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Hook, Line, and Sinker         
by Kikkimax

Sitting in a rental car outside of the loft apartment where he knew his prey lived, Curtis Wright loaded his weapon and waited as the sun came up. "Blair," he uttered, almost an hour later as he caught his first glimpse of the young man he had come to kill. Brown hair was tousled by the slight breeze as his target made his way to the green Volvo parked near the building. Wright's hand trembled as he cocked the gun and reached for the door handle, a big change for the stone cold killer. Suddenly he couldn't fool himself any longer. He knew he couldn't take this life, but he couldn't walk away from it either. Easing back on the trigger, he continued to open the door and stepped out of the car.

"Sandburg! Wait up," a second, larger man called from the door. The cop. He should have known he would be nearby. Blair turned back, and the other man trotted a few steps to reach him. They stood on the sidewalk deep in conversation for a few minutes before heading off in opposite directions. A dagger of jealousy burned deep in Wright's chest at the smile Blair gave the other man before they parted. He knew that smile would never be directed at him. Vowing to separate the two permanently, he got back in the car and started the engine. He pulled into the early morning traffic, following the Volvo at a discrete distance.

Jim stopped as he opened the door to the truck. A whiff of something familiar in the air caught his attention. A sense of foreboding sent a shiver down his spine, and then the odor was gone. He looked around briefly, but nothing caught his eye. A few cars were headed in each direction, and a gray Oldsmobile pulled out and sped away. After a final few unsuccessful sniffs to locate the smell, he climbed in the truck with a 'humph'.

Blair had an odd feeling for most of the morning. It all started because he was almost certain someone had been following him on his way to the university. The car turned every time he did, and parked nearby, but Blair wasn't able to get a good look at the driver. Now he noticed a stranger sitting near the back of the large lecture hall. Without meaning to, Blair's eyes kept drifting to the man. It wasn't all that unusual for a relative or friend of a student or even a university employee to sit in on a class, so Blair didn't stop teaching to confront the man. Although he seemed somehow familiar, Sandburg was sure he didn't know him. Before the lecture was finished, the man slipped out the door. After he left, Blair felt a little more relaxed. He made a mental note to tell Jim about it anyway.

Wright knew he was pushing his luck, but he was fascinated with Blair as the teacher. The timbre of his voice, the way he moved, the passion with which he imparted his knowledge to the class all combined to make him a dynamic speaker. The danger of being discovered was exciting, as any minute Sandburg might recognize him, even though the rhinoplasty on his broken nose had not been nearly as successful as the first one, leaving him with a lump and a slightly altered appearance. His once dark hair had been bleached and styled in a much shorter cut, and now he sported a goatee and earrings. And he hadn't bothered to remove his expensive shades. Still, it had only been two months since Blair had last seen him, and he glanced frequently towards him, obviously unnerved by his presence.

The original intent of the stalking had been to exact revenge. The man had lured him in under false pretenses in order to take away his livelihood and end his very way of life. Somehow Blair had known how to look, how to act, who to be, to catch him. And he had caught him. Wright knew he had taken the bait; hook, line, and sinker. After a narrow escape and a near drowning, not to mention the injuries Blair had caused him when he pushed him down the stairs, he had made it to Canada, after being picked up by a fishing boat. 

He was all set to make his way to the islands where a nice little nest egg waited for him. The sun and the sand beckoned as a place to heal his battered body and soul. But he knew his soul would not be healed until he tied up this particular loose end. He told himself he would strike quickly and be done with the one who had so beguiled and then deceived him. All preparations to do so fell away when he once again cast his eyes on the man. No longer content with just watching, Wright slipped away to make some arrangements. If the image of Blair Sandburg that had been presented to him at the Paradox was enticing, the real thing was undeniably bewitching.

Jim had been home for almost ten minutes before he realized something was wrong. As he opened the fridge, he caught a hint of the same scent he had smelled on the street this morning right after he was talking to Sandburg. It wasn't unpleasant exactly, just kind of woodsy and sweet at the same time, like aftershave. But it triggered a feeling of uneasiness Jim couldn't quite figure out. He followed the smell to Blair's room and pushed one of the doors open.

"Damn it," he swore as he viewed the devastation in the room, not the general run of the mill Sandburg mess. Someone had turned the room upside down, apparently looking for something. Stepping carefully over the debris in the floor, Jim examined the fire escape door, which had been jimmied. He heard the front door open and close, and hurried to head off his partner. But Blair made it to the door first, dropping his bag and gaping at the ruin that had been his room.

"We need to call this in, Chief," Jim said and clamped a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "Don't go in there."

"Is anything missing?" Blair asked when he finally found his voice, staring desolately at his scattered belongings.

"I don't know yet. Your room seems to be the only place that was hit. Either I got home before they could trash the rest of the place, or they were looking for something of yours."

"It's not like I have anything... Oh, God. What if they were looking for my Sentinel research?"

"Nah," Jim said. "How likely is that?"

"What about Brackett?" Blair countered.

Jim swallowed. "Okay, you got me there. Is there anything that would, you know, out me in here?" Jim asked, gesturing towards the room.

"No, I don't think so. I mean, I've got some notebooks under the bed, but nothing with your name on it. Just primary subject..." Blair stopped at the strickened look on Jim's face. "Test results, stuff like that. Nothing bad," he added.

Jim relaxed a little. "Why don't you check those notebooks first, while I call it in," he said and walked back to the kitchen to the phone.

"Sorry, man," Blair said as he tiptoed to the bed. He dropped down and pulled a box out from under the bed. He quickly counted six notebooks. Was that all? Or were there seven? One was in his backpack, he was sure. He got to his feet and carried the box to the table. Then he picked up his pack from where he had dropped it and dug through it until he came up with the seventh notebook. Adding it to the others, he lugged the whole box up the stairs and hid it in Jim's closet. At least until the police were through with his room. As he descended the stairs, the first unit was just arriving. Jim turned and looked at him with a surprisingly reserved gaze. Almost like he was hiding something.

Blair lost count of the photos the forensics people took from every conceivable angle. Now it seemed as if everything was covered in the gray dust they used to find fingerprints. Trying to stay out of the way, he craned his head to look into the room, noticing a couple of his personal pictures had been removed from their frames. Jim moved around the living room restlessly, looking like he was ready to pop someone for breaking into his home. Slowly the team completed their work and left in twos and threes. When the last group left and Jim closed the door behind them, Blair finally entered his bedroom and began to sift through the mess.

"It's late," Jim said, coming up behind him. "We can do this tomorrow. Why don't you just sleep out here?"

"I think this may be personal," Blair mused out loud. "Some of my pictures are gone." He turned and watched as Jim examined the empty frames on the windowsill. "And someone was following me this morning," he added, sounding somewhat subdued.

"A gray Oldsmobile?" Jim asked turning quickly back to his partner.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"I saw it, too. It was parked outside on the street when you left this morning."

"So it wasn't my imagination," Blair sighed. "I was kind of hoping it was nothing. Oh, and there was a man who sat in on my lecture today. He was kind of familiar, but not really."

"What did he look like?" Jim pressed as Blair began to replace the things that had been knocked off of his bookshelf.

Blair shrugged and continued to work. "He was tall, with spiky blonde hair, but a dark goatee. I really felt like I should know who he was. But he left before I could try to talk to him."

"If you see him again, I want you to call me," Jim said seriously. "I mean it." He gathered a handful of clothes and began to sort through them. "I smelled something this morning, and then again when I found your room like this," he began hesitantly. Blair stilled immediately and leaned against the wall. "I've smelled it before. It made me really uncomfortable for some reason."

"Sense memory," Blair suggested. "Smells can trigger memories, or even feelings associated with memories. Why don't you sit down and we can do a couple of exercises."

"We don't have to," Jim admitted uneasily. "I figured out what it was when you were upstairs earlier, but I didn't want to tell you about it with the forensics team here. It was the cologne Agent Reaves sprayed you with the night you went undercover to catch Curtis Wright."

Blair sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "You said he was dead," he whispered.

"I really thought he was. Maybe he is. Maybe I got the whole thing wrong," Jim said, reaching out to his friend regretfully.

"Jim, I trust your nose a hell of a lot more than I do that forensics team that just left," Blair laughed without mirth as he patted Jim's hand that rested on his shoulder. "What do you think he wants?"

Jim dropped his hand and moved out of the room. "I think I've got an old lock for that door. It's a good idea to go ahead and fix it tonight," he said, avoiding the answer that popped into his head. He dug around under the counter and came out with the old deadbolt he had replaced a while back so all the doors would use the same key. It would do for now. Tomorrow, he would replace all the locks again. Useless maybe, but it gave him something to do. Blair continued to sit on the edge of his bed, holding a book in his hand, but looking at the wall near the closet. Jim had scrubbed it down and put a fresh coat of paint on it, but Blair swore he could still see a hand print.

The break in had been a bad idea. Now the cop was too protective, making it that much harder to get to Blair. Backing off for a few days had been a difficult decision, but one he was sure would pay off. He should have trashed the whole apartment to make it look good, but at the time he had been looking for something in particular. The pictures and the very interesting letter he found in a box of notebooks were just gravy. Wright settled into a chair holding his consolation prize. He almost hadn't found it, buried deep in the closet in a box. Stroking the soft blue pullover as he studied the picture in his hand, he thought about how his plan was coming together.

Three days came and went. Three days of constantly looking over his shoulder, and jumping at every noise. Three days of blessed protector overdrive that had Blair ready to do bodily harm to the big guy if he didn't ease up a little. He didn't go anywhere alone, and Jim called frequently when he had to trust him to some other unlucky cop who pulled the duty of keeping up with Sandburg. Other than the pictures, nothing had been taken in the break in. At least nothing Blair could think of. There weren't any more sightings of the gray car, and Blair hadn't been followed again, at least not that he noticed. And he was definitely paying attention. Simon reluctantly called off the watchdogs after the third day, due to pressure from above. Even Jim began to doubt it was Curtis Wright.

Blair had forgotten all about the date with the lovely and not entirely dumb Evelyn, having made it more than a week ago. When she called to express her displeasure that he hadn't picked her up yet, he decided off the cuff that the week had been way too stressful, and he needed a conversation with someone other than a cop. Blair soothed her ruffled feathers and set off to get her. Maybe things were looking up, he thought. Checking his cell phone before leaving his office, he locked up and walked out. He'd call Jim when he got to Evelyn's apartment building.

"A date?" Jim asked in disbelief. "You're going on a date?"

"What's the big deal, man. It's not like I'm gonna be alone. I'll be in a restaurant full of people."

"I just don't think it's a good idea. Where are you?"

"Uh, Fifth and Harris. I'm picking her up now. See you later, Jim."

"Sandburg? Damn it, Sandburg!" Jim hung up the phone in frustration. He used one hand to close his phone and slip it into his pocket. He finished cuffing the perp with the other.

"Personal call over now?" the man asked acidly.

"Shut up," Jim snarled and led the suspect to the truck.

The date had gone badly from the very start. Evelyn wasn't exactly the person Blair had thought she was when he asked her out. For starters, she was shallow. So shallow Blair had trouble conversing on any level with her. Somewhere between the name-dropping, the snide comments, and the not so subtle barbs about the Volvo, Blair lost interest. In Evelyn's defense, he had known up front that she was high maintenance, and he had wanted to go out with her anyway. But after the week he had, he just wasn't in the mood to put in the requisite amount of work required to date a diva. There weren't a whole lot of compliments thrown her way, and he found he wasn't really listening as she talked. He was bored, and even looking into Evelyn's pretty blue contact lenses couldn't keep his attention. Unfortunately, this boredom gave rise to his over active imagination. He fought his paranoia as they left the restaurant and headed back to Evelyn's place, wondering once again if someone was following him.

Parking next to the curb, Blair did a visual sweep of the area before getting out of the car and walking around to open the door for his equally disillusioned date.

"Thanks, Blair. You don't have to see me to the door," she replied hastily, wanting to head back out to a club after he was out of sight. No use blowing the whole evening.

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you on the street. It's not safe," Blair said, still glancing around nervously, well aware that the date was officially over.

"It's safe," Evelyn assured a little too quickly.

"Okay, I'll just wait here until you get inside the building, if you don't mind."

Evelyn stared for a minute, as if waiting for something. "Fine, good night," she prompted.

"Good night."

Evelyn leaned back against the car with her arms across her chest. "You're not going to kiss me?"

"No offense, but I really didn't think you wanted me to," Blair explained.

"Well, no. But I thought you would at least try," she said, sounding somewhat affronted.

Blair laughed. "This was a horrible date, wasn't it? I mean, we didn't click at all."

"Yeah," she sighed. "It's a shame. We're both so attractive." Evelyn smiled for the first time of the evening. "One kiss wouldn't hurt. Would it?"

"I guess not," Blair smiled a little as well and leaned in to softly press his lips to hers. Anything to get rid of her, and besides, no matter how bitchy she was, she was still very female. She responded immediately and deepened the kiss as Blair instinctively slipped an arm around her waist and drew her closer.

"Oh. Wow," she said breathlessly as their lips parted. "I think I may have to reevaluate the situation. Why don't you come up for a while?"

Blair toyed with the idea briefly, but he didn't really want to get involved with this woman. They had nothing in common, in fact they couldn't even carry on a decent conversation. Before he could answer, Evelyn startled. Her eyes grew wide half a second before she screamed. Blair heard and felt the blow in the same instant as the baseball bat cracked against his skull. He slumped against the screaming woman, knocking her to the ground with him.

Evelyn pushed him aside and rolled under the car. She stifled her cries as a pair of expensive leather shoes appeared. Blair lay perfectly still, his eyes open as a puddle of blood slowly formed around his head. A hand reached down and felt Blair's neck for a pulse, then patted him affectionately on the cheek. The bloody bat clattered to the ground, bringing another short burst of shrieks from the cowering woman under the car.

She closed her eyes and whimpered. "Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me," she cried. After a few tense minutes of muffled noises, then several more minutes of silence, Evelyn opened her eyes. Blair was gone, nothing left but a wooden bat and a puddle of blood.

Jim paced the approximately twelve foot area between the back of the ambulance and the hood of the Volvo. As soon as he heard the call to the corner of Fifth and Harris Streets, he knew Blair was in trouble. The paramedic was patching up the small cuts and abrasions on the terrified girl. Except for the minor scrapes from crawling under the car, she didn't appear to be hurt. Not to Jim anyway. He knew her injuries didn't account for any of the blood splatter on the car, or the large puddle on the ground. Or the drops that led half a block before disappearing altogether at the curb. 

Evelyn, that was her name, was unable to give even the barest description of the attacker, except that he was a tall white guy. When Jim pressured her for more information, she ranted about police brutality, and her taxes paying his salary, and that it was his job to catch the guy, not hers. She never once expressed concern for Sandburg, not realizing or caring that the angry police detective had a personal stake in the matter. Instead of letting her go home, Ellison insisted the uniform on duty take her back to the station to look at mug books. Even though he was sure the man they were looking for wasn't in them. But Jim wasn't feeling all that generous at the moment.

"Hold still," a gruff voice commanded. Blair groaned and reached for his head as he struggled to regain consciousness. Someone slapped his hand away. "I said hold still, damn it. I've got two more stitches and then you can wiggle all you want. I should have known you wouldn't stay out until I could get this done."

Blair dropped his hand and tried to register the myriad of discomforts he felt. The table he was laying on was cold and hard. He was dizzy and sure he would puke any minute, glad he was on his side just in case he did. Worst of all, his head felt like it would explode, or more accurately, like it already had. He shuddered at the sting and burn as the man put another stitch in the back of his head. 

"Ow," he said, but tried his best not to upset the stitcher any further.

"Sorry. I didn't use any local anesthetic. Frankly, I'm surprised you woke up. Ever," he added under his breath.

Blair opened his eyes, but saw nothing but darkness. "Am I at the hospital?" he asked quietly. He realized something was covering his head by the way his voice bounced right back at him, and his skin felt clammy from the moisture in his breath.

"No. But don't worry. I used to be a doctor."

"Used to be..." Blair repeated to himself, considering the words and trying to make his numb mind think. He took a long, deep breath and released it. He smelled alcohol. The odor was strong, and it wasn't the medical kind. It only added to his dizziness and confusion. "Where's Jim?" he asked at last.

"You mean Mr. Bennett? One more, then we're done. Tough it out another minute."

"How much of my hair did you cut?" Blair asked, reaching again for the back of his head.

"Don't touch it. You're in my sterile field. I hardly cut any at all. Mr. Bennett was real specific about not cutting your hair."

"Oh," Blair replied and held his breath for the last stitch. "Ow. Who?" he asked, his mind finally catching on to the name.

"Mr. Bennett. The man who brought me here to fix you up."

"I don't know anyone named Bennett. Fix me up," Blair echoed, still working on a thirty second delay. "What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Uh, Tuesday?" Blair slurred. "Or maybe... I don't know."

The paper drape was pulled away from his face. "Looks to me like someone tried to remove your brains with a baseball bat. Eighteen stitches. Split your head open like a melon. It's very early Saturday morning. You have been out for a few hours, but apparently, you have some memory loss."

Blair sighed and opened his eyes. "Why can't I see?" he asked drowsily. He wasn't able to hold them open for very long.

Although he had what he wanted, Wright couldn't help but rub it in. He dropped off the sweater, now covered in Blair's blood, in the hallway outside of the cop's door. He had intended to keep it, but it had been lying in the trunk, so he had used it to try to stop the rapidly bleeding head wound. Knowing how it made him feel when he took it out of the trunk, he decided to let the cop have a heart stopping moment of his own. Now he had to dispose of the car, he couldn't wait to get back to see his real prize, assuming of course he was still breathing.

Jim took comfort in the fact that Blair wasn't dead. However badly he was hurt, and whatever his abductor had in mind for him, at this moment, Jim knew that Blair was not dead. As before when he had been abducted, Jim could still feel his presence. At last, the frightened woman had been able to gather herself enough to give a decent description of the man who had attacked Sandburg. More to the point, she finally realized she wasn't going home until she cooperated with the hardheaded detective. It sounded like the same man who had sat in on Blair's class earlier in the week. Now they had something to go on. Dropping by the loft as the sun came up, Jim stopped in his tracks, his heart jumping into his throat. The sweet smell was in the air, but he ignored it as he reached for the blood soaked blue sweater that lay on the ground in front of the door. All doubt was now gone. Wright wasn't dead after all, and he had Blair.

Wright lay on the bed, unable to take his eyes from the passive face of the sleeping man next to him. Running a hand over the chest as it softly rose and fell, he paused to finger the gold nipple ring. He doubted Blair would even remember how he had held him up in the shower as the old drunk washed the blood out of his hair. He had been really out of it. The old man had protested that they shouldn't get the stitches wet, but Wright wanted all evidence of the blood gone and the peroxide had only made it fizzle and spread. Deeply regretting he had swung so hard in a fit of rage, he remembered the crunch as the bat connected to the back of Blair's head. 

Doc had said Blair couldn't see, nor could he remember anything that happened in the last week.  "Bad concussion, probably some swelling in the brain," he had said. "This man should be in a hospital. There's no telling how much blood he lost. He will probably die."

No. He won't die. Wright assured himself. He'll be just fine, all he needs is someone to take care of him. Doc had promised to get some antibiotics and return in the morning to check on him. And he damned well better, as much money as he was getting paid for this. There wasn't much the old man could do for that kind of payola, except for the occasional back alley abortion or patching up a crook that took a bullet. Such was the life of a used up, disavowed, drunken excuse for a doctor. As for the loss of sight and memory, well, that only helped, as far as Wright was concerned. He would use those problems to his own advantage.

Unable to stop himself, Wright touched Blair's face, rubbing his thumb slowly along the full lips. He knew Blair would never love him, the many reasons why didn't matter. But he would keep him none the less, like a possession if he had to. For now he would be content to watch him sleep, touching his bare skin with guilty pleasure, almost against his will. He tried not to, but he couldn't stop himself.

Trying to swallow past a lump that was rapidly forming in his throat as he examined the evidence, Simon realized the dried blood on the bat didn't really bother him. It could have belonged to anyone. But the several strands of curly brown hair caught in the slight splinter of the wood were another story. In fact, it was making the tough as nails police captain queasy. He had already reviewed the crime scene photos and knew from the splatter pattern and the sheer amount of blood that the blunt force of the single blow had been excessive. Yet Jim stubbornly maintained that Sandburg was still alive. Simon looked over to his stalwart detective who watched somberly as the tech removed a blood sample from the sweater that had been found outside of the loft. Jim assured Simon it was indeed the same sweater Blair had been wearing when they recovered him from Wright the last time. Though Jim admitted he thought Blair had disposed of it.

Simon knew in his head he wasn't directly responsible for Blair's abduction, or death as the case may be. He was only following orders when he pulled the guard off the kid. And both Ellison and Sandburg had been less and less concerned as the days went by. In his heart, however, he told himself he could have done something to keep up security for a little while longer, or to find that bastard Wright before he had the chance to strike. He was already beginning to mourn the loss of the observer, telling himself that soon he would have to find a way to comfort the other injured party. Knowing the other man would never be the same, wondering if he would even survive. For all of his outward calm, Simon realized Jim was barely holding it together. And he was feeling guilty as well. He had already said if he hadn't so eagerly accepted that Wright was dead in the first place, even though his body had never been found, that none of this would be happening now. So there was guilt enough to go around.

"Sir?"

Simon startled when he recognized that Ellison had finally noticed his arrival and was speaking to him. He quickly pulled his hand away from its slow caress of the file labeled 'Sandburg'. "What?"

"I asked if you got in touch with Agent Reaves," Jim repeated insistently.

"No. Actually, she's undercover right now and can't be reached. But her boss is sending all the information on Wright they have available," Simon said, reading the brief flash of disappointment on Ellison's face. "We may have something on the car. Traffic is fishing a gray Olds out of the bay as we speak."

Jim rushed past his boss. "I'm on my way!" he shouted.

Blair teetered just on the edge of consciousness. The hollow, throbbing pain in his head was nicely accented by the dizziness, nausea, and a very dry mouth. A hand under his neck gently eased him up enough to let him swallow a sip of water, just enough to wet his throat. Then a pill was placed on his tongue, followed by more water, which Blair gratefully accepted as he woke. When he opened his eyes, there was a dark figure in front of him silhouetted against a backdrop of light.

"That's it, my boy," a kindly voice crooned. "That's to prevent an infection. Now I want you to nibble on this piece of toast so you don't throw it up." A hand once again lifted his head and placed a couple of pillows under him to raise him to a semi sitting position. "I didn't really think you would make it through the night without medical intervention," the old man confessed with something akin to shame in his voice.

Blair reached out with his hand until a piece of dry toast was pressed into it. He tentatively took a bite, and was relieved when he was able to keep it down. He ate the rest without complaint.

"Still can't see?"

"Not really," Blair said as he finished his toast. "Who are you?"

"Doc. We met last night when I sutured up the back of your head."

"I think I remember that. Where am I?"

"You're at home as far as I know," the old man said easily.

Blair had no reason to think Doc was lying, except he knew he wasn't in his own bed. This one was large and luxurious and covered in silk sheets, but Blair would have much preferred his futon. It wasn't Jim's bed either, he was almost sure. The very fact he was injured and not in a hospital told him Jim wasn't nearby.

"Doc, my name is Blair Sandburg and I think I've been kidnapped or something. I don't know who this, Bennett? Is that what you called him? I don't know who that is," Blair explained cautiously.

"Kidnapped? No, you must be confused from the head injury. Bennett said you had an argument and he accidentally pushed you. He said you didn't want the police involved and that's why he didn't call an ambulance."

"No," Blair protested. "I don't know exactly what did happen, but I'm definitely not supposed to be here, wherever here is. Please, if you'll just call the Cascade PD and ask for..."

"Shh, Bennett's coming. Be quiet," Doc urged, quickly running a hand down Blair's face to close his eyelids. When he looked up, the man he knew as Bennett was standing in the door.

"Did he take his medicine," Bennett asked in a hushed voice.

"Yeah, I think he should rest for a while," Doc said, brushing away the crumbs from his patient's chest before pulling the covers over him.

Blair kept his eyes closed, but listened intently for the voice of this 'Mr. Bennett'. He felt like he could trust Doc, but knew he would have to wait until he could talk with him again. A hand eased one of the extra pillows away, and lips brushed Blair's forehead. Blair fought back his alarm until footsteps retreated and the door was shut. He sat up abruptly, but the movement jarred his damaged brain. His sight went completely black as he fell back to the pillow, panting through the renewed pain, trying to hold on to consciousness, and succeeding for almost a minute.

Ellison slammed his fist against the roof of the car. The cold, murky bay water had washed away most of the evidence, according to the team that had already finished their inspection. Jim had gone over it himself once already, carefully using one sense at a time, and had come up empty as well. There were bloodstains in the trunk, but diluted enough by the water that Jim couldn't identify it, and forensics would take awhile. The car had been rented in Seattle a week ago with a stolen credit card, and had been listed as stolen itself only this morning. Jim sighed and took a deep, cleansing breath, as he was sure his Guide would have told him to do, and began again. This time he started at the trunk and worked his way back, sure that this was where Blair had been thrown after Wright had knocked him out.

Doc sat on the bench outside of the rundown apartment building and slowly pulled out one utensil after another from the Swiss army knife as he enjoyed a good single malt liquor for a change, and the cool evening air. He had found the knife in the pocket of the clothes Mr. Bennett had had him throw out, not wanting the clothes to be found in the trash at the expensive high-rise apartment building. Thinking of the blind young man that had once owned it, he wondered if what the man had said was true. Bennett swore it was nothing but a lover's quarrel gone bad, but if he really cared about Sandburg, why didn't he take him somewhere where he could be looked after properly? 

Too many years living this way and too much booze combined to make him less than a perfect citizen, but even he felt that something was not right about the situation. But he still wasn't willing to get involved. Oh, no. He had enough problems of his own without trying to take care of someone else. Besides, the poor guy had survived so far, and with each passing day his chances got better. And this was a sweet deal. All he had to do was visit twice a day and check on the kid. Somehow, it made him feel like a doctor again. But that in itself had its own drawback, for feeling like a doctor meant that he also cared. With each drink, his determination to do nothing faltered. When he was finally stinking drunk, some hour and a half later, he decided he could at least find out if anyone even knew a Blair Sandburg, and if he was really missing. He stumbled down the block to the pay phone on the corner. Not having any change, he thoughtlessly dialed 911.

"911 operator. What is your emergency?"

"I..I need to speak to someone about a missing person. Please, I don't have any money for the call," Doc answered nervously, hoping the operator would transfer him instead of giving him a lecture about proper use of emergency system.

Blair was grateful when he realized he was at least wearing boxer shorts as he eased himself down to the floor, careful not to make any more sudden moves. He sensed light, although he couldn't make out anything in his surroundings, and he had no idea what time, or even what day it was. Doc had been in earlier he thought, at least someone had been in because he seemed to remember taking another pill. Crawling along the wall, feeling with one hand he reached a chest of drawers. There was a sound somewhere outside of the bedroom, and he froze in place to listen. Closing his eyes and concentrating, he wished not for the first time he had even a fraction of Jim's hearing abilities.

Jim. The thought stopped him cold. Surely Jim was aware he was gone by now. He had to be looking for him, and if anybody could find him, Jim could. If he was able. Since he had no recollection of what had happened to him, he had no way of knowing if Jim was hurt as well. The possible scenarios that flashed through his mind thanks to his fertile imagination scared the shit out of him. None of them were good. He couldn't imagine a single good reason why he would be blind with no memory of why, and no Jim to explain it to him.

He dug though the dresser drawers until he found a T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants, which he quickly put on, before continuing his slow journey around the edge of the room. He stopped outside a door and listened. There was definitely water running somewhere on the other side of it. A shower, he decided before moving on. The next piece of furniture was a desk, which much to Blair's relief had a PC sitting on the top of it, and hopefully a modem. Sitting up on his knees, Blair turned it on without too much trouble before he realized that he couldn't use the mouse if he couldn't see the screen. As he struggled to decide if he could use keys to connect to the Internet, the water in the bathroom shut off. He quickly turned off the computer and climbed into the chair he bumped into while trying to get back to the bed, thankful the chair didn't have rollers on it.

After a minute, a door opened and Blair felt a mist of warm wet air move past him. Steam from the shower, he surmised. Working with Jim for so long had made him somewhat aware of his own senses, too, and hopefully would help him to compensate for his loss of sight. He turned his face to the open door, grimacing at the nagging pain in his head.

"Jim, I may have something," Brown exclaimed as he hung up the phone. Ellison moved towards him and met him halfway between the desks. "That was Lt. Johnson, who handles missing persons files. Someone called asking if a Blair Sandburg had been listed as missing and then hung up when Johnson tried to question him. Johnson recognized Blair's name and called up here."

"I don't suppose he put a trace on the call, did he?" Jim asked hopefully.

"He didn't have to. The idiot called 911! Automatic trace," Brown exclaimed. "It was a pay phone, I've got the address right here."

Jim smacked the bald man affectionately on top of his head. "Let's roll, babe."

"I'm coming, too," Rafe called out, grabbing his jacket off of the back of his chair and racing after the other two detectives.

As Wright wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door, he noticed Blair wasn't in the bed. He charged into the bedroom and found Sandburg dressed and sitting in the chair at the desk. The smaller man jumped when he realized Wright was in front of him. 

"I see you found something to wear," Wright said, kneeling down in front of Blair, looking into the deep blue eyes for any evidence of sight.

"I was cold," Blair said awkwardly, staring straight ahead.

"It's all right. I just didn't expect you to be up. How do you feel?"

"I'm blind," Blair answered bitterly. "How would you feel, Bennett?"

Wright laughed softly. "That's just an alias. I have several. You know me by something else," he teased.

Suddenly the voice clicked, sending a shudder of recognition through the anthropologist. He flinched and pulled back. "I thought you were dead," he blurted out, not bothering to hide his revulsion.

"Who do you think I am?" Wright asked, somewhat amused.

"Curtis Wright," Blair answered softly, wrapping his arms tightly around himself so as not to touch the hands of the killer that now rested on the armrests of the chair. He began to hyperventilate as the realization of the situation sunk in.

"Easy, Blair," Wright whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

"Gee, that means so much coming from you," Blair stated skeptically. "Did you promise not to hurt Kenny, too?"

"That was different. I was angry then. And hurt. I've been working on patience."

"Did you harm Jim?" Blair asked suddenly, feeling like he might pass out again.

"The cop? He's fine as far as I know. But we're a long way from Cascade," Wright lied. "He'll never find us here."

Blair considered the information, taking it with a grain of salt. Jim was okay. He tried to believe that. He concentrated on slowing his breathing. Wright had a definite advantage, and he would need his wits if he wanted to survive. They sat in silence until Blair was calm.

"Would you like a bath?" Wright asked, breaking into his troubled thoughts.

"No," Blair answered quickly. "I'm still cold," he added lamely.

"How about something to eat?"

Blair considered food for a minute. "Maybe later. Right now I'd really like to go to the bathroom."

"Ok, give me your arm," Wright instructed as he helped Blair to stand. After he steadied him, he led him to the bathroom.

Swaying slightly, Blair kept his free arm out in front of him, not quite trusting that he wouldn't fall, trying hard not to lean on his captor. His nightmare had taken a turn for the worse. Not only was Curtis Wright alive and well, but he was alone with him and couldn't see a damn thing. Walking was difficult and Blair felt as weak as a kitten. Definitely not a good day, whatever day it was.

"I'd rather do this alone," Blair stated firmly, stopping in the doorway and shaking free from Wright's hand.

"I understand," Wright said lightly. "I'll fix you something to eat."

As soon as Wright was gone, Blair shut and locked the door before feeling along the wall to find the toilet. After using the facilities, he searched the room. There weren't any windows, and there wasn't anything to use as a weapon. The only razor he found was electric. Exhausted and scared to death, he slid down the wall and rested on the plush carpet. His head ached and he still felt dizzy, closing his eyes didn't help. At least the psycho was on the other side of a locked door. How long could he survive in here, Blair wondered. It was warm and clean at least, a definite improvement over some of the places he had been held captive. And there was plenty of drinkable water. To his dismay, he heard a key in the lock, and the door swung open.

"Are you okay?" Wright asked worriedly. "Did you fall?"

Blair started as Wright put his hands on him, searching for injuries. "I'm fine, I just got dizzy," Blair said, hoping the hands would go away.

Wright pulled him to his feet and helped him back to the bed. "Why are you being so nice to me," Blair asked suspiciously, as he settled on the bed.

"I like you," Wright answered simply. He placed a tray over Blair's lap and guided his hand around it. "The soup is here, careful, it's hot. There's a grilled cheese sandwich here, also hot, and here is some tea. Doc said tea is a natural diuretic and may help reduce some of the pressure on your brain. But he also wants you to limit the amount of fluid you drink."

"Oh," Blair said, thinking that he himself wouldn't even try to use natural remedies for a major concussion. He sniffed the sandwich before taking a bite. It smelled good, and he was hungry, so he ate it. Wright waited quietly, guiding the spoon occasionally as Blair ate the soup. When he finished it, Wright pressed a capsule into his hand.

"This is an antibiotic. Take it," Wright ordered gently.

"I don't like to take a bunch of medicine," Blair protested. "Especially when I don't know what it is."

"Blair, I don't want to hurt you," Wright said patiently. "But if you don't do what I tell you, I might. I have a bad temper. Please don't test me," he forewarned without raising his voice.

Popping the pill into his mouth, Blair pretended to wash it down with a sip of tea. "Very good," Wright said. "Now this time, really swallow it."

Over a hundred fingerprints were lifted off the phone booth, and there was absolutely no way to tell which, if any of them, belonged to the caller. Jim had listened to the 911 tape and was certain it was an older man, and just as sure he had been very drunk. By all probabilities, he was somewhere in the area sleeping it off. The search had been exhaustive, but they hadn't come up with anything. Everyone else was long gone, but Jim had come back. 

Expanding the search area one more block, he leaned wearily against a brick wall at the entrance of an alley. He closed his eyes and started with smell, thinking how much easier this would be if Sandburg were here. Being tired and worried made it that much more difficult to focus, but the call was all he had to go on at the moment, and he wasn't going to waste his time doing nothing. Sorting through the various alley smells, filtering out the most noxious ones first, he locked onto and then discarded one smell after another. Suddenly his eyes flew open and he ran down the alley to a dumpster. He let the lid fall back with a crash and glanced at the top layer of trash as he slipped on a glove. He smelled Sandburg. And blood. With a minimal effort he uncovered a stained plaid shirt and a pair of jeans stuffed into a bag. The same clothes Blair had been wearing the last time he saw him.

Turning in circles in the middle of the alley, he searched the windows of the dilapidated apartment buildings on each side. He fought the certainty he felt, hoping he was wrong, but knowing deep inside Blair was not close by.

"Sandburg!" he shouted into the alley, listening to his own voice echo back to him, shocked at the desperation he heard there.

Hopelessly yearning for sleep, Blair kept his eyes closed and listened to Wright breathing. He was aware the light was still on, mostly because he hadn't heard it click off, but more importantly, he could tell the difference between light and dark more than before. Wright moved occasionally, but didn't speak, sitting next to the bed in the hard wooden chair. Since Blair didn't believe he would sleep there, he tried to convince himself Wright might be reading. He didn't really believe that though, because he never heard the rustle of pages being turned. And he could literally feel the other man's eyes on him, assaulting him with a near physical presence. Finally, Wright stood and moved towards the door. Blair heard the light click off, and 'saw' the difference of the level of light as he sneaked a peek. But the door never opened. Instead, Wright moved back to the bed, and slipped into the other side. Blair bolted towards the bathroom, only to be grabbed by the wrist and yanked back to the mattress.

"Don't," Blair warned through clenched teeth.

"Shh, just relax," Wright soothed, his calming voice belied the harsh grip.

"Leave me alone."

"I'm not going to bother you. There's only one bed and I know you're hurt. Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

"Yes," Blair answered. "Better yet, let me."

"Funny," Wright said as he gathered a pillow and headed for the door. "Go to sleep."

"Right," Blair sighed. "As if I could."

Jim sat on the bench, watching and waiting, for what he wasn't sure, but not satisfied that each building had been searched door to door. Someone on this block knew enough to ask about Blair Sandburg, the same someone who had dumped his clothes out back. He groaned when he recognized the car that pulled up at the curb and parked behind the truck. Too tired to argue, and much too tired to drive himself home, he picked himself off the bench and got into the car without being told.

"Hey, Simon," he said tiredly.

Blair lowered himself to the floor and crawled towards the desk. After listening for and hearing Wright snoring in the other room, he turned on the computer. After he determined that this PC didn't have speakers, and that the modem was in fact plugged into the phone line on the wall he got to work. The brightness of the monitor was a beautiful sight, even though he couldn't actually see anything on it but dark spots. He began to move the mouse around and try to get an Internet connection. After almost an hour of trying unsuccessfully, the screen began to fade in and out, until at last, everything went dark once again. With shaky hands, he turned everything off and made his way back to the bed. The dizziness that had been his constant companion became worse, and he curled up on his side until he fell into a fitful sleep.

"Blair, wake up," Wright tapped him on the cheek. "Come on, I need you to take a bath while I pack."

Groaning and covering his head, Blair listened, but didn't register the words.

"Ok, ten more minutes, but then you've got to get up. I'm going to order the tickets right now. I've already got our flight picked out. I hope there are seats left." Wright sat down at the desk and booted up the computer. The dial tone as it connected to the Internet woke Blair completely. He sat up and groggily swung his feet over the edge of the bed, trying hard to see something. Anything.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Someplace warm. You'll love it. I'll run you some water since you're up." Wright's voice sounded further away as he entered the bathroom.

Blair got to his feet and staggered towards the desk. "Why are we leaving here?" he asked to keep Wright talking so that he could track him.

"We were only hanging out here until you got back on your feet. You're a lot better now, so we're going to move on." The sound of water slightly drowned out the words. "Doc is going to see you this morning. Check you out one more time before we go."

Tentatively Blair reached for where he thought the keyboard should be. "See, you're getting along great," Wright said, from way too close, causing Blair to jump. "Except you over shot the bathroom. Come back this way. There's shampoo on the ledge of the tub. I want you to wash your hair. I don't care what Doc says about the stitches."

"Thanks," Blair mumbled and altered his course. He pulled his T-shirt over his head as he went, bumping into Wright in the doorway. Blair tried to back away, but Wright put a hand on the jamb, blocking his exit. He could feel Wright's warm breath on his face, so he turned his head away and attempted to slow his own rapid respirations. Determined not to show fear he said, "That's not the best way to convince me to take a bath."

Wright took the T-shirt from Blair's hand and moved away, sitting down at the desk. With a heartfelt sigh Blair shut the door and locked it. He knew Wright had a key, but the action sent a message that Wright wasn't welcome. Careful to place the sweats where he could reach them quickly if need be, he stepped into the hot water and took the shortest bath in history. Sparing only minutes to wash his hair as he had been instructed to do.

Grabbing the sweats, he rose shakily to his feet and climbed over the edge of the tub, certain that he was going to fall on his face. He slipped the pants on without drying off first, as being naked doubled his already staggering sense of vulnerability. Finding a towel, he dried his arms, chest, and back before starting to work on his hair. He used a finger to exam the long row of sutures running down the back of his head like a zipper.

There was a knock on the door. "Come on in, you've got a key," Blair grumbled as he located the electric razor on the sink.

"It's Doc. Let me in," came the unexpected reply.

Blair dropped the razor and quickly made his way to the door. "Where's Wright?" he asked anxiously.

"Who?"

"Bennett. Where is he?"

"He said he had some errands to run. Shopping he said. He'll be back soon. He said if you weren't here when he got back that he would kill me," Doc supplied nervously, not doubting for a minute Wright was serious.

"Doc, you've got to help me," Blair began, reaching out and finding the old man with his hands. "We can protect you."

"I can't help you," Doc swore sadly.

"Ten minutes, that's all I need. Please. You're a doctor! Damn it. You've got to have some humanity left somewhere," Blair pleaded. "I'll still be here when Wright gets back. I just want to send a message."

"He doesn't have a phone here. He uses one of those new fangled ones that you take with you," Doc said.

"We don't need a phone."

Doc swallowed compulsively. "What do you want me to do?"

"Over here, look at the screen..." Blair fumbled towards the desk.

"I don't know anything about computers!" Doc protested vehemently.

"I do. Trust me. I just need you to be my eyes. What is on the screen now?" Blair asked.

"I don't know!" Doc whined.

"You can read, right? Just read it. And calm down, man."

"Something about airline tickets. Aruba, flight 107, leaving at twelve fifteen."

"Great, we're still online, that will save some time. Okay, look for something around the edge, maybe at the top that says mail..." Blair prompted.

"There's a little thing that looks like a mailbox in the top left hand corner."

"That's it! Do you see anything about sending mail or writing mail?" Blair asked, still not knowing exactly which provider they were connected to.

"It says write," Doc said uncertainly.

"Great, now move this little thing around until the arrow is on top of that icon. See how it moves?" Blair asked, demonstrating the mouse.

"I don't know," Doc said, trying out the mouse. "Okay. It's right on top of it."

Blair placed his hand over the old man's and clicked. He talked him through the steps to send a message, having to trust his typing skills without seeing what he wrote, having Doc read it back to him. He typed out everything he knew about the situation to send to Jim's address at work, stopping to ask, "Where are we?"

"The Rockshire Building," Doc answered, fascinated with his first real look at the workings of a PC.

"No shit? Ritzy," Blair commented as he added the information. "Now, find me the send button."

"It says send now, and send later."

"Send now," Blair instructed. "Okay, what does the screen look like now?"

"It's back to where we started, with the airline information."

Blair sighed and made his way back to the bed. "Thank you, Doc."

"I wish you wouldn't keep getting those stitches wet," Doc grumbled to change the subject as he joined Blair at the bedside, pushing a suit case over to make room for Blair to sit.

"If you get another attack of conscience," Blair teased, "call Detective James Ellison at the Cascade police department and tell him to get his ass over here to get me."

"That's not too likely," Doc answered solemnly.

"I understand. I don't like it, but I do understand. Wright's a scary guy."

"How does he look?" Wright asked as he pulled out a wad of money to pay the man.

"Considering that I thought he would die a couple of days ago, I'd say he looks pretty good. If he takes it real easy and doesn't do any more damage to his head, he may even get his eyesight back."

Wright laughed. "Don't worry too much about his sight. I kind of like him this way. It makes him so much easier to handle."

Doc stared at the man for a moment in disgust. Suddenly he was proud that he had done what he could to help the young man to get away from this monster.

"Did you get what I asked you for?" Wright asked.

"Here, but with a head injury, you're taking a big chance giving him a sedative." Doc handed over a baggie with some pills in it and accepted the cash from Wright.

"Get lost," Wright said, opening the front door.

Jim sat on the bench and glanced around the run-down neighborhood where Simon had dropped him off to get the truck. He felt a little better after sleeping on his boss's couch, since Simon didn't trust that he would sleep at all if he took him home. Still, six hours of sleep in three days wasn't a lot. The only reason he had slept at all was he had been completely exhausted.

Assuming the information from the FBI had arrived during the night, he got up and headed for the truck. A bus arrived at the end of the block and several people got off of it. The second person off was a shabbily dressed older man who flicked something red out of his pocket and played with it as he walked slowly along with his head down. Jim narrowed his eyes until he made out the Swiss army knife. He planted himself in the middle of the sidewalk and let the man come to him, waiting until he was within arms length before reacting. He reached out and gently plucked the knife out of the startled old man's hand.

"Hey!" the man stammered. "That's mine!"

"You made the phone call," Jim stated with complete certainty. "You were trying to help him."

More sober than he had been in days, feeling remorseful and ashamed, and totally aware he could not out run the large man, Doc caved in. "If you're Detective Ellison, Blair says you should come get him," he said with tears in his eyes.

The relief that washed over him almost put him on his knees. "Where is he?" Jim croaked out.

"I'll take you to him," Doc said. "It's the least I can do."

Wright packed most of the clothes he had bought for Blair, leaving out what he wanted him to wear on the airplane, while Blair brushed his teeth and shaved.

"You missed a spot," Wright admonished as Blair came out of the bathroom.

"Like I care," Blair said, feeling around for the chair, since Wright had every square inch of the bed covered with suitcases and clothes.

Wright ducked into the bathroom and came out with the razor, nudging Blair's head back to clean up the blind man's shave. "Can I wear some of that cologne?" Blair asked suddenly, knowing that if Jim got his message he could use the smell to locate him, even in a crowded airport. Jim would recognize it immediately this time.

"What kind do you want?" Wright asked, pleased by Blair's interest.

"The French stuff you wear."

Wright obliged and pulled the bottle out of his carry on bag, spraying Blair with a light mist of it. "More," Blair urged.

"It doesn't take a lot," Wright said with a laugh.

"I know, I just really like it," Blair lied, trying not to gag.

Wright sprayed it again and moved to put it away. "You were wearing this when we met. I guess you knew it was my favorite. I always wondered how you knew so much about me," he said warmly.

"I didn't know anything about you," Blair confessed quickly. "There was an FBI agent who profiled you, I won't tell you her name because I don't want you to go after her. She picked me out of a group of officers to be the bait to catch you. She had a bottle of the stuff."

"A woman?"

"Yeah. She picked out everything, the clothes, the cologne, me. She must have known what she was doing. You fell for it."

Wright nodded without thinking that he couldn't be seen. "I did," he added out loud for Blair's benefit.

"But that wasn't me, Curtis. Don't you get it? This is me."

"I know who you are now," Wright stated. "I followed you, just watching. I even sat in on one of your classes. You were... are remarkable," he sighed moving back and forth as he spoke, suddenly realizing Blair was following his movement with his eyes. "Can you see me?" he asked.

"Not really. Just dark and light mostly."

"Yeah, Doc told me you should be careful not to get any more bumps to the head or the blindness might be permanent," he said as he considered his options. "Stand up, your clothes are over here." Inwardly, Wright cursed his decision, unsure if he could follow through with it.

Blair got to his feet, a little more steady than he had been and moved towards the bed with his arm out in front of him. He took the clothes Wright handed him and turned to go into the bathroom.

"Wait. Don't get dressed yet," Wright said, reaching from behind and pulling the clothes away. "There's something I have to do first," he said ruefully.

Blair tensed and his breathing became harsh as he misinterpreted Wright's intentions. He prepared to fight if he had to, turning to face his opponent, even though he couldn't see him. Wright dropped the clothes into the chair and lashed out with a violent blow, striking Blair hard in the face, knocking him to the ground.

As Blair grabbed his head in agony, writhing on the floor, Wright dropped down next to him. "I'm so sorry. I just think you'll be easier to handle if you don't get your sight back. One good blow should have done the trick, I won't ever hit you again. I really am sorry."

"You're crazy," Blair sobbed, still holding his head, afraid he would never be able to see again. Pain, fear, and nausea threatened to engulf him.

"Shh, it'll be all right," Wright comforted. "I'll take care of you. Don't worry. I love you."

Blair laughed and cried at the same time. "Love? You don't hurt people you love like that," he stammered.

"Rest for a minute, then I'll help you get dressed."

"Get your hands off me, you bastard!" Blair screamed and pulled away, trying to get off the floor, the volume of his own voice ringing in his ears. As he tried to sit up, he was defeated by the lightheadedness that overcame him, and all but passed out.

Wright gently eased him back down to the soft carpet. "Just rest." He stroked back the curly hair and laid a whisper of a kiss on Blair's forehead. Feeling bad about his actions, but not knowing what to do about it, he continued to stroke and kiss the semi-conscious man. Becoming bolder when he wasn't pushed away, he tenderly kissed the full lips. Blair turned his head, using almost all of the strength he had left to do it.

"You are so beautiful," Wright gushed, getting caught up in the moment and continuing to kiss Blair on the face and neck. "I've waited so long," he sighed, wiping away the single drop of blood that trickled from Blair's cut cheek, where his ring had grazed him.

Blair managed to raise a hand and push weakly against Wright's chest. "No," he slurred as he felt the slow pull into an even deeper darkness. The whole world seemed to fold in on itself, and for an instant he still felt a sense of dread and desperation, but it too faded, along with every thing else.

The arm that had been pushing him away dropped and Blair's eyes seemed to roll back just as he closed his eyes. "Don't play 'possum with me Blair," Wright warned as he patted the now clammy face. He started to panic when he realized Blair wasn't faking it, and in fact was out cold. After a few minutes of despondency on Wright's part, Blair began to come around. He moaned and held his head.

"Come on," Wright urged. "We've got a plane to catch."

Jim maneuvered through traffic with the help of the flashing blue light. Doc held on, glad for once that he hadn't had anything to drink. "Patch me through to Captain Banks," Jim instructed the operator in dispatch. "Simon, I found him. He's at the Rockshire Building, apartment 2232. We're almost there."

"I want you to wait for backup, Jim. This needs to be by the book," Simon threatened. "I don't want you going off the deep end."

"I can't promise I won't hurt him, sir, but if Sandburg is all right, I'll let him live," Jim swore as he hung up.

"Come on, come on," Jim complained, beating his hand against the steering wheel as the cars around him slowed to a crawl and then stopped. "Rush hour should be over by now!" He hit the siren and eased up inch by inch to the intersection where the cross traffic sat bumper to bumper, completely blocking the road. The light turned green, but no one moved, effectively held up in the gridlock. Jim grabbed the mic to request a cop to clear the traffic jam and then tossed it wearily back towards the dash.

"He's a nice person," Doc said quietly from the other side of the cab. "It's too bad."

Jim turned ice blue eyes on the man. "What's too bad?" he asked, the heat of his anger evaporated, replaced by a cold feeling in his gut.

"Oh, I guess you didn't get his letter yet. He wrote to you on the computer. I helped him," Doc added proudly.

"You mean he sent me an e-mail?"

"Yes. I guess that's what it's called."

Flicking open his cell phone once again, Jim dialed Simon's direct number. "Simon, get someone to open my e-mail, the password is taped under my top desk drawer."

"Jim, you shouldn't keep your password in a public place."

"I know it's not smart... Simon, just do it. There should be something from Sandburg. Call me back when you get it."

He turned back to his passenger. "What does the message say?"

Doc cleared his throat. "It tells you where he is, and that Mr. Bennett, I mean Mr. Wright is planning to take him to Aruba on a flight at 12:15. I don't remember the details."

"What else?"

"It's what he didn't say that worries me," Doc said sadly. "He was hit on the head."

"I know," Jim replied, the crime scene still clear in his mind. "How bad?"

"Bad," Doc sighed. "He was lucky he lived, but he did lose his eyesight."

"He's blind? Wright is so dead," Jim ground out. "Will it be permanent?"

"Maybe, but he was starting to recover a little. But Wright is planning to sedate him to get him out of the country. The pills I gave him are very strong. Mixed with the head injury... well, it's not a good combination."

A policeman appeared in the lane ahead and began to sort out the mess. Jim edged the truck forward until at last the officer cleared him a path. He clenched his jaw and drove without comment. But the turmoil within was almost deafening.

They pulled up to the front entrance and screeched to a halt. Doc ran to keep up as Ellison stormed the lobby, flashing his badge at the security guard who foolishly attempted to stop him just inside the door. A black and white unit arrived as the repentant guard led the way to the elevator. Jim punched the button for the twenty-second floor as they all piled in. "Hang on, Chief. I'm comin'."

Wright got himself together enough to get Blair dressed and settle him on the couch. The taxi driver arrived to get the luggage, with the promise of a hundred-dollar tip. "Is he all right?" the man asked as Wright slipped an arm around the near incoherent Blair and helped him to his feet.

"Wild night," Wright explained with a smile. "Too much booze and no time to sleep it off. Why don't you go on down and we'll meet you at the curb."

Blair grumbled, but was coached into putting one foot in front of the other, all the way to the freight elevator, which was closer to the apartment than the passenger one. Once inside, Wright leaned him against the wall and slipped a pair of sunglasses on his face. Gathering the curly hair, he slid a rubber band onto it and then pushed the ponytail under a straw hat. He pulled a bottle of water out of his pocket and placed a pill on Blair's tongue.

"Take your medicine, Blair," he urged.

"Tastes bad," Blair mumbled, trying to spit it out. "What is it?"

"It's your antibiotic."

"It's different this time," Blair insisted.

"Take the damn pill," Wright threatened lightly.

Blair's hand shook and he spilled some of the water, but managed to drink enough to wash down the pill. "You'll never get away with this. Jim will find us."

"Be warned, if you do anything to get us caught, I'll go public with the paper I found in your bedroom," Wright promised.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Blair said with a quick catch in his breath as he heard a paper being unfolded.

"Dear Simon," Wright read. "If you are reading this, then I must be dead, or otherwise incapable of acting as Jim's guide..."

"Stop," Blair said and reached out to grab at the paper, which Wright yanked out of the way.

"I don't exactly understand it, but I know it's important. To you and to that cop," Wright hissed, putting the paper away. "Be a good boy, and everything will work out."

The elevator opened and Wright maneuvered his now silent prisoner into the lobby, and out of the front door. The taxi waited just in front of a beat up blue and white pickup.

"I've got to rest," Blair stated wearily, his knees on the verge of collapsing as they reached the curb. Wright leaned him against the truck for a second before recognition of the vehicle struck home.

"Almost there. Let's go," he ordered and practically carried the smaller man the next five steps to the open back door of the cab. "Airport. Now," he commanded urgently as he crawled in behind Sandburg and slammed the door.

"On three," the first uniformed officer said, ready to count down.

"Three," Ellison said and kicked the door in. He led with his gun and did a sensory sweep at the same time. "Damn it! They're already gone." He followed his nose directly to the bedroom where his Guide had been kept, sneezing at the high level of the cologne he so hated. He scooped up the sweat pants lying on the bed and clutched them to his chest as he looked around wildly, noting the drop of crimson on the white carpet.

"What?" he snapped as he opened his cell phone.

"Easy, Detective," Simon growled right back. "Did you get him?"

"No, sir. They've left for the airport."

"I'll meet you there," Simon said and hung up.

After the twenty-minute ride to the airport the drug had time to work it's way into Blair's system. "What did you give me?" he asked, unaware of how thick his voice sounded.

"Shh," Wright said. "Hold on to my arm." He led the way into the terminal, with Blair close behind, dragging one foot slightly as he walked. The cabbie brought the luggage and Wright paid him, making good on the tip, and stepping up to the VIP line.

"I hate you," Blair said, barely able to sound out the words, dropping his hand from Wright's arm.

"I know. Be quiet," Wright instructed, then turned to the helpful airline employee behind the counter. "Hello," he said brightly.

"Is there a problem?" the woman asked, casting a concerned glance at the drugged man behind the sunshades.

Wright leaned in close to the counter. "My friend had a seizure in the cab. He's fine, but he's very embarrassed whenever this happens. It's best not to make a big deal out of it," he whispered, reaching out to stabilize the drifting man for a minute. "Could you just pass that information along to the crew?"

"Certainly, would you like me to get him a wheel chair?"

"That would be great, and maybe you could hurry us along a little. Maybe seat us first?"

"I'll take care of everything, sir."

Simon saw a blue and white blur out of the corner of his eye as he parked in the tow away zone. He jumped from the car, but Ellison still beat him through the automatic doors, stopping suddenly once inside the terminal. Simon slammed into his back.

"Damn it, Jim! Warn a guy," he groused.

Jim sniffed the air for a minute, then turned towards the Northwest Airlines counter at the other end of the building, and began pushing his way through the steadily growing crowd. He stopped again as his eyes fell on his missing Guide, standing in line as if lost and alone. His head was down and he appeared to be unsteady. Jim picked up the pace and moved directly towards his friend.

Blair reached out tentatively until his hand brushed against the man in front of him. "I'm going to fall," he said. And then he did.

As Wright turned to catch him, he caught sight of the angry Ellison coming in like a missile, pulling his weapon on the way. "Gun!" someone shouted, and the crowd began to panic, parting like the Red Sea.

"Police! Freeze!" Jim shouted, slowing to just out of reach of Sandburg.

Wright slipped his hand into his carry on bag and produced the gun he had intended to dump in the restroom just before going through the metal detector. Rising to his feet from Blair's side, he held it on Jim, in a silent standoff with the detective.

Jim listened intently to Blair, whose breathing was rapid and shallow, but never took his eyes off of Wright.

"Curtis Wright, you are under arrest," Simon said from somewhere to Jim's left. "You're out gunned here. Give it up."

Smiling wickedly, Wright sighed. "I'm not going to prison. You'll have to kill me. But I won't die alone." As he turned the gun on Blair, the air erupted in gunfire. Ellison dove to cover his partner with his own body. Wright fell back as multiple rounds pierced his chest.

Amid the smell of blood and gunsmoke and expensive cologne, Jim anchored himself on Blair's scent. He rolled him over and checked for injuries, before tenderly investigating the known damage on the back of his head, removing the glasses, as the hat had long since fallen off. Blair stirred and jumped at the hands on him. His unseeing eyes stared straight ahead, but he grabbed onto the arms around him anxiously.

"Jim," he said drowsily and managed a smile.

"Wright's dead," Simon informed Ellison as they watched Sandburg being loaded into the ambulance. "I don't know if it was your bullet or mine."

"It was either yours or one of the uniforms," Jim replied with a wry chortle. "I never fired a shot." He patted Simon on the back and climbed in before the doors were shut.

"At least before, I could see some light," Blair complained, sitting up in the bed with Jim right beside him with an arm around his shoulders. He fingered the Swiss army knife Jim had just returned to him.

Jim gave him a squeeze. "Yeah, but now you don't pass out every ten minutes."

"True," Blair sighed. The doctor was on his way to relay the results of the latest CT scan Blair had undergone in the last two days.

"Now we have medical proof you have a hard head," Jim teased, unable to keep the emotion completely out of his voice. "We just need to give it some time."

They sat in silence for several minutes, each in their own thoughts. "I read the letter you wrote to Simon," Jim said at last.

"Shit. I am so sorry, Jim. I never even considered it might fall into someone else's hands. I'm glad Simon found it before anyone else read it."

"It's okay, Chief. I just wanted to say thanks. That's all."

Blair rested his head back against Jim's shoulder. "I can't believe you had Doc arrested."

"He was an accessory to a kidnapping. Not to mention distributing drugs and practicing medicine without a license..."

"Yeah, Jim, I know. But he did help me."

"Don't worry about Doc. He's actually pretty happy. He started in AA and he gets three square meals a day. And they have him working as an orderly in the infirmary at the jail, which keeps him out of general population. For some reason, he signed up for a computer class they offer." He fell silent as the doctor came through the door.

Epilogue

Jim fought the urge to just go in and hand Sandburg his shoes, but he knew from experience it wouldn't be appreciated until his stubborn roommate actually asked for help. So he waited and listened, the frustration of his friend tearing at his heart.

"Ow. Damn it!" At the thump and exclamation of pain, Jim quietly edged to the half open doors. Blair sat on his bed rubbing his big toe in defeat. "Jim!" he called at last.

"Right here, buddy," Jim answered softly.

"I can't find my shoes."

"Where did you take them off?" Jim asked, having already spotted them, wanting to help Blair help himself.

"Right here. Geez, you sound like a mother," Blair huffed.

"Like your mother?" Jim asked in surprise.

"Well, no. Not my mother," Blair grinned.

"They're under the bed."

"I looked under the bed," Blair exclaimed, unable to see the expression of pain his choice of words caused his friend. "They're not there."

"Way up in there," Jim instructed. Blair got down on his knees and felt back as far as he could. "This way some," Jim directed getting down on the floor as well.

"Thanks," Blair said glumly as he pulled the sneakers out and climbed back onto the bed to put them on. "We're going to be late."

"No we're not. I lied about the time," Jim admitted, feeling very guilty as Blair's face fell.

Blair swallowed and looked as if he were deep in thought for a minute. "Jim, we need to talk."

"Nothing to talk about," Jim assured quietly.

"Come on, man. What good am I to you if I can't even tell the time or find my own shoes?"

"We're a team, Chief. That hasn't changed. I'll just be your guide for a while."

"So you'll be the Sentinel and the Guide. What am I supposed to do?"

"You're the shaman," Jim supplied, hoping to sound cheerful.

Blair thought for a minute then laughed. "So I'll just be the brains. You're right, nothing has changed."

"You know, when I lost my sight because of the golden, you didn't abandon me. Why do you think I would abandon you?" Jim asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

"Thanks, Jim," Blair sighed contentedly.

"Come on. Let's go get those stitches out."

Blair felt his way along to the doors of his room and turned his face towards the windows where light streamed into the loft. "Hey!" he said excitedly. "It's sunny today!"

"It is now," Jim sighed, wiping his eyes.               

The End

Disclaimer - Images, characters, and settings taken from various television shows are the property of their respective owners, producers, etc.  No copyright infringement intended, I'm just having a little fun.