CHASING RAINBOWS

This marathon tale began as 'something to do' while I came up with ideas for an auction story, which had to wait while I got this one out of my system (sorry Sue! It's on the way, I swear!!!). I've done my best to lick it into shape, but it's still more-or-less un-beta'd. So, gentle reader, if you spot any glaring errors, inconsistencies, stuff you feel just doesn't work - please let me know!

Disclaimer: Not mine, she wept. Not mine, not mine....

CHASING RAINBOWS

By Panik

All my life I’ve been chasing rainbows. At least, that’s what Naomi says. Naomi’s my mom, but she’s always thought of me as a friend first and a son second, and treated me accordingly. Maybe because she really isn’t all that much older than me. Just fifteen years. I know, because I looked in her passport once. That’s really young to be having a kid, right?

But she never seemed too young to me. Never felt old either. She was just Naomi; careful, protective and fun. She never put me down or treated me like my thoughts and feelings weren’t important because I was smaller and younger than her.

She always spoke to me like I was an adult, you know? Took what I said seriously and listened. Even when I was just a very little kid. She gave me her attention, made sure I knew that what I said was every bit as interesting as the stuff the grown ups talked about.

Maybe that’s why I was always a little ahead of the other kids. How I got to be in Rainier University at age sixteen. How I came to have my masters before I hit twenty one and working on my doctorate, well on my way to becoming a respected anthropologist at… at…

How old am I now? I think… I think I’m twenty eight. Maybe even twenty nine? My memory’s crystal clear about everything up to and including getting my masters, but it all gets really hazy on the last few years. I know those years happened. I mean, I know I’m not twenty five anymore. But… this is how I know something terrible has happened to me because I should be able to remember, shouldn’t I?

I don’t know who I am anymore, or where I am or why I’m here, lost in this jungle with a chunk of my memory missing. I sometimes wonder if I was on some expedition. That makes sense, because I’m in the forest and there’s a whole lot of ruins here, but if that’s the case, the reason for said expedition escapes me, now, and doesn’t explain all the other stuff...

Did I get lost? Wander off from my group and lose my way out here? Maybe I had an accident, and that’s why my memory is gone? That would make some kind of sense.

I mean, it could be a whole lot worse. It’s beautiful here, but so very, very cold. Maybe this jungle is high in the mountains, otherwise, how could it be cold? But there are lots of fruits and nuts and things to eat. I’m never hungry.

Sometimes, I wonder if I died? That would explain a lot of things. But if so, shouldn’t something be happening? Some kind of karmic bardo type of thing? Being dead wouldn’t explain why I’m all alone. And why I can’t remember anything.

How did I come to be here?

I was probably off chasing rainbows. That’s how I usually get into trouble. And, I really do think I am in some kind of big trouble here. If only I could remember…

** ** **

“…So, Detective Conner was left open to attack when you, who were supposedly backing him up, were not in position and were, in fact, still sitting in your truck. Is that the matter in a nutshell, Detective Ellison? Detective Ellison? Are we keeping you up, Detective?” Sheila Irwin snapped angrily as Jim slipped deeper into the semi-zone that had hovered at the edges of his consciousness ever since he’d sat down in I.A .to hear how his mistake, his failure, had almost cost Megan her life.

“Is he gone again?” Sheila’s half-worried voice was the last thing he heard as his thoughts slipped away completely, back to last Thursday and the Westerhouse stakeout…

The rain was falling hard, streetlights glinting off the black, shining pavement. The stakeout had been long and tedious; four days and five nights watching the warehouse where Jonathan Westerhouse, Cascade’s number one drug lord, expected to seal a major deal with Vladimir Alexandrovich Goshin, his Moscow based counterpart who was looking to expand his operation to America’s west coast by partnering with Westerhouse. Involving many thousands of hours of investigation and hundreds of thousands of dollars, the Westerhouse case had been a major undercover operation.

At three thirty am, when everyone was tired and at their lowest ebb, half an hour before the changeover, Jim had spotted Goshin, trench coat flapping against the wind and rain, heading over to the warehouse on foot. No one else but Jim would have seen the man dressed all in black – everyone else was watching for a car arriving. Megan reported it in and everyone prepared to go in.

Everyone except Jim Ellison. The wind blown rain, flashing in the orange light from the streetlamp by the truck had all his attention; the spray, sparkling and glittering like golden rain… like golden…

Jim sat like a statue, totally zoned out while his partner went after a notorious gang leader and known cop killer without her backup. Megan survived, but in the confusion, Goshin and Westerhouse got away. Who knew when they would have such a chance again? Subsequently, Jim had been on suspension for the past five days with a compulsory medical pending. He’d also lost his driving license whilst he underwent tests for epilepsy.

“Back among the living, Detective?” Sheila asked, trying for snippy, but unable to keep the concern out of her voice. Ellison was a good man, a great cop, everyone knew that. It wasn’t his fault that his health was deteriorating so badly. He was, however, entirely to blame for not reporting the problem, for not getting help, for trying to keep working knowing he was increasingly susceptible to blackouts and petit mal attacks. He had put himself and his colleagues at serious risk, and Irwin was going to make damn sure he wasn’t able to place good cops in danger again.

“I don’t think there’s anything more to be said here,” she said, slapping the file down on the desk. “Pending a detailed medical examination, you are on permanent suspension, Detective. Captain Banks, you’re responsible for making sure this man stays home until his fitness has been officially assessed. That’s all.”

Simon sighed, deeply worried about the man sitting opposite him. Pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed tight, pale as a wraith; Jim looked wholly and entirely like shit. His skin was blotchy, his eyes red rimmed and sunken, his clothes hanging off - after the meeting, feeling as if his suit was strangling him, he’d ripped his shirt open to the third button and pulled it free of his pants, the tails hanging below his suit coat, his tie was loose and askew - he looked like a man coming apart at every seam, and none too slowly either. Simon stuck a mug of strong, black coffee under Jim’s nose. “Drink it.”

Jim nodded. Shifting himself up in the chair, he sipped gingerly, clutching the cup like drowning man holds on to a lifebelt.

Simon sat down, dreading the words that had to be said. “I’ll need your badge and your gun.” Jim carefully put his cup down, stood and gave up the requested items, staring at them as they lay on the desk. “Siddown, Jim. Finish your coffee,” Simon said, kindly.

Jim did as he was told. So uncharacteristically submissive, so acquiescent, Simon hardly knew how to talk to the guy. This wasn’t Jim Ellison sitting here, this was some pod-guy; had been for weeks now. Simon had hoped - prayed, it wouldn’t come to this, but cursed himself now for not putting Jim on medical leave months ago, when the whole thing first blew up.

“I’ve already made an appointment for your medical; nine thirty, Tuesday morning. Don’t be late.” He pushed the slip of paper across his desk. Jim stared at it, dazedly.

Clearing his throat, looking out of the window, Simon went on; “I’ve also booked you in with the PD’s psychiatrist.” His hand went up; automatically responding to what would be the Real Jim’s immediate reaction. But this Jim just sat, staring vacantly at Simon’s desk.

“Not my decision, Jim. You’re booked in for Tuesday afternoon, one thirty, that way, you won’t have to come in here, twice. I’ll come over to the loft and pick you up in the morning. We can maybe grab some lunch… Jim?” Jim slowly drew his eyes up to his captain’s sternum.

“You with me here?”

Jim nodded. “Medical, Tuesday morning,” he said, his voice quiet and hoarse. “Shrink, Tuesday afternoon. You’ll come get me. Got it, Simon.”

“Jim…”

“It’s OK,” Jim put in quickly, meeting Simon’s eyes for the first time. “I know I have a problem. Gotta get it dealt with. Megan could have died and it would have been my fault. I know. I know. I…” His eyes slipped back down to the floor.

“Jim, look. I know things’ve not been right since Sandburg…”

This time it was Jim’s hand that went up. “All I ask is that I can still access the PD search files and database. I know… I have Sand… I have a laptop at home, I can log in from there, I don’t need to set foot in the building, but please don’t let IA cancel my log in. Simon, I need that access, I need to keep looking…”

“Jim!” Simon’s sharp command instantly stopped the babbling and pleading. “Jim,” he went on, his voice softer, kinder. “It’s been eight months. I know you think that something is wrong…”

“I know something is wrong! Don’t ask me to explain because you won’t like what you hear, but I know he’s in trouble and I won’t… I won’t give up on him. I have to keep looking.”

Simon sighed. He’d worked through every permutation of the missing Sandburg conundrum, looking for answers. At first, he’d thought that the kid had simply had enough (and who could blame him?) and walked out on a difficult situation (as he’d doubtless done many times in his pre-Ellison past). But in his heart, Simon knew that could not be so. No one as sick as Sandburg was just walks out of a hospital bed. Sandburg wasn’t that irresponsible. To just up and go without at least leaving a note for the man who’d been his closest companion for the past three years… OK, things had not been going well for either man at the time, but even so… Blair wouldn’t just disappear without saying something. He would never be that cruel.

Then there was the University; they’d heard nothing, either. And he’d not been in touch with his mother, who’d reacted hysterically to the news that her son was missing and was currently in Big Sur with a psychic, trying to trace him.

No, there was no doubt that something sinister had happened to Blair Sandburg. But what? There were no clues. Ellison had used all his skills, as a Sentinel and first class detective to try to track his partner down, to no avail.

All the evidence pointed to Sandburg having gotten out of his hospital bed, dressed himself in filthy, torn jeans and a thin cotton shirt and walked, barefoot, out of the hospital and into a cold, wet February night, voluntarily, under no perceivable duress - and completely vanished from the face of the earth.

And Jim Ellison had been going crazy ever since.

The madness began with a wild, hyper whirlwind of activity. Jim was a man possessed as he put every other thing in his life and his job on hold to search for Sandburg.

Then - as every trail proved fruitless, as every lead led to a cold, dead end, hope started to die in Ellison; a little piece of him perished every day, until there was practically nothing left. The man in front of him now was nothing but an empty shell; the fragile carapace of a once healthy human being, as breakable as fine china.

But not dead. Not yet, anyway. Though Simon felt sure the only thing keeping him alive was the flimsy thread of faith that he would, if he looked long and hard enough, find Blair alive, and Jim would never stop looking. Simon was not about to deny him that hope.

“It’s OK, Jim,” he said, softly. “There’ll be no problem about logging onto the department computer. I’ll see to it.”

Jim slumped back, almost smiling. “Thanks,” he breathed in relief.

“Look, you get out of here, go home, try and get some rest, you look like shit. You know, we’re all here for you, right? Anything you need…”

Jim rose to his feet and moved to the door, looking back with a sad, grateful nod.

“Thanks. Really. For everything.”

”Till next Tuesday, Jim.”

Jim nodded, and walked out of the door.

Go home, Simon’d said. Home! Jim grimaced as he let himself into the loft. This place was no longer home. It was cold, empty and dead. Colder, emptier and deader than it’d been when he’d cleaned the place out; when he’d cleaned Blair out with the couch and the bed and the pictures and the throws. Like he was another piece of the furniture that had to be cleared away. And wasn’t that just how he’d thought of his friend, back then, when the man was still his friend?

Before her… the other sentinel – he couldn’t bring himself to think of her by name, because that would humanise her and he didn’t want to humanise the bitch. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and walked over to lean against the balcony windows and look out over his city.

‘Where are you, Chief?’ he thought to himself, quickly draining the beer. The first of many more to come before he dragged himself to bed – Sandburg’s bed, not his own. He hadn’t been able to sleep in his own since… Well, since. Too lonely up there.

The morning after Blair went missing, he’d spent three days straight searching the streets, and all the time, Simon kept trying to bring him back to the PD, trying to get him to do things ‘properly’; follow procedure! Jim knew he stood a much better chance out in the city, trying to pick up a scent – like a sniffer dog, Simon’d said, incredulously. But, yeah, that’s just what he was, and a good one, too. He’d found Blair’s scent, trailed it from the hospital for three blocks, ‘till it grew too faint to follow, but he kept going back to the spot where he’d lost the trail; right outside a carpet store, on a busy street, searching up every road, down each and every alley, in every direction, looking for something, some clue - anything; a hair, a fibre from his shirt - but there was nothing; the constant pouring rain that bitter February had washed everything away.

For those first three days, he didn’t sleep; couldn’t rest when he knew Blair was out there, somewhere. He kept searching, searching, searching, till he literally dropped, unconscious in the cold, wet street.

Exhausted, soaked and freezing, aching inside and out, he refused to check into the hospital, needing to come back here, to the Loft, to where his friend’s presence was strongest. That night he slept in Blair’s bed, with his Guide’s scent around him.

And never left. Blair’s room had become his haven, his Fortress of Solitude. The place he went when he needed to re-charge, recover form the toll the loss was taking on his system. Though the residual scent of his friend was long gone now, replaced by his own, he still took some comfort from being there, amongst his things, where there was such a strong sense of Blair, still. Where he could wallow in regret for things said and unsaid. Re-do everything in his own mind and make it right again. He would make it right again, if only Blair would come home…

Because the guilt had never gone away. Whatever soothing words Simon used to persuade him otherwise - and he’d used a lot these past eight months – Jim knew it was his fault Blair had walked out, injured and sick with a pair of infected, watery lungs and gone, dressed for the tropics, into a wet and freezing Cascade night, leaving no message, nothing at all to say why he’d gone or where he was heading. In eight months; thirty five weeks, two days, one hour and thirty seven minutes, there’d been not a word – nothing to say he was still alive.

Simon thought Blair was dead. All evidence pointed to that as the most likely scenario. Killed by the pneumonia that had put him in the hospital in the first place, or - corny as it might sound, of a broken heart. Jim didn’t discount the possibility of his Guide lying in some ditch somewhere, dying in the rain, cold and alone…

Jim bent double with the pain of the sudden devastating thought. It wasn’t so! Blair was alive! Jim knew he was. And he would never give up on him. Never. He owed him… He loved him too much to let him go.

He walked to the balcony doors and looked out at the night. “I know you’re out there somewhere, kid, I can still feel you. You’re a long ways off, but you are still there, breathing some other city’s air. I can feel it. I can feel you. God, I miss you. Come home, Chief. Please come home…”

** ** **

Blair stood on his home made ladder, settling a fresh palm frond into the gap that had appeared in the roof of his shelter. He didn’t really know why he’d built a shelter at all; it never rained here, the forest canopy shaded out the sun and the flimsy structure was no protection at all from the biting cold that assailed him constantly. It just seemed homier, somehow, to settle in for the night under a roof, even if that roof consisted of nothing more than a layer of palm leaves over a bamboo frame.

He was quite proud of the way he’d been able to make a home for himself here. Quite the Robinson Crusoe. The ladder was made of thick bamboo he’d cut himself with a self-napped stone knife. He’d tied the thing together with grasses and it held his weight just fine – not saying a whole lot, of course. He could tell from the way the light cotton garments he wore hung so loose on his frame that he’d lost a lot of weight.

Not sure why; he seemed to eat OK. Fruits and nuts were plentiful here, the trees bowed with the weight of them. He felt no need to carve himself a spear and go hunting, though game was abundant; all manner of animals came and went through the forest. They were mostly friendly; a few had tried to attack him, but he’d fended them off fiercely, and they showed him the respect of not trying again.

He had, on occasion, stepped into disputes between the animals, stopping fights, preventing the strong from hurting the weak. The creatures were all so beautiful; he could never have brought himself to harm any of them. Neither could he bear the thought of them hurting each other.

Sometimes, the animal he most yearned to meet, the great black jaguar, would appear on the edges of the forest. He knew the big cat was watching him all the time, but always from afar, but he lived for the moments when he’d catch a glimpse of the magnificent creature.

Sometimes he went chasing after the cat, but never got anywhere near reaching him. Like his memories, no matter how close he seemed to be, he was never close enough. Blair had given up trying to catch up to him now. It saddened him to think he could never befriend the big cat, as he had all the other creatures of the forest, but the jaguar seemed content just to watch him from a distance, and Blair had to be satisfied with the occasional happy sighting.

Blair knew he ought to be afraid of him; the animal was huge and strong and exuded a powerful sense of danger. But Blair always felt safe when he was around, liked having him around, keeping watch - protecting him.

There was peace in his jungle world. And he was happy - most of the time.

Sometimes, though, a terrible melancholy would come over him. This usually happened when he’d tried too hard to touch the memories he knew were there, hanging just out of reach. He knew, if he ever did manage to touch them, that they’d hurt him badly. And yet, sometimes, when the loneliness got too hard to bear, he still found himself trying. That’s when the tears would come, relentless and unstoppable. His friends, the forest animals would gather round him then, to try to comfort and consol. But there was nothing for it but to let the feelings run their course and cry himself out.

The nights of heartbreak were horrendous, but they didn’t happen often and he knew, in the morning, he’d wake happy and whole again. If only he didn’t try to remember, he’d be safe from the sadness. But the need never really went away, and so he did keep trying, knowing all the time that if he ever did finally connect, the memories might be terrible enough to kill him.

** ** **

Simon glanced up as he came to the end of his story about Rafe and Brown’s latest Big Thing; attacks of escalating violence on three young men. It looked like someone was copy-catting Joe Miller. It was an old, long-closed case of Jim’s. Miller himself was dead – knifed in a prison fight over three years ago. Simon’d thought Jim might have some insight – it was a mystery why anyone would start copying Miller’s horrific crimes after all this time. But Jim wasn’t listening. He was hardly there at all.

Simon watched, disturbed and half afraid, as his old friend slowly ripped his Wonderburger into smaller and smaller pieces, dreamily fingering the oily fries, running his finger back and forth across his plate in a figure of eight, over and over, seemingly mesmerised…

Grains of salt. Just salt. Who could guess simple salt could be so very, very beautiful? Jim thought, running his finger over them, moving them around to catch the light. Perfect crystal cubes, glinting like diamonds against the pitted porcelain of this cheap plate – imperfect, but so white! Snowy whiteness showing to perfection, the tiny spectrums thrown out by those flawless little crystals…

“Jim. Jim.”

Someone was shaking his arm. He raised sleepy eyes to the figure sitting opposite. Simon. That’s right; he was having lunch with Simon…

With the awareness came a rush… Of noise, so deafening, so hideously sharp and shrill and loud! And the smell! Hot grease and carbonised meat invading his nose and sinuses, piercing all the way to his brain. Screwing up his face in agony, he gripped his heaving belly, cringing over his plate, gasping under the sensory onslaught. Feeling the strong grip, then, tight on his arm, feet dragging across the tile floor, hitting the sun drenched yet mercifully cool, fall air outside, where he retched, emptying scant, stringy bile onto the cracked pavement before being manhandled, exhausted and bewildered into the familiarly comforting confines of Simon’s car.

Simon got in beside him, wiping his face with the palm of his hand, distressed, at a loss - “Jesus, Jim. What am I gonna do with you? You ought to be in a hospital!”

“No,” Jim croaked out, voice hoarse. “No hospital!”

“Jim, they have the internet at Cascade General now. You can access the PDs computers from there…”

“No! Simon, I need… I have to be home. I can’t… There’s nothing a hospital can do for me, you know that.”

“Jim, this can’t go on! You’re getting worse all the time. What’s going to happen to you?”

“When I find Sandburg…”

“No, Jim, if. If you find Sandburg. If he’s still alive. If he wants to come back to Cascade. If he still wants to work with you…”

“He will! He does…”

“You don’t know that!”

“Yes! I do! Goddamn it, Simon! I know what I’m doing! Just let me… let me get on with things in my own way.”

“Jim, I’m not joking, I’m scared for you! You’re a very sick man. You’re living all alone in that damn loft. What if you black out again, like you did in the bullpen? Pass out and hit your head and no one there to help or call an ambulance? What if you zone out, Jim? Sandburg once said you could zone so badly you might stop breathing. That’s why he was there, wasn’t it? To watch your back, to be with you if you zoned? Who’s there to watch out for you now, Jim?”

Simon looked over at his friend, silently staring out of the window, that only half-there expression on his face again.

“You with me?” Simon asked, quietly.

Jim nodded.

“Look, Jim. Daryl’s room is empty most of the time… Hear me out,” he pleaded as Jim began to shake his head. “I’m your friend as well as your boss. I’m Sandburg’s friend, too. I’m more than happy for you to go on looking for the kid. You think you can find him, then that’s just great. You keep searching and I’ll do anything I can to help you. I pray to God you can find him. Not just because of what this situation is doing to you. Hell, I miss the kid too. I want you to find him; I just don’t want you killing yourself in the process. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Jim said, the slightest of smiles lighting his thin face.

“So…?”

“So?”

“You’ll come and stay at my place?”

“No. Look, it’s great of you to ask. I’m touched, really, that you’d make that offer. It’s just… I need to be in the loft. I need my own space. Please don’t ask me to explain.”

“And what if you zone, or blackout or… whatever.”

Jim shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Not good enough.”

Jim sighed. “OK. Look. I‘ll email. Twice a day. Nine in the morning to your PD address nine at night to your home computer. That way, if I miss calling in…”

“Nine on the dot, twice a day?”

Jim nodded.

“You’ll remember to do that?”

Jim shrugged.

“Well, I guess that’ll have to do. But Jim, if you are zoned, what do I do?”

“I don’t know. Sandburg tries to figure which sense I’m zoned on and stimulate another. Sometimes, he just talks.”

“Talks, huh? Well, that I can do. Maybe not as good as Sandburg, but…” Simon checked his watch. “One o clock. You ready for this, Jim?”

“The shrink? Yeah, I guess. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. I’ll come up with something.”

“A little creative obfuscation, huh?” Simon’s heart warmed to see Jim’s face crack in a smile.

“Yeah. Know all about that.”

“You had a great teacher.”

“One of the best.”

** ** **

Blair stood between Tiger and a beautiful, slender Gazelle. The Gazelle was new to the forest. Blair knew Tiger was all roar and just trying to put the Gazelle in his place in the pecking order, he always acted this way whenever a new creature appeared here, but he was so strong. He had huge claws and sharp teeth and could really hurt the delicate Gazelle without even trying.

Blair shook his head emphatically at him – no point in using words to the animals; they didn’t speak his language so he had to speak theirs; all gestures and faces and smells – yeah, smells! All a matter of mind control; thinking the right thoughts so you smelled right; smelled of strength and confidence and control – never fear or hate. He stood, hands on the Tiger’s chest, pushing back the furious animal, thinking brave thoughts, thinking; ‘no!’

Eventually, the Tiger backed down. He sat back on his haunches, licked his paws and nonchalantly began to clean behind his ears without ever taking his eyes off the terrified Gazelle. Once Blair knew Tiger wouldn’t attack, he turned to the frightened newcomer. Arms raised placatingly, he moved to the side of the panting animal, patting his smooth flanks, whispering soft words to gentle the terrified creature. ‘S’OK. OK,’ he thought, sending what he hoped were waves of love, smiling when the Gazelle’s breathing eased and he settled down into his embrace, bending his long, beautiful head to nuzzle Blair’s hair.

‘See?’ Blair thought with a gentle smile for Gazelle, Tiger and all the other animals who stood around watching. ‘There’s no need for pissing contests! We can all be happy here together, right?’

The spectacle over, most of the animals began to disperse, to go about their regular business. Turtle, Parrot, Snake and Rabbit stayed to crowd round Blair, nudging and rubbing against him and his new friend, trying to get a share of the love.

Tiger also stayed to watch a while, growling to himself. ‘You know, you could be a part of this too,’ Blair thought, smiling welcomes at the angry creature, lifting a beckoning arm, thinking; ‘come join us!’

But Tiger just roared; an ear splitting, rattling snarl that made the animals around Blair squeak and tremble and press closer to him, before he turned and stalked away into the dark jungle.

** ** **

Jim sat at Simon’s dinner table, avoiding the wine, drinking copious amounts of sweet, black coffee – his usual strategy these days for avoiding a zone. The results of the psych evaluation had come in that morning - Simon drove to the loft to give Jim the good news that he was officially and certifiably Not Crazy. He was, however, still on indefinite suspension until the causes of his blackouts could be determined. But there was bad news too - even if the epilepsy tests came back negative, even if they failed to find (as Jim and Simon knew they would) medical reasons for his blackouts, the only position open to Jim on his return would be a desk job.

It was hardly a surprise, after three blackouts in four months. That is to say, three the PD officially knew about. Major Crime had done one heck of a lot of covering and obfuscating on Jim’s behalf since Sandburg’s disappearance, but things had come to a head with the shootout that almost cost Megan’s life. Now everyone knew; Jim Ellison was not fit to be out on the streets.

“I guess the good news is,” Simon said, pouring himself a fresh glass of Zinfandel, “When you do come back to work, it’ll be to a promotion…”

“I’ll be behind a desk. Permanently.”

“You’re highly respected at the PD. They could have made you redundant on health grounds. This is their way of saying how great a cop they know you are…”

“I’m a Sentinel. I can’t do my job from behind a desk.”

“Jim, you’re going to have to come to terms with this. There’s no way they’re going to let you out on the streets again after what’s happened.”

Jim gripped and twisted his napkin. “It’s not me, Simon. It’s not who I am.”

Simon leaned back with a sigh. “I know. But it’s all that’s on offer, Jim. They won’t consider you coming back at all until your health checks come back clean. They need an explanation for the zone outs before they’ll let you set foot in the building.”

“Then maybe I should start looking for another job?”

“You don’t mean that?”

“Don’t I?” Jim kept his eyes resolutely on the table top.

“You’re a great cop, Jim. You can still be a great cop as a Lieutenant. Hell, you’re two times Cop of the Year; you could put in for Captain in a couple of years…”

“It’s. Not. Who. I. Am.”

“Pay check’s a whole lot better.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Well hooray for you, Detective,” Simon got up to get more coffee for Jim, giving him something to do, other than wringing the Cop of the Year’s ungracious neck. “Some of us had to fight our way up to where we are. Not everyone had the advantage of a rich daddy.”

“Oh! That’s low!” Jim said, still not meeting Simon’s eyes.

“OK, that was uncalled for,” Simon said, refilling Jim’s empty cup, pushing the sugar bowl in his direction. “I apologise. But dammit all to hell, Jim, you’re acting like a spoilt child. Not many cops would get this kind of an offer after the stunts you’ve been pulling, lately. This is a mark of respect and gratitude, and frankly, it’s the best damn offer you’re going to get. For God’s sakes man, you’re, how old now?”

“You know how old I am.”

“Forty. You’re forty, Jim.”

That got him a glare from Jim. Simon met his eyes with a sarcastic smile.

“You’re going to be off the streets inside of five years, anyhow. This is a big advance in your career. Don’t throw it all away out of misplaced pride.”

“That’s not the problem, Simon!”

“Isn’t it? Accept you’re getting older, Jim. Accept your health isn’t what it should be and be damn grateful you’ve still got a job. A job you’re good at. Don’t throw it all away.”

Jim took a swig if his coffee, and went back to playing with his napkin. “OK,” he said. “Say my health checks come back clean. Say I can get the zones under control. If I did accept this offer…?”

Simon watched him hopefully.

“Where would Sandburg fit in?”

Simon blew out a deep, exasperated sigh. “Jim…”

“I mean, he was an observer, officially, but, eventually, he’s going to have his doctorate, right? So, maybe, maybe there’d be a place for him, an official place, you know, with a pay check, in whatever department I end up in…” Jim looked up at Simon, eyes hopelessly pleading - like a little trailer park kid hoping his single mom is gonna somehow find the wherewithal to take him to Disneyland this year.

“Ah, Jim.” Simon flopped down in his chair and met Jim’s gaze, watched as the hope there faded and died. “Jim. You’ve got to stop…”

”Well I can’t. I can’t. I won’t.”

“OK. I’ve had three glasses of wine and I can’t deal with this right now,” Simon said, exasperated. “Jim, the offer’s on the table. What happens next depends on you. You’ve got to get your life straightened out, get your health right, try to control the zones. You’ve got start thinking about the future. And you’ve got to start considering the possibility of a future without Sandburg.”

Jim went back to damaging Simon’s grandmother’s fine damask napkin.

“I’m not saying, stop looking. I would never expect you to do that.”

“You want me to stop hoping.”

“I want you to start living, Jim. You’re killing yourself over this and it’s not… Do you think this is what Blair’d want? You think he’d want to see you destroying yourself over this?”

“Like I destroyed him?”

“Aw, Jim!” Simon threw his own napkin down in disgust. “Alex Barnes was the one that put him in that fountain! She was the one who tried to kill him.”

“And it was me that finished the job.”

“Oh, I am not going to listen to anymore of this! Trouble with you, Ellison is that you’ve painted yourself into such a dark corner you can’t find anyway out again. There is light at the end of that tunnel, Detective, but you’ve got to get off this guilt trip you’re on. You are not to blame for what happened! Sandburg was a sick man. He took the decision, for whatever fuddled reasons were in that incomprehensible head of his, to walk out of that hospital to who knows what end? Not your fault, Jim! You are not to blame. But until you accept that, you’re not going to get better.

“Now, it’s two am and I strongly suggest you stop here the night. You’re exhausted, in no shape to be taking a cab across town and I’m in no fit state to drive you…” Simon stood and laid a kindly hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Jim, get over it, for your sake and mine and everyone who knows you. We all care about you, you son of a bitch. No one wants to see you fall apart like this. Get over it and start living again.” He gave Jim’s back a sharp buddy slap. “Now get to bed. Go sleep on it, Jim. I don’t wanna see your ugly mug again till morning.”

That night, Jim dreamed of the jungle.

It was the first time since Blair had left. Last time he was here, he’d killed his partner. Then the dream came true, and he never dreamed of the blue jungle again.

And Blair was here! The real Blair, not the wolf – not his animal spirit. This was Blair the man; alive, thin - too thin, but healthy. His hair was a little shorter, but it shone, the curls bounced. His skin glowed, he positively vibrated with life.

He was dressed in what looked like pyjamas or hospital scrubs; the blue complementing his eyes which were laughing and joyous as he drew pictures in the sand on the far shore of a lagoon, the surrounding jungle and snow caped mountains reflected in its deep, blue waters. On one side, a waterfall crashed over high, steep rocks. The place had an ethereal beauty, a disturbing loveliness that seemed not of this world. That scared Jim. Was this a vision of some afterlife? Was Blair dead after all?

He needed to cross, to get to his friend on the other side! Jim dipped in a toe, quickly pulling it clear. The waters were freezing! How could water be so cold and not be solid ice?

Consumed with the desire to join his partner, he paced, trying to figure if there was some other way to cross. To swim would be impossible. Even if he could survive the fearsome cold, the water that stretched between them, he somehow knew, was deep and treacherous with deadly currents. He had to be content to watch, from a distance that seemed almost to stretch forever, yet at the same time, was so close he could feel the heat of his partner’s skin, scent the familiar musk of his body.

The separation hurt so badly. He roared his distress, and was rewarded to see Blair look up, then stand, staring out across the water, his bright, blue gaze meeting his own, with equal pain.

He was sad to be so parted from his friend, but glad, too, that he could see and feel and scent and sense him. He couldn’t touch, he couldn’t talk, but he was grateful for that little bit of his partner the dream had gifted him. Even from the far distance of a vision, Blair was Guiding him. His senses were online and working just fine! When he woke, it was with a renewed purpose and hope. Blair was alive. He was out there, waiting for him. Jim got up feeling better, stronger, happier – healthier by far than he had since the day Blair walked out of Cascade General.

Blair walked down to the blue lagoon that lay at the edge of his world.

He liked to sit here and watch the animals that came to drink the water and lie in the sun.

It was a beautiful place. To his left, a high waterfall cascaded over blue rocks, fringed with the green and rust of plants that clung to the sheer cliff. Here, by the water, the jungle thinned to a few leafy palms and ferns, letting the sun through. Blair always found it comforting to bask on the beach after the bitter, frozen loneliness of the night.

He sat on his favorite low, flat rock, shed his warm forest clothes and dangled his feet a moment in the frigid waters, pulling them out again after a minute or so. The water was SO cold. Why was that? He wondered. The water must be melting off the snowy peaks over in the distance. He wondered how far the river flowed beyond this lovely pool. How far down the mountain before it joined other streams, became a great, warm and muddy river?

Was this lake near the source of the Amazon? Or somewhere in Africa? Maybe even Asia? He couldn’t tell. The animals here were a strange, mixed bunch. He wasn’t that hot on zoology and couldn’t tell from the species what part of the world he was in.

Then a mighty roar rent the air. Blair looked up to see the big, black Panther at the other side of the pool. He stood to get a better view, shading his eyes against the sun glaring off the blue water.

Oh, but he was beautiful! Though – looking closely now, Blair could see that the once strong and powerful animal was not doing so well; he was too thin and the thick black fur was balding in places, the skin underneath scabbed and mangy.

Blair wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, comfort him, but he knew it was hopeless. The waters were impassable. He’d tried, once, to cross, but the cold was so fearsome; in seconds, it’d driven him back to shore where he’d lain, gasping and trembling for many hours, too weak to move.

That was when Tiger had first come for him. Seeing him, weak and helpless on the ground, he’d attacked, tearing at Blair with vicious, shredding claws. But he’d somehow found the strength to fight back, helped by the other animals, especially the wise, white Owl who’d dived and pecked at the huge golden cat till they’d driven him off, back into the jungle. Owl had helped him back to his shelter, where he slept for many days before he recovered enough to rise again.

Tiger’d never attacked him again, but Blair was scared of Tiger, and part of him was glad the big animal mostly kept his distance. Even though he knew that Panther was every bit as dangerous as Tiger, he felt no fear; no sense of danger emanated from him. He knew he was a protector; a defender.

He watched the animal pace in agitation on the distant shore. Panther wanted to be his friend every bit as much as the other animals; only the deep, cold water stopped him from coming to join him. If only Blair could find some way to cross, so that he could be with them. Poor Panther seemed so sick and so lonely. That made Blair very sad.

Blair cried that night; thinking of the poor Panther, all alone on the far side of the river. The other animals gathered, as they always did when Blair was unhappy. But nothing could console him as he wept for his friend, all alone on the other shore, with no one to hold him or comfort him in his misery.

Nurse Olwen Owen removed her big, round spectacles, letting them hang from the chain around her neck as she rubbed at the sore spot between her eyes. As usual, no one seemed to have seen or heard what it was that had upset Star so badly. The young man was usually so happy in his own, silent way, but he had occasional black days when he cried all day as though his heart would break. Today had been one of those days. According to Charlie, Star’d been out in the garden, in his usual place, under the old apple tree, when he’d suddenly begun to weep.

He liked to walk in the garden on sunny mornings. He’d sit on the rock under the tree and watch the world and smile, in that sweet, vacant way he had. If it was warm, he’d even take off some of the layers of thick, woollen knits he habitually wore, most of them made by herself. The poor boy seemed to be cold all the time, shivering and miserable as he shuffled around; the regulation issue blue towel bathrobe pulled tight around his body. Sometimes he’d sit with his blankets wrapped around him, like a little papoose.

And Olwen liked to knit. Now her grandchildren were getting too big, too fashion conscious to want her home made sweaters, she’d taken to dressing Star. OK, she’d be the first to admit she wasn’t all that good at it. Her work tended to come out kinda large, a little misshapen maybe. She had a lot of odds and ends of wool sitting around doing nothing, so - the boy looked a little like an explosion in a paint factory, so what? He seemed to love color; on the TV, in magazines and in the world in general, staring at the rainbows from the dusty old chandelier dancing on the dayroom walls, for hours at a time.

She started out with socks, in warm, soft alpaca; bright red, to go under the big, warm slippers she’d bought for his feet. He’d shuffled so badly in those tatty issue towel mules he’d worn before. Now he had warm footwear that fit, he positively bounced down the hallways. The hat had come next; she’d knitted it in seven colors – every scrap of wool she had leftover went into it - a Peruvian pattern with hanging flaps to keep his ears cosy and made him cute as a lop eared rabbit. Next came the fingerless gloves, then a big sweater; a little too big some said, laughing at the way the sleeves hung so low. OK, it drowned him. She’d knitted it with big needles in a thick, soft lambswool and it made him look about five years old. She thought it was adorable.

Nurse Owen was in love with the boy. And not ashamed to admit it. He was an angel. He made practically everyone around him happy. His calming effect on the other inmates made her job so much easier and way more pleasant than it had been this time last winter - before Star came.

His sad days broke her heart. They came on him so suddenly. One minute he’d be bopping around the garden or the corridors, or painting one of his pictures in the day room, when a deep melancholia would come over him, no reason at all. The first sign was the sudden closing off; his expressive eyes would cloud, he’d begin to tremble, then the tears would fall.

There was no dealing with it, and lord knows, she’d tried, but once the silent weeping started, the only thing left to do was to hold his hand and be with him as long as he wanted you. Some of the other patients; Jonas, Louis, Brad, the new boy and poor old Charlie, some of the many who loved Star as much as she did, would try their best to comfort him, petting his hair and holding him as he wept and rocked himself.

Eventually, he would take himself off to his little room and curl on his bed with his knees up around his ears and shake all over with pain and misery; sobbing silently till he fell asleep. Then all that was left was for her to tuck him in with his ‘teddy’; a little black panther Sally Thomas, the night nurse, had bought for him, because he was always painting pictures of one. He loved it so, it never left his side. He’d curl up around Teddy, holding him tight as she kissed his curly head goodnight and left him to sleep it off. Next day, he’d be up, bright eyed and bushy tailed, all ready to start anew, the long sad day completely gone from his head.

No one could figure the boy out. The only reason he was still here, in this pleasant and expensive facility, was simply so the doctors could try. The University was picking up his medical bills; one of a small number of patients - psychiatric mysteries, human Rubik’s cubes - for doctors and students alike to try to crack.

Little Star was a John Doe. He’d been picked up by the police after a crowd of student protesters got to drinking beer, then fighting with the opposition. He’d been caught up in the middle and got swept up with the rest and a good thing for him that he was. The police took one look at him and called the doctor in.

Half starved, half dressed; the kid was only wearing a thin cotton shirt and torn jeans; he had no shoes, his feet were ripped and blistered, the doc said he looked like he’d walked a hundred miles in his bare feet. He was filthy, the long curly hair he wore, so matted and caked in dirt, they’d had to cut most of it off along with his heavy beard.

Dehydrated, soaked to the skin and hypothermic, they’d kept him in hospital for two days where they’d bathed him, patched him up and pumped him full of fluids, vitamins and antibiotics. And then they brought the psychiatrists in.

Because Star never spoke a word - was hardly there at all. The university medics took a shine to him as a subject, and when it came time for him to be put back out on the streets, they had him committed to the U’s own psychiatric hospital. But since the day he was found, he’d not uttered a sound.

He gave little away to the doctors of whom he seemed somewhat afraid. Amongst his own, however, it was a different story. The nurses and the patients could always tell just exactly what little Star was thinking, what he wanted, how he felt. His eyes held all the emotion in the world, if you chose to look into them - something the doctors never did, and Nurse Owen was not about to explain it to them. They were obsessed with getting him to talk. There was no medical reason, they said, why the boy couldn’t, or wouldn’t speak. The reasons were all psychological. Some trauma, it had been determined, had caused the lad to retreat inside himself. He was living in his own world, so deep inside, no one could reach him. They saw it as their job to peel back his layers and get in there, find out what was broken and fix it.

Well, screw them. She knew, all the nurses knew, that Star wasn’t a broken toy to be put back together. If he chose not to talk, it was because he had nothing to say to them. Whatever Star wanted to express, he did it in his own way. If he chose to live in his own world, it was because he was happy there. Her job, as she saw it, was simply to keep him happy, safe, warm and loved, until he felt it was OK to come out of whatever place it was he was hiding himself in. Until that day, she would keep on knitting him socks and feeding him the bananas he loved and making sure he knew he had someone to rely on. Someone to keep his body warm and safe in this world, until his mind felt ready to return too.

** ** **

Saturday night, and Megan already had the coals glowing for her housewarming barbie. Since she’d accepted the offer to extend her stay in Cascade, courtesy of the officer exchange programme, she’d been looking for a place of her own. The place she’d settled on was a pretty green and white, old-fashioned weather boarded place out in the ‘burbs, with a garden full of azaleas and fruit trees.

The sudden snap of autumn had hit midweek, turning the trees to amber and gold almost overnight, settling sparkling frosts on the city at night and thick, woodsmoke scented fogs to vex early morning commuters. It’d turned way too, too cold for the garden party she’d had planned, Megan got the charcoal lit on the porch, determined to cook steaks and shrimp out anyway; though everyone’d have to eat indoors.

She was surprised, but gratified to see Jim arrive, clutching a gift; a naked little shrub.

“It’s a blueberry,” he explained. “Lost it’s leaves, looks a little sad, I know. It’s fall,” he shrugged apologetically.

“No. Jim, thanks. It’s wonderful. Thank you so much that’s… lovely. Thank you!”

Jim smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”

”I’m so glad to see you. I didn’t expect you to come,” Megan said, kissing him on the cheek, almost making him blush.

“Urm. OK. I’m glad. That you like it. The bush, I mean.”

Megan touched the soft blue lambswool of Jim’s sleeve. “Isn’t that one of Sandy’s old sweaters?”

“Oh, No,” he chuffed out a soft laugh. “It’s mine, but he used to borrow it all the time. I guess… I guess it kind of ended up his. Figured he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it back.” - Blair’s scent was almost gone now, but there was still enough of it clinging to the warm, soft wool to ground him for the couple of hours it’d take to do his duty here at Megan’s.

“It’s nice. It suits you,” she said with a warm smile. “So, Jim - how are you feeling?” She asked, steering him into the fray.

”OK, thanks. Better. Much better. You know… Look, Megan.”

”No. Jim,” she interrupted. “I think… You’re going to start apologising for what happened over the Westerhouse bust.”

“Well. Yeah…”

”Well don’t. I know what happened. I know it’s not been easy for you. Let’s just leave it there, OK? Least said, soonest mended?”

“OK,” Jim smiled. “But I am sorry…”

“Apology accepted - So, who’s for shrimp?” she asked loudly, turning to the crowd. Help yourself to beers, you know where they are. Come on you guys! Everybody’s looking way too sober!”

Megan spent the next hour playing the good hostess, before going in search of Jim. She’d not seen him amongst the laughing crowds and was worried he might have slipped into a zone somewhere. Simon had filled her in on how things were – that he wasn’t getting any better; seemed, in fact, to be growing sicker. Everyone was worried about him, but none more so than Simon and herself. After all, they were the only ones who came close to understanding what was really wrong with Jim.

She finally spotted him outside on the porch, sitting, all alone, a half drunk beer in his hand, staring out into the dark, frosty garden, seemingly oblivious to the cold misting his breath. She grabbed her jacket and slipped out to join him. He didn’t hear her approach – that was all wrong for a start, and he was altogether too quiet for her liking, but his breathing was normal; he wasn’t zoned - she’d become very proficient in spotting an imminent zone ever since Simon’d assigned her as Jim’s partner after Sandy disappeared.

“So, how’s it going, Jim?” she asked, sliding on to the porch swing next to him.

“OK, I guess. You know…” he said quietly.

”So, you never got around to telling me when you’re coming back to work.”

He glanced at her; shrugged, looked away again. “I don’t know. Not yet. Maybe never.”

“I heard they offered you a promotion.”

“A damn desk job.” He took a swig of his beer.

“You’d do it well. You have a tidy mind. You’d make a good organizer. And you have a great air of command.”

He snorted. “Yeah. So everyone keeps telling me.”

“But…?”

“But.”

Megan examined her beer closely. “Do you really think he’s ever coming back?” she asked quietly.

Jim finished his beer. “He’s in a hospital.”

“You’ve found him?!”

Jim shook his head, looked down at the empty bottle clutched in both hands. “I don’t know where it is, but he’s in some kind of medical facility. I saw him, in a dream.”

“A dream? You mean like, a vision thing? Like you were having with Alex?”

Jim visibly cringed. He hated to hear that name. Hated to be reminded. “Kind of, yeah. But, this is just Blair. He’s in a jungle. He’s wearing pyjamas.”

“Pyjamas? And you think he’s - what…?”

“I think he’s somewhere he’d be wearing pyjamas. The jungle’s metaphorical.”

Megan nodded, not fully understanding, but knowing Sandy always took Jim’s dreams very seriously. “You have that much faith in your visions?”

“I didn’t use to. But ignoring them got Blair killed. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Who else am I gonna tell, Megan? Simon’s the only other person who knows about the Sentinel thing and believe me, he doesn’t wanna hear about my visions!”

“So, what will you do?”

“Keep up the search.”

“Didn’t you already check out the hospitals?”

“Local ones, yeah. I need to go further afield. He’s not in Cascade, I know that for sure.”

“That’s quite a task, Jim.”

Jim shook his head before turning a bright smile on Megan. “I know, but… that dream! It was so real, I was there, you know. And… I feel good, Megan! I found him! OK, it was a dream, but he was there, you know? It was him. He’s alive and I know I can find him if I try hard enough!”

Megan glanced at Jim, unsure of how to take all this. She knew about the Sentinel business, knew Jim did, indeed, see things that most of the rest of humanity couldn’t; had visions, saw spirit animals. But the man had been teetering on the edge of a breakdown for months now. He spent every waking moment in the search for Blair, sitting in that empty loft, obsessing. It was way beyond what could be called unhealthy. It was almost psychotic. And they needed him back in Major Crimes.

“So, will you come and help out with the serial attacks, Jim? Even if you decide not to come back to work, we still really need your advice on this one.”

“The Miller case?”

Megan nodded.

Jim shook his head emphatically. “Miller’s dead. It’s a copy cat.”

“It was your case, Jim. You busted Miller…”

“Joe Miller’s dead!”

“Maybe so, but your assistance, your inside knowledge would be invaluable…”

Jim was still shaking his head. ”Conner, I don’t have the time!”

She laughed bitterly. “Oh, come on! You don’t have the time to find a serial rapist? A man who’s already attacked three teenagers, each one worse than the last. You know, if he truly is a copy-cat, that the next victim’s going to be found beaten to death, and you don’t have the time because you’re home chasing rainbows?”

“Now wait a minute, Conner…”

“Have you ever stopped to think that the reason Sandy can’t be found is because he doesn’t want to be? You treated him pretty shittily, Jim. Ever think that maybe he just had enough and walked out on you?”

“Blair wouldn’t do that.”

”Are you sure? He was hurt, Jim. The way you went chasing after that Barnes bitch after what she’d done to him…”

“Do you think I don’t know?” Jim’s voice was quietly deadly as he locked eyes with Conner. “What, you think I’m angry with him for leaving? That I still think he somehow betrayed me by running off? Is that what you think?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! Absolutely not. Look, I’m not going to get into this with you, Conner. I’m sure Simon’s told you I’m out of my mind…”

”Of course not!”

“Well I‘m not! I’ve never been so clear headed in all my life. I’ve got a lead now and I’m going to follow it up. You guys don’t need me to track down a copy-cat killer. Everything I know is already in the file. And you know how I am; I won’t be able to keep my mind on anything. Simon told me to stay out of the PD for good reason. Well, I‘m being a good boy, for once. I’m staying away. Look,” he said, standing. “I ought to be getting home.”

“Oh Jim, don’t go. I didn’t invite you here to row with you. I just… it seems like such a waste to me, to see such a brilliant cop, sitting at home…”

”Chasing rainbows?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s what you all think, though, even Simon. He’s not dead, Megan. If he left of his own accord, if he doesn’t want to come back, well, he’ll have to tell it to my face. ‘Cos I won’t give up until I find him. And as for being such a great cop. I think I’m finally starting to understand that there’s more to life than that.”

“It’s an important job and you do it well.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for the testimonial, Conner. But I really do have to be going…”

“Won’t you at least come down and brief Henri and Rafe before they go and talk to Charlie Miller?”

“Miller’s dad?”

Megan nodded. “We think he can help us narrow the field of suspects. We’re pretty sure the person doing this was connected to Miller somehow. These rapes, they’re pretty much exactly, case by case, the same as the original attacks. This perp knows too much, Jim. He knows way more details on each and every crime than was ever made public. We think he knew Miller…”

“We always suspected there was a second person at each scene.”

“You couldn’t tell, using your, you know…”

“I wasn’t a Sentinel then. At least… Sandburg had this ‘thing’ he did. He’d put me in a light trance and take me back. He said I always had the sentinel abilities, even though I didn’t know about them.”

“Well, couldn’t we do that now? See a hypnotist or something…?”

Jim was shaking his head. “No. Only Blair can do that.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. I just…”

“Jim?”

Jim was actually backing away from her, a look of near panic in his eyes.

“I can’t. I couldn’t let anyone else do that to me.”

“Jim?”

“No! I mean it, Conner. No.”

“Well look,” Conner was utterly perplexed by Jim’s reaction. “Jim, hold up.If you can’t help as a Sentinel, can’t you just help out in a regular policeman-like way? Just, give us some low down on Charlie Miller? You interviewed him three times. You maybe have some insight into the guy, something that might help Henri and Rafe when they go to see him?”

Jim’s breathing had returned to something like normal. Surprised, himself, by the violence of the feelings the idea of letting someone other than Blair inside his head had sparked. Talk about fear responses! That was one for your book, Sandburg. Maybe I’ll even tell you about that some day.

“OK. I don’t know what I can tell them about old Charlie that’ll help, but… they’ll have to come to the loft. I can’t come to the PD.”

“OK, I’m sure they’ll be alright with that. Any particular day or time? It has to be soon. They’re going down to Seattle, Wednesday.”

”Charlie’s in Seattle?”

“At the University’s psychiatric hospital. Had a serious breakdown after Joe died in prison.”?

“OK. Well, I’ve nothing planned. Just, the usual, you know.”

“Monday morning, then?”

“Monday’ll be fine.”

** ** **

“Another picture, Star, honey?”

Nurse Owen leaned over her favorite patient’s shoulder to see the latest painting; another black panther, peering from the edge of a blue tinted jungle.

Star loved to paint; but always on the same theme; various brightly colored creatures in a lush jungle setting - parrots, tigers, monkeys, rabbits, a turtle, an owl, lots of different animals, and the panther. He was the one most often portrayed. Star was no Rembrandt, but his pictures had a bright naiveté that was utterly charming. Many adorned the dayroom or brightened up the corridors. His little room was practically papered ceiling to floor in them.

Star smiled up at her, his eyes warming in greeting, brightening as he pointed to the big snowy owl, sitting in the branches of the tree. Olwen pushed a lock of her thick white hair out of her eyes to slip her glasses on so she could look more closely. Star’s eyes held that bright, questioning intelligence; he was trying to say something.

“My, what a beautiful owl, honey! Keeping watch?” she asked. His smile brightened in response. “Keeping watch over the panther…? No, not the panther. He’s too far away, isn’t he hon’? Must be over all of these critters here by the water. He must be a brave bird to be watching over so many at once.”

Star’s smile warmed and his eyes gentled as he fixed his gaze on Nurse Owen, picked up the painting and handed it to her.

“For me?”

Star took her hand and placed it over the owl, then locked eyes with her again.

“I can’t help feeling this old owl has something to do with me. Is that what you’re telling me, sugar?” Olwen bent lower to kiss his curly head. “Can I put it up in my room?”

Star stood to lean against the strong-boned woman and put his arms around her, laying his head against hers.

“Ah, baby,” she said, returning the hug. When it looked like the embrace would go on forever, she pulled away a little and tilted his chin so she could look him in the eye. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said warmly, planting a kiss on his forehead, “but I have to go to the kitchen now, gotta go make sure that the bedtime snacks are all ready. You up for a little cocoa? Maybe a banana? Yeah, I thought so,” she smiled at the eager look in his eyes. “And I want to see you eat every mouthful. You’re much too skinny to be giving your rations to Charlie. Now, don’t you give me that,” she said as a mischievous glint rose in his eyes, “cause I’ve seen you. I know everything that goes on in this here ward. You don’t get anything past me.”

Star grinned, and pointed again to the snowy old owl keeping watch over all the animals of the forest.

She gave him a big smile. “Stay warm, honey,” she said, kissing him again before leaving.

When she’d gone, Star sank back down to sit cross legged on the floor, tucked Panther safely between his legs, opened the pad on a fresh sheet of paper and began to draw again.

Blair sketched out picture stories in the sand, looking out, hopefully, across the lake - but there was no sign of Panther. He’d sometimes heard his distant roar, especially in the lonely dark of night, but he’d not seen him since that time he’d appeared to watch him from the other shore.

He glanced back over his shoulder to where his animal friends had gathered, as they did every evening, to eat and catch the last rays of the sun before bedtime.

Tiger was pacing and snarling. He was really angry with Gazelle again. Blair couldn’t figure why Tiger seemed to dislike Gazelle so much, he was a beautiful creature, with his delicate horns and big brown eyes and so shy and timid. He couldn’t possibly hurt Tiger, even if he wanted to, and would never ever challenge him and rile him up the way Gorilla used to, before he disappeared from the forest. Truth was, Tiger was mean and angry with all the forest creatures, but he really seemed to hate Gazelle.

Blair walked over to Tiger who was growling out his displeasure at the delicate, trembling creature. Turtle was trying to cool things down in his slow, steady way, but Tiger just got angrier and angrier, his snarling quickly turning to terrifying roars of rage…

“Goddamn faggot! Miserable little fag was watchin’ me! Checkin’ me out!”

“Don’t be an even bigger moron than usual, Norm,” Charlie drawled, not the least bit afraid of the heavy-set man. “Why on God’s green Earth would a good lookin’ kid like him wanna hit on a fat, bald, ugly old warthog like you?”

“I’m telling you, he was watchin’ me!”

Norman Morse spun to fix Star with a glare as he tiptoed up to try to calm things between the three warring parties “You keep out of this, you little queer!” he screamed. “Lookin’ out for your own kind? You’re just another goddamn faggot aincha?!” - And pushed Star hard, so that he fell back against Brad; a tall, slender boy with a bad case of nerves; the current object of Morse’s ire.

“Hey! Hey!” Charlie stepped in, holding a warning hand up to Morse. “Don’t you go pushin’ Star around, he don’t mean no harm.”

“He’s a goddamn, fuckin’ fag! Why are you defending him, y’old coot? You a fag too, huh, Charlie?”

Charlie laughed. “You want me to flatten ya, Norm? Cos It’d be a real pleasure to do it. And I’ll tell ya this, I’d rather be a fag any day than a class A loony tune, lard tub like you.”

”You wanna piece of me, Charlie? Huh? Cause you sure are going the right way to getting some, you stupid old coot! Say I’m nuts, huh? You sayin’ I’m nuts?”

“Of course you’re nuts, Morse. This is the loony bin, you wouldn’t be in here if you weren’t crazy, or maybe you’re just too damn thick to know that, ya big dope.”

”What did you say? What did you say to me, huh?”

Star couldn’t bear the anger pouring out of Norm. He knew, if he could just get close enough to calm him down…

The big man turned on him, spitting furiously, “I thought I told you to stay out of this you fuckin’ little shit!”

Norm grabbed Star by the front of his enormous sweater and shook him, hard. Whereupon, half the other patients in the dayroom fell on him, pulling his hair, scratching, slapping, biting, striking out with whatever weapon came to hand; cushions, a tin tray, Star’s drawing pad - nothing that could be used as a bona fide weapon ever got within reach of the patients; no sharp or heavy objects. Actual damage to Morse was minimal, until Charlie started laying in with his fists.

Charlie was an old man; but he was tough, and thirty years in the Merchant Marine had taught him a thing or two about fighting dirty.

“You leave that kid alone,” Charlie yelled as he pummelled the cringing man, who fell, kneeling to the floor, trying desperately to protect his head and genitals from the merciless attack.

“You’re all talk, Norm!” Charlie yelled down at the man as he cowered on the floor. “You remind me of my eldest, Joe. He was a big pansy, just like you, and he was scared of it, just like you. And just like you, he took it out on them that was smaller and weakern’ him. And you’ll come to the same sorry end, Norm. Weak, pathetic little maggots like you always get what’s due ya; it’s how come I know there’s a God. But you ever lay a hand on Star again; I swear I’ll make sure you never walk straight for the rest of your life. And while you’re at it, you lay off Brad, and all the others too, you just lay off, y’hear me?” He roared, lashing out with his feet.

Star rushed in, pulling at Charlie’s terry cotton robe, trying to stop the attack. Charlie looked mad enough to kill. In the end, it took two orderlies plus Bruce, a large, muscular male nurse, to pull the weather beaten old man off the cowed and battered Norman Morse.

“Keep him offa me! Keep him off, he’s nuts! He’s nuts! You saw him, he tried to kill me!” Morse screamed as Bruce kept a tight hold on Charlie.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” Doctor Mainey yelled over the mêlée, rushing into the room just ahead of Nurse Owen. “Nurse, you’re in charge here. What in blazes is happening?”

“I’m sorry, Doctor; I was supervising the bedtime snacks. Everything was quiet when I left…”

Blair didn’t know what to do. Tiger was in a bad way. His mighty roars reduced to sad whimpers of pain. The old Turtle’d really done a number on him after he’d attacked Gazelle and himself. Heaven knows, they’d needed Turtle’s help. Tiger was big and very fierce and when he’d grabbed a hold of him, he’d been pretty scared. But who would’ve guessed the quiet old Turtle would have so much fight in him?

Poor Tiger, he was so unhappy, always roaring and snapping at anyone who tried to help him, but Blair could see the fear in his eyes. He was scared. He needed help. He needed love, but Parrot had a tight hold of Blair, chattering at him to ‘leave alone, leave alone!’ He wouldn’t let him free to help poor Tiger…

The lagoon was alive with a cacophony of screeching, chattering, over-excited animals, jumping up and down, banging on the ground. The noise was appalling, the atmosphere electric.

But Owl was here at last! Thank goodness. Owl always made things right. The Cockatoo was here too, chattering at her, telling her off for something. He often did that. Owl took no notice of the silly bird who seemed to think he was in charge when everyone knew it was Owl who kept everything in the jungle quiet and safe and made sure everyone got their bedtime banana...

“Star, baby. Leave him be. Leave him be, honey,” Nurse Owen soothed, nodding her thanks to nervous little Ronnie, who was holding on to Star, stopping him from getting to Norm. The boy was very upset, his face streaked with tears; sad that there’d been fighting and folks had been hurt. Even the despicable Norman Morse was worthy of pity in Star’s eyes.

“Come on sweetheart, it’s OK. Everything’s OK now,” she said as Norm and Charlie were subdued and taken off to be locked in their rooms for the night. There’d be an inquest in the morning; Doctor Mainey would want a full report. As if she didn’t have enough on her plate already, what with two policemen from Cascade coming down to interview Charlie tomorrow. What a mess! But she couldn’t find it in her heart to blame the old man for knocking seven bells out of that scumbag Morse after he tried to hurt Star. She’d have done it herself, if she could.

Star seemed a little calmer now that everyone else had been sent to their rooms.

“You’ve got to stop stepping in on fights like that, baby,” she said, watching as he collected up his pad and paints from the floor where they’d been used as weapons, handing him his little panther toy, which he clutched to himself.

“You stay away from Norman Morse, Sugar,” she said, taking Star by the hand, leading him to down the corridor to his room “He’s a bad seed, hon. He’s unpredictable. I don’t think he’s ever really hurt anyone, but he’s got a violent temper. He really shouldn’t be in here with the rest of you. Most of them here wouldn’t hurt a fly. ‘Specially you, huh?”

He looked at her with those big blue eyes.

“I know, I know. You don’t like to see men fight, sugar. But it’s not your place to step in there…”

His eyes watered.

“I don’t care! Let the orderlies and the doctor’s deal with Norm. He’s dangerous, and no one wants to see you get hurt. That would make everyone very sad, babe. Especially me.”

She sat him down on his bed and handed him a couple of bananas. He took them, inspecting them carefully.

“I want you to promise me you’ll eat those all up. Nurse Sally’ll be along in a while with your cocoa. You’re to drink that up too, you hear?”

Again with the big blue eyes.

She kissed him on the forehead. “Sugar. I promise you, he’s OK. His ego’s bruised more than his body. Norman’s got a lot of problems, is all, that’s why he’s here. Everyone here’s got a lot of problems, but his are worse than most. I don’t want you worrying about him. You think he’s worrying about you?”

Star hung his head and squeezed Panther.

“Well, maybe that’s not the point, but he wanted to hurt you; Brad too. I don’t want you going near him again. I’m hoping we can get him transferred out of here. I don’t know why he’s here at all; you ask me, he belongs in a prison facility. Now,” she said, tilting his sad little face up to hers as Sally Thomas came through the door with the sedated cocoa he got each night. “I want you to drink up your chocolate for me, like a good boy. That’s it. Every last drop. OK, sunshine, that’s my boy,” she cooed, watching as his blue eyes hooded over with sleep and his limbs fell limp as the mild sedative worked it’s rapid way through his exhausted body.

Eyeing the still uneaten bananas, she placed them on his bedside table in the hope he’d eat them in the morning. The boy needed every calorie she could coax down him. Then she and Nurse Thomas had him rapidly and efficiently stripped down to his cotton pyjamas, lifted his bare feet up into the bed and, with a brief peck to the cheek, tucked Panther under his arm and slipped quietly out of the door.

Blair lay safe in his shelter, looking up at the palm roof, wondering about the events of the day, thinking about poor Tiger. He’d brought it on himself, there was no doubt about that, but still, Blair couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. His fierce nature had driven all the other animals away. No one wanted to be with him. Blair couldn’t imagine how it must be to be so friendless, so alone.

Blair could feel the presence of all the other animals around him. They were his friends. They looked out for each other, kept each other safe. It was good to have friends. If only he could make Tiger see that. Friends would help him get well. Blair knew that under all his bluster, Tiger was just sad. He made all that noise and pretended to hate everybody because he thought that no one liked him. And Turtle! Where on earth did old Turtle learn to fight like that? That was amazing! Who’d have thought the leathery old guy had all that in him? And where was Panther? Did he have friends to look out for him, over there on the other side of the water? The thought of Panther all alone, lonely and sad, was more than he could bear. Blair sent out his love to him, in the hope he would feel it, wherever he was.

It was night time in the jungle. A huge yellow moon hung low in the sky, sending golden lights skittering across the inky lagoon. Jim’s sentinel vision enabled him to see Blair clearly, standing alone at the lake’s edge, looking out across the water, his face streaked with tears, watching for him, but Jim’s distant shore was too far for him to see in the dark of night, and eventually, he hung his head sadly and shuffled off back into the forest.

Woken in the early hours by the shock of the vivid dream, even with his sleep mask on and ear plugs in, Jim couldn’t get back to sleep. Endlessly cycling thoughts in his head wouldn’t let him be.

Throwing the mask off to check out the time - two forty seven am - he fell back on his pillow with a sigh, and stared at the light flooding in through the French windows. Full moon, he thought with a wry grin, thinking about Henri and Rafe’s trip to Seattle tomorrow. Not the best of times to be visiting lunatics.

Giving up on sleep, he swung out of bed, threw on his old gray robe and went out to make tea. Blair would laugh, Jim Ellison making chamomile-honey tea. It was one of the things he’d started doing after Blair left - making Blair’s tea, cooking his favorite dishes, washing his hair with Blair’s Karma shampoo, using his soap, his herbal toothpaste… he’d’ve worn his shirts if they’d fit; did wear his biggest, sloppiest sweaters. Some days he wondered if he was trying to become his missing partner.

It had started as a way to cope – to cosset himself with Blair smells. But now he found he liked the food, liked the tea, especially this one with vanilla and honey. He wondered if he should grow his hair out a little, start wearing an earring again? He smiled to himself at the picture that would make for Blair when he came home. And with that happy thought, took himself over to the laptop, powered up and waited for the modem to dial in, letting chamomile steam waft over him, soothing and comforting.

Somehow, having even these tiny shards of Blair in his life helped. Even at the worst of times, when he was zoning out on everything, from the colors in the bubbles of his shaving soap to the sound of the neighbors lovemaking – Blair smells and Blair tastes helped him focus, helped him ward off the yearning he felt, almost constantly, to lose himself in the zone.

It was why he’d refused Simon’s offer of a berth at his place. The same reason he felt no desire right now, to go back to work. Away from the loft, everything was harder, brighter, louder - toxic. Here, in his sanctuary, he was safe. So long as he was home, he could hold it together. And he really needed to hold on to himself right now, when the end of his long search for Blair was so close he could taste it.

He’d covered most of the hospitals in Washington State now; just waiting for clearance on a couple of places out in Tacoma and one somewhere between Chinouk and Skamokawa. He was about to make a start on Oregon, and musing on whether to cross the border to check out southern British Columbia too.

He sipped his tea as he waited for his email to come down, thinking, again, about the Blair-dream. It was so real! He’d felt exactly as if he’d been there, watching him, scenting him. Maybe he had? Isn’t that what Blair’d said, that they had a link to the mysterious? - ‘We are definitely there my brother.’

He’d invited him into the water that time, too, but Jim’d blown him off. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. At least this time, he’d tried the water, but it was far from fine – way too damn cold! He obviously wasn’t meant to reach him through a dream or a vision. He had to find him in the real world.

Jim finished his tea and logged into the PD database of hospitals in Northern Oregon. Trouble was, of course, that Blair might not be using his real name. On the other hand, if he really was sick, he couldn’t use an alias – they’d need his insurance details. A search on John Does in public hospitals had come up with so many it would take months to go through them all, but go through them he would. Many could be eliminated by age and sex of course, but it was astonishing how many young men between 24 and 35 were listed as JDs in northern Washington State alone. And what if he’d misread the vision? What if they weren’t hospital clothes he was wearing and he was barking totally up the wrong tree?

Aw hell. He sat back in his chair and ran his hands over his face, thinking, ‘stop that. Stop it now. Let’s just calm down and start using some deductive reasoning on this.