and cooling his heels hasn’t come around yet. He’s just too full of energy in need of an outlet. There’s a reason we call him the Energizer Bunny around here after all.

Picturing the last few days the two have spent at the loft, I feel sympathy for the both of them. For however hard it is for Blair to take it easy for any length of time, I know it’s at least as hard for Jim to have to witness it and be the one to enforce it, I know that it’s only out of love and worry for the kid that he’s got a tendency to take his role of big brother and protector just a little too seriously, but if he didn’t … I mean, Jim’s probably no better when the roles are reversed, but between Blair’s ‘reluctance’ to take over-the-counter meds, those weird concoctions he claims as ‘alternative medicine’ and his habit of regarding doctor’s orders as nothing more than gentle advice the kid really is the patient from hell at the best of times!

I shake my head in rueful commiseration. The last days must have been driving them both crazy. Which is why I was sure that Jim wouldn’t be able to keep Blair at the loft for more than a few days. Not with ‘just a bit of a headache and a stiff knee’ as I’m sure Blair describes it. Still, seeing him, and the shape he’s in, I'm surprised that he’s here today. That argument can’t have been pretty.

“Hey Jim,” I offer in greeting, wandering over and perching myself on the neighboring desk. It’s time to distract Jim for a bit.

“Hey Joel,” he sighs and even turns up the corners of his mouth a little bit in something resembling a smile.

“I see you’re hard at work,” I say and gesture to his uncharacteristic fiddling with a pen.

He throws me a mock, disdainful look and rolls his eyes. “Just waiting for Sandburg to finish up what he’s doing,” he sighs as if Blair wasn’t sitting right next to him, which – from his total lack of reaction to the mentioning of his name – he might as well not be.

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s up? That case you were working on last week? I thought there were no more leads? Does Simon know about this?”

Jim gives another long-suffering sigh. “No, Simon doesn’t know yet. Sandburg ‘feels’ he missed something in those files. I’ve given him until lunch to find it. Then I’m taking his sorry ass home to bed, where he belongs.” At the last words his voice takes on a hard edge and turns around to Blair, glaring at him, but the kid’s either still oblivious or gives an Oscar-worthy impersonation of it.

“You don’t have any idea what he’s looking for?”

“No. All I know is that it’s got something to do with that theory of his he's already spent the entire damn week working on."

Now I’m surprised. “I thought he had to abandon that. Told me that some of the break-ins didn’t fit the pattern he’d come up with after all, or something.”

"Yeah, that's what I thought, too," Jim commiserates. “But Sandburg’s got it into his head that the guy who ran us off the road must be the same guy we are looking for in regard to those robberies. And, following his logic, that means we must have been on to something. It’s been eating at him ever since he left the hospital last week. Yesterday he’s suddenly struck with enlightenment or whatever. Said he absolutely had to come in today and check these files out.” Jim waves over the heap of 20 or so open police files that are strewn over his desk, and I notice that some of them are fairly old. They have the characteristic markings of cold cases in the upper right corner of their binders and boxes.

I don’t actually know what kind of theory Blair had been working on until last week. I only know that it was something pretty wild, and that Simon, in particular, wasn’t very impressed, much less convinced by it. When Blair finally gave up on it, though, I thought it really was because he’d run into a wall with it, too. It’s not as if the kid’s ever let himself be deterred by what other people thought if he didn’t have his own doubts about a theory in the first place.

Blair still doesn’t react to our conversation, totally engrossed in whatever he’s working on. You gotta admire that ability to focus. I guess that means, whatever this is, must pretty damn important to him.

“He thinks your case is connected to all of these?” I ask, pointing at the case files, many of which must be more than ten years old.

Jim shrugs. He seems unsure of what to say. It’s clear that he’s a bit skeptical about whatever this theory is Blair's working on, too, but not about to betray his partner by saying so.

“You know Sandburg,” Jim says. “These are all cases with more or less the same M.O. as ours: break-ins or home invasions but, as far as anyone can tell, nothing stolen. If you ask me, that’s all that connects these cases. But then again, there wasn’t much more connecting our recent series of break-ins either. It’s just that their timing got Burglary to think they’re connected. If you ask me, I’m still not convinced that it wasn’t just a trick on their part to get some of their stale cases off their back and onto ours.”

I nod. The burglary unit ranks second best at the PD in terms of solve rate. For three years in a row they’ve been trying to beat Major Crimes in the competition and failed. Everybody knows their frustration is pretty high. So Jim’s theory doesn’t sound far off.

Then again, Blair looks damned determined. I’m just about to point that out to Jim when Simon’s voice bellows across the room.

Monday morning, 10:21am, Cascade PD, Major Crimes bull pen:

“Ellison, my office now!”

I’ve only just gotten back from my weekly meeting with the Chief and am strolling into the bullpen when I see Jim and Sandburg at their desks. What the hell are they doing here? Sandburg was supposed to stay home and rest for at least a week and Ellison more or less blackmailed me into giving him leave so he could do his usual baby-sitting shtick for the kid.

Jim turns and gives me a tired look before murmuring something to his partner, which Sandburg seems to be totally ignoring, and getting up to follow me into my office.

“What are you and Sandburg doing here today, Jim? Something wrong? The kid all right?”

Okay, so it didn’t take that much to blackmail me. I was worried about Sandburg, too. That crash was nasty.

At my inquiry Jim’s mouth quirks into a slight grin and I wonder what’s so funny, but before I can ask, he sobers. “No Simon, everything’s fine. Sandburg’s just had an idea and wanted to come check a few things out.”

‘A few things?’ That’s not the kind of answer I’m used to from Jim Ellison, ex-army ranger and cop-of-the-year. That’s more the Sandburgian school of obfuscation. “What ‘things’, Jim?” I ask with a sinking feeling. Worry about the kid or not, I’m not sure I’m up to hearing about whatever’s new in the Sandburg zone after the way my morning started.

“I don’t really know yet myself, Sir,” Jim admits, looking uncomfortable. “He won’t tell me until he’s sure that this time it’s valid, I guess.”

“This time?” I bellow. I can’t help it; that headache I’ve been fighting for an hour finally gets the better of me all at once. “Don’t tell me he’s back to that crackpot idea of his that the burglar is collecting pieces of those houses!” I know I’m probably coming over a bit too strong but I don't have time for this. Of all Sandburg’s crazy theories this one must be the mother of all humbug.

“Now Simon,” Jim reasons, instantly on the defense. “You've got to admit that it’s no crazier than a guy breaking into houses, holding inhabitants up at gunpoint, even killing for god’s sake, for what otherwise appears to be no reason at all. And don’t forget, Mrs. Atkinson told us that the guy had a pick on him and that there’s a piece of brick missing from her basement now.”

Oh, what the heck. What else did I expect? I’ve long had to accept that, when I push, Jim’s always going to have Sandburg’s back. I deflate, then put my hands flat on the table with deliberate calm and lean back.

“Okay, Jim. Whatever. It’s not as if you’re wasting department resources with this anyway, seeing as the two of you shouldn’t even be here today. But as soon as he does more than look through those files, I want to know about it. I’m not going to have him harass witnesses or tell anybody else this wild theory of his, you hear me? I’ve got enough on my plate without worrying what the press’ll make of this … this … this ‘theory’, so I expect you to keep an eye on him.”

Jim’s face hardens. “Yes Sir,” he says curtly and stands, turning on his heel without another look and marching out of my office. I sigh, take my glasses off and pinch the bridge of my nose.

As soon as that sledge hammer stops banging up the inside of my skull I probably owe someone an apology.

Monday morning, 12:00am, Cascade PD, Major Crimes bull pen:

“Sandburg, it’s noon.”

I can’t help but snigger. I’ve been waiting for this show all morning. Old Jimbo has been watching the clock on the wall for the last five minutes and, at precisely the stroke of midday, he makes his move.

“I know.” Bloody hell - it speaks! It’s the first real reaction Sandy’s shown to anything outside of his little world of files and the computer screen all morning beside the occasional grateful pats on Jim’s shoulder when a fresh cup of coffee was put in front of him.

“We had a deal,” Jim growls.

“I know,” Blair says again guilelessly, still not taking his eyes from whatever file he’s looking at; I can almost see that vein on Ellison’s neck swelling. I know Blair’s got Jim’s number but he’s playing it close. Mt. Ellison is going to explode any second now and I’m sure there’s going to be more than one casualty …

“Look Jim,” Blair suddenly turns around, just as Jim’s taking a deep breath and drawing himself up. “We said I had until lunch. Lunch, Jim. We haven’t had Lunch at noon ever! Besides, I’ve nearly got it anyway. Just give me another ten minutes to make sure, okay?”

Jim closes his eyes and purses his lips, blowing air out of his nose in a forced sign of calm. Poor Jimbo …

I return my attention to the report on my screen, sure that disaster has been avoided for at least another ten minutes, when another one in the making catches my attention.

“You seen Sandburg yet? Fagboy looks like he’s gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. You think there’s trouble in paradise, maybe? Ellison finally tired of his boytoy and using him as a punching bag instead?”

A couple of idiot uniforms are strolling by the side entrance of the bullpen, right next to my desk. ‘Oh, oh’ …

The other guy laughs. “Sure would serve the brat right. The way he struts around here like he owns the place. But I’m afraid we’ve no such luck. Apparently he got into an accident …”

The voices fade away as the two round the corner, but my attention is already glued back to the subject of their conversation. Ellison and Sandy have their desks clear across the room, but I just know Jim’s heard them, too. I know it. He’s standing already, the look on his face’s screaming bloody murder...

“Yessss! Finally! I knew it!” Sandy exclaims just that second, hitting the desk with his flat hand so hard that one of the files slides from it. “I knew it!”

He’s shouted so loudly that everyone in the room is shocked and looks at him; including Jim, who finds himself on the receiving end of a shit-eating grin from his partner and, to my relief, is clearly distracted enough to forget about the two bozos who will never know that they’ve barely escaped with their lives.

“Let’s go talk to Simon,” Blair announces, getting up and hobbling painfully but with great determination over to the printer, where he retrieves a stack of printouts.

Around the room, our colleagues return to their work. Their reaction to Sandy’s outburst was instinctual, just because of the noise. When they saw what was up, none of them thought it too alarming or even remotely strange. Testament to years of working around this place and one Blair Sandburg, I guess.

Jim’s regarding Sandy critically, evidently torn between the wisdom of asking him what it is that he’s come up with first, or agreeing to go talking to the Captain right away. I remember last week’s argument about one of Sandburg’s ideas and hold my breath. Simon really had his knickers in a twist that day. We could all hear it in the bull pen when he burst out that not every damn case had to have some obscure connection to whatever the hell academic fact Sandburg found interesting this week and that he didn’t ever want to hear such nonsense again unless there was proof. Well, I sure hope, he’s got proof this time around.

Jim must be thinking the same thing but then he says resolutely, “All right, Chief. Let’s go.”

Damn. I’m happy to see Ellison trust in Sandy, really. Especially since he must have already had a run in with the Captain earlier today, from the way he looked when he came out of his office.

But, darnit. Now I’m not going to hear what’s up until later, too!

Monday, 12:11pm, Cascade PD, Simon’s office:

There’s a knock on my door but I don’t get the chance to call whoever’s there inside before it opens and my visitors walk in. I feel a jolt of annoyance that’s only amplified when I see who it is, but I have to pull myself together. My present irritation doesn’t really have anything to do with Sandburg or Jim, even though the exuberance I see in the kid doesn’t bode well.

“Hey Simon,” Sandburg grins, unfazed - as usual - by my intimidating growl.

“Captain.” Jim greets me briskly, probably still pissed from earlier. “Sandburg’s got something.”

I sigh. Of course he has. “What’s it this time, Sandburg?”

There's still no sign of the kid even picking up on my gruffness. He just smoothes out the prints he’s got in his left hand and tosses half of them on the desk in front of me. “This", he says, with a superior, smug grin on his face. “Turns out I was right after all. I found the guy who did it."

Oh God, please have mercy on my soul. I close my eyes and count to ten. But I know I have to weather this storm. That’s why they’re paying me the big bucks anyway.

So, as patiently as I can, I sit through twenty minutes of Sandburg explaining his theory, doing my best to ask my questions in as civil a tone as I can.

And then we come to the point where I just have no other choice…

“I’ll be damned. And you’re sure about this?” I ask.

“100%, Sir. I had the rest of the city’s records on those houses and their zoning plans e-mailed to me this morning and I'd already started collecting the information from the contractors, realtors and historians last week. It wasn’t easy to piece it all together, but I’m as sure about this as Mason himself can be. And that’s exactly what I forgot to factor in, you see? If I have trouble finding the houses that were built by these people, he probably did, too! Which is why he went wrong with the Hongs. And there was never any proof that he’d actually targeted the Mortimer residence. Mr. Mortimer only spotted him in his garden. I figure he was just passing through there, on his way to the neighbor’s house, which – as you can see – was on the list.”

I nod, rolling the information around in my head. It’s lunacy, really, a guy running around, breaking into houses and buildings that had been built by one of his ancestors, chipping off pieces and taking them home. But we’ve had our fair share of lunatics in this city, before. Who am I to say this is impossible?

I look over to Jim. He’s looking smug now, and proud. I sigh.

“Okay, just answer me this, then. Why? Why’s this guy doing it and why had he stopped doing it for 10 years until a few months ago?”

The second half of Sandburg’s prints make it onto my desk. “Easy, he says. A) He’s doing it because his family has been building houses in this area for several generations. Only, young Martin didn’t quite inherit the gene or something. Twelve years ago he’d finally fucked up a few jobs too many and the city revoked his building license, taking down his whole livelihood. There are records of him having had psychological problems before, but I figure that’s what sealed the deal. He must’ve totally lost it and started to try and erase all trace of his family ever having been into construction. You see, he’s not just taking any piece of these houses. For thousands of years workers of all crafts have ‘marked’ the projects and sites they’ve been working on somehow, scratching an icon or sign into a brick or piece of wood somewhere, sort of as an ‘I was here’ ritual. You can still see the evidence of this in those century old churches and buildings around Europe. It’s a real treat for the archaeologists and historians, I’m telling ya. It allows them to track how certain troupes of workers migrated from place to place, and combined with the socio-economic…”

I narrow my eyes and growl. And what do I know? Now the kid actually takes notice of it.

“Uh… right. Anyway, Martin Mason’s family must have had the same tradition, and by removing those signs, I figure he ‘deletes’ their existence so to speak, removing his own failure right along with it. As for why he stopped about 10 years ago, well that would be because he was in prison. He was caught red handed at one of his break-ins and, since he had a few assault charges already on his rap sheet, they locked him up for 10 years,” he finishes, smiling and leaning back with a supreme note of satisfaction.

I shake my head but he’s sold me. If only the kid would always make this much sense when he gets one of his ideas.

“So, if he wants to delete his family’s existence as you say, what makes you think we’ll find those pieces he stole in his house? Why wouldn’t he have destroyed them?” I ask about the one last issue that worries me from the procedural point of view.

“Nah, he can’t do that, man. If his family’s legacy drives him to these kinds of deeds, it only proves how important the whole tradition was to him. There’s no way he could have actually destroyed them, man.”

Fair enough. I pretend to think things over a bit, watching Sandburg squirm impatiently in his seat, his eyes wandering between his partner and me. Ellison, meanwhile, has relinquished his casual position, too, itching - no doubt - for my next command.

“Okay, Gentlemen. What are you waiting for then? Go. Get it set up. I’ll talk to Judge Morris. But”, I add, glowering at the both of them when they are already at the door and looking back at me innocently, “remember that the both of you are not even supposed to be here, today. Which means that you may organize it and be present when we take this sucker down, but neither one of you is going to take part in the bust, am I making myself clear? I’m not going to be left tap dancing around the insurance guys if one or both of you get hurt, you hear me? We have other men and women working here, too, you know!”

“Sure, Sir,” Jim says, then closes the door behind him rather hastily.

Somehow I’m not at all reassured.

Monday, 7:43pm, somewhere in Cascade:

God, this is boring. We’ve been cruising around these streets for hours; I'd swear I could steer the car around these blocks with my eyes closed by now. And there’s absolutely nothing to see. Just one single-family home next to another, one more dilapidated looking than the next, with the kind of old cars in front of them you’d expect in this part of town. I suppose it was an okay neighborhood some 20 years ago, but it must have gone downhill ever since. The new freeway passing by a few blocks from here probably wasn’t a blessing for everyone around.

Some chatter comes over the radio, just the other units confirming that there’s still no sign of Mason; I wonder if there ever will be. The earlier bust of his house was planned quickly perhaps, but executed with the utmost care. Officers were in and out in no time; I doubt even the neighbors spotted anything. But if Mason was in the house after all and somehow just got away?

Ellison says he wasn’t. Don’t know how he could tell but the guy usually knows what he’s talking about. Damn fine cop he is, and – no matter what some of the others say – he and his partner have always treated me and Dick with respect; like on that bank robbery case we worked together a couple of months back. Ellison even covered for me when I nearly fucked up the bust. And the kid… Sandburg really is amazingly observant, especially for a guy. Figured out right away that I had girlfriend trouble and said some pretty insightful things to me about it. Helped me a great deal with getting my head back into the game.

So I don’t know what the others are always going on about: there was no superior attitude at all. Which is why we jumped at the chance to be given this detail. It’ll be great to at least be included in the bust, even if it’s now officially a Major Crimes deal.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s boring. Tedious and difficult, too. Driving around the neighborhood in an unmarked sedan for hours, trying to spot a guy in the dark who we only know from a DMV photograph that’s sitting on the dashboard.

Five more units are involved in this. Two more driving around, three holding position outside Mason’s house, including Ellison and Sandburg. I wonder how they are doing. The kid didn’t look so hot during the meeting where Ellison laid out the plan this afternoon.

But he’s certainly got a brain, that one. I’m not sure I even understood all the details of how he figured out it was Mason who broke into those homes and killed Sonya Meyers, much less would have figured it out myself. But he was right! We even found the car Mason used to ram Ellison’s truck last week, the stupid lunatic. Not to mention all those pieces of brick or wood he took from the houses.

Of course the guys in Major Crimes all know their stuff, but the way Sandburg’s mind works, it’s no wonder they’ve beat us in the inter-station ranking for the past few years. Paired with the cop of the year …

“Subject sighted, walking down Magnolia drive. I repeat, subject sighted,” suddenly crackles over the radio. It’s Ellison’s voice, but how the hell has he seen Mason on Magnolia when they’re standing on Crescent Hill? …

“Unit three responding. We’re just around the corner. Will cut subject off at Magnolia and 52nd,” my partner Dick responds while I’m still wondering. Other units call in, too. Ahead I see Rafe and Brown’s car coming around another corner, heading in the same direction we are.

Since none of us are further than a few blocks away, we’re set up pretty quickly. Two teams discretely block the road on both ends of where Mason’s been spotted, while two other teams get out of their cars and try to catch Martin Mason on foot, keeping out of sight as long as possible so he doesn’t get spooked.

Since Rafe and Brown beat us to the roadblock site, Dick and I are with the officers approaching Mason on foot, the others are Connor and Taggert. We’re walking up from behind Mason, Connor and Taggert are coming up ahead, but are staying on the opposite side of the road.

It’s dark; hardly any street lights are working, and the bit of light that’s coming from the grimy windows of houses lining the streets is dim, further obstructed by wild growing greenery of front gardens that haven’t been tended to in a long time.

Mason’s about a hundred yards in front of us, so far appearing not to have noticed anything. He seems to be talking to himself but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

We close in to about 30 yards. Connor and Taggert have come into our view now and are just crossing the street, when there’s a loud crack startling all of us;

While my brain finally registers the sound as a car back firing, Mason, having been looking up and down the street in shock, of course spots us.

“Shit,” I swear under my breath and hear some of the same from Dick. We both pick up our pace, dropping into a run when Mason suddenly disappears from view.

“Dammit, where’d he go?” Joel Taggert pants from up ahead. Connor already stands were we last saw Mason, but seems to catch no sign of him either.

“In here,” she calls out seconds later, then vanishes just like Mason did. Having stood right next to her, I see that there’s an opening between two overgrown hedges, leading off into the darkness. I follow, sensing Dick behind me. Taggert stays behind and calls what happened into the radio. Maybe one of the other units can figure out a way to cut Mason off wherever he’s headed.

The darkness is virtually complete as we dash through the bushes, protecting our faces from the branches lashing out at us. The path leads us between two of the houses until we reach a solid wooden fence that lines the back yard of a property belonging to the parallel street. Mason must have crossed it.

The fence is not high and its run down state gives enough purchase to climb it, but in the darkness it still takes a while until we’re all on the other side.

From here there’s really only one way Mason could have gone, which is to the right along the house and onto the adjoining street.

Then, just as we enter the alley next to the house, I hear a woman scream, followed by the sounds of a struggle between two men.

“Son of a bitch!” one of the male voices exclaims in pain, then there’s the obvious noise of a fist hitting flesh and another grunt.

“Martin Mason, you’re under arrest for of robbery in several cases and the murder of Sonya Meyers. You have the right to remain silent …”

It’s Ellison. Ellison’s caught Mason. Just where did he come from?

We round the corner and see him holding Mason. There’s a woman, too. I figure she was just an unlucky passerby who Mason must have tried to attack or take as a hostage. She looks terrified and watches as Ellison finishes putting the cuffs on Mason.

Then I realize that there’s something wrong. Ellison’s voice, while mirandizing Mason, suddenly grows weak. Then it fades altogether and he just crumples in on himself.

“Shit.”

We all rush forward.

Connor’s ahead of me and catches Mason, who seems too out of it to try and use the opportunity to flee anyway. I spare a split second to admire Ellison’s handywork subduing the guy, while hurrying to his side and kneeling next to him.

Meanwhile Dick grabs for his radio. “Officer down, I repeat, officer down! Get some paramedics to 2045 Chestnut Drive. Ellison’s been stabbed.”

Dick’s right. In the moonlight, that only just now breaks between the clouds, I see the glint of metal only a couple of yards away, and my hands have found the spot where sticky, copious amounts of blood soak Ellison’s jacket. A knife has pierced his side.

My first aid knowledge kicks in immediately and I apply pressure to the wound, feeling it pulsing beneath my fingers.

“Oh no! Nononono! Dammit, Jim! No!”

A car’s just stopped next to us and Sandburg tumbles out of it. He grunts in pain as he drops next to me, but otherwise seems oblivious to anything but his partner. He touches Ellison’s face, roaming a gaze up and down his body until he sees my bloody hands buried in the fabric of Ellison’s jacket. Then anguished eyes meet mine.

“It’s okay, kid. Help’s on the way,” I hear myself saying but can see that my words don’t even break the surface of his panic. He’s trembling in shock and beside himself with worry.

His hands flutter up and down Ellison’s body until he puts his left hand gently on his partner’s face and uses the other to squeeze Ellison’s right hand. The gesture is so strangely intimate that I feel the need to look away.

“Come on, man. You need to hang in there, Jim, you hear me? You cannot leave me like this! Come on, don’t do this, man …”

In the distance the first faint notes of sirens are audible. Around us, the formerly dark and deserted street has erupted into noisy chaos as residents from throughout the neighborhood have picked up on what happened and are gathering around to gape, kept at bay by the other officers on the scene and our three strategically placed cars.

Finally the ambulance arrives. Unlike me, Sandburg doesn’t leave Ellison’s side when the paramedics take over and start working on him. Curiously, the two men don’t even try to get him to move. Instead there’s some silent communication going on between them and Sandburg before they nod grimly and begin working on stabilizing Ellison for transport.

A few minutes later they’ve cut away his jacket and shirt, applied a pressure bandage and hooked him up to an IV. Then they transfer him to the gurney and push him toward the waiting ambulance.

Still Sandburg stays with them, not letting go of the hand he’s still holding while using his other hand to hold on to the gurney to keep himself upright. He can barely walk.

When they reach the back of the ambulance, instead of claiming their usual reasons for keeping anyone but them from riding in with the patient, one of the paramedics wordlessly helps Sandburg inside, and then they are off.

I stare after the ambulance for a bit, lost in thought over Ellison and Sandburg, the most unusual pair I’ve ever met. And I don’t just mean the fact that they might be more than just partners or friends. I’m from San Francisco originally. To me that sort of thing is hardly worth a raised eyebrow.

What I mean, though, runs deeper than that and it’s really a pity that, except for the guys from Major Crimes, so few other people around the station seem to be able to see it. The level of their … connection … might defy words but there’s no doubt that Cascade PD and the city of Cascade in general should be the first in line to count themselves lucky for it.

Monday, 9:21pm, Cascade General, regular ward:

Jim’s been damn lucky. The knife nicked an artery and scared the shit out of everybody, but the wound was easily fused in the E.R., leaving nothing more than a bit of blood loss to worry about. According to what Joel told me a couple of hours ago, Jim might even be out of the hospital in as little as a couple of days.

The nurse at the front desk glowers at me when I show her my badge. But she’s seen me often enough to know who I am and that I’m not going to take ‘No’ for an answer.

“Room 217,” she growls, then calls after me, “but Mr. Ellison should really be resting!”

I have my back to her already and just wave in what I hope looks like reassurance. I have no plans on staying long. This has been quite a day and, after all the catastrophes have been averted, the bad guy’s been arrested and all the pertinent paper work’s been seen to, I’m rather looking forward to go home, too. But not before I’ve seen with my own two eyes that Joel was right.

Room 217 lies at the far end of the hall. I knock but enter without waiting, finding Sandburg bent over Jim and just straightening up, having straightened Ellison’s cushion or something. I swear the kid’s about as fussy when Jim’s hurt as Ellison is the other way around.

Both Ellison and Sandburg look at me rather strangely when I approach, all flushed and glassy-eyed. Probably the drugs, I figure. Joel told me that they forced some on Sandburg, too, threatening to admit the kid if he didn’t agree.

“Good evening, Gentlemen.”

“Uh, hey Simon,” Sandburg grins, his eyebrows waggling. God, he’s entirely too chipper for this time of the day, especially considering this day.

“Hello Simon. What’s up?” Jim asks a little more sedately, though his eyes are a bit shiny, too. Must be really good stuff they gave them or else they are just giddy with relief. Which they're entitled to, I suppose.

“Just came to tell you that everything’s been straightened out. Mason’s been booked and locked up. His lawyer will probably go for an insanity plea, but we figured that might happen. The most important thing is that he’s off the streets, which he is, and likely will be for a good long time.”

Both of them stare at me then expectantly, the corners of their mouths twitching, waiting. To their credit, they at least appear to be trying not to look smug, even if they are failing miserably.

“All right, all right,” I hold my hands up in mock surrender. “And that’s all thanks to you. You satisfied now?”

Sandburg smirks; Jim pretends to think very hard, pursing his lips and trying not to grin. “Naaaah, I don’t think so, Captain,” he says after a few seconds, looking shrewdly at a pile of paperwork having been stacked on the nightstand. My heart sinks. “I think this warrants a little more of an apology, don’t you think Chief?” he asks turning to Sandburg, nothing but mischief in his eyes. “How about we call it even if Simon does his magic and fills out those insurance forms for us, huh? I mean, didn’t he say only this morning how much practice he has with it already?”

I groan. Sandburg’s eyes widen with glee. “That’s a great idea, man! Yeah, I think we’ve earned that.”

‘Manipulative son’s of bitches’ I grumble so low that not even Ellison can have heard it.

“That’s very nice of you, Sir. Really. They have to be handed in at the admin front desk by tomorrow morning at 10.”

Jim’s grinning from ear to ear now, as is Sandburg. I shake my head. These two really are quite the pair. Responsible for every single one of my grey hairs, I swear, but how could I want it any other way? Best damn team I’ve ever seen.

I fold, finally giving in to the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, too. “Okay, you two. You’ve got it. Can I get you anything from the loft when I come back tomorrow? I assume you are staying, Sandburg?”

“Of course, man!”

Of course. Why did I even ask?

“The overnight bag from under the wardrobe with our toiletries and a change of clothes for the both of us. But since I expect to be sprung from here by noon tomorrow, we won’t need anything else. Thank you!”

“Very well then,” I say then sober slightly. “I’m really glad you’re all right, Jim, Blair.”

They nod, acknowledging in a brief moment of solemnity that luck’s been on their side today, too.

“Good night then, Gentlemen.”

“Night, Sir, thanks for dropping by.”

“Yeah, good night, Simon.”

I take my leave. Once out the door I think I hear what sounds like an argument over who gets which side of the bed, but I’m sure my tired mind’s just playing tricks on me.

Story one

Sun, 01 Apr 2007 22:39:58 GMT

April 2007

Wave is open

Four stories, who wrote me?

Guess who wrote this story.

Was it Earth2skye? Snycock? Starwatcher? Or Tommyboybbi?

Story 1

Speculation

It was a good night to be out, Simon thought. He looked around the crowd to see that most of his detectives were enjoying themselves. It had been sometime since they had been together off the clock.

There had been several high profile cases that had come across their department and now, it seemed there might be a lull in the craziness that made Cascade tick and keep him and his crew going nonstop.

Taggert was sitting with Rafe and Brown at a booth, laughing over a story that Brown was spinning for them. Conner was talking to Johnson at another booth over a pitcher of beer. Taylor and Kuhn were playing darts while Robinson, Ware and Grubbs were at the pool table.

Simon returned to the booth that housed Taggert, Rafe and Brown with their drink order.

He sat down by Joel and took his mug in hand of the beer he splurged on.

"Where are Jim and Blair?" Joel asked. "I thought everyone was going to be here."

"I heard that Jim lost a bet and had to go with Blair somewhere," Henri answered.

"I believe, it was a museum opening that Blair had been looking forward to," Simon added.

"Central America, the Lost World," Rafe supplied.

Simon laughed, "You know, I think it's odd that for one Jim is doing something cultured, and two, we, police detectives, actually know what is going on in the outside world."

"Well, Blair is always spouting something out. You know I've read more books in the last year because he's recommended them to me?" Rafe said.

Simon agreed, Blair had suggested a few books from his favorite hobby to better office management.

"And I like how Jim has settled down over the time Blair's been with him. I mean, he's looking better than he had. Not like he needed improvement, but he's taking better care of himself with Blair prodding him. He's sleeping and he's eating better, he's cut down on the Wonder Burger."

"We've all cut down on the Wonder Burger. I bet the one on Fourth and Main has seen a major decrease in revenue since we've stopped the daily drive by there," Henri joked. "My last physical showed I'd dropped ten pounds."

"Where, I can't tell it?" Rafe said looking at his partner.

"Turned into muscle. Been working out with Jim twice a week."

Joel smiled. "Blair has done a lot. I mean he's tamed the loner once known as Jim Ellison. I, for one, am grateful for what he's done for him."

"I wonder," Rafe said out loud.

"Wonder what?" Simon asked.

"If there is more between them?" Rafe answered.

"Like what?" Henri asked. "They are room mates."

"But, Jim lets him get away with so much, like, they're married or something. Blair watches out for his health, his back out on the street, he can guess most of what Jim is going to do. They act like they are so married. Like tonight, Jim went with him to the museum, though I doubted he would have gone otherwise except to appease Blair."

"They share a debit card. Jim was tired of making sure Blair had money to buy groceries so he gave him a card to the account to shop on," Henri added.

"When was the last time you saw them seriously date someone?" Joel asked. "Blair used to have a running tally within the building, he hasn't asked any of the new pool of likely candidates. He's gone straight up to major crimes and that's it. Jim, well, he never got out much anyway, but lately he hasn't talked about any possible date in weeks."

Simon sat back. Many of this could be tied to the Sentinel matter between Jim and Blair, but with what was presented forth to his bloodhounds, he could see it in a different light.

"Could be that they are in funk," Simon put in.

"Or they are satisfied how their life is now," Rafe said. "Why date when you have someone already? They had been two halves of a pair for a while now. It would be logical that they found what they needed in each other."

"And if they did?" Simon asked.

"Then more power to them," Henri said.

"Blair had said up front that he loved being in love, packaging was just that. Don't judge a book by it's cover, for it might be worn, it's the pages that give the knowledge." Joel repeated.

How like Blair, thought Simon. "So, if Jim and Blair were an 'item,' how would you deal with it?" If it were true, he had to see if he had problems to deal with.

"Well, knowing no one that is gay, for the word, I don't know. But for Jim and Blair, they are just two guys that need each other. They're no different to me that you guys," Henri though out loud. "I have no problem with them."

"I don't know," Rafe said. "Blair is a great guy and looks out for all of us. He's had his ups and downs and deserves someone who can keep him from going crazy. Jim is probably the rock he needed.

Joel nodded, "Jim is the one to stable one. He's always been there when push comes to shove. I just hope that they have found what they are looking for."

Simon relaxed. If these three thought this way the others would follow.

"Simon do you know?" Rafe asked.

"Honestly I don't know. I know they are close because of the scrapes they've been in. Living together does things too. But I don't know. It might be best I don't know, you know, with the position of authority I am, it wouldn't be good to know."

"But you know about them the best Simon," Joel said. "If anyone knows anything it would be you."

"Well, if I know, I wouldn't be spreading rumors."

The men looked at him then moved on to discuss some of the bits of their cases that made them laugh or get a sense of humor over. They told how witnesses had gone awry, evidence that showed one thing but then something else. Simon listened to the frustration that they all had to over come to get the job done.

Simon sat back and relaxed listening to their tales. It was good to be a part of a group that took care of their own.

update notice

Sat, 31 Mar 2007 23:05:00 GMT

Here's the plan. You have till noon EST time tomorrow to have stories in to me.

I have to work on my story tonight. Tomorrow morning I'm going into work (missed some time this week due to my dad) and I'm doing month end prep work (got to love when month end falls on a Monday, payroll, month end, and answer questions to the GM who was out for two days .. which means he's lost his head)

So I've talked to two authors about this. So I'm looking for stories by tomorrow afternoon.

email them to bbi_tommyboy @ yahoo . com

Paula

Deadline

Fri, 30 Mar 2007 10:24:34 GMT

Two days left. What has Major Crime noticed about our special pair of men?

email sentinelsecrets @ gmail. com AND bbi_tommyboy @ yahoo . com.

(Still don't have my other computer back yet :( )

I have two stories so far. So Please see what you can come up with and have to me by the end of Saturday.

I will format and post Sunday morning.

Paula C.

Reminder

Wed, 21 Mar 2007 00:33:36 GMT

Hi folks,

Hope I'll be seeing some entries in the next two weeks for the current wave.

As stated in the last post, send entries to sentinelsecrets @ gmail . com.

Well, at the moment, my main computer is being upgraded by a friend, so I'm using my old (gave to daughter, now taking it over) computer and it seems not to like gmail not one iota.

so, please for the moment, you can email it to bbi_tommyboy @ yahoo. com. Best to send to both addresses and comment here that sent me the story.

Hope everyone is enjoying some good weather. Florida is giving some great rays of sunshine.

So tell me what Major Crimes is suspecting about the trouble magnet duo.

Wave 7 is open

Fri, 02 Mar 2007 02:38:36 GMT

And the winner is ....

2) What does MC think about Blair and Jim? One or all, do they suspect something is going between the two.

This time around we get to hear comments from the MC peanut gallery. What do they think of Jim and Blair. Is there something going on between them? Is someone not happy with the pairing? What has Blair done to impress them?

This is open for the month of March. Email to sentinelsecrets@gmail.com in word or as an email.

I have a request. Keep story embellishments to a minimum. This is guess the author. If you add the hoots and whistles of bolding, italics, and such, most people will guess it off the bat, for you do it to your own stories where you post. If any qeusitons on this you can email me at the above address.

Looking forward to what we will go on this.

Thanks so much for continuing our success.

Poll for Wave 7

Sat, 24 Feb 2007 23:44:26 GMT

I didn't pay this coming year for Sentinelsecrets, so the poll will have to be long way ... you post a comment.

So.

First I would like to thank everyone for keeping this going. I think most of the other "secret" socities that spawned us are quiet.

I look forward to a few more rounds of "secretsentinel" to be coming.

This poll will close Feb. 28th. I will announce that night what the topic of choice is.

Round 7, write for the month of March, post from April 1, and revearl on April 15.

So, now on to the poll. Post to the comments what you want to see for the next round.

1) What do the neighbors think? Give us feedback from one of the Prospect residents about who lives in 307

2) What does MC think about Blair and Jim? One or all, do they suspect something is going between the two.

3) A day in the life for Blair and Jim.

4) Blair had a nightmare. What was it about?