A Step Backwards

by LRHBalzer

lrhbalzer@yahoo.com

Set after the episode "S2p2",
and after my stories "No Center Line", "And Dream That I am Home Again", & "Black Widow"
and before the episode "Murder 101"

 

 

Part One

 

 Damn, what the hell am I missing here?

 

 The file lay open before him, the list of suspects spread out over his desk. Photos of the bodies. Photos of the crime scene. The victims were strangled.  There were no known motives. But there were bodies.

 

 Some of the pictures were blurred. He blinked several times, bringing them into focus.

 

 Focus. Yes. Need to focus. Need to . . . do something.

 

 He closed the file and picked restlessly at the plastic corner of his desk blotter.

 

 Need to . . . something. Yeah.

 

 Maybe a coffee would help. Or even a mug of tea. Something cinnamon. Hot chocolate with cinnamon. Made with soy vanilla milk. And coffee. A double mocha vanilla soy latte with cinnamon sprinkles.

 

 Yeah.

 

 Unfortunately, the break room was too far away, and Starbucks was even farther.

 

 "Sandburg, get in here right now."

 

 "Huh?"  Blair Sandburg turned from where he was staring blankly at his desk blotter, slowly registering Simon Banks' order. "What?" he asked, as the door to the captain's office closed. "What did he say?"

 

 "He wants you to go see him," Jim Ellison provided, without looking up from the report he was reading on his computer.

 

 "Oh." Sandburg grabbed another tissue as he got up from his desk. A mild cold had gradually worsened over the last day, and his concentration was scraping ground. "Uh . . .  be right back, Jim." He slid into the captain's office, shutting the door behind him as he sneezed, belatedly mopping his face with the tissue before turning to the head of Major Crimes.  "Can I help you with something, Simon?"

 

 "Go home." Captain Banks didn't look up either. There were a lot of papers on his desk, covering the surface, cleared in one spot for a monster mug of coffee. Just plain coffee, nothing fancy. It looked hot, though, and even with his stuffed nasal passages, Blair could tell it was one of those nice blends the captain favored.  Must make reading all those files bearable. There were two stacks of files with little, yellow stick-it notes stuck out of the tops of them.

 

 Sticky stuck-outs. Stuck-out stickies.

 

 The steam from the coffee made some of them flutter.

 

 Fluttery yellow stick-it notes. Buttery-yellow stuck-out notes.

 

 Sandburg blinked. Had the captain said something? "Sir?"

 

 "Go home."

 

 "Pardon?"

 

 "Major Crimes is off limits to you for the next few days." Banks flipped a file shut, moved it to his 'out' box, then opened the next one.

 

 The little yellow stick-it notes fluttered butterly in the breeze.

 

 Sandburg sank down into a chair, leaning into the solidness of the long briefing table. He felt suspiciously like asking for, or maybe even 'demanding' clarification on what Simon meant, but settled for an almost whiny, "Why? What did I do?"

 

 Banks peered at Sandburg over his reading glasses. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're sick."

 

 "It's just a little cold--"

 

 "And I can't chance the rest of the department coming down with the same bug."

 

 "It's nothing, sir." Sandburg groaned as he sneezed twice more into an already soggy tissue. "Really. I've got it under control."

 

 "Right. Go home." Banks stood up from behind his desk, his chair rolling away from him amid a flurry of fluttery buttery stickies, and simply pointed to the door. "Get out. Now."

 

 With a defeated sigh, Sandburg complied, struggling to his feet and trudging out the office door. He sniffled his way over to Ellison's desk.  When he opened his mouth to complain, he sneezed instead, hastily spinning to grab another tissue from the dwindling supply on his desk.

 

 Oh, man.  Spinning was so not a good idea. The room kept rotating even after he had stopped. Or maybe he hadn't stopped.

 

 Maybe Simon was right.  Maybe he was still . . .

 

 "Okay, Jim, okay!" Hands up, Sandburg hushed any remarks the senior detective had been about to offer. "I'm going."

 

 Ellison stared down at the reams of paperwork on his desk. "Listen, it's not that I don't want you here, it's just that--"

 

 "I know. You don't want me here in my delicate 'condition'." Sandburg dropped to his chair and leaned forward, his head down on arms that rested on the closed file filled with pictures of dead bodies and suspects. "I feel like shit."

 

 "I thought you said you were fine. That's what you told Simon." Ellison waited a moment, staring at his computer screen and the list of questions he needed to fill in. When there was no response to his gentle jibe, he looked back to his partner's desk. "Sandburg?"

 

 The young man sat up with a groan. "Yeah, I'm here." He leaned back in his chair dejected, his shoulders slumped. "You know what? It's not so much this cold. I just feel . . . out of sorts. Edgy," he whispered, his voice keyed only to the hearing of the sentinel.

 

 Ellison entered the data needed for the first set of queries, then looked over to Sandburg's desk again, alerted by his partner's tone.  He rolled his chair closer, blocking the aisle. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice equally low, eyes scanning Sandburg's face, his head tilted to one side.

 

 Listening to my lungs again, Blair thought.

 

 He breathed carefully in and out, letting the sentinel do his thing. It was easier to go along with it, than fight it. At least on that issue. "I don't know why I feel like this, exactly. Maybe it is just this cold." He touched Ellison's arm. "And it is just a cold," he added, making eye contact. "Got it?  No other symptoms.  I'm just tired."

 

 But he knew he hadn't sounded convincing. He stared at Ellison and as he did he felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the brush of unease unsettling his stomach. There was a fear behind it all pushing that feeling forward, a fear that something was going to happen. And it was going to happen to Jim.

 

 "Just." Ellison whispered the word, as though it gave his mouth a bad taste. "Just a cold. Just tired. And are you 'just' feverish?"

 

 "I don't think so. I admit my concentration is a bit off. And I'm a little achy, I guess."

 

 "How little?"

 

 "Just a little. Don't do the whole temperature thing, here, okay? You look like you're my mother or something when you do that."

 

 "Are you saying I resemble Naomi?" Ellison growled at him affectionately, trying to look tough.

 

 "You do when the mother hen thing starts. It really is just a cold, Jim. Don't make it something more. I'm not going anywhere."  Despite his words, Sandburg shivered slightly, although for no particular reason he wanted to mention.

 

 "Okay, then, if it's not the cold setting you off, what else could it be?" Ellison asked, trying for casual as he rolled back to his desk, looked at the computer screen, and typed in another short sentence for his report.

 

 Sandburg stared at the back of Ellison's head. "It's like I'm missing something, Jim. Like there's something I should have figured out already. Or maybe something I should be doing, and I'm not getting it." Sandburg sat silent for a few seconds, sneezed, then added, "And it's important."

 

 "One of our cases?"  Ellison reached in his desk drawer and handed Sandburg another box of tissues just in time for another sneeze.

 

 "Thanks."  Sniff.  Drip. Sniff.  "I thought so at first, Jim, but now I'm not sure. It's like maybe I saw something, and part of my brain has made a connection, but the rest of my brain is too congested or something and hasn't figured it out yet. I've looked through everything twice, but nothing twinges."

 

 Ellison turned around again and stared back at him.  Sandburg knew he was seeing the effects of the cold that had worsened in the last few hours, sapping his guide's already limited resources. "At the risk of sounding egotistical, Sneezy, is it sentinel-related?" the detective asked, his voice low.

 

 Sandburg shook his head wearily. "I don't think so." He sighed.  "Maybe guide or shaman related, though. It's me that's off, not you."

 

 But my being 'off' affects you, so I guess it is sentinel-related.

 

 With a louder sigh, Sandburg pushed himself to his feet. "Okay.  I'll go home, have a shower. Maybe meditating will clear my head. And if that doesn't work," he added, "I'll use the time to work up the framework for a paper I've been thinking of doing."

 

 "No way, Chief.  Not working means just that: not working. Get some rest. I'll drive you home. I don't want to get this cold."

 

 "You already had it. Who do you think I got it from?"

 

 "I just had a little cold, hardly anything."

 

 "Stupid flu bug wouldn't dare mess with you," Sandburg muttered.

 

 He started walking to the door, then turned to say something more to Jim. But there was only a dead body sitting where Jim had been a second before, blood dripping from eyes and nose and mouth, lips stretched tight in agony over skeletal remains.

 

 "Jim!" he yelled, stumbling backward, his head whirling. "JIM!" He landed against the half-open door of Major Crimes and fell to the ground, rolling to his side.

 

 "Easy there, Chief." What sounded eerily like Ellison's voice whispered through the fog around him. "Are you dizzy? What's wrong? You lose your balance?" the familiar, soothing voice asked.

 

 Eyes still shut tightly, Sandburg grabbed hold of the strong arms helping him sit up. "Jim?" he whispered.

 

 "What is it? What's wrong?"

 

 It sounded like Jim.

 

 Rafe's voice: "Jim? What's wrong with Sandburg?"

 

 Brown's voice: "Should we call 911?"

 

 Okay, if Rafe thinks Jim is here, and Brown thinks Jim is here . . . Please please please . . .

 

 Blair opened his eyes carefully, squinting as the overhead fluorescent lights sent stabbing pains behind his eyes.  The face hovering over his -- fortunately -- looked like Jim.  Not like that . . . whatever it was.

 

 "Yeah, just lost my balance," Sandburg said, allowing Ellison and Brown to help him to his feet. "I'd kinda like to go home and lie down now."

 

 "Good plan." Ellison made sure that Henri Brown had a good grip on him, then moved over to his desk, finished closing down his computer and grabbed his jacket and Sandburg's. The two detectives bundled him into his denim jacket, and Ellison helped him down to the truck.

 

 By the time the truck headed out into the bleary, rain-sodden October streets, he felt a lot better. By the time they'd gone a few blocks, he had cranked the window down and the cool air seemed to clear his head of cobwebs. And by the time they reached the bridge that would take them to the loft, he found he was capable of carrying on a conversation, and turned to Jim. "Thanks. I'm okay now. Just a bit woozy there for a minute."

 

 Ellison glanced over to him, eyes still worried. "What happened there? You sounded frightened -- terrified. That wasn't just losing your balance."

 

 No, just hallucinating you as a dead body.

 

 "I just need to go home and sleep." He met Jim's intent gaze and smiled reassuringly, relieved when the sentinel let the matter drop. Sandburg changed the topic to what groceries needed to be purchased later, and what they were going to do about dinner. Fortunately, his partner went along with the diversion, although none too happily, agreeing to get the groceries later and take care of the meal so Sandburg could concentrate on sleeping.

 

 He rested his head against the window, closing his eyes until he flashed on the face again. It had been Jim's face. That hideous skeletal face, covered in peeling skin and caked blood, had been Jim's face. Oh, God. Please. No.

 

 He opened his eyes and looked at Jim's rain-distorted reflection in the side window. If he just turned his head, he would be able to look at him. Just look at him, and you'll see he's okay!

 

 "Blair?" The sentinel's voice cut into his frantic thoughts. "Chief, what's wrong?" A warm - and very alive - hand reached over to him, covering his icy cold fingers.

 

 As he felt the truck swerve off to the side of the road, Sandburg turned his head so quickly to the left that he ended up with a kink in his neck, but he was rewarded with the beautiful sight of Jim Ellison in full-protective mode.

 

 "Chief?" The truck came to an abrupt halt in a no-parking zone in front of a bank. Ellison let go of his hand to put the truck into park, then reestablished contact, leaning across with his left hand to turn Sandburg's face toward him. "Hey, buddy. What was that about? You okay there?"

 

 Sandburg smiled reassuringly as Ellison's hand squeezed his. "I'm okay, Jim. Really." More or less. Close enough.

 

 Ellison wasn't convinced though. "Your heart's still racing."

 

 I know. "I'm just a little disoriented. Sleep is what I need, right?" Like I'm going to get any sleep whatsoever. He rested his head back against the window, savoring the cool glass against his aching head.

 

 "You're congested."

 

 "Yes, Jim."

 

 "You should see a doctor."

 

 "No, Jim."

 

 "Wrong answer." Ellison removed his hand and turned back into traffic.

 

 Sandburg opened his eyes just long enough to make sure his partner was still heading home and hadn't detoured to the hospital. No, he turned left at the street that would take them home.

 

 "At least take something for the congestion."

 

 "Yes, Jim."

 

 "I don't want it to get worse."

 

 "No, Jim."

 

 "I'm serious here!" The harshly whispered words shook Sandburg out of his blissful escape.

 

 "I know, Jim," he whispered back, without lifting his head. "I'm not going to die, okay? It's just a cold."

 

 "It's in your lungs." It almost took sentinel-hearing to catch Jim's words, but he heard them, and he heard the fear behind them.

 

 "That doesn't mean anything." The silence stretched between them, and finally Blair tilted his head so he could look at his partner. "Jim?"

 

 "It's in your lungs," Ellison repeated, louder this time. Stubborn.

 

 "I'll go to the doctor tomorrow, okay? If it's not better?" He really didn't want to go, but this wasn't for him. It was for Jim. Jim needed him to go, so he would, to put the man at ease again. For a hard-nosed cop, James Ellison had been through a hell of a lot of emotional crap over the last few weeks, and he didn't process events well. If at all.

 

 "Okay." Jim seemed mollified. Ten seconds went by. "Have you called Harvey lately?"

 

 The sentinel's question took him off guard.

 

 Harvey Leek, a Special Investigations detective from San Francisco, had helped them a month previous when they had been -- for lack of another word -- stuck in a dream.

 

 Blair looked carefully at his partner. "No, I haven't. Why? Some reason in particular I should talk to him? Is he a cold expert?"

 

 "Just wondering if you've talked to him lately."

 

 "Jim, is there something you want to talk about? Do you want to talk about the dream?" That's what they were calling it. The dream. Many nightmares, but only one dream. I have a dream ... Who said that? Naomi had a poster she carted around wherever we went. I remember it. 'I have a dream...' How did that go... Blair closed his eyes, wearily. 'I have a dream that ... that... one day this nation will rise up, live out the true meaning of its creed.' Martin Luther King. Yeah. That's it.

 

 "Do you?" The truck stopped a little abruptly at a red light. Jim was looking at him.

 

 "Do I what?"

 

 "Do you want to talk about the dream?"

 

 Great. Here we go again, the 'do you want to talk about it' merry-go-round. "Jim, if my head wasn't so clogged, I'd love to talk about what happened back then, but I think we've more or less beaten that topic to death. Neither one of us knows what happened. You dreamed, you sucked me into your dream somehow, then you woke up and I woke up and everything was back to normal."

 

 The windshield wipers squeaked a little as they fought to clear the rain off the window. The police radio sputtered to life, calling off some meaningless numbers and locations, but the sound was down too low to hear it.

 

 Ellison turned it off, then turned on the FM radio, listened for a moment, changed stations a few times, then turned it off, too. He hit the steering wheel sharply with the palm of his hand.

 

 "What's that for?" Sandburg opened his eyes and peered at his partner.

 

 "What if I do it again?"

 

 "Do what again?"

 

 "The dream. That dream thing."

 

 "Why would you? Because I'm sick?"

 

 "Maybe. You were sick before. I almost killed you, trying to protect you. I don't want to do it again." The truck lurched ahead when the green light changed. "But I need to protect you still. The instinct is there. You said not to mess with this fucking instinct, but what am I supposed to do?"

 

 Sandburg leaned over and patted his arm, noting the hands clenched white on the wheel. "I'll let you know if I'm really sick, all right? Sound fair?"

 

 "What if you can't-"

 

 "Jim - drop it. Now. Life is continuing for us. I'm alive, I have a bad cold, but I'm going to be fine."

 

 This time there was almost a full minute of silence before Jim spoke again, just as he was pulling in front of the loft. "Maybe you aren't the only one that is having a bad feeling that something is going to happen."

 

 "It's been two weeks since our last disaster. It's about time, right?"

 

 "I'm serious here."

 

 "I know. Sorry. What do you mean? What are you feeling?"

 

 Ellison shifted the truck into park and shrugged. "I've no idea. Let's get you inside." He was out the door, into the pouring rain, and around the other side of the truck before Blair could get his seat belt unlocked.

 

 "Jim, I'm okay here. You get the apartment door open, and then I can just make a run for it. Go. Scoot!" he added when he could see the sentinel was about to fight for hovering rights.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

 Fifteen minutes later, the loft was finally quiet.

 

 Blair sighed dramatically, enjoying the effort. Jim had made sure he got into the loft safely, had boiled water for tea, brought a blanket to the couch, and had paused for a long moment at the door, as though unsure of whether to leave.

 

 They were still sorting things out between them after their detour into Jim's dreamscape in July. The summer had been weird; Blair had worked at acting like an adult each time they went their own ways for a few hours, when all along he felt like a panicky child who wanted his -- whatever. Too weird.

 

 Harvey Leek described it to them by saying that they had spent time sharing a soul, so now it felt 'strange' to be alone in their own heads.

 

 It got better as the weeks went by.  They worked on some cases, school started again, and life settled back into a normal cadence. The pendulum swung and they would overcompensate one way, then the other.

 

                      The pendulum swings like a . . . something . . . something . . .
                       Westminster Abbey, the Tower of Big Ben . . .
                       The rosy red cheeks of the little children.

 

 How did that song go? A British pop tune that Naomi used to sing.

 

                       The pendulum swings like a . . .

 

Like a . . .

 

La la la . . .

 

 Granted, Blair mused, locating his previous thought, it was something he and Jim were getting used to again, being in their own heads, but there was something about being sick that lowered those barriers again. When Jim had been sick the previous week, the two had stuck close together, as though Blair's very presence would help Jim's recovery. Who knows? Maybe it did. At least, it made Jim feel better having him close by.

 

 But then the first week of September rolled around, the weather turned nasty, the new semester at university began, and they had that weird case with Rothschild and her string of murders.

 

The pendulum swings like a . . .

 

 Grrr . . .  Almost had it.

 

 So, Blair had watched Jim go now, the door closing, the sound of the stairwell door clicking shut. And he had alternated between desperately wanting him to stay and desperately wanting him to go so he could be alone and meditate.

 

 The latter won and he breathed a sigh of relief when the quiet of the loft registered around him.

 

 Yeah, this was good.

 

 Candles . . .  Incense . . .  Blair stared at the items on the coffee table.  Maybe now he'd figure out what had been bothering him. Those flashes of . . . whatever . . . were unsettling him, and he wanted to get a handle on it before it got worse.

 

 He also wanted to talk to Jim about  . . . well, the corpse. More specifically, Jim's corpse. They had agreed not to keep secrets, and now he was doing that very thing by not being forthright about the . . . well, the corpse.

 

 He'd rather not think about it at all, but that's not how life worked. There had to be a reason for it, right? Whether he liked it or not, there had to be a reason. Right? There had to be.

 

 There had to be a reason. That's what Naomi always said, Blair thought, blowing his nose.

 

 Naomi . . .

 

 Funny, he was thinking about her a lot today. She was on his mind, flitting around like those little sticky-notes. Fluttery . . .

 

 He wondered how she was.

 

 Or . . .

 

 Wait.

 

 The candle flame flickered. Yellow. Like the stick-it note. On the file on Simon's desk.  And the photos.  The crime scene photo.  The gathered crowd.

 

 Yeah. I need to remember what I've forgotten.

 

 The flame died, and Blair leaned forward, snoring softly.

 

 

 * * * * *
Cascade PD
4:40 p.m.

 

 Ellison glanced at his watch, frowning at the slow passage of time. He had thought, had hoped, that the clock on the computer screen was wrong again, but it was only a few minutes off.

 

 Brown wandered over and perched on the side of his desk. "Any word from Stibbs?"

 

 They were working on a serial murder case, with no suspects, only a location in common.  Andrew Stibbs, age 55, was the owner of the Emerald Theater, which was half way through its annual two-week jazz festival. Stibbs was a bulldog of a man, looking part sweaty mob boss, part pimp with gold rings on his fingers. Stibbs was frantic, trying desperately to keep news of the murders as low-key as possible.  Three women, one every other night, had been found strangled so far, within an hour after leaving the theater.  The first two had cars, still parked where they had left them.  The third woman killed had been walking to the bus stop after waving good-bye to her friends.  Her body was found in an alley nearby.

 

 "The guy gives me the creeps." Henri stared at the closed file. "Something's not right."

 

 "That's what Sandburg said," Jim mused.

 

 "About Stibbs?"

 

 "He wasn't sure what was bothering him. Could be." Jim reached over and flipped the file open. "Stibbs gave us an alibi for all three murders. Told us he had stayed in the theater until two in the morning, supervising the cleanup and lockup."

 

"Right. His employees vouched for him for the first two nights. They said he came down from his office to lock the doors after them at midnight, and Ivan Chomski said he was with him between 11:00 p.m. and midnight last night when the third murder occurred.

 

 "What do we have on Chomski?"

 

 Henri paged through his notes.  "Not much. Age 53. Reporter for the Cascade Jazz Journal."

 

 "He said he was there all three nights."

 

 "He was covering the entire series. We double-checked and he was assigned the concert series, all right. The CJJ was expecting a review from him and was holding the press on that issue until he finished it."

 

 "Did he?"

 

 "Yup.  Right on schedule."

 

 "Did you read the review?"

 

 "Rafe did. What I know about jazz reviews would fit on my driver's license."

 

 Ellison looked up from the file to stare at Brown blankly. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but you play jazz, right?"

 

 "I play it. I don't read about it." Henri sauntered off in the direction of the break room, singing an old classic, leaving Jim alone with the file, shaking his head.

 

 Ellison read the file through twice, but nothing seemed to jump out at him beyond the sordid facts. Last night the third victim, Marie Smythe, was found, strangled, a block from the concert hall.  Her lifeless body had been left sitting on the step of a travel agency, leaning against the outer wall, looking as though she'd had a little too much to drink. It wasn't until an officer went to check on her and suggest she get inside out of the rain, that he realized she was dead.

 

 It was on that same night that Sandburg had stayed with him out in the rain, became soaked to the skin, and the virus had taken hold. Sandburg insisted that getting a little wet had nothing to do with catching a cold, but the coincidence remained, regardless. Added to the two rather worrisome 'episodes' of his heart rate spiking today, it was enough to send alarm bells off for the sentinel.

 

 Fifteen minutes before he was officially off the clock, Jim gave up, said a few words to Simon, and headed down to the truck. He was done for the day. Why keep his chair warm while he stared vacantly across the department?

 

 He stopped at the market, prowling the aisles, tossing items into a hand basket, until he realized he needed more items and broke down and got a cart. They hadn't been eating at home much lately, and things like orange juice and canned soup were seriously depleted from their cupboards. He bought lemons, honey, and three boxes of tissues -- the kind with lotion in them that prevented a red, chafed nose. Cough syrup, that organic stuff.  Tylenol. Extra Strength.

 

 And Tylenol Cold. Tylenol Fever. Tylenol Sinus.

 

 He put back the Tylenol for Kids. Blair wasn't in the right space to find it amusing.

 

 Sandburg is in a very strange space altogether, he thought as he stood in lineup at the market, wondering what was up with his partner.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

 Balancing the three grocery bags, Ellison pushed open the loft door with his foot, wincing as the pungent scent of candles hit him. The cloying smell had permeated the loft. Smoke trails from one of the spluttering wicks painted circular patterns in the air, shifting now as he walked further into the loft and deposited the paper bags on the kitchen counter. The apartment echoed with the haunting sound of pan pipes and drums, Sandburg's latest music to meditate by.

 

 At least his partner was sleeping. About time you conked out, Chief.

 

 He shrugged out of his jacket, glanced at the thermostat in the loft and adjusted the temperature to something a little warmer. He turned back to his partner, limply hunched forward over the coffee table.  Blair's mouth was open slightly, breathing through mildly congested lungs, his reddened nose clearly visible through the haze of candle smoke.

 

 Ellison shook his head, counting ten candles of various sizes and colors and shapes on the low table. Sandburg had built a fire in the fireplace, but it had died down to a few glowing embers that did nothing to warm the area, explaining the cooler than normal loft. Crouching down beside Sandburg, Ellison rested one hand on his friend's forehead, relieved to feel a temperature no more than a degree or so above normal.

 

 "Hmmm?" Sandburg murmured, struggling to open his eyes.

 

 "Whatcha doin' out here?" Ellison asked, keeping his voice light.

 

 Sandburg peered at him through slitted, watery eyes. "What? Oh. It's you, Jim," he whispered, as his eyes slid closed again.

 

 "It's me. You trying to burn the place down with all these candles?"

 

 "What?" The eyes opened again, brows drawn together in puzzlement.

 

 "What are you doing sitting out here having a seance, when you should be in bed sleeping?"

 

 "I am sleeping. You woke me up," Blair responded grumpily.

 

 "Go to bed."

 

 Sandburg opened his mouth to argue, then nodded. "Okay." He reached out his hand and grasped hold of Jim's jacket, mumbling, "England. England swings."

 

 "What are you talking about?" Ellison helped him up and steered him in the right direction, then moved to the kitchen as Sandburg shuffled the rest of the way to his room.

 

 His partner's rough voice softly warbled a song as he climbed under the covers. "England swings like a pendulum do, Bobbies on bicycles, two by two, Westminster Abbey, the tower of Big Ben, the rosy red cheeks of the little children." <cough>

 

 Yup, Sandburg was definitely in a very strange space, Ellison thought, smiling as he closed the kitchen cupboard.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Blair rolled over in bed, sticky eyes opening to stare at the clock. It took a moment before the information traveled laboriously from his eyes to his brain, another moment before his frazzled brain released them to close again.

 

 By that time, he had forgotten the time and had to look again.

 

 1:30 a.m.  Right.

 

 Okay. One-thirty in the morning. Go back to sleep.

 

 But, as colds would have it, this one was determined to fuck up his sleep schedule.

 

 I want to sleep.

 

 No, you don't.

 

 Yes, I do. My brain is Swiss cheese.

 

 No, it's not. You want to be awake. You have things to do.

 

 Like what?

 

 Awake. Awake. Awake. You have places to go and people to see.

 

 "Ack." He pushed himself upright.

 

 A slight rattle at the open doorway, and he turned his fever-heavy head in that direction -- and saw it again. It being Jim. Or rather Jim's hideous corpse dripping blood, dirt, and maggots over the floor. It was not a pretty picture.

 

 Blair gagged, one hand over his mouth. His eyes closed, then sprung back open, but the brief second was enough for the skeleton to disappear from sight.  Gone.

 

 He scrambled out from beneath his covers, the movement sending signals to other parts of his body, namely his bladder, and he levered himself off the bed and managed to find the bathroom -- and more importantly, the toilet -- before anything else went wrong.

 

 Wash your hands.

 

 Easier said than done, but he managed to get the taps turned on, wash his hands with a bit too much soap -- bubbles crawling up his arms -- rinse it all off, and then dry his hands. Simple things were much more complicated when your brain was producing nightmare images at one-thirty in the morning.

 

 He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Let it go. "Let it go," he mumbled quietly, ignoring his shaking hands and pitiful quivering legs. "The pendulum swings like a . . ." Damn. He'd had it before.  "The pendulum swings like a . . . something."

 

 Then there was an awkward five minute struggle to figure out which of the dozen cold medicines currently stocked in the bathroom cupboard was the best for him to take. Forget what was in them -- what mattered, it seemed, was which set of symptoms most closely described his own.  "Headache -- check.  Cough -- check.  Damn." Nothing for hallucinations.  Oh, well.

 

 He picked one, and that decided, the next step was to find the kitchen and pour himself some water. For pills, it had to be kitchen water. Jim never understood that. But then, Jim kept pills in the bathroom, instead of the kitchen, where it made more sense.

 

 More sense.

 

 More sense.

 

 Blair giggled wearily, took his pills, and went to back to bed. His head hit the pillow and he bounced back up and checked the closet and under the bed without letting himself question his actions. Satisfied, his body told his brain to shut up and he fell asleep right away.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

 He woke again. Or thought he did.

 

 This time he was in a hallway, a narrow corridor with doors. He walked down the hall, leaning against the wall for balance. His head was pounding. The perspective was all wrong. Everything was getting smaller, like that freak house at the fairgrounds.

 

 His hip scraped against a doorknob and he opened the door, then slammed it shut, a scream forced from his not-so-great lungs.

 

 Jim. Dead Jim. Dead Jim sitting in a chair.

 

 Not good. No. Not good.

 

 Get out of here. Got to get out of here.

 

 He moved faster down the corridor, opening doors, seeing different versions of Dead Jim. At his desk. In the truck. At Wonderburger. Upstairs in his bed.

 

 The corridor was getting smaller and narrower as he stumbled down it. The ceiling brushed the top of his head and he had to run scrunched over, which was okay because he was crying.  He had to look down to see his feet moving. His nose was running faster than he was. It took everything in him to keep moving, slogging through the thick air.

 

 Behind him, doors started opening and banging closed on their own, propelling him wildly forward, crashing his elbows against the side walls . Then he was crawling because the ceiling got too low and he crawled and crawled and his hands got dirty because it was so dusty and he sneezed and slammed headfirst into a wall at the end of the corridor.

 

 There was a window in front of him. A dusty, dirty window that he couldn't see through. He couldn't turn around to look behind him, because the corridor was too narrow. He tried backing up.

 

 Footsteps behind him. Bony, dragging, oh-shit footsteps.

 

 Forward again. His shaking fingers struggled to release the latches of the window. Why so many latches? Was the window big enough for him to get out? It was so small.

 

 The windowpane lifted finally with a scraping creak. Beyond were voices. Music. Guitars and singing.

 

 "England swings like a pendulum do..."

 

 Blair leaned forward to see who was singing and he fell out the window. 

 

 

 

 

 

Part Two

 

"Huh?  Wha--?"

 

Ellison woke abruptly, ears straining to catch some faint sound just beyond his hearing. He rolled to one side, opening his eyes long enough to register the time, then rolled back to lie sprawled on the bed.  3:30 a.m.

 

It was damn cold in the loft, even for him.

 

October was quickly moving from mild summer evenings into the autumn frost outside.  He wondered if Sandburg was okay in the room below him.  His partner had a new multi-layered quilt, one that should be keeping him warm.  Should be more than adequate even on a cool October night.  Should be.

 

Besides, the furnace was on a timer to automatically come on at 5:30, so it would warm up significantly by the time Sandburg's sleep-tousled head emerged from beneath his quilt.

 

And as for what he'd heard . . .

 

He listened again. There were no unusual sounds in the loft.  He could hear the usual building creaks and groans, and his guide's breathing, still rough.  Ellison had woken and listened a few times in the night -- once he'd even gone into Sandburg's room to look at him -- but Sandburg's lungs remained clear, sparing them both a trip to the hospital.  For the moment.

 

Ellison scratched his beard-rough chin as he went back to the temperature problem.  Maybe if he went downstairs and turned up the heat now, he'd be able to sleep a while longer. It was too early to get up or have a shower; Sandburg was sleeping fitfully at the moment and would probably awaken at the slightest sound of someone moving around.

 

Ellison had heard him get up twice in the night, the doors to his bedroom and the bathroom opening and closing, the deep rumble of his cough.  Sandburg's persistent cold had probably stepped up a notch, a low-grade fever added to his roommate's illness.

 

He sighed, rolled over to his side and readjusted his pillow.

 

August was supposed to have been a rest month for Sandburg, relaxing after the insanity of the previous three months, but instead, Sandburg had spent it at the university, preparing for his September courses. He'd missed out on the previous semester -- the two courses he had been teaching during the May-July session had been handed to someone else when he had . . . well, died.

 

Then Sandburg had traveled to Mexico, following as Ellison had tracked . . . her.

 

No sooner had they returned to Cascade, and Sandburg had been kidnaped, held for long days, and treated inhumanely before Ellison had found him.

 

The Black Widow had emerged weeks later, the case sending Sandburg to the hospital, his fragile lungs straining from carbon monoxide poisoning.

 

And now it was October, with its hit-and-miss weather and all the 'beginning of the semester' rushing about that seemed to take hold.  Add to that, a series of murders tied into the Emerald Theater's Jazz Festival. One for each concert, with the next concert of the season in three days -- well in two days now. There was a pattern somewhere -- even Sandburg, who had missed the task force meetings while at his university classes, was striving to figure the links between the three murders, working longer hours than he should with his poor health.

 

And this damned chilly weather wouldn't help things at all, not when the cold threatened his partner's sensitive lungs.

 

It was certainly chilly in the loft.  Should he--?

 

With a last effort to make a decision of whether to get up or not, Ellison fell back asleep.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

The alarm woke him next, and he leaned over to switch it off.

 

6:30 a.m. Still cold.  Colder. He frowned.  It should be warming up now.  The heater should have kicked in.

 

Ellison extended his hearing, listening for a moment to the shallow breathing of the man downstairs.  He sat up.  Odd.  It didn't quite sound right.  He listened closer.  Sandburg's lungs were clear, but still not . . . quite . . . right.  The heartbeat, too quick, but not labored.  Just . . . not quite right.  Didn't sound like Sandburg at all.

 

Probably one of those strange sleep phases.  RAMs or REMs or whatever.

 

Wide awake now, the temperature bothered him enough to lure him from his bed and into a pair of sweats.  He padded down the stairs and checked the furnace, but it was humming nicely, warm air issuing from the vents.  It would warm up eventually.

 

Ellison poured himself some juice from the fridge and smiled at the signs of Sandburg up in the middle of the night.  Pills on the counter.  The sink dripping from the water tap not turned off completely.  A glass on the stove top.

 

Some things never changed, despite his best efforts.

 

He thought back to Blair's comments the day before.  His guide had complained about being edgy, "out of sorts". They had discussed it briefly, but Sandburg had no words to describe his feeling and nothing to tie it to.  Ellison had tried drawing the subject out, had even tried suggesting his partner call Harvey Leek -- anything to answer the lingering uneasiness.  But Sandburg hadn't been able to trace what the problem was, so they had let it go, knowing if it was important, if it was something they needed to deal with, the feeling would be back, intensified.

 

The only case they were working on was the Emerald Theater Jazz Festival murders.  Ellison had watched Sandburg go through the file, staring at the crime scene photos.  He would read the file, discard it, pick it up and go through it again, only to set it down once more with a shrug.  Ten minutes later, the file would again be open on Sandburg's desk, but whatever was bothering his partner about the file remained unanswered, or at least, unsaid.

 

A pen and crumpled piece of paper on the counter drew Ellison's attention.  It was a scribbled note in his partner's worst scrawl.  It took a few minutes for Ellison to make out the words, but he finally understood it to be the refrain of an old song, and he whistled the tune almost silently.  "The pendulum swings like a . . . " No, that's not right.

 

Oh, that's what Sandburg meant last night.  "England swings."  Sandburg had mumbled that to him yesterday.  Smiling, Ellison made the correction on the paper from "the pendulum swings" to "England swings like a pendulum".  He could just picture his partner standing here staring at the words trying to figure them out, instead of staying in bed like he was supposed to.

 

As Ellison passed toward the bathroom, a cool stream of air from under Sandburg's bedroom door made him pause.  It felt like there was a draft, as though the outside window was open.  That seemed unlikely, considering his partner's intense dislike of anything cold, but the draft was there.  He listened, and the sounds of the neighborhood attacked his sensitive hearing.

 

Ellison unlatched the door, pushing it open further when he saw the window was wide open.  "Sandburg?  What are you trying to--?"

 

He choked the words off, frozen in place.

 

What the--?

 

Sandburg wasn't in his bed.  The blankets were a jumble in the middle of the mattress, the new quilt crumpled at the foot of the bed.

 

What on earth--?

 

Muttering angrily under his breath, Ellison knelt on the bed and reached over to shut the window when something on the bed caught his eye.  Something that was out of place.  Something that made absolutely no sense.

 

A tiny hand.  A child's hand.

 

Ellison moved his knee carefully, staring at the hand poking out from under the blanket.  It looked real.  What kind of sick joke was this?

 

He flicked back the edge of the blanket.

 

A small child lay curled into a ball in the middle of the bed under the mound of blankets.  Without disturbing him, Ellison pushed down the window, still staring at the sleeping, oblivious toddler whose dirt-smudged face was mostly hidden under a tangled mop of curls, a little thumb firmly held between pursed lips.

 

A child.

 

He stayed motionless for a moment and listened intently for other sounds in the loft, but he was alone. With a sleeping child.  Who was in Sandburg's bed . . .

 

His hand trembling slightly, Ellison shut the window, covered the kid and backed out of the room, closing the door.  Feeling like he was in some off-kilter movie, he took three steps toward the living room and stopped.  Two steps toward the kitchen and stopped.  Turned and stared at the bedroom door.  Turned and took several steps toward the front door.

 

He had no idea what to do.

 

The phone. His hand hovered over the cordless phone, but he didn't pick it up.  Who was he going to call?

 

"Sandburg? Mind explaining this?" he asked, although there was no one to hear him.

 

A quick check confirmed that Sandburg's shoes, jacket, keys, wallet, and backpack were all where they were supposed to be, or close enough to where they were supposed to be that he was willing to overlook it this once. So where would Blair go? Barefoot, without his jacket, without his house keys.

 

The Volvo.

 

Ellison crossed the loft to the balcony doors, pushing them open and stepping out into the early morning dampness. The Volvo was still parked in the diagonal slot across the street, next to his own Ford truck.

 

Now what?  Ellison glanced at the clock.  It was too early to phone . . .  Phone . . .  He'd call Sandburg's cellphone. He had his hand on the telephone before he stopped again; no use phoning the cell when it was sitting on the counter beside the telephone.  Next to Blair's pager.

 

What to do . . . He made some coffee.   Cats licked themselves when they couldn't figure out what to do next; Ellison made coffee.

 

Mug in hand, he quietly opened the bedroom door again, but the child was still there.  Damn.  But then, what would he have done if the child had suddenly disappeared into thin air?  Like Sandburg had.

 

Ellison checked out the room silently, staying clear of the child, but could find no hint of what had happened.  He listened again to the heart rate, the breathing, and everything sounded normal for a toddler.  The familiar heartbeat he wanted, though, was noticeably absent.

 

Ellison moved back to the kitchen and leaned against the counter.  Sandburg's scribbled notes once again caught his attention and he pounced on them, trying to decipher the words into some sort of explanation for this madness.

 

The rosy red cheeks of the little children.

 

He closed his eyes.  "Damn it, Sandburg, this isn't like you," he whispered.  "Where are you?  What are you doing?"  Does this mean something?  This old song? "Little children . . . Are you trying to tell me something here?"

 

When 8:00 a.m. rolled around, without a sign of his partner, Ellison picked up the phone and dialed. "Simon?"

 

"Hey, Jim. I was just heading out the door. What's up?"

 

"I've got a problem."

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Two hours later, Ellison had nothing more to go on.  He had called the university as soon as it had opened, but no one there knew where Sandburg was.  Ellison phoned him in sick, then called the station and checked in again with Simon.

 

"Still no sign of him?"

 

"None. I've tried calling everyone I know. Well, everyone I know that he knows."

 

"Any idea who the child is?"

 

"No. He's still sleeping and I don't want to wake him. Or her, I suppose. It's hard to tell.  Too young to answer my questions, anyway."

 

"What can I do?" the captain asked.

 

Ellison smiled. It was times like this that reinforced his respect for Simon Banks. "I've no idea. Sandburg must have had some reason for taking off in the middle of the night and leaving this kid here."

 

"Let me know as soon as you find out anything. I'll cover for you here."

 

"Thanks."

 

He circled the loft several times, then made another pot of coffee.

 

Think.  Think.

 

Sandburg must have known about the child.  Something must have happened.  A friend maybe -- someone from the university needed help and Sandburg had left to help. Yeah, that sounded like him, like something he would do.

 

No.  Absolutely not.  Not without letting Jim know where he was going, or giving him a heads up about the kid.  Blair was not that irresponsible.

 

Ellison stared at the French doors.  He should have immediately woken the child for information, but the kid was so tiny, that it probably couldn't talk.  It.  He couldn't talk.  Or she couldn't talk.  Whatever.

 

Come on, Sandburg.  Call.  Call . . .

 

With a faint skip of Ellison's heart rate, the inevitable happened.  The child asleep in Sandburg's bed stirred, made a little sigh, and woke up.

 

Ellison put down his coffee mug.  He was no good with kids.  It wasn't that he had anything against them, but he just had no experience with them. They were small. Looked fragile. They cried a lot.  They smelled.  He scared them. And quite frankly, they scared him.

 

He could hear blankets pushed back, the futon shifting slightly.  A little rumble of puzzlement escaped the child's throat.  Tiny feet padded on the floor, the French door handle rattled, then creaked open, and a little person stood staring at him.

 

The child was oddly dressed, clad only in a small pair of brown shorts, and he was covered in a layer (or more) of dust, a Band-Aid that needed changing on one knee.  Around his neck was a worn strip of leather with several deep blue beads knotted in place.  Each wrist had a tattered woven bracelet. Ellison had no way of judging ages, but the child had no diapers, so he was probably over two.  Thumb in mouth.  Possibly Caucasian. Too much hair, growing straight up in a tangled, matted mess.  Needed a bath.  Tiny.  Scrawny.  The perfect model for a Third World foster child poster.

 

The phone rang, and Ellison pounced on it.  "Sandburg?"

 

"Pardon me? Well, yes."  It was Naomi. "Good morning, Jim.  Is Blair there?"

 

"Good question.  I'm not sure where he is."

 

"Damn.  Is everything okay?"

 

"Why do you ask?"

 

"Charlie said I should call you.  Actually he said I should fly up and see you.  I'm at the airport; my flight leaves in a few minutes."

 

"Why?"

 

"Charlie just said you need some help.  He's right, isn't he?"

 

Ellison stared at the solemn child looking up at him.  "Charlie's batting average just went up."

 

"Jim?"

 

"Sorry, Naomi," he mumbled.  "Listen, I don't know where Blair is at the moment.  He wasn't here when I woke up this morning."

 

"That's odd."

 

"Tell me about it," Ellison muttered under his breath.

 

"I'll be there as soon as I can."  Naomi waited for him to mumble a response, then she hung up.

 

Ellison put down the cordless phone, then crouched lower.  "Uh, hi."

 

No response.  Thumb still in mouth.

 

"What's your name?"

 

The thumb came out for a moment.  "Name?"

 

Ellison smiled, hoping he looked non-threatening.  "That's right.  What's your name?  My name is Jim."

 

"Name."  Thumb went back in mouth and was then withdrawn.  "Mama?"  The tiny child padded around the island, eyes wide, looking for his mother.  "Mama?"  Through the living room, stopping to touch an apple in the basket on the coffee table, then over to the balcony windows.  "Mama?"  He turned and looked back at Ellison, still crouched by the dining room table. His head tilted to one side. "Mama?"

 

"Sorry, don't know where she is."

 

The blue eyes filled with tears.  The thumb was sucked back into his mouth and he suckled it nervously, looking around the room.  Again he took it out.  "Mama?"

 

"Sorry."  Ellison got up and ventured into the living room, worried about spooking the child, but the tot stayed where he was by the planter.  "What's your name, son?"

 

"Name."

 

"Right.  What's your name?"

 

"Baby."

 

"Baby? Is that your name?"

 

"Mama."

 

Okay, this was going nowhere fast.  "So, what do you think?  Should I phone social services and have them come get you?  But if Blair was taking care of you for a friend as an emergency, I wouldn't want to get them in trouble.  Do you know Blair?"

 

"Bear."

 

"Right. Well, close.  Do you know him?"

 

"Mama."

 

"Do you know Blair?"

 

"Mama?"

 

Great.  He had a headache.  "Are you hungry?"

 

The round eyes glanced to the kitchen area, then back at Ellison cautiously.  "Ba-ba?"

 

"Sorry, don't know what ba-ba means."

 

"Ba-ba.  Baby ba-ba."

 

"Bottle?  You want a bottle?"

 

A smile broke out around the thumb.

 

"How about some milk instead?  I can do milk."

 

The child dropped to the floor, skinny legs crossed beneath him, suddenly anticipating his milk.

 

Jim nodded, then turned and stared at his cupboards. He had no plastic cups, only glass. Resigned, he took a small juice glass and filled it with milk. After a moment's consideration for his floor, he poured half of it back, then bent over and handed the glass to the child. "Is this okay cold, or am I supposed to heat this for you?"

 

The thumb emerged from the mouth, then dipped into the milk, and returned to the tiny mouth, sucking eagerly. Apparently the temperature was fine, as the thumb was abandoned for actually drinking out of the glass. In short time, the contents were drained, and the glass was lifted up to Jim. "Moh?"

 

"More? You want more?"

 

"Moh? Ba-ba moh." After a few more half-filled glasses, the child got to his feet, padded across the room to the kitchen, and dropped the empty glass in the garbage pail. "All gone."

 

"I think I'll keep that one, if you don't mind."

 

At least he was neat, Jim thought, digging out the juice glass and depositing it in his sink.

 

The clock was taking its sweet time; it would be a few hours before Naomi arrived, freeing him to spend more time looking for Blair. There was a small possibility that Sandburg had been kidnaped, but why would the kidnappers take one person and leave another?  Blair might have pleaded for a trade, or even offered himself in exchange.

 

"Why wouldn't I have heard anything though?  That doesn't make sense."

 

"Mama?"  The child was dirty, but didn't appear to be injured or traumatized at all. Jim watched the toddler move around the living room staring at everything in the room. Finally the child stopped before the television and stared at the reflecting surface. A big smile crossed the little face, looking up at Jim in joy, then clapping his hands. "Look-ee."

 

"Did you just see yourself on television?"

 

"Baby," the child said, pointing.

 

"What's your name?"

 

"Baby."

 

"Yeah, whatever," Jim mumbled. "Baby, it is." He watched the child slap at the leaf on a plant and giggle as it came back and hit him on the face. While that repeated over and over, Jim put a plan into action. First, he had to get the kid clean. He smelled funny. Then he would ask Mrs Langital to keep an eye on him for an hour while Jim popped over to the police station and checked in with Simon.

 

So. Get the kid clean. He ran the bath water, making sure it was warm, but not too hot. The child came running at the sound of water -- apparently an interesting thing occurring - his hand reaching into the tub trying to feel the water, little fingers squirming.

 

"Hold that thought. I'll be right back." Jim stepped out of the room for a moment to get some towels, and he heard a loud splash from the tub, followed by a lot of small splashes. Running back, he found the kid had somehow gotten into the tub, little shorts and all, and was upright in the knee-high water now, running back and forth in the tub.

 

"Bath time with Bonzo," he muttered and set about with a soapy cloth, washing layers of dirt from the scrawny bony torso, arms and legs. With a practiced eye, Jim catalogued the scratches and bruises, the woven bracelet that didn't seem to want to come off, and, as the brown shorts were discarded, the equally tanned skin that showed a child quite used to running around outside naked. "You've got to be the child of one of Sandburg's street friends."

 

"Than-bug."

 

"Right. Sandburg."

 

"Than-bug."

 

"You know him? Huh? Do you know Blair Sandburg?"

 

"Than-bug. Than-bug." The child dropped back into the water, submerging himself, and Jim scrambled to get him above the waterline.

 

"Careful! You could drown!" Jim yelled sharply, dragging the little boy to his feet, skinny arms waving as he tried to get his balance.

 

The child pulled away, frowning at his tone of voice. "Bad. No-no. Bad." A pointed finger waved an inch from Ellison's nose. "No-no me."

 

Shit. Jim groaned, sitting down on the edge of the tub, his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, kid." Damn it, Blair. Where are you? This is your scene more than mine. He's closer in height to you.

 

A tug on his shirt, and he raised his head. "What?"

 

The child awkwardly patted his back. "Nice nice."

 

"Not really. Not today, Baby." At the confused look on the little face, he offered a weak smile. "Sorry. It hasn't been the best day for me so far. It's not your fault." Solemn eyes stared at him. "Let's get you out of here."

 

The child shook his head, then patted his matted hair, toddling across the tub for the shampoo bottle.

 

"You want me to wash your hair?"

 

"Than-bug."

 

Jim took a deep breath and tried to keep calm. "Well, how about we use Than-bug's shampoo? How's that, Baby?"

 

Baby seemed happy enough with the idea, and submitted meekly to a quick hair shampoo and rinse.

 

Half dried off, it occurred to Ellison that he hadn't thought this through very carefully. With the little shorts wet, he had no clothes for the kid. With a sigh, he carried Baby across to Sandburg's room and grabbed a T-shirt from his roommate's dresser drawer and draped it over the kid's head. The child stared up at him in confusion, then looked down at his toes, hidden by the material.

 

"It's just for a few minutes. Give me a break, will you?"

 

"Bweak."

 

"What?"

 

"Peepee."

 

It didn't take an expert to figure that out. In record time, Jim had him sitting on the toilet, but fortunately the little guy seemed to know what he was doing, insisting on handling the toilet paper himself and then taking great concern in flushing the toilet, staring intently as the bowl emptied and refilled.

 

Then came the washing of his hands, drying them carefully on the T-shirt he was wearing. "All done," Baby said, turning and smiling triumphantly.

 

"Great." Ellison reached over and unplugged the bathtub before the kid took another nosedive. There was something about water that had this kid fascinated.

 

Baby stood now reverently at the side of the tub and watched wistfully as the water drained. "Bye-bye," he whispered as the water disappeared.

 

"Good grief," Ellison muttered under his breath. For a brief moment, he let his anger surface, then pushed it down again. It wasn't this kid's fault that Sandburg was missing, or that Ellison was stuck as babysitter, trying to put together the pieces. Still crouched down, he turned the child to face him. "Any chance you can say your last name?"

 

Blank look.

 

"Baby what? Baby . . ." he prompted.

 

"Baby."

 

"Yes, Baby who?

 

"Baby boy."

 

"Okay, then." Ellison stood up. "I've got to get some clothes for you." He scooped up the child, grabbed his cellphone, and hurried downstairs to the building's street-level stores.

 

The bell rang as he entered Colette's. "Hi, Betty."

 

"Hey, Detective. Who's this?"

 

"Friend of Sandburg." Ellison kept talking before she could jump in. "Listen, I got conned into watching the kid, and he had an accident, spilled milk all over himself. Any chance you've got any kids' clothes down here?"

 

Betty frowned, shaking her head. "No. Just adults. Oh, wait a sec, there might be some in the miscellaneous trunk."

 

Ellison followed her to the back of the store, relieved when she pulled out several articles of clothing. She made it simpler by sorting through them and handing him only the clothes that would fit Baby, a red and white striped T-shirt and a rather faded and worn pair of denim overalls. There weren't any socks or shoes, but Baby's previously dirty feet had suggested he rarely wore them anyway.

 

"There's even some shorts here."

 

"These should be perfect. Thanks."

 

"What's his name?"

 

"Baby."

 

"His name is Baby?" Betty asked, smiling.

 

"Yeah. That's what he's called." Ellison handed her the seven dollars, and took the clothes. He really didn't feel like discussing his mystery guest. "I don't need a bag. Thanks."

 

"Say hi to Blair, okay?"

 

"Sure."

 

Back at the loft, Jim dressed Baby quickly, trying to figure a plan of action. Before Naomi arrived, he needed to get to the station and use the computer there. Maybe a missing child report had been logged. Or some trace of his guide.

 

Jim wrote a note for his delinquent roommate saying where Baby was and set it on the counter by Blair's cell phone. Glancing at the time, he grabbed his badge and gun, scooped up the startled child again, then ran down to Mrs Langital's suite, apparently interrupting her soap opera.

 

"Detective Ellison," the grandmother said, with an indulgent smile, "what can I do for you? And who is this delightful little boy?"

 

"A friend of Blair's."

 

"Well, any friend of Blair's is a friend of mine, aren't you, you little sweetheart?" In between giggles and coos at Baby, she agreed to watch him for an hour. "Has he eaten recently?" she asked, as Jim turned to go.

 

"Eaten?"

 

"You know, breakfast?"

 

"Oh. He had some milk."

 

"That's all?" Mrs Langital looked shocked and Ellison squirmed. Okay, so he hadn't thought of food.

 

"Do you have anything for him? I'll pay you back -"

 

"Nonsense. He'll be fine here."

 

"Great. Thanks." The door closed, leaving him in the hallway, staring at the apartment number. "Station," he reminded himself, and left.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

"Okay, run this by me again. What happened?" Simon asked, staring over the top of his glasses at his chief detective, currently pacing his office. "Where exactly is Sandburg?"

 

Jim twirled around, anger in his voice. "I don't know. If I knew where Sandburg was, I wouldn't be in here telling you this, now would I?"

 

"Calm down, Jim. One thing at a time. So Sandburg just disappeared from your place? What about his things?"

 

"His keys, wallet, shoes, coat - everything is at the loft. As far as I can tell, nothing is missing except the clothes he was wearing when he went to bed."

 

"Which was?"

 

"Dark gray sweat pants and a Cascade PD sweatshirt."

 

Simon noted it, then looked up.  "You checked the university? His friends?"

 

"Everyone and every place I could think of."

 

"No note?"

 

"No note -- not really, anyway, there was something he had scribbled.  I checked it and there were no other fingerprints on it."

 

"Cellphone and pager?"

 

"Both are at the loft."

 

"What about the door? Any sign of entry?"

 

"No sign of entry, the inside safety latch was still across the door - which it wouldn't have been if Sandburg had exited the loft through the front door. Only the window in his bedroom was open."

 

"So he left though the window?"

 

"I assume so. Although I don't know why."

 

"What about the balcony?"

 

"The door was locked from the inside."

 

"The phone?"

 

"I checked the call display on our cordless, and there were no incoming calls that I didn't hear. I checked his cellphone and there were no calls from him, no pages, and no incoming calls."

 

"So right now, the window is our only clue there."

 

"Yes, sir. I checked outside on the fire escape, and down into the alley, but I couldn't pick anything up."

 

"Even with your senses?"

 

"I was using my senses," Ellison said between clenched teeth, his jaw grinding.

 

Simon sat back in his chair, tapping his pen absently on the end of the desk. "When does Naomi's flight get in?"

 

"She didn't say where she was coming in from, but I suspect it will be around noon sometime.  She hung up before telling me her flight information."

 

"It's eleven o'clock now. Are you going to get her at the airport?"

 

"She'll make her own way over. She usually does."

 

Glancing at his watch, the captain shook his head. "I don't know what to say, Jim. Off hand, I'd say that if Sandburg or the child's mother don't show up by 5:00 tonight, I'd call Family Services, regardless of the child's mother possibly being someone known to Sandburg. After twenty-four hours, we'll put out a missing person's on Sandburg, stressing his affiliation with the Cascade PD."

 

"Thank you."  Ellison stared out the window at the city below. "Part of me wants to jump in the truck and drive around the streets, but I've no idea where to look."

 

Simon straightened up in his chair. "Jim, go home in case your partner or the child's mother show up. When Naomi gets there, she can watch the kid, and we'll figure out what to do next. Just keep me informed." The captain reached for a file in his in-box.

 

Ellison noted the name on the file.  "Any word on Friday's concert?"

 

"Andrew Stibbs, the Emerald Theater manager, has agreed to let us post officers at the entrance and at all four exits."

 

"The bodies were found a block or two from the concert hall."

 

"We'll have extra patrols cruising the area, as well as the regular two officers on the beat. Rafe will be undercover with Connor at the concert." Simon looked up. "We have time to set this up later, Jim.  See to your own missing person." The captain flipped through his phone index and dialed a number, glancing meaningfully at his door.

 

Knowing he was being dismissed, Ellison grudgingly left. 

 

 

 * * * * *

 

"Dim!"

 

Ellison cringed at the high-pitched squeal as Baby raced across Mrs Langital's carpeted floor toward him, arms outstretched with an ecstatic smile on his face. Unfortunately, the toddler tripped and fell, and the cry of joy turned to one of sorrow, intensifying until Ellison picked him up and clumsily rocked him while trying to juggle a bag of groceries.

 

"Dim - bad hurt - bad floor," the child sniffled finally. "Where Mama?"

 

"You're fine."

 

"Mama?"

 

"She's not here right now. You're fine."

 

"Fine?"

 

"Yes." God, he really wasn't into this whole baby talk thing. "Was he okay?" he asked Mrs Langital, as he edged to the door.

 

"He's a dear. No problem at all."

 

"Great. Thanks again."

 

With a heavy heart, Detective James Ellison trudged up the stairs to his apartment, a sniffling, over-tired child in one arm, and a crushed bag of groceries in the other.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

It was almost 1:30 p.m., and Baby's all-too-brief nap had ended a half hour before. Repeating the earlier ritual, he had handed the child a glass of milk and gave him a bowl of Cheerios. Before he could add the milk, Baby had walked away with the bowl, happily crunching on the cereal, watching some mindless children's show on television.

 

Finally the sound Jim was waiting for. He threw open the door and Naomi Sandburg breezed through the entrance.

 

"Jim. Any sign of Blair yet? Have you heard anything?"

 

"Relax, Naomi. Take your coat off. Sit down, and we'll talk. I've made some tea for you."

 

The fiery redhead pulled off her jacket and hung it on the hook by the door. "Jim, I'm so worried. Charlie was so insistent that I come right over."

 

"Blair is still missing," Jim told her, handing over a mug of scented tea. "He took off sometime between 3:30 and 6:30 this morning. I've no idea why. There's no sign of a break-in or anything. Frankly I don't know what to say." He sat down across from her.

 

"Maybe a friend called him or he just forgot to tell you-"

 

"No. He would have let me know. Besides, for some reason, he left a little kid here. I've no idea who he is. I've been hoping you can stay here and look after him, while I hit the road to see what I can find." Jim stood again and walked into the living room, picking up the child to show his roommate's mother. Baby twisted in his arms, trying to keep sight of the television screen, but when he saw there was someone new in the room, the adventures of Fu-Fu Bunny took second place.

 

Jim looked up as Naomi's chair toppled to the floor. Naomi was standing, one hand over her mouth as she stared at Baby.

 

"You know him?" Jim asked hopefully.

 

Naomi crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.

 

 

 

 * * * * *

 

They sat on the couch in the living room, the child sitting between them, sucking his thumb and watching Fu-Fu Bunny on the Children's Network. Jim carefully dabbed a cool washcloth on Naomi's forehead and the side of her neck. She opened her eyes again and nodded, taking the cloth from Jim's hand and holding it against her cheek.

 

"Are you okay?" Jim asked, relieved as the color slowly returned to the woman's face.

 

"Yes." She sat up straighter, careful not to upset the toddler who was comfortably nestled between them. She stared at Baby, swallowing nervously. "Where did he come from?"

 

"He was sleeping in Sandburg's bed when I woke up. Blair must know him somehow--"

 

Naomi's abrupt laugh cut him off.

 

"What?" he asked, glancing sharply between Baby and Naomi.

 

"Do you believe in the impossible, Jim?"

 

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully. Besides what? Being a Sentinel? Getting trapped in a dream? Seeing black jaguars?

 

Naomi brushed her fingers through the child's curls. "It was impossible to keep this under control." She looked up at Jim. "Blair's hair was just like this."

 

"Yeah. He kinda looks like I thought Blair would look like at that age."

 

"He looks exactly like Blair did."

 

Ellison nodded absently, then noticed Naomi staring at him. "What did you mean by 'believing in the impossible'?"

 

"Could you get my purse?" she asked.

 

"Sure." He got up carefully and retrieved her woven bag. While she was digging through it, he went back and got a banana, cut it in small pieces and brought it back on a plate for Baby. The child's attention was still riveted on the television show, but one hand drifted to the plate, delicately picked up a piece of banana, and squished it into his mouth.

 

Ellison went back and got a towel and a damp cloth. He put the towel under the plate, then watched closely as the child ate, ready to wipe him up the moment he stopped. He really didn't want banana mush on his couch.

 

Naomi pulled out her wallet and put the bag away. She opened it to a photo and sat staring at it.

 

"Who's that?" he asked, after a moment.

 

"My son." She slid the photo from the wallet and handed it to Ellison.

 

He looked down at the photo, then looked to the child. Both children -- the one in the photo and the one on his couch -- were wearing identical outfits. Denim overalls, with a red and white striped T-shirt. He started to smile at the resemblance, then stopped. Both children had identical hair, identical bracelets and leather neck chains. Both children had identical . . . everything. "I don't understand," he whispered.

 

"Neither do I. Except, I know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that this is my son."

 

 

 

 

 

Part Three

 

 

 "England swings like a pendulum do..."

 

Arms flailing, Blair tumbled out the window to the ground, hitting the hard-packed earth with a painful THWACK on the back of his head, knocking the air out of him.  He gave a deep, shuddering gasp as he tried to draw oxygen back into his lungs, but nevertheless found himself curled further on his side, caught in a wave of painful coughing.

 

A sudden flash of memory ripped through Blair, and he opened his eyes with a shudder, looking around furtively, but there was no sign of Jim's corpse nearby. Fortunately the darkness hid any and all corpses.  Jim's alive.  Not dead. Jim's not dead.  There's nothing to see.

 

Damn, he felt lousy. Nothing like falling out of a window to crank up the misery level. He couldn't even sit up. Come on, come on, come on. Get with it.

 

There was music, that song he was thinking about earlier, and a familiar smoke heavy in the warm night air, a remembered blend of firewood, cigarettes and marijuana that penetrated his clogged sinuses. Oh, man. Jim's gonna be pissed. Just what he needed, Cop Jim showing up with guns blazing to run everyone out of the alley.

 

His slitted eyes opened a fraction wider. Wait a second. This wasn't his alley. He must have rolled a ways down the hill.

 

Where the hell am I? Did I black out?

 

"Jim!" Blair closed his eyes and gingerly rolled onto his back, groaning as he tried to figure out just how badly hurt he was. Ouch. Stars. Ouch. Ow-ow-ow-ow.

 

He forced himself to sit up. Legs seemed to be there. His back hurt but didn't seem to be badly damaged. His head - Oh, shit - his head hurt. It really did. He lifted one shaky hand to the back of his skull and fingered the lump there. Well, that's what you get for falling out the window.

 

"Hey, Jim!" Blair tried, a little louder, a little perturbed now.  His roommate must really be sleeping soundly not to have heard his call.  "Come on, man, give me a hand here." He drew a damp tissue from where he had tucked it into the wristband of his sweatshirt, shook it out carefully, and gave his nose a good blow.

 

He opened his eyes again.  Someone was playing that old song that had been haunting him for over a day.  He realized he must have just been hearing a neighbor's too-loud stereo earlier.  Well that made sense.

 

It was still dark. But it was warm outside. How weird.

 

 

Mama's old pajamas and your papa's mustache,

Falling out the window sill, frolic in the grass,

Tryin' to mock the way they talk, fun but all in vain

Gaping at the dapper men with derby hats and canes.

England swings like a pendulum do

Bobbies on bicycles, two by two

Westminster Abbey, the tower of Big Ben

The rosy red cheeks of the little children

 

 

Blair leaned back against a tree trunk, only vaguely trying to figure out why there was a tree there. I must have rolled down the hill, then wandered down to the park or something. I'd say I have a dilly of a concussion if I don't remember any of this...

 

A voice speaking over a tinny P.A. system was almost drowned out by a lot of clapping and cheers.

 

"Hey, guys, that was Bobby Winston and the Sleeping Figtree! Let's give them a warm California sendoff!"

 

More clapping, crashing against him in waves that seemed to echo around in his skull.

 

"Stone the Crows' flight was delayed, so they won't be here for a few more hours. We're switching their spot with Colosseum."

 

Lots of shrieks and clapping.

 

Jim is going to be seriously pissed off with this music. It must be three in the morning.

 

Weird it's so warm out at three in the morning. In October.

 

The thought was quickly followed by another. This can't be Cascade.

 

He started shaking, nerves quaking under attack. What the hell-? Where were all the people? He could hear them, but he had yet to see any. It was dark, moonless. Not overcast, though; he could see the stars. Lots of stars. He stood up for a closer look.

 

Maybe the stars are from when I hit my head.  Does that really happen?  That whole "seeing stars" thing?

 

"Shut the fuck up!" A harsh voice off to his right sent him spinning to find the source. He tried to see through the darkness, but he could barely make out two figures arguing about something, their voices drifting his way. He got enough to know that it was about drugs.

 

That would be my cue.  Exit, stage left.

 

He headed in the other direction, trying to walk over the uneven ground. He heard a woman scream, but it was ahead of him, not behind him. Other voices joined hers, and it seemed she was being helped.

 

He stumbled, then sat down abruptly, dizziness winning for a few minutes. His hand came away sticky from the back of his head. Great. Just super.

 

"Blair? Blair?" A female's frantic voice from somewhere close by.

 

Oh, good.  Someone knows me.  Maybe they have a cellphone I could use.

 

"Yeah?" Blair warbled, but another attack of coughing prevented him from calling out louder. Once he got the phlegm out of his lungs, he drew in a relatively easy breath of clean night air. Well, mostly clean, except for the pot, of course, and cigarette smoke. Blair pulled himself to his feet, clinging to another tree to stabilize his shaky balance.

 

He could see a dim shape coming towards him, but the young woman just glanced at him and kept moving, looking down for something. "Hello?" he called out, as soon as he was able to manage it, but she was out of sight.

 

Now that he was upright, he could see he was near the top of a low hill; there seemed to be a concert going on, just over the ridge, out of sight. No one else was in his immediate vicinity, yet someone had called his name. The only person who had been around had been the young hippy-wannabe girl in the patchwork skirt and the Indian gauze blouse that was only partly done up. Whoever she was looking for, it wasn't him.

 

He reached the top of the hill and looked down.

 

"Blair! Blair, honey!" Again a woman's voice came out of the darkness and trees below him.

 

"Yeah? I'm over here." Blair stumbled forward, but it was awkward walking down the hill in the dark. The band on the stage at the bottom of the hill was playing an old "Peter and the Hermits" song, and there were probably a couple hundred people sitting on the slope watching them. A lot of them were smoking - he could see the ends of two hundred cigarettes glowing in the dark. The heady scent of marijuana was almost overpowering, setting off another wave of dry coughing. It just tickled his throat; he was actually feeling a bit better.

 

A long-haired man brushed by him, then grabbed his arm roughly. "Hey, have you seen a little kid up here?"

 

"What?" Blair asked, trying to see the man's face.

 

"A kid. This lady's lost her kid." The guy let go of his arm. "Never mind."

 

"No. Hey, that's awful. I'll help look," Blair called after him. "Have you called the cops?"

 

No one answered him.

 

A little kid missing in the dark. All alone. Poor little guy. Blair peered as best he could around him, trying to see if he could see anyone, then took another few steps and sank rather gracelessly to the ground. Who was he kidding? He felt weird. Not sick, just weak-kneed. Probably the crack on the back of his skull. He seriously just wanted to curl up in bed and go back to sleep. But the thought of a little child out there, lost, brought him back to his feet.

 

The drummer was doing a solo. Great. Too bad he couldn't have used the drum skins instead of my skull.

 

Wait a sec.

 

He had to concentrate.

 

Something was very wrong with all this. Something . . . If he could just remember what the problem was . . . Damn. What was it?

 

Oh right.

 

Where the hell am I?

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Thirty very confusing minutes later, he was no closer to figuring out where he was.

 

I think, therefore I am . . . somewhere. He had to be somewhere, he decided, sinking to a heap on a relatively isolated spot on the slope of the hill.

 

"Hey, man. Wanna buy?" A bearded guy with bushy shoulder-length hair paused at his feet, a bulging woven bag from southwestern Guatemala over his shoulder. Or was it northwestern Nicaragua? The pattern looked vaguely familiar.

 

Blair squinted at the bag trying to figure its origin, and the man walked away mumbling, "Deadhead."

 

A dirty piece of paper caught Blair's eye, and he crab-walked over to where it was half-buried in the ground. He smoothed it out, tilting it one way and then the next, gradually making out the words in the near darkness. If he could believe the flyer, he was, apparently, at the Meadow Park Rock Festival.

 

Wow. I didn't know the festival was still happening.

 

Hang on, here. Serious flaw. That festival is in southern California; this is Cascade, Washington.

 

Plus the flyer was obviously dated, since it was the August 1971 Meadow Park Rock Festival. And this was 1998. October 1998.

 

Damn, his head hurt. And his stomach was deciding to turn over and over. He sat with his eyes closed, trying to find a mantra for nausea.

 

He finally got it under control and beat his way back to the problem at hand, the one his mind would really rather forget about. The big one. The one that he was sure would explode if he poked at it.

 

Something isn't right.

 

Right. That was it. If he could just figure out what that something was, and what to do about it.

 

"JIM!" he called out, at a respectable decibel level. "JIM!"

 

"I don't think he can hear you from here."

 

Blair whirled around to see Harvey Leek standing a few feet away, leaning against the fence. "Harvey! Hey, man, am I glad to see you. I can't figure out what's going on here. I think I might have a concussion," he added, trying to get to his feet and failing.

 

"First, sit down, okay? All we need right now is for you to fall down and hurt yourself more." Harvey didn't come any closer, but nodded happily when Blair took his advice.

 

"You try falling out a window and see if you're any better. Speaking of which - I fell out my bedroom window, Harv. At least I think I did.... Yeah, I did."

 

"You sorta did." Harvey crouched near him.

 

"Tell that to the sorta lump at the back of my head." Blair peered up at the California police detective. Harvey was wearing blue plaid pajamas with the Dead black armband. "What are you doing here? Aren't you in San Francisco?"

 

"I'm not exactly sure, Blair. I don't think I'm really here."

 

"What?"

 

"I mean, to be totally accurate, I am here -- I'm down in the crowd somewhere -- but the me that you're talking to is actually in San Francisco twenty-seven years later."

 

"You've lost me." Blair grinned up at him. "But then, this is just a weird dream, so it doesn't matter, right?"

 

"Actually, it does. It all matters now." Harvey took his beret off, gave it a brushing, then set it back on his head. "You wanted to be a shaman - well, you're doing it. This is the weirdest astral-traveling I've ever done though. I've never gone through time before."

 

"What are you talking about, man? You aren't making any sense."

 

"How about this, then? Jim Morrison died last month."

 

"The singer? He died a long time ago."

 

"Jim Morrison died in Paris, France, July 3, 1971."

 

"Right."

 

"Last month."

 

Blair stared across at the detective. "I don't get it."

 

"I remember 1971. Within ten months we lost Jimi Hendrix in London, Janis Joplin in Hollywood, and Jim Morrison in Paris. In April of '71 I went to the Dead's five-night run at New York's Fillmore East, and in August, I saw them in Austin, Texas, during the summer break."

 

"Harv?"

 

"It was a wild year."

 

"Harv, I don't want to be here. I don't feel very well."

 

"Why don't you just lay down for a while? Hey, how's your cold? Your email said it was getting worse."

 

"My cold? Actually, I think it cleared up. It probably got knocked out of my head when I cracked it open."

 

"I don't think your concussion is that bad. Let's see your eyes."

 

Blair turned his head so Harvey could look at his pupils.

 

"Not bad. They look equal. Just the same, I'd have someone check you out."

 

"I want Jim to check it out."

 

"Not going to happen, cowboy. At least until you figure this out."

 

"I want to be back in my own bed." Blair leaned against the sturdy trunk of a tree. "Why are we both stuck here in limbo?" He closed his eyes, trying to still the throbbing in his skull. "This isn't possible."

 

Harvey frowned, scratching the back of his head. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you are here. I'm the one that's in limbo land. You're actually here." Harvey blinked. "And I'm waking up, apparently. My alarm clock's going off, I've got to go. I've got an early shift. Oh, one more thing -- bad choice of sweatshirt, man. Lose it. Uh, bye."

 

"NO!" Blair stood to grab at the fading image, then fell to his hands and knees, dizzy. "Damn. Damn. Damn." Jim?

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Dawn was rising when he located the Lost & Found tent. A skinny woman in a sheer halter top had him sit down and was cleaning the bump on his head. She kept leaning over him to see the back of his head, her barely sheathed breasts knocking against his face. Now normally, he wouldn't complain about that, but his day was confusing enough to add anything more to it.

 

"Ouch."

 

"Sorry. I've got to clean it, though, sunshine," she said, humming along with the song playing outside, her absolutely straight blonde hair swinging back and forth dizzily.

 

A man entered the tent, brushing the flap aside roughly. "Any sign of the kid yet?"

 

The woman, Cally, shook her head, which kinda did jiggly things to the breast in Blair's face. "No. There's a whole lot of people out looking."

 

The guy looked perturbed. He also looked like something off an old record album cover. Blond-white hair, he had lots of gold jewelry and was wearing a fuzzy red vest, no shirt, his tie-dyed jeans patched, buffalo sandals on his feet, and a lot of rope chains around his neck. "Shit. First that girl, now this. If the kid doesn't turn up, this might be really bad publicity. Know what I mean?"

 

Cally stepped back to reach into her rather limited first aid kit. "Might not be too good for the kid either, Phil."

 

"If the kid's mother comes here, give her something to calm her down, okay?"

 

"Sure."

 

Phil frowned at Blair. "What happened to you?"

 

"I fell out a window."

 

"No one pushed you?"

 

"No."

 

"Good." With that, Phil left the tent, Cally sending a rather ribald curse after him.

 

"He thinks he's so groovy cool. What a bastard." Cally gently pushed Blair back on the cot. "Why don't you get some sleep? You'll feel better when you wake up."

 

"Should I? With a concussion?" Blair asked sleepily.

 

"Sure. Why not? I'll be around, okay?" She ran her hands over the sweatshirt he was wearing. "This is on wrong."

 

"I know." He'd taken Harvey's advice to heart and put his Cascade PD sweatshirt inside out. Especially as it was for the 1996 Softball championship. "I like it this way."

 

"Cool. I can dig that." Cally headed to the tent entrance. "I'm going to get a coke. I'll be back. Want anything?"

 

"No." Yes. Blair watched her leave. I want to go home. "Jim?" he whispered, as he fell asleep.

 

 

 * * * * *

Ellison stared at Naomi. "Impossible."

 

"I'm serious, Jim."

 

"That's crazy." He got up, distancing himself from her. And the child.

 

"Look at him."

 

"I have. He's been here all day. I would know if that was Blair. And that's not Blair."

 

"It's him."

 

"Listen to yourself. That's crazy."  He stared out the balcony window, arms crossed over his chest.

 

"Look at this picture." Suddenly at his side, she shoved the photo under his face.

 

He sighed and took the offered wallet, studying the picture.  Enhanced visual senses catalogued the face, the bone structure, the pixelized blue eyes.  The frayed button hole of the overalls.  The slight stain where red had bled into the white stripe, third from the collar.  He handed the wallet back to her, and turned to look at the child, sitting on the floor in front of them, enthralled with the flickering, idiotic cartoon images parading across his television. Frayed button hole.  Slight stain in the same spot.  Same wild curls and wide-eyed blue eyes.  "Okay, I admit they look similar, Naomi, but-"

 

"They look identical."  Naomi sank back on the couch, her fingers lightly ghosting over the photo.  "I never bought that outfit in this picture, Jim.  When my little Blair disappeared he was wearing a pair of brown shorts and was probably filthy from camping for a week. When he showed up again, thirty-seven hours later, he was wearing a red striped T-shirt and overalls and had been bathed and taken care of.  There were no showers at the concert."

 

"That's not enough evidence to --"

 

"Was he wearing these clothes when you first found him or did you buy them?"

 

"I bought them downstairs," he admitted reluctantly.

 

"And was he wearing a pair of brown shorts when you found him?"

 

Ellison nodded curtly, turned, and walked into the kitchen.

 

"A coincidence, Jim?" her voice called after him.

 

"Maybe it is. Yes.  Maybe it is.  Naomi, do you hear what you're saying? That's impossible." Ellison's hand was on the fridge door. The early afternoon light was slanting into his apartment, throwing the shadows around. He should have eaten something earlier; his blood sugar was low. He pulled open the refrigerator door, hunting for something, trying to ignore the two people in his living room -- his partner's mother and . . . who?  Who was this?

 

The fridge shelves were largely empty.  What they needed was more food. He should have bought more last night, but all he had ended up with was Sandburg's 'sick' food and medicine. The tissue boxes were still on the counter, unopened. Maybe he could pop out now that Sandburg's mother was here. Blair would be hungry when he got back from wherever he'd disappeared to.  Blair would come back, and this would all be a misunderstanding.  Something he would gripe about and then go over the house rules with his partner.  When Blair came back. 

 

That -- that child -- was -- not -- Blair.

 

Naomi materialized beside him, and rested her hand on Ellison's arm. "Look at him. Just look at him."

 

Ellison glanced over to the little boy on the couch, his bright eyes still fixed on the television, his hand rooting around the plate for more food.  He involuntarily flashed on Sandburg sitting on the couch, grading a test and watching television, groping around for more popcorn, without looking at what he was doing.  "Naomi, Blair's around somewhere. He's been called away for some emergency-"

 

"He's Blair," Naomi insisted. "Right, Baby?"

 

Baby glanced away from the television for a brief second, long enough to smile at her blankly. Then he looked to Jim and held up a piece of banana. "Nana good?"

 

"Yes, sweetie." Naomi beamed as Baby looked back at her. "The banana is good, honey." Naomi's eyes brimmed over as she stared at the toddler.

 

The plate balanced precariously on knobby knees was close to tipping, so Ellison walked over to him, crouching to straighten it.  "Careful there."

 

Baby reached down and picked up another of the now slimy pieces of banana and held it up to Ellison's mouth, as though to feed him.  "Dim?"

 

"Uh, no, thanks. You eat it, kid."

 

"Dim. Dim eat nana."  The child's face lit up in a radiant smile.

 

"'Dim', is right," Naomi muttered as she scowled at Jim, then she scooped the little boy up and took him into the bathroom.

 

A few minutes later the sound of tiny bare feet running along his floor shook Ellison from his thoughts.  The child ran straight down the hallway into the living room and around the couch.  With great effort, Baby pulled himself onto the blue couch, and dropped to the cushions, holding up his hands for Ellison to see.

 

"All done.  Fu-Fu, pwese?"

 

Ellison nodded but didn't move.

 

"Fu-Fu, pwese?"  The request came louder, emphasizing the last word, as though Ellison were deaf or stupid and unable to fulfill one simple request.

 

Ellison flicked on the television again.  He looked up as Naomi left the bathroom and stood at the edge of the carpet.

 

"I need to meditate, Jim."

 

"No problem.  I'll go back to the station for a while. It'll give me a chance to look into a few things."

 

"Thank you."

 

Ellison nodded to her formally, then went upstairs to change his shirt.  It had banana on it.

 

Naomi was waiting for him when he returned.  "Blair's ready to go."  Naomi handed the little boy to Ellison.

 

"Hang on here.  Why do I get him?  Can't he stay here?" Ellison asked, trying to catch the child as Baby twisted backwards to keep his eyes on the television screen with little fear of crashing to the hardwood floor below.

 

"I told you I needed to meditate."

 

"But I'm going to the station."

 

"I'm sure the station can survive one little boy."

 

"You should watch him, not me--"

 

"Why?  Because I'm a female?"

 

"No, I mean, he's your son--"

 

"Ah-ha!" she exclaimed.  "So you admit--"

 

"NO!"  Backstepping, Ellison found himself by the door.  "I mean, if you consider him your son--"

 

"He's your partner as much as he's my son, or so he has told me on more than one occasion.  He has chosen to follow you and live in your world, rather than come with me and live in mine."

 

"Please, Naomi.  Can't you just watch him for a while?"

 

"I want to try to remember exactly what happened when Blair disappeared.  Maybe it'll explain what is happening now.  And for that, I need solitude."

 

He gave up.  "Fine, I'll see if Mrs. Langital downstairs can watch him again.  I'll be back in a few hours."  Juggling the child, Ellison pocketed his badge and wallet and located his keys, then shut the door firmly behind him as he left.

 

 

 * * * * *

"Wonderful.  Absolutely fucking wonderful."  Sarcasm dripped unheard from Ellison's lips.  The day was progressing oh so nicely.  It was already two o'clock and he still had no idea what had happened to his partner.

 

And he didn't know where to start looking for him, which was pissing him off.

 

And he was shut out of his own apartment.

 

And he was stuck with a wiggly toddler on his hip, clutching his shirt as he threw himself backwards, apparently getting high on the rush of almost falling headfirst to the pavement.

 

And Mrs. Langital wasn't home.

 

And Simon had just called on his cellphone and ordered Ellison to get to the station PDQ, then hung up before Ellison could say anything.

 

And to top it off when he went to put a seat belt on the little kid, a horrified passerby -- who didn't know how to mind her own business -- had yelled that he was a baby killer.

 

"I don't own a baby seat.  Do I look like I own a baby seat?" Ellison retorted.  "He'll be fine."

 

She stood her ground and glared at him. "You move that truck with that little one sitting like that in the front seat, and I'll call the police.  I swear I will."

 

"Everything's fine," Ellison said, snapping the lap belt around Baby, then tightening it.  "It's not your concern."

 

"I'm a mother.  You're obviously a clueless," she pulled out her cellphone, "mule headed," she punched 911, "idiot."

 

"Fine." He was getting nowhere and, despite his irritation at her, knew she was right.  Frustrated, Ellison picked up the child and headed back into Colette's, where the owner had witnessed the scene, had figured out the problem, and had a used car seat in her hands.

 

"Fifteen dollars."

 

"You're a saint."  Ellison handed Colette a twenty.  "The extra five is yours if you strap him into it."

 

Another ten minutes went by before Ellison was actually in the truck and rolling.  He tried to relax his hands' white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and unlocked clenched jaw muscles.

 

Where are you, Sandburg? What's going on?

 

At least the kid seemed to think everything was a wonderful adventure and sat in the car seat like a supreme ruler sitting high on his throne touring his kingdom.  Unfortunately, Baby felt he needed to point and comment on everything he saw.

 

"Cah."

 

"Yeah, it's a car."

 

"Cah."

 

"Yup, another car."

 

"Cah."

 

"Yup."

 

"DOGGIE!"

 

The high-pitched squeal almost sent the truck through a red light.   The child was drooling out the window at a Great Dane, while Ellison's heart struggled to regain a normal rhythm.

 

They rolled by a McDonald's and a look of rapture came over Baby's face, along with an awed, whispered, "Donna-land!" as they passed it.

 

Okay, now I've got proof you're not Blair.

 

Fortunately, there were only cars and the odd "fwuk" to be catalogued the rest of the way to the Cascade Police Station.  Ellison parked in the underground garage, then walked around the truck and opened the passenger door.

 

"Great."

 

Okay, the kid was cute when he was asleep.  How this had happened in the few seconds Ellison had taken to back the truck into his allotted space, he had no idea, but this was typical of how his day was going.  The toddler had listed to one side, his mouth slightly open, hands loosely gripping the car seat bar, a bit of doggie-lust drool pooling in the lower corner of his mouth.

 

Ellison managed to get the car seat snap undone, the bar raised up and over, and then began the arduous task of getting the child to his shoulder without waking him.  That became Ellison's sole concentration.  To shut the car door, without waking the child.  To get into the elevator, without waking the child.  To push the right button for Major Crimes, then deal with stopping at every doggone floor enduring a crowd of females coming on and off the elevator, each one doing the kid's version of "doggie" -- drooling, coveting, and fawning over "baby!" -- without waking the child.

 

Finally at his floor, he pressed his way through the crowd in the elevator, endured a well-placed hand on his gluteus maximus, then popped into the hallway outside Major Crimes.  He set his eyes on the captain's office, then plowed through the bullpen, ignoring the startled "Huh?" noises around him, and finally found sanctuary behind Simon's closed door.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Blair bounded across the living room of the loft. "Jim, man, am I glad to see you. I had the weirdest dream. And I mean, it was one weird dream."

 

His roommate was in the kitchen, stirring a large double boiler. "Slow down, Chief. Where's the fire?" he asked, without turning around.

 

"Huh? Oh. I'm just glad to see you." Blair slid to a stop beside Jim. "What you cooking?"

 

"Vegetable soup."

 

Okay, that's where he made the mistake. Blair looked in the pot.

 

Floating among the carrots and onions and broccoli ... was Jim's head. Burned, boiled flesh was peeling away from the bones. Those wonderful familiar eyes looked up at him, through the bubbles of water. And winked.

 

Blair backed away from the stove, a scream caught in his throat.

 

Then Jim turned and looked at him, and it was the corpse again.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

"Jim!" Blair woke abruptly, sitting up and grabbing at the thin blanket covering him. "Jim!"

 

He jumped from the cot, knocking it over. Oh, God. Oh, God. Shit. He stumbled around the tent, falling out the door into the warm summer's day. "This isn't even Kansas," he muttered. "I must be hallucinating with fever." But his cold seemed to have vanished and he actually felt okay. Well, except for the headache. And the dream. And everything else at the moment.

 

A rather hairy band on the wooden stage was loudly massacring a Dylan song. Bob Dylan's Dream. Mom used to sing it. Blair wiped his eyes, then sang along, quietly.

 

I fell asleep for to take my rest,

I dreamed a dream that made me sad,

Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.

 

He pulled the blanket around him, shivering in the eighty-degree weather, and wandered through the crowd toward a tent that offered food. For a price, of course. He reached for his wallet --

 

But since he wasn't in the habit of keeping his wallet in his pajama bottoms, he was out of luck. At least his pajama bottoms were dark gray sweat pants and looked like the worn, drawstring pants a lot of the crowd was wearing. It would have been a lot more comfortable walking around, though, if he'd been wearing some boxers underneath.

 

Dejected, he turned away from the food tent.

 

"Hungry?" a voice behind him asked. The man at the counter was maybe twenty, probably younger, with a wild fringe of brown hair heading in every direction.

 

"Me?"

 

"Yeah, you look a little pale. Tell you what, help yourself to some food, and then help me clean up after the breakfast crowd, and we're even. How's that? Felix, the guy who owns all this, is gone for the day, so I could use the help. He had an emergency of some kind, and I'm filling in for him."

 

"Thanks. Really." Blair hustled to the table and poured a bowl of cereal, topping it with milk. The man brought him a cup of coffee. "I really appreciate this."

 

"No problem. What happened to your head?" he asked, gesturing to the bandage.

 

"Oh. I sorta fell." Blair sipped at the coffee. "Thanks again, uh, sorry -- what's your name?"

 

"Hang Dog."

 

"What?"

 

"It's really Harvey, but everyone calls me Hang Dog." At Blair's blank look, he clarified, "I surf."

 

"Oh. My friend surfs, but I've never tried. Not seriously anyway. My name is Blair."

 

"Wow. I never heard that name before, and now twice in an hour," Hang Dog said, heading back to the counter and some customers.

 

Blair watched him carefully as he ate, but he seemed like a nice guy. Harvey said he had been at this concert, so maybe this was him. It was hard to tell. Twenty-seven years made a lot of changes. Twenty / Forty-seven. That sounded about right. He wasn't sure how old Harvey was, but mid-to-late forties sounded right.

 

It also occurred to him, as he helped himself to another cup of coffee, that he was handling this whole time-travel thing relatively well. Although it felt like there was a scream somewhere inside his throat waiting for an inopportune moment to express itself. Blair swallowed carefully, hoping it would go down. There would be time enough for hysterics later.

 

Besides, Harvey - his Harvey - well, his Harvey from his time who was hanging out in this time but as his older self - hadn't seemed too freaked by it all. Said it had something to do with his being a shaman, and that Blair would just have to figure out why he was there.

 

He looked up with interest as a uniformed police officer ushered a distraught young woman into the food tent and over to the other end of the picnic table where Blair was sitting.

 

"Please calm yourself down, ma'am," the officer said. "We need you to calm down, so I can take a proper statement."

 

The woman, nothing more than a teenager herself, closed her eyes and took a couple of breaths. "Sorry. I'm just so freaked." Her brown hair was loose and flowing, rippled from being braided. She was wearing a ankle-length skirt, most of the women were, and a rather see-through gauze blouse with no bra.

 

There was something to be said for the hippy movement.

 

Blair looked away, concentrating on his cereal. He poured some milk into his coffee and blew on it, trying to cool it down enough to have a sip.

 

"That's perfectly understandable, ma'am. Now let's start with names. My name is Officer Dominguez."

 

"Naomi. Naomi Sandburg."

 

Blair spit his coffee across the table, choking. The officer leaned over and gave him a good swat on the back, which stopped the cough, but threatened to send his rather delicate head off his shoulders. Blair grimaced, his eyes clenched shut, the cereal he had just eaten debating on whether or not to make a return trip.

 

"Oh, sorry, man. I probably shouldn't have done that, with your head injury and all. I was just trying to help." Officer Dominguez rubbed his back gently.

 

"S'all right," Blair gasped, wiping his face with a few napkins the woman -- oh, shit, his mother -- handed him. "I'm okay."

 

"I wouldn't say that," the officer said with a smile. "But I'm sure you're going to be fine." That problem dealt with, he turned back to young Naomi. "Your son is missing? Can you tell me about him?"

 

He's not missing. He's sitting two fucking feet away from you.

 

"His name is Blair Blossom Sandburg. I call him Baby most of the time," she added, hiccuping softly and wiping her nose with one of the napkins on the table.

 

Blair peered out from behind his own napkins, eyes wide. Hello? Blossom? BLOSSOM? Say what?

 

"He was sleeping in our tent," Naomi continued, hands fluttering as she spoke, "and I was sitting with some friends just outside it. I guess he woke up and wandered away. He's quite... independent. Curious."

 

BLOSSOM? Where the hell did that come from? Or is this some weird alternate universe where things are almost the same but not quite. Like someone sat on a butterfly in 1313 A.D. and now everything's just slightly off.

 

"How old is he?" Officer Dominguez asked, still writing in his little notebook.

 

"Almost two."

 

"And his father?"

 

Blair froze, his eyes staring at the vibrating cup of coffee in his hands.

 

"There's just me," Naomi said, rather defiantly, and Blair could see her resemblance now to the woman he knew. He didn't have many pictures of her at this age. His mother was usually the one taking the pictures of him, and there were few of both of them together. Looking at how she was dressed now, he figured there hadn't been a lot of money around for things like cameras or film. Or getting them developed. Or photo albums.

 

"We've got several of our officers looking around for him. Do you have a picture of him?"

 

Naomi shook her head. "Not here."

 

"That's understandable," the officer said gently. "What was he wearing?"

 

"He fell asleep during one of the groups -- Country Jug or Head, Hands and Feat, I don't remember which. I just put him down on the blankets. He was in his shorts, nothing else. He's not in diapers any more," she added proudly, then her face crumpled and she leaned over the table and cried.

 

I'm right over here, Mom. Blair could feel the tears welling up in his own eyes. He started to get up to go sit beside her, when the cop moved over next to her.

 

"Why don't you stay around this tent, and we'll take another look around for him?"

 

"I've looked everywhere!" she cried.

 

"He probably just wandered away, curled up somewhere and went to sleep. He'll come back when he's hungry enough."

 

Another uniformed officer came in. "Hey, Joe. I'm going to take a walk around the crowd."

 

Officer Dominguez nodded. "I'll come with you. I've got the details." He turned to Naomi. "This is my partner, Officer Bridges. We're going take a look around, so you stay here, okay? Don't go wandering off." The two men left.

 

Blair sat across from her at the table, his head in his hands as she sniffed quietly. He wanted to go comfort her, but he wasn't sure how to go about doing it. When you considered it, here he was twenty-eight years old, and he was way older than his own mother.

 

Wait a second. Officer Bridges? Nash Bridges?

 

Blair lifted his head a little too quickly, but the two officers had left. What is this? - Class reunion time? Who's next? Simon? Joel? Frank Black? Bugs Bunny?

 

Jim? I'm so ready to come home, okay?

 

 

 

 

 

Part Four

 

 

"What are you doing?" Simon Banks asked, looking up from his desk as Ellison entered his office and immediately began to close the blinds to the bullpen.  Then he caught sight of a two-year-old sound asleep against Ellison's shoulder. "Why the hell did you bring him here, Jim?  I thought Naomi was at your place.  Why isn't she looking after him?"

 

"She's otherwise occupied."  Ellison perched wearily on the edge of the briefing table, his left arm and shoulder already growing stiff from holding the sleeping toddler.  "I'm afraid if I put him down he'll wake up."

 

Simon came out from behind his desk. "Here, let me.  You obviously don't have a clue."  With a minimum of fuss, the captain thoroughly amazed his chief detective by settling Baby on the couch, covering him in a blanket, then placing a chair up against the couch to keep him from rolling off -- all without waking him.  "Cute little guy."

 

"I'm impressed, sir."

 

"Well, you should be.  It's a learned skill, one I spent years developing."  Banks knew he looked smug, and Ellison was wise enough not about to rob him of it.  "So," the captain said, sitting back at his desk," no word on who this child is or where Blair is?"  When Ellison seemed to have a difficult time answering, Banks looked away from the sleeping toddler to study his chief detective. "Jim?"

 

"Don't ask, Simon. You won't like the answer.  I don't like the answer I was given, and I'm not convinced it is the answer. And if it is the answer -- and I'm not saying I believe it -- I'm still not ready to accept it."

 

Banks stared at Ellison, then gave himself a little shake.  "Okay. I'm not going to even try to claim I understand what you just said."

 

"You called me in, Simon.  Is there a problem?  If not, I'd like to get back to looking for Sandburg."

 

"Do you have any leads at all?"

 

Ellison shook his head reluctantly.

 

Banks catalogued the man's weariness, the exhausted slump to his shoulders.  The captain picked up a file. "Our number one suspect in the Emerald Theater murders is the owner/manager, Andrew Stibbs.  He knew one of the women who were murdered, and he was seen speaking with at least one of the others the night she was strangled.  After the first two murders, Stibbs' employees made statements that he came out of his office at midnight and locked the front door as they left the building.  The third evening, the murder was discovered within a half hour after the end of the performance.  Stibbs claims to have an alibi for that time -- and that reporter, Ivan Chomski, had made a statement to you saying they were together.  I was hoping you could meet with them, sort of give them a 'sentinel' listen."

 

"Simon, my mind's not really on the case--"

 

"Jim, if you had any ideas what to do about Sandburg, I'd be there with you.  But you don't, and we have another concert tomorrow night, and a murderer on the loose.  I've set up an interview in half an hour with Stibbs, and I would like you to be there."

 

"Sure, Simon."  Ellison stood slowly.  "I'll handle it.  Where to?"

 

"Kascade Koffee, on Third Street.  -- Wait, Jim -- Where are you going?  What about the kid?"

 

"You're the expert, sir.  I'm sure he'll be fine," Ellison added as he quickly shut the door behind him.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Kascade Koffee was one of the new trendy "retro" coffee shops that had sprung up in the older part of Cascade, pulling in customers from the office towers a few blocks to the north.  The lunch crowd had already left, but even at midday, the café was smoky and crowded.

 

Ellison sat in his truck across the street.  Stibbs was easy to pick out, a broad-shouldered, bald man sitting at a window table.  An unknown man took the seat opposite him.  The sentinel focused his hearing on them.

 

"What do you want?"

 

"You still supplying?"

 

"Now's not a good time, Brigman."

 

"A kilo should do it.  It isn't a big buy."

 

"Were you listening to what I just said?  Not now."  Stibbs looked around nervously.  "Now get lost.  I've got to talk to a cop in a few minutes."

 

"You closing shop already?"

 

"Just being careful.  I can get what you need. Last time though."

 

"Well, when can I come by?"

 

"Tonight. 6:30.  Come to the front entrance and bring a flat of bottled water."

 

"What?"

 

"Say they're for the performers.  I ordered them. Have your company write out an invoice -- I need back-up for everything now. I'll have the door people watch for you, and they'll let you in to see me so I can pay the bill.  Have your money ready.  All of it."

 

"Less the water."

 

"All of it.  The water's free."

 

"Fuck, man.  So how much do you want?"

 

"A kilo?  Same cost as before."

 

"Why the cloak and dagger?"

 

"Police are watching me.  Couple girls got themselves murdered."

 

"Oh, right.  That your place?"

 

"Yeah. Fuck."

 

"Okay, 6:30."

 

"Now get the fuck out of here."

 

Ellison watched Brigman exit the restaurant.  He'd had a good look at him, and someone would follow him at 6:30 after he left the Emerald Theater. They'd deal with the drug bust once the murder investigation was over.

 

He picked up his cellphone and hit the speed dial for Major Crimes.  "Henri, it's Ellison.  Find out what you can about a man named Brigman. Owns or works at a bottled water company here in Cascade."

 

"Got it, Jim.  Brigman.  Hey, who was the little tyke you brought in earlier?"

 

"Friend of Sandburg's.  The captain is babysitting for me."

 

"Say what?"  

 

"I gotta go.  The reporter just showed."  Ellison snapped shut his cellphone and watched as Brigman passed Chomski on the corner, but there was no recognition between the two.

 

Chomski entered the restaurant and quickly found Stibbs. "Andy.  The cop here yet?"

 

"Nah.  Late."

 

"I can't stay long.  I've got some work to do before the concert tomorrow night."

 

"Thanks for the reviews.  Except for the Brighton Trio.  You massacred us on that one."

 

"They stunk."

 

"Yeah. Fuckin' did."  The two men broke off their conversation to order espressos and donuts.  When the waitress left, Stibbs cleared his throat nervously. "Thanks.  For the alibi."

 

"No problem."

 

The topic switched to the next evening's performance and the merits of the various groups performing at the Jazz Festival.  Ellison got out of his truck and slowly made his way inside.  He ordered a plain black coffee from the front till and headed over to the two men, still in deep conversation.

 

Stibbs looked up. "Oh, hello, Officer--?"

 

"Detective Ellison."

 

"Right. Sit down. This is Ivan Chomski, a reporter with the CJJ."

 

Ellison straddled the chair and took out his small notebook.  "We met the other night. I'm on a tight schedule.  Let's start with you, Mr Stibbs.  Your first name is Andrew?"

 

"Right."

 

"How long have you owned the Emerald Theater?"

 

"Five, maybe six years."

 

"Exactly."

 

"Five years this October."

 

"And this is the third annual Jazz Festival held there?"

 

"Yes, Detective."

 

"Any problems in the past?"

 

"None. Went smooth as a charm."

 

Chomski broke in with a laugh. "I wouldn't call the Twitmere Twins smooth as a charm last year."

 

Stibbs bristled.  "Fucking idiots.  Couldn't sing their way out of a paper bag."

 

Ellison looked up.  "Problem with them?"

 

Chomski lit a cigarette.  "They got booed off the stage and tried to burn down the theater."

 

Stibbs still looked pissed off. "We got it out before there was any damage.  Just one wastepaper basket got charred."

 

Ellison jotted down their names.  "Any problems with them since?"

 

"None." Stibbs gave a strange laugh.  "Their Cessna crashed shortly afterwards on route to a fairground somewhere, so I'd say their being dead has eliminated them as suspects, wouldn't you?"

 

"Why'd the plane crash?"

 

"Idiots were flying in fog."

 

"I'll check into the FAA investigation."  Ellison wrote down the information, then paged back to his notes of their initial interview.  "You said before that you were still inside the theater at the time of the last murder."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Any witnesses to collaborate that?"

 

"Just me," the reporter said.

 

Ellison glanced up at Chomski, calming taking a drag of his cigarette.  Even his heartbeat remained level, despite Ellison knowing the man had lied about the alibi.  "You were at the theater that night?"

 

Chomski tucked away his lighter. "I'm there for every performance.  Once a year, the Emerald Theater has a jazz series, six concerts over two weeks.  As the lead reporter for the Cascade Jazz Journal, I more or less have to be there."

 

"And what kept you there after the performance the night before last, Mr Chomski?"

 

"Just talking to Andy about the concert.  Confirming some background information on the performers, if they're expected to return for next year's concert.  That kind of stuff."

 

Ellison nodded, still writing.  "Thank you.  I may have some more questions for you." He looked up at Chomski.  "Where can I find you later?"

 

"At my office.  I'll be there until 4:30 at least.  Here," Chomski said, passing over a business card for the Cascade Jazz Journal.  Chomski stood, glanced to Stibbs, and offered his hand.  "I'll see you tomorrow night."

 

Ellison tucked the card in his shirt pocket.  Once Chomski had left, Stibbs' heart rate climbed slowly.  "I'd like to ask you about the young women in these photos."  He handed the 4x6 pictures to the theater owner.  "Do you recognize any of these women?"

 

Stibbs held the stack stiffly, but made no move to look at them.  "Are these the same as I was shown the other day?"

 

"Yes, plus the ones taken the night before last."

 

"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you.  I didn't recognize them."

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"The theater seats 450.  We've had sellout performances.  I don't peruse every patron as they pass through my doors."

 

"I realize that."  Ellison took the photos back.  Stibbs' heart rate remained high, and it was becoming difficult to shift his hearing back and forth from the man's heartbeat to their conversation.  At times like this, Sandburg's presence was a reliable anchor for him to depend on.  "However, we have eye witnesses saying you were seen speaking to these two women the night they were killed."  He laid their photos on the table, then added the third.  "And you took Marie Smythe out for dinner as recently as last month.  Are you sure you've never seen these women?"

 

Stibbs took a closer look at the photo. "Marie? Yeah, Marie I knew a while back.  Didn't realize it was her that was killed.  Bad luck -- she was a nice kid.  But I didn't see her that night.  And the other two -- maybe I did say hello to them, but like I said, there were 450 people there and I probably said hello to most of them.  That's my job."

 

Ellison nodded. "The night before last, you say that you were still at the theater an hour after the last performance?"

 

"Yes.  The security firm was scheduled to come by at 12:15 a.m. to collect the evening's take and deliver it to the bank.  My sales crew brings the receipts to me to sign before preparing the deposit bags."

 

"And you spoke with Mr Chomski between 11:30 p.m. and 12:15 a.m.?"

 

"He dropped by after the performance and stayed until a few minutes before the sales crew came in."

 

"How long have you known Mr Chomski?"

 

"A year or two.  He covers the concerts."

 

"I see.  You mentioned your sales crew.  Did any of them see Chomski with you?"

 

"No, I believe he left just before they came to my office."

 

"Anything else to add?"  Ellison met Stibbs' uncomfortable gaze.  The man was hiding something, besides his drug sales and fake alibi, but Ellison couldn't pin it.  Sandburg would have been able to get under the man's skin and--

 

He groaned silently. He really wanted his guide back.

 

Ellison stood, drained the last of his coffee, and tucked the notepad back into his pocket.  "I'll be in touch."

 

 

 * * * * *

 

"Where Dim?"

 

Simon Banks looked up from his files into the bright eyes of the little boy standing precariously at the edge of the couch, his thumb in his mouth. "Pardon me?"

 

The child stared at him somberly, the corners of his mouth turning down, ever-so-slightly.   "Dim?" he asked, without removing the thumb.

 

"Dim?" Simon chuckled.  He was going to have fun with that one.  "Ellison's out of the office at the moment.  And whom may I say wants to know?" he asked, coming around his desk to crouch near the child.

 

Again, a long hard stare met his eyes, the toddler sucking his thumb while weighing him and obviously finding him wanting.

 

"Can I get you anything?"  Simon asked.  "Water?  Cof-- well, I guess water's all I have that you can drink."

 

This sparked some interest, enough that the thumb was removed.  "Ba-ba?"

 

"Pardon me?"

 

"Ba-ba?"  At his puzzled look, the child added, hopefully, "Nana?"

 

"What's nana?  Grandmother?"

 

"Nana."

 

"Sorry. I'm not sure what you want."

 

"Where Mama?"

 

"I was hoping you would tell me."  Simon's only answer was a protruding bottom lip and blue eyes filled with tears, and the thumb sucking resumed.  "Listen, I don't know where she is.  Believe me, if I knew I'd take you to her."

 

"Where Dim?"

 

"I suspect he's on his way back here."

 

"Where Dim?"

 

"He's coming.  He'll be here soon."

 

Again tears threatened to spill from watery eyes.  "Want Dim. Want ug."

 

"Ug?"  There was no response.  "Sorry, little guy, I can't help you.  Can you tell me what your name is? Huh?"  Simon sat on the edge of his desk and smiled down at the boy.  He couldn't be more than two years old, it was hard to judge ages, and Daryl had long since left this stage.  Simon smiled fondly, remember the joys of being "Daddy" to a toddler who looked up at you with big eyes, as though you were the world to him, and said,

 

"Me peepee."

 

Okay, that he knew.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Back in his truck, Ellison stared at the crime scene photographs.  The first victim, Marsha Martin, was twenty-five years old, a music major at Rainier finishing her Master's degree.  While opera was her specialty, her friends who were interviewed by police spoke of a secret passion for jazz piano that had lured her to the Emerald that night.  No one in her usual group had been able to attend the concert with her, but that hadn't kept her from going on her own.  She had made one call on her cell phone after the concert, to her roommate at the dorm, wondering if she needed anything from the grocery.  Marsha said she was going to stop on the way back to the university.  She had never made it to her car, though, parked a block from the Emerald Theater.

 

The photos showed a dark-haired young woman, leaning back against a tree, her purse resting on her lap. A take-out espresso from the coffee shop next to the theater lay spilled on the ground next to her.  Her cellphone and wallet were still in the small handbag, so robbery had been ruled out.  A closer look at the photograph revealed the glimpse of a scarlet line around her neck, her face distorted from the trauma of strangulation.

 

The second victim, two nights later following the next concert, was Dana Porter, a twenty-eight-year-old librarian who lived with her boyfriend in a condo by the marina.  The boyfriend, a veterinarian, was working the night shift at a 24-hour pet emergency clinic, and had been unable to attend the concert with her.  Instead she had gone with two friends who met her at the concert, then waved good-bye to her afterwards as they went their own ways.  They had reported she had told them she was planning on driving straight home and going to bed.

 

Dana was a youthful-looking brunette, easily the prettiest of the three victims, casually clad in jeans and a comfortable pullover.  She had a black leather fanny pack around her waist, and, like the previous murder, it didn't appear to be robbery related, as her wallet was still in the pack.  She was draped forward, balanced over the front of her car, as though she had passed out.  Several passersby had called over to see if she was okay, then when there was no response, they had investigated, discovering her dead body. Her car keys and a bottle of water lay on the ground by her feet.

 

The third murder victim was Marie Smythe, a twenty-seven-year-old, with short-cropped, chestnut hair.  Marie had gone out with Andrew Stibbs a few months previously.  It was difficult finding any close friends, as she appeared to be a loner who worked for a local credit union as a teller.  Her co-workers said she had been dating a man named Andy, and as far as they knew, she was still seeing him.  Only one of the co-workers came forward with the information that Marie had said she had broken up with Andy several months ago, claiming things were getting a little too intense for her.  Marie too had her purse with her and a bottle of water, although Ellison couldn't make out the brand name.

 

He pulled out his cellphone and called Forensics.  "Serena, it's Jim Ellison."

 

"Hey, Jim.  What can I do for you?"

 

"I'm looking into the Emerald Theater cases.  Do you have a list of personal effects on the women?  I'm interested in the brand names of their water bottles."

 

"It's right here.  Marie Smythe had a bottle of Cascade Prime Water.  Dana Porter had a half empty bottle of Alaska Clear.  That help at all?"

 

"I'm not sure.  Serena, I was at the scene for the Smythe murder, but not the first two. Any differences between them that might indicate we're looking at more than one perp?"

 

"Same m.o., Jim.  I'm willing to bet it's the same guy.  Strong, probably six feet or so in height.  Looks like he slipped the wire over their throats from the back -- They may never have seen him coming.  There are no marks on the body other than that.  The wire used was metallic, multi-stranded, and strong.  A guitar or violin string maybe.  Death was fairly quick."

 

"Thanks, Serena.  I'll come by later and have a look at what you have."

 

"No problem, Jim."

 

Ellison put his cellphone away.  Andrew Stibbs was still in the coffee shop, nursing a now-cold cup of coffee.  The waitress came by to top it up, but he shook his head and continued sitting in the restaurant, staring ahead at the empty seat in front of him.

 

Ellison made another call, this time to Henri Brown.  "Anything on Brigman?"

 

"Not much, man.  No priors.  He's a salesman for that water company, Alaska Clear."

 

"Alaska Clear.  One of the victims had a bottle of Alaska Clear."

 

"Yeah, her and half the city.  It's one of the best selling bottled waters around."

 

"Thanks, H.  Thought I might be onto something there."

 

"Yeah.  I'll keep looking."

 

When Stibbs had still not moved fifteen minutes later, Ellison put the truck in gear and left.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

He returned to the station to find Baby lying sprawled back on his desk, with Henri Brown in the process of blowing raspberries into the shrieking child's neck.  The surrounding men and women were wiping their eyes in laughter as the toddler screamed in what sounded like pain.

 

"What the hell is going on here?" Ellison boomed.  "Get the hell away from him."

 

"Dim!" Baby squealed on seeing who had made the racket, arms already raising toward him, appearing none the worse for wear.

 

Okay, maybe he had over-reacted.

 

Ellison scooped the child into his arms, a feeling of overwhelming relief spreading over him.  Strange how quickly he had become attached to the little guy.  Then again, if it really was Sandburg, it was probably just the relief of being reunited with his guide.

 

Baby lightly clapped Ellison's face.  "Dim!" he gurgled.

 

"Jim.  Jjjjjj-im," Ellison said, stressing the consonant.

 

"Dim have nana?"

 

"No, Jim doesn't have nana.  Are you hungry?"

 

"Baba?"

 

"Well, I seriously doubt there's any milk around here, so let's get something at Starbucks.  How does that sound?"

 

Banks cleared his throat behind them. "You seem to have connected with him quite well."

 

Ellison shifted the child to one hip as he rummaged through the papers on his desk.  "No choice, really, sir.  But I will be relieved when Sandburg returns."

 

"How did it go with Stibbs?"

 

"He's hiding something.  Chomski lied about the alibi -- I got that at least."

 

"So Stibbs is a valid suspect.  We'll set up a shadow on him."

 

Henri Brown spoke up.  "We're on it, sir.  And there's a report on Brigman on your desk, Jim."

 

Banks perched on one corner of Ellison's desk.  "So why would Chomski cover for Stibbs?"

 

"Stibbs is dealing coke.  Could be supplying Chomski.  We've run Stibbs through the database, but I'm going to see what comes up with Chomski's name."  Ellison sat at his computer, and, one-handed, brought up his email.  His phone rang, and he reached for it.  "Ellison?"

 

"Jim, it's Harvey."

 

Ellison blinked.  "Harvey Leek?  How's San Francisco?  Funny you should call."

 

"Thought so.  I had a weird dream about Blair last night and was wondering..."

 

Ellison made him work for it.  "Wondering what?"

 

"Oh, I dunno.  Just wondering how he was.  There's no answer on his cell phone."

 

"He's missing."

 

"Missing?"

 

"Disappeared in the middle of the night."  When there was no response to his comment, Ellison sat up, alert now, shifting Baby to his other shoulder.  "Harvey?  What do you know?"

 

"Well, let's just say in my dream that Blair was fine, had a bad headache from hitting his head, but he was alive."

 

"Did you happen to notice where he was?"

 

"Yeah . . . "

 

"Harv?"

 

"Okay, you asked for it.  In my dream, Blair was at a musical festival in 1971."

 

Ellison groaned and closed his eyes.

 

Baby twisted slightly at the sound, and gently patted Ellison's cheek. "Dim?"

 

"Jim?"

 

"Yeah, Harv.  I heard.  Listen, give me a call if you come up with anything.  We've got a missing person's out on Sandburg now."

 

"If he's where I think he is, you're almost thirty years too late.  Let me know when he shows up again. -- And I think he will, Jim."

 

"I hope you're right."

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Ellison pulled up outside the Emerald Theater and parked the truck.  "Finished yet?"

 

"Fwie."  A french fry was waved haphazardly in his direction.

 

"Yeah. Just eat it."

 

"Fwie."  Baby crammed the golden treat in his mouth, then stuffed his little fist into the cardboard box and pulled out another one.  "Fwie."  He studied it carefully, then mushed it into his mouth, part of it falling to the car seat cushion beneath the baby seat, already littered with other fries, a chewed up straw, and more than a few drops of liquid that had escaped the milk carton.  Baby held the fries box upside down.  "All gone."

 

Ellison extracted the empty box and stuffed it into the McDonald's paper bag along with the mangled remains of the fries.  A paper napkin cleaned up most of the damage to Baby's hands and face.  "Come on.  Let's take a look around outside."   He unsnapped the child from the baby seat.  "Ready?"

 

"Weady."

 

Freed from his safety restraints, the toddler was in full flight the moment his bare feet hit the sidewalk, running straight for the glass windows of the theater, slightly greasy fingers quickly making tiny hand prints on the tinted glass doors.  The swirling marbled tiles outside the ticket window captured Baby's attention next and kept him occupied, tracing the varied colors of green in the mosaic pattern, chattering to himself in some unknown infant dialect.

 

Ellison looked carefully around the area, making sure there was no glass or sharp particles on the otherwise clean sidewalk that would potentially harm his young companion.  He still hadn't stopped to get shoes for the child.  He allowed his sight to slide several notches higher than he was normally comfortable doing without Sandburg's presence.

 

Crime scene tape still fluttered a block away, and the detective snared Baby and walked him down the street, stopping a few times to examine something that caught his eye.  When Ellison crouched down and carefully picked up the plastic pull tie of a water bottle, Baby mimicked his movements and crouched beside him, wanting to see what he was looking at. The sentinel showed it to him, amused by the serious concentration given the object by the toddler.

 

Within a few minutes, the child had collected about ten similar pull ties -- apparently the area was littered with them and it was easier to see them if you were only a few feet tall.  By the time they had walked to the crime scene, Baby's overall pockets were filled with them.  Ellison circled the area where Marie Smythe had been found, sitting on the doorstep of a travel agency.  The bus stop was around the corner on the busy main street, while the travel agency faced a quieter tree-lined road with grassy strips along the boulevards.  The area had been swept clean of any garbage, probably by the travel agency although the crime scene had not yet been released.

 

"Shit."

 

Where had the kid gone?

 

Ellison spun left and looked out at the road, then ran to the corner and frantically scanned the busy street.  "Shit. Hey, kid!  Baby!"

 

Closing his eyes, he listened, sending his hearing out, separating the traffic noises and eliminating them, until he found the excited chattering he had heard before.  He couldn't piggyback his sight to it, though, and ended up allowing his body to direct him back to the side street, past the travel agency, to the alley.  There Baby was, crouched down, staring at a paper laying half in a puddle behind the building.

 

Ellison took a deep breath and tried to bring his blood pressure down before approaching the child.  "What do you have?"

 

Baby pointed to a program from the Emerald Theater, dated from the last performance.  The signature swirl of the green mosaic tiles flowed along the edge of the program, probably what caught Baby's attention.   Ellison pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag and carefully placed the program within it.

 

"Good work, Chief."

 

Baby stood when Ellison did, clapping his hands.

 

"Ready to check up on our reporter and see what he can tell us about Stibbs?"

 

"Go twuk?  Fwies?  More fwies?  Donnaland?"

 

"No, I think you've had enough fries for now."  Ellison swung him up in his arms and elected to walk the few blocks to the Cascade Jazz Journal.

 

The toddler seemed interested in where they were going, intrigued eyes taking in the sights as Ellison headed into the building.  A young receptionist sat behind the counter, staring forlornly at an accounting sheet.  Several small offices opened off the magazine company's main lobby.  The Cascade Jazz Journal was a glossy magazine catering to the Pacific Northwest, with a respectable readership.  The faint tinkling sounds of a jazz piano piece wafted through the room.

 

The receptionist looked up, a smile brightening her face when she saw Baby.  "Yes, can I help you?"

 

"I'd like to speak with Ivan Chomski."  Ellison handed her his card.

 

"Detective Ellison.  Sure."  She touched a button on her phone.  "Ivan, Detective Ellison is here to see you." She seemed to understand the garbled noise of the reply and disconnected the call.  "Hey, want me to watch your son while you talk with Ivan?"

 

"I'll take him with me, thank you."  Ellison hefted the child higher on his hip, then followed her down the hall and into one of the larger offices.

 

"Detective Ellison, please sit down-- Oh, I see you brought your son."  Ivan Chomski seemed thrown off base by Baby's presence, which suited Ellison just fine.

 

"Yes. Babysitters are hard to find, I've found.  Do you mind?"

 

"No, not at all.  He seems pretty quiet."

 

Baby was watching Chomski while silently sucking on his thumb, his head resting on Ellison's shoulder.

 

"He'll be fine."   Ellison fumbled with his notepad, then settled on putting the toddler on the floor while he opened the pad and pulled out his pen.  "So how long have you worked here, Mr Chomski?"

 

"Twelve years -- I'm one of the founding partners of CJJ."  Chomski sat behind his desk, shifting his laptop to one side.  He watched warily as Baby began to wander the room.

 

"And how long have you known Andrew Stibbs?"

 

"About six years.  He was considering buying the Emerald Theater, and I encouraged him to do so.  There was a group of us in town who wanted a permanent venue for jazz concerts, and we felt the Emerald would be a suitable location."

 

"So you've known him for six years?"

 

"Yes.  Give or take."

 

Since Stibbs had said he'd only known Chomski for a year or two, this was yet another detail that didn't add up.  Ellison paged back through his notes, casually asking,  "Did you know any of the women who were killed?"

 

"No, I didn't.  It's a shame really."

 

"It's a shame that you didn't know them, or it's a shame that they're dead."

 

Chomski gave a short laugh.  "Both, I guess. -- No, the latter.  It's a crime that three women have died so young."

 

"You're right.  It is a crime." Ellison looked down to where Baby had moved to stand in front of a display of magazine covers, all past issues of the Cascade Jazz Journal.

 

Baby stared at them solemnly, then slowly took the thumb out of his mouth. "Thingaling."  As the child turned to look at Ellison, he spotted an emerald green electric guitar on a stand in the corner.  Baby let out a chortling laugh and ran over to it, chubby hands slapping against its surface. "Gleen mach neen!  Gleen mach neen!"  The guitar stand wobbled, threatening to send the instrument toppling over.

 

The detective jumped up to rescue the guitar. "Sorry. Hey, Baby, don't touch that."  Ellison scooped the toddler up and resettled him on his lap, startling him at the quick movement.

 

"No problem," Chomski laughed, straightening the guitar.  "Funny he should say that, though.  This is my old guitar; I used to be in a band called the 'Green Machine'."

 

Baby stood on Ellison's lap, then threw himself forward to rest against the detective's chest.  Sentinel ears caught faint words whispered. "Bad gleen mach neen. No like."

 

Ellison stood, cradling the child against his shoulder.  "Thank you, Mr Chomski.  I'll be in touch.  I better get this youngster home for his nap."

 

 

 * * * * *

 

A creepy man around Blair's age ducked into the food tent and draped his arm around Naomi's shoulder, rather predatorily, his hand stroking up and down her arm. "Hey, Sugar."

 

At the other end of the tent, Blair stopped wiping the table and watched them.

 

Naomi leaned into the man.  "What if they can't find him, Icy? What am I going to do?" she asked, dazed, clearly in shock.

 

"You don't worry, Sugar. They'll find him." The guy - Icy - handed her a pill of some kind. She stared at it longingly, pushed his hand away, then changed her mind and dug it out of his palm while he let her work for it, pulling his hand further and further out of her reach, until she was lying half across his lap to reach it. "You know you want it, Sugar."

 

"Should you be doing that, with your kid missing?" Blair asked.

 

Icy scowled over at him, while Naomi sat up and looked his way. "It'll keep me calm. The officer said to stay calm, right?" She popped the pill in her mouth. "It's hardly nothing, anyway." She batted her eyes at Icy, and Blair's breakfast again threatened to make an appearance.

 

Now that he'd eaten some food, Blair wanted to fulfill his part of the promise and help Harvey -- or Hand God or whatever his name was - with cleaning the food tent.  He pushed himself carefully away from the table and got to his feet, still a little unsteady from his head injury.

 

He spent the rest of the morning clearing the tables and helping clean up. Hang Dog gave him lunch -- a bowl of vegetable soup from a huge pot at the back. It had taken Blair almost two hours to bring himself to look at what was in the pot, but it was just what it smelled like, a great mixture of fresh vegetables and noodles that Hang Dog kept tossing in, adding water and spices, and dishing out. The bun that went with it was getting stale, but this was the last full day of the weekend concert. Everyone would be heading home the next day at noon.

 

Naomi sat at a table, always with a few friends around her, so he didn't really have a chance to talk to her, but he watched her whenever he could. He didn't like Icy, who was obviously dealing drugs. The man gave him the creeps, and he wondered what Naomi saw in him. He'd been gone for a while, but he was over talking to her now, offering her a toke on his joint. Which she took. Ah, mom. Geez.

 

"Come on, Sugar," Icy said, sleazily. Everything about the guy was sleazy. His hair. His clothes. His big "A" attitude.

 

Blair glared at him, indignantly.

 

Icy continued, running his hand over Naomi WAY too familiarly. "I'm just doing a short gig today, and I want you there, Sugar. Maybe the kid will hear me and come out. Dinner's almost over -- he must be getting hungry. He eats like a horse usually. And he likes the music when I sing, right?"

 

"Right . . ." Naomi agreed reluctantly.

 

No way I ever would like anything about that guy, Naomi. Come on. Think about it. Even at age two, I would have better sense than that.

 

The officers had been by a few times, checking on them and trying to offer encouragement in an ever-worsening situation, and they came back now. Officer Dominguez sat down beside Naomi and spoke quietly with her, while Bridges looked coldly at Icy.

 

"Have any identification?"

 

"Maybe."

 

"Could I see it?" Bridges asked, his voice still level.

 

"Any particular reason why you've singled me out? I don't see you asking anyone else."

 

Because you're a creep, Blair thought, scowling at him.

 

"Because I'm also asking where you were at three-thirty this morning," Officer Bridges said.

 

"What? You think I had something to do with her brat disappearing? I was helping look for him."

 

Brat? Blair's scowl deepened. BRAT? That's Baby Blossom to you, buddy.

 

"Have you seen this woman before?" Officer Bridges showed Icy a Polaroid photo of someone.

 

Icy glanced at it, then shrugged. "Nope. What's wrong with her? She looks dead."

 

"She is dead. She was found this morning just before dawn."

 

"So? What does that have to do with me? I wasn't involved."

 

"Let's just see your identification." Bridges flipped open Icy's leather wallet and withdrew his driver's license, jotting it down. He flipped through to some picture ID. "This you?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Hard to tell with the hair all over your face now."

 

"Beard's not a crime."

 

"No, it isn't. Strangling a woman is. And so is kidnaping, Mr. Chomski." Bridges jotted down something else and handed the wallet back.

 

Chomski?

 

Blair froze.  He knew that name from somewhere.

 

Chomski.  Chomski.  Think.

 

The file on Jim's desk.  The pictures.  Chomski.

 

Chomski was the reporter from the Jazz magazine. The one who Jim talked to the other night and gave the alibi for the theater owner, Stibbs.

 

Chomski.  Oh, shit. Blair's knees gave way and he sat down heavily on one of the picnic table style benches. Oh, shit. He bounced back up and slid behind the food counter, following around the corner of the tent and out the back way into the mid afternoon haze. Shit. Shit. Shit.

 

"Hey, Blair. Come back tonight at dinner." Hang Dog was sitting cross-legged on the ground outside the tent, grooving on the British band currently playing.

 

"Thanks, yeah." Blair stumbled through the crowd and collapsed on a relatively isolated piece of hillside. Chomski. Strangled woman. He'd done it before. Probably even kidnaped the kid. Wait a sec. I'm the kid. I don't remember being kidnaped. You think I'd remember that.

 

Maybe not. How much would he have actually remembered? He was only two. At least in this time period. Okay, well, at this moment he wasn't two. He was twenty-nine. But somewhere he was two.

 

Wouldn't it be a hoot if the two-year-old him was staring at Jim right now? Blair laughed silently. He could just imagine how his partner would be coping with a baby. A giggle escaped, brought on by the stress level he was under, followed by another giggle. He hid his smile quickly before the partyers around him wanted some of whatever drugs they thought he was on.

 

As the afternoon progressed, he watched Chomski perform on the stage with the "Green Machine", grudgingly admitting the guy could play the guitar okay. When the band's three songs were up, Blair followed him through the crowd, watching as he openly sold little bags of pills to the young crowd. Chomski walked among them, smiling, touching their heads lightly and clasping hands. He looked like he thought he was Jesus walking through the five thousand he'd just miraculously fed loaves and fish to, and not a slimy, drug-dealing murderer.

 

Okay... So why am I here?

 

The $64,000 question. The "Who Wants to be a Millionaire", "Final Jeopardy", "Final Round" question.

 

Why am I here?

 

What bizarre, shamanistic weirdness brought me here?

 

Maybe Chomski wasn't a suspect, but they'd be checking him out eventually.  He was there at the Emerald Theater for every concert, had the opportunity.  Said he walked home.

 

Well, the only thing I know now that I didn't know before, was that previously Chomski had murdered someone at a rock festival.  At least, I'm assuming he did.

 

Strangled them.

 

So, can I go home now?

 

Do I have to find a wrinkle in time? Go through some hidden spatial doorway? Wiggle my nose? Recite some obscure time-travel passage?

 

Chomski joined some of his band members on the hillside just above the food tent, so Blair sat ten feet above them on the slope. A new group was on stage, sounding more like the "Mamas and the Papas" than the "Mamas and the Papas" did. Chomski pulled out a joint and lit it, passing it, and several others, around the circle. Naomi came and sat next to Chomski, curling up beside him. She was drugged already, her movements too loose and fluid. Her eyes were all red and swollen, from crying, and Chomski kissed her forehead.

 

Yuck. Naomi....

 

Blair stared through the haze of smoke, past his mother, to where Officer Dominguez sat at the picnic table in the big brown food tent, tapping his pencil thoughtfully on his notepad, as he tried to figure it all out.

 

Join the club, man.

 

 

 

 

 

Part Five

 

 

Late in the afternoon, Jim returned to the loft juggling a squirming, overtired child in one arm and Chinese takeout in the other.  "It's vegetarian," he said as Naomi took the bags from him, leaving him holding the child.  "Except for the General Tao Fried Chicken."

 

Naomi opened one container, then looked up at Jim quizzically.

 

"Well, okay, the Shrimp in Black Bean Sauce isn't exactly vegetarian."  He deposited Baby on the floor, the child's legs already in motion. "The rest is, though."

 

"What?  The rice and vegetables?" Naomi retorted, smiling at the child's antics.

 

"There's that other vegetable thing with the white square stuff that Blair salivates over and always orders--"  The loss hit him and he leaned wearily against the counter, his back to Naomi.

 

Damn it.  I've been separated from you by distance before, and I hated it.

 

But to be separated from you by distance and . . . years . . . I've can't get my mind around it, Chief.  You know I'm no good at this.  37 hours, Naomi said.  You were gone for 37 hours.  I've got almost a full day to go yet.

 

The toddler ran in hyper circles around the loft, pleased to be back. He circumnavigated the table, then the kitchen island, then over to the living room to slap the couch and the coffee table, then greeted each of the large plants by high-fiving their leaves.  Pleased with himself, he then plunked his little seat in front of the television. "Fu-Fu," he demanded of the blank screen.

 

Without a word, Jim picked up the remote, aimed it at the television set, found the children's network, and gladly, without guilt, let mindless cartoons entertain while he sought refuge in the kitchen.  He would never make snide comments about parents using television as a babysitter again.

 

Naomi said nothing to him as they opened the rest of the containers. He really wasn't hungry and had no desire to eat, but his stomach was clearly interested in the food, despite his brain's lethargy. With a full plate, he retreated to the dining table while the Roadrunner outwitted the Coyote in the living room.

 

He looked across at his partner's mother, noting the stress lines on her face.  "How was your meditating time?" he asked, trying to find something to say.

 

"Interesting."  Naomi poked at her rice and vegetables and the white square things.  "I really can't remember much of what happened back then, just being terrified that my baby was missing and there was nothing I could do about it.  People were so nice and helpful, trying to make me feel better, but nothing really made a difference."

 

"If this child is Blair," Jim began, then shook his head slowly at the absurd words he had just uttered, "then Blair -- my Blair -- was with you then."

 

"Your Blair?"

 

Jim colored slightly.  "You know what I mean."

 

She smiled.  "I'm not sure if I remember an older Blair or not. I was distraught, and my boyfriend at the time tried to console me.  He was a performer in a band and --"

 

"Ivan Chomski, by any chance?" Jim asked, looking up.

 

Naomi shook her head.  "I don't think so.  Why?  Who is he?"

 

"Lead guitarist for a group called 'Green Machine'."

 

"Well, that was the name of Icy's group. Most of them had nicknames they went by.  His keyboardist was Dunker and his drummer had a rather weird name, Oedipus or something like that.  I can't remember the other guitarist.  He had an ordinary name -- Donald, maybe -- but he left after that weekend and became a radical."

 

"A radical?"

 

"Yes.  Joined the army."

 

Jim let that one go.  "Ivan Chomski's initials are I.C., so the nickname 'Icy' probably matches.  I met with him today.  Baby was with me and recognized his guitar."

 

Naomi smiled affectionately at the little boy, still engrossed by the cartoon on the television.  "Blair didn't like Icy much personally, but loved his music. He was amazingly talented, at least I thought he was. He said he was going to go professional, especially after that festival, but I never saw much of him after…" Naomi stopped abruptly, turning back to glare at Jim as his comment registered.  "You spoke with Icy?"

 

"Yes.  He's one of the co-founders of a magazine called the 'Cascade Jazz Journal'."

 

"What on earth did you want with him?"

 

"Police business, Naomi.  I can't say."

 

"Police business?  And you took Blair with you?  How dare you!"

 

"There was no indication of danger.  I would never have taken a toddler into a dangerous situation."  He stood to put more chicken on his plate, hoping she would drop the topic.

 

Naomi's voice rose instead.  "Are you crazy?  Have you no sense of decency?"

 

"I was careful.  Do you think I would jeopardize his life?"

 

"I don't know, Detective.  You tell me.  You put my son in danger all the time -- why not a child?"

 

"Blair is doing what he wants to do--"

 

"Blair is doing what you want him to do.  You've got some deadly hold on him--"

 

"He could walk away any time--"

 

She snorted.  "That's a lie.  You've tied him to your side with--"

 

"Beep beep."

 

They both jumped at the sudden noise by the table.   Baby stood there, obviously upset by their escalating discussion.

 

Naomi looked down to Baby's upturned face.  "Oh. Hi, Sweetie."

 

"Beep beep."  The child stomped around to Jim's chair.  "Beep beep."  He held up his hands, waiting.

 

Jim lifted him onto his lap, then watched silently with Naomi as the table's contents were surveyed with great interest.  Baby pointed to the fried chicken pieces and looked back at Jim hopefully. "Nana?  Me?"

 

"I've got more bananas, if you want one."

 

"Nana?"  That was considered for a moment, then a counter suggestion was made. "Fwie?  Donnaland?"

 

When Naomi raised an eyebrow in Jim's direction, he scooped up the child and headed for the kitchen.  "I'll get you a banana, okay, Sport?"  Jim sat Baby on the island's counter as he cut up the requested banana, then carried the plate and toddler back into the living room.  "I'm going to regret this, but at least try to keep the banana off the couch, okay?"

 

"Okay," Baby agreed, eager fingers reaching for, and squishing, a piece of the treat.  "Beep beep?"

 

"Commercial's almost over."

 

"Den beep beep?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Fwie?"

 

"No, not tonight."  Fortunately, Jim was rescued by the Roadrunner's reappearance.  He returned to the table to find Naomi in thoughtful reflection, the previous discussion put aside but, Jim was sure, not forgotten.

 

"Jim, when did Baby show up here?" she asked.

 

"I can't give you the exact time.  Blair disappeared sometime between 3:30 and 6:30 in the morning.  That's as close I can peg it.  When did you notice-- when did Blair disappear back then?"

 

"I honestly can't remember when he disappeared from the rock festival.  After midnight, for sure.  Probably a few hours past that.  Then, like I told you, he was gone all one day, and most of the next."

 

"Where did you finally find him?"

 

"A pig-- a cop found him down by the creek, behind the stage."  She sighed.  "Before you start judging me and deciding I was an unfit mother who allowed her child to wander away, keep in mind it was a difficult time for me.  I was young.  Rebellious.  I had this adorable, lively child who everyone loved and who was my world, but I was also lonely, wanted to have fun, and tried to have it all at once -- be the perfect earth mother, party with my friends, raise my little boy in a peace-loving, carefree manner, and do whatever I wanted to by experimenting with whatever I wanted to.  I'm not saying what I did was right--" she said quickly, "but, you know, it was the best I could do at the time.  I didn't have a lot of options, and I was determined not to give him up."

 

She looked across the room to see Baby standing on the couch, his little brows frowning in puzzlement as he stared at her.  "He's not sure who I am.  I'm familiar, yet not."

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Blair hung up the dish towel to dry.  "They're done."

 

Hang Dog looked up from the pot of soup he was slowly stirring.  "Thanks, Blair.  You've done a great job."  He looked closer.  "Are you okay?  How's the head?"

 

"Hurts," Blair admitted, rubbing his forehead.  "Headache's probably from my fall."

 

"Well, take it easy, man.  Enjoy the show," Hang Dog said, gesturing to the on-going concert.  "Did you get enough to eat?  Grab a sandwich or something."

 

"I'd love some of that soup."

 

Hang Dog got out a bowl and filled it.  "Bring the bowl back tomorrow if you want.  Can you help with breakfast?  We generally start at sunrise."

 

"I guess.  If I'm still here."

 

"You leaving early?  Tomorrow's the last day."

 

"I'm not sure yet."

 

"Go listen to 'Green Machine'.  Icy and Ollipeist may be obnoxious jackasses, but their music is groovy."

 

Blair nodded wearily and left the tent.  The sun was setting, the air already cooler.  As he stepped around blankets and woven mats spread out over the hillside, he could see the crowd was much larger for the Saturday night concert.  The city weekend crowd had descended on the festival.

 

He wandered around searching for Naomi, trying to find her in the mass of faces. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but nothing he could say.

 

What would I tell you?  I love you, Mom.  I wish some of the things that happened to us -- to me -- growing up had never happened, but I know you did your best.

 

I'm sorry if I caused this to happen, if my desire to be the Shaman of the City, to be what Jim needs, made that younger version of me disappear.  I don't know what happened.  Could we have switched places?  That's impossible.  But then, so is this, me being here.

 

Maybe I'm just delirious or hallucinating or something.

 

Maybe not.

 

My head hurts.

 

I know you're sad, Naomi, and you're frightened.  But if your little boy and I switched places, then he's with Jim and Jim will take care of him, I promise.

 

Jim won't let anything happen to him.  Jim will . . .

 

Tears ran down his face, unheeded. Jim? Oh, man, I'm sorry.  I hope you're okay.

 

Hopelessness flooded him, and fear that he would be trapped in this time forever. Blair rubbed his hands over his face, wiping back the steady flow of tears.  Dizzy, he stumbled, falling to his knees, his chest heaving as he attempted to muffle his cries, his face buried in his hands.

 

"What's wrong?"  A gentle hand rubbed his back, as a woman asked, "Are you okay?"

 

It took him a minute to get himself under control.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I'm fine.  Thanks."  Through a veil of tears, Blair looked up to see Naomi's young face, peering at him with eyes as red as his own.

 

"Bad day?" she asked, and smiled faintly as he nodded.  "Me, too.  My baby's lost and my fucking boyfriend is being an asshole."

 

Blair blinked at the foul language coming from the delicate waif with long hair and hippie dress as she began to talk about Icy and how he wasn't paying enough attention to her, more concerned about playing in his band than being with her and helping her find her baby.

 

"I'll help you," Blair said finally, pushing to his feet, swaying alarmingly.  He knew it was useless -- face it, she wasn't going to find her kid as long as he was there, if what he suspected was true -- but he had to do something, and he wanted to spend some time with her.  "Let's look again."

 

"Groovy. That's cool."  Naomi smiled, wiping her eyes as she steadied him.  "Hey, the bandage on your head is dirty.  Do you need to get it changed?"

 

"No.  Thanks."  He really was feeling dizzy.

 

"Let's try over here." She gave his hand a squeeze.

 

"Sure."  He actually didn't feel that well, but besides Harvey Hang Dog, she was the only one he knew and he didn't want to be alone.

 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

 

"What?  Yeah."  He followed her down the slope, stumbling.  It was probably just the crowd.  And whatever had happened to his head.  Did he have a concussion?

 

Jim would be mad.  Jim didn't think he took care of himself properly.  Jim was--

 

Wait. Where exactly was Jim?  He couldn't remember.  Had Jim gone somewhere?

 

"I wish I knew where he went."

 

"Jim?"

 

Naomi stopped and looked at him. "Who's Jim?  I meant my son."

 

"Oh.  Right.  Your son."  Blair looked around, squinting in the twilight.  He couldn't see very well.

 

Were they undercover somewhere?  That must be it, because Jim hates crowds like this.  Undercover.  Yeah.

 

Wish I was undercover somewhere.  In a nice bed, with cool sheets.  Under the covers.  Maybe with a cool cloth over my face.  That would be nice.  Huh, Jim?  Wouldn't that be nice?

 

The crowd began to cheer, and Blair looked back to the stage.  The 'Green Machine' began their first piece, which sounded vaguely familiar but he couldn't place it.  Sounded like one of those British songs.

 

                       England swings like a pendulum do

Bobbies on bicycles, two by two

Westminster Abbey, the tower of Big Ben

                       The rosy red cheeks of the little children

 

He knew that song from somewhere.  His head hurt. He couldn't think.  He let Naomi take his hand and lead him away as she called out, "Blair?  Blair, sweetie?" and he softly replied, "I'm here, Naomi.  Don't let go of my hand," as he stumbled through the darkness.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Simon Banks watched his chief detective chase a very wet, very naked squealing toddler around the kitchen island.  "You can outrun a criminal but can't catch a two-year-old?  Jim, I'm shocked."

 

"He's slippery," Ellison retorted.  "I didn't think he could get out of the tub by himself. Don't just stand there -- head him off, will you?"

 

Banks tried to make a grab for the child, who twisted away and ended up straight back in Ellison's arms.

 

"Got ya, you little monster."  Ellison disappeared back in the bathroom, a towel-wrapped mass of giggles in his arms.

 

"Where's Naomi?" the captain called after him.

 

"Went to the store.  Apparently the food I bought wasn't organic," Ellison's disembodied voice answered.

 

"Ah."  Banks looked around the apartment, smiling at the oh-so-familiar signs of having a child in the house.  A picture book on the floor, the cushions half off the couch, the usual coffee table items now up on higher shelves, and a plate of what might be squashed banana remains tilting precariously on the arm of the couch.  "Mind if I help myself to some coffee?"

 

"There's a pot already made."

 

"I see that," Banks said, laughing to himself.  What was frustrating to go through yourself, was always funny when someone else was going through it.  Sort of a payback, balancing some larger karmic scales.

 

Ten minutes later, things had quieted down a bit.  Jim was sitting on the couch with the child on his lap.  Baby had a bottle in his mouth, happily sucking the apple juice down, curled up against Jim, one chubby little fist hooked in Jim's shirt. The toddler was wearing one of Blair's T-shirts which came to his ankles, the ends of his curly hair damp.

 

"I bet Blair looked like that at that age," Simon mused.

 

"Funny you should say that, Simon. . ."

 

"What?"

 

Ellison shook his head wearily. "I'll tell you after he falls asleep."

 

Soft music filtered through the loft, the fireplace softly crackling.  Outside it had started to pour, staccato raindrops blowing against the balcony windows.  Banks smiled at Ellison's concentration on the child feeding in his arms.  The little guy's eyes were at half mast, but trained on Ellison's face with an equal fixation, as though memorizing the detective's features.

 

Sad thing was, Banks thought, the toddler would never remember any of this.  He was too young. He would be reunited with his mother, or placed elsewhere.  He would grow up, go to school, ride a bike, play baseball, and the days he spent in this apartment would be a blank.

 

Ellison, however, would remember.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

He wasn't sure how long they wandered the darkened festival grounds.  The pounding in his head echoed with each step he took, but he didn't want to let go of her hand.  He felt oddly displaced, and felt if he became separated from her, he might be forever lost.

 

Must stay close to Mama. Don't get lost. Must stay close to --

 

No.  Must stay close to Jim.

 

Jim?

 

Just when he knew he could go no further, Naomi stopped outside a tent, the open side facing the stage.  "This is ours.  Why don't you crash here?  Icy won't be back for hours."

 

Blair sank to the ground, then half-rolled onto a sleeping bag, willing the soup to stay in his stomach and not make a reappearance.

 

"What's your name?" she asked, kneeling beside him and running her hand gently through his hair.

 

Shit. Okay, that's weird.

 

She kept up the sensual message. "Well, what should I call you?"

 

Well, he couldn't say 'Blair'.  He honestly couldn't think of anything else.

 

"Do you have a nickname?"

 

Lots of them.  Guppy.  Darwin.  Chief.  Take your pick.  Oh, and Baby Blossom, apparently.

 

"Is your name Jim?"

 

"Huh?"

 

"Is that your name?  You said it before."

 

"Oh."  Blair rested his head on his arm and closed his eyes.  "Sure."

 

"Okay, Jim."  She stroked his head and it felt heavenly.  "Get some sleep."

 

           The rosy red cheeks of the little children

 

Didn't they know another song? he thought, as sleep took him.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Ten minutes, and the toddler had relinquished his hold on the bottle and was sound asleep.  Ellison carefully picked him up and walked to Sandburg's bedroom, placing him on the bed and gently covering him with blankets.  He put Sandburg's chair up against the bed, then took a dining table chair that Banks passed to him and put it next to it, preventing the toddler from rolling off the bed.

 

Banks stood in the doorway and watched Ellison check and double-check the chairs, then with a last adjustment to the blankets, the detective motioned him out of the room.

 

"What's up, Jim?" the captain asked as they returned to the living room.  "Who is this kid? What aren't you telling me?"

 

Ellison looked around the apartment, then bent and picked up the abandoned plate of cut-up bananas.  "I'm not sure.  My gut is telling me one thing. My head is saying it's impossible. What do you want me to say?"

 

"Ask me what I want in my coffee."

 

"I don't have to ask what you want in your coffee.  I'm a detective." Ellison placed the plate in the sink and reached for the coffee filters. Within minutes the smell of fresh coffee circulated through the loft, and Ellison returned to the living room with two mugs, handing one to Banks. 

 

"So, Detective, who's the kid?"

 

Ellison took a sip of his coffee, then said in a level voice, "Evidence points to him being Blair Sandburg, a two-year-old male who disappeared in 1971 while at a rock festival outside of San Francisco.  He was missing for a day and a half, then suddenly reappeared.  He was last seen wearing only a pair of brown shorts.  When he returned, he was wearing a red and white striped shirt and a pair of denim overalls."

 

He took a deep breath and continued, not meeting Banks' eyes. "This child appeared in Sandburg's bed around the same time my partner disappeared.  He was wearing only a pair of brown shorts.  I had no clothes for him so I went downstairs and bought the only clothing Colette had that would fit him, a red and white striped shirt and a pair of denim overalls.  This afternoon, Baby, as he prefers to be called, accompanied me as I examined a crime scene.  He found twenty-four white plastic pull tabs from bottled water, and in an alley adjacent to the crime scene he located a program from the Jazz Festival at the Emerald Theater.  I then took him with me on my interview with Ivan Chomski.  Baby indicated he knew the man, and directed my attention to a green guitar that Chomski admitted he had when in played in a group called the 'Green Machine', back in 1971."

 

"Jim, what the hell are you talking about?"

 

"This is Blair.  A two-year-old version, but he's Blair."

 

Banks stood up, his anger growing.  "Get serious--"

 

"Oh, I am, sir."

 

The door to the loft opened.  Naomi threw a bag of groceries onto the floor and, with a terrified look on her face, rushed across the room to Ellison, grabbing his arms  "Jim!  I remember.  Oh, God.  I remember him -- Oh, not him, please, God, not him."  She started crying, gasping to breathe between the heavy sobs.

 

Ellison held her close, trying to calm her down, rubbing her back, and offering her support while Banks could only stand and watch, unable to grasp what was happening and the ramifications of his chief detective's words.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

"What's he doing here?" a drunk, male voice sounded by his ear.

 

Blair woke, pushing himself upward in a rush of adrenaline.  "What?"

 

"Leave him alone."  Naomi was still there at least, although Blair couldn't see her in the near pitch-black tent.

 

"Get him out of here.  That's my place.  What the fuck is he doing in my place?"

 

"He hurt his head so I said he could lie down for a while."  Naomi half-dragged Blair off the sleeping bag. "See?  He's gone."

 

A large male body stepped over Blair, a bare foot shoving him out of the way.  "Icy would freak if he found him here."

 

"Yeah. I know."  Naomi had a good grip on Blair's arm and helped him out of the tent. "Come on, Jim.  I'll take you back to the food area."

 

Jim?  Oh, right.  Right.  Jim.  I'm Jim.  Well, not really, but that's fine.  What else is she gonna call me?

 

Blair stumbled down the hill, trying not to grab too much at the slim young woman beside him.  "Sorry about your baby," he mumbled.

 

"I'll find him," she said firmly.  "He's here somewhere.  I know it.  I can feel him near by."

 

"I believe you.  Ouch!"  He stepped on a sharp stone.  "Can we slow down a bit?"

 

"Oh. Sure."  Naomi slowed their frantic race down the hill.  "It's hard to see, isn't it?"

 

He let her take his hand and lead him through the maze of barely-seen blankets spread out over the hill.  He could hear voices around him, hundreds of people talking, laughing, giggling, high as kites probably.  It took him a moment to realize she had stopped and was trying to get him to sit.

 

"What--?" he managed, as his seat collided with the ground in a butt-numbing splat. "Ow."

 

"Wait here. I see the cops at the dining tent.  Maybe they have word."

 

Before he could respond, she flitted away from him, swallowed by the darkness.  Blair made it back to his feet and stood wavering drunkenly.  He could see Nash and Joe Dominguez standing inside the well-lit tent.

 

"Naomi!"  He called out after her, but she was already halfway to the tent. "Naomi, come back!"

 

"What do you want with her?"

 

Oh, that didn't sound like a friendly voice, Blair thought fleetingly, as he was spun around.  "Huh?" he asked, grasping for an intelligent comeback.

 

"I saw you walking around with her. Keep your hands off her, you freak."

 

Blair stared at the multi-tattooed, wild-haired man.  "You're calling me a freak? Have you looked in a mirror lately, Icy?"

 

Okay, not the right thing to say, he realized, as his body hit the ground and rolled.

 

Icy was livid, high on something Blair really didn't want to know about.  It seemed to dissolve any social graces he might have had. A pointed-toe boot caught Blair in the ribs and he gasped, curling onto his side as Icy screamed, "Stay away from my lady, or I'll kill you!"

 

"Yeah, you and what army?"  Shut up!  Shut the fuck up, Blair implored himself, but to no avail.  Head injury, plus exhaustion, plus some pretty wicked jet lag or whatever, had apparently dislocated his common sense.  Now there's a sense that Jim has in spades.

 

A fist grabbed hold of his sweatshirt and hauled him to his feet.

 

"Hey, thanks--"

 

The fist then connected with his jaw and knocked him back off his feet.

 

"--for nothin', man."

 

A crowd was gathering to bear witness to the spectacle of Icy kicking the shit out of him. Enjoy the show, folks.  Hey, feel free to step in anytime and do the peace thing.  What kind of love-in freaks are you, anyway?  Why aren't you stopping this guy--  "OUCH."  Now that sucked.  "Don't pull my hair, man."

 

He saw the brief glimpse of a dragon tattoo on someone's chest as he was dragged upward by his roots, then another blow sent him falling back into the side of one of the tents where the musicians stored their equipment. It collapsed inward, eliciting a collection of screams and swearing from within.  Blair was pulled off it by his arm and leg, then swung around to land against a water keg.  The band playing on the stage nearby stopped as the fight was finally noticed by the musicians.

 

"Hey, fuck off!  Leave him alone."  Hang Dog's sharp order cut through the night.

 

Ah, a friendly voice.

 

Suddenly the hand holding him upright let go, and Blair crumpled to the ground, his head bouncing off the hard dirt-packed field.

 

Oh, I do not feel good.

 

"Help!  Help me!"  A woman's scream cut through the night, and the crowd went deadly quiet at the horrible intensity of it.

 

That wasn't me.

 

"Help me!"

 

In the darkness it was impossible to see who had made the sound, and all they could do was wait for it to happen again.  Another scream, from down the hill somewhere.  Then another, choked off, this time.

 

Blair was forgotten as the crowd surged forward to see what had happened.

 

"Careful, someone's down on the ground here," Hang Dog yelled, trying to shield Blair's prone body as the crowd passed them.

 

He couldn't even raise his head, listening helplessly as voices called out in the dark.  "There's a body here!" "Fuck, someone's dead."  "Get those cops here." "Anyone know first aid?"  "Forget it, man, she's dead -- strangled."

 

Strangled?

 

Oh, man.

 

 

 

 

 

Part Six

 

 

"They beat him!  Oh, my God.  They beat him up!"  Naomi sat hunched over on the couch, close to hysterics, her body undulating as she sobbed.

 

"Are you talking about Blair?  Who beat him up?  Who hurt him?"  Jim crouched in front of her, trying to get some clear information, but she seemed lost in her memories, repeating the same thing over and over. "Naomi!"

 

Simon appeared at Jim's side with a damp washcloth.  "Here, try this."

 

It did seem to work, Naomi at first crying into the warm cloth, then using it to wipe her face as she calmed.

 

"Naomi?"

 

"A minute, Jim."

 

"Take a deep breath, Ms Sandburg."

 

She looked over to the police captain and weakly smiled her thanks, then tried to compose herself and meet Jim's anxious face.  "I was thinking about it in the store while I was shopping, trying to remember if I'd seen Blair back then.  Of course, I wouldn't have known it was my Blair then, just someone who I was sure would have been as sweet and kind as he is now.  And that's when I remembered.  This very sweet man who tried to help me. I'm sure it was him." She stopped as her chin began to tremble and tears once again ran freely down her face.

 

"What did you remember, Naomi?" Jim asked softly, prompting her.

 

"Well, Blair, of course.  I remember him being there. I think he was sick at first, like he had a cold or something--"

 

"Sandburg had a bad cold yesterday."  Simon sat back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he refused to take that thought any further.

 

Jim nodded.  "I brought Blair home from work in the afternoon, and he went to bed early last night."

 

"Well, that was it, then.  A cold.  I'm not sure how we met, but I remember someone, whom I'm sure now must have been Blair, helped me look for my baby.  Except he didn't say his name was Blair; it was something else.  Some strange name, I think.  I wish I could remember."

 

Jim steered the conversation back to her initial comments.  "Naomi, you said they beat him up.  What happened?  Who beat him up?"

 

"Well, Icy mainly, and others."

 

"Ivan Chomski?"

 

"As I remember it, I had brought big Blair back to my tent, and Icy wasn't happy about that.  Icy found Blair later and started to beat him up but then everything got all crazy and others got involved in the fight and then the murder happened and everything was so confusing.  Blair was just lying there and people were running all around and yelling for the cops and, and--" Her voice trailed off.

 

At Jim's silent shock, Simon stepped in, one hand resting on his detective's shoulder as he asked, "Who was murdered, Naomi?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"Was Blair--"  Simon stumbled over his question, but she understood.

 

"No.  I think he was okay.  I don't remember seeing him after that, though.  They took him away."

 

"Who took him away?"

 

"People.  I don't know.  I was with Icy."

 

Jim spoke up now.  "You went back to Icy, even after he beat Blair up?"

 

Naomi buried her face in her hands for a moment, then used the damp cloth to wipe her reddened eyes. "Jim, I'm sorry. I don't remember much. I know Icy was with me when we found Blair -- little Blair.  The cops were talking to him about the murder, because they thought he might have done it, but I had to swear to them that Icy was with me during that time."

 

"Was he?"

 

"Well, he was with me when they found her body.  I'm not sure of when it all happened.  I don't really--"

 

"I don't really remember," Jim recited, along with her.  "Well, what do you remember?"

 

Her eyes snapped angrily at him as she stood.  "It was twenty-seven years ago!  Twenty-seven years ago!  So tell me, Detective Ellison, how much do you remember of any one particular event that long ago?  It was 1971.  No, I don't remember a whole lot of what happened back then, and yes, I had been using drugs, and I was also traumatized that my little baby boy was missing.  I'm doing the best I can!"

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Consciousness beckoned, teasing him with fractured sounds and the fleeting touch of hands on his body.  He took in a cautious breath, but the resulting cough cost him, darkness dulling the pain that swiftly overwhelmed him. 

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Three in the morning.  Twenty-four hours since Blair disappeared.

 

James Ellison stood at the balcony window and watched the rain fall endlessly, pounding against the pavement on the street below.  He let the sound amplify until it almost drowned out the refrain in his head.

 

Are you coming back? Damn it, Chief, are you still alive, out there somewhere? Is there something I'm supposed to be doing to bring you back?  Some chant, or dream, or--  are you there?

 

He couldn't feel him anymore, not the adult Blair.  And that was not acceptable.

 

My guide -- I don't even know what that means.

 

Yet he did.  Somewhere inside, he knew.  He felt it to be true.

 

The sentinel slowly walked through his territory and stood at the door of his guide's bedroom, watching the tiny child sleep.  This child filled his senses.  This child's heartbeat echoed along with his own.  This child was his guide -- but not for another twenty-five years.

 

But could he wish this baby to go back to that--- that-- life? A place where his mother, God bless her, seemed more interested in where she would get her next high from?  He couldn't.  He had to.  It was likely he had no choice.

 

And yet . . . yet his guide had been this child, had lived through it, had survived it all.  And his guide was whole.

 

Yes, he wanted and needed his guide, his friend, his companion, to be at his side.

 

But could he wish this child to return to that other life?  To hope again that precious innocence would not be torn away from those trusting blue eyes, that the soul of his guide would negotiate the uncertainty and abandonment that was before him, and yet triumph.

 

His guide was hurt.  Out there. Away from his sentinel.

 

And he had no idea why, how it happened, or if there was something he could have done to stop it.

 

Or if it was something Blair had purposefully done, for some reason he had yet to understand.

 

The phone rang, jarring Ellison away from the near zone he had fallen into. He moved swiftly across the dark loft, grabbing it before it could ring a third time.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Jim, it's Harvey Leek.  I took the chance you weren't sleeping."

 

"I wasn't."

 

"Is Blair still missing?"

 

"Yes."  Jim held onto the receiver tightly, his eyes shut, willing the San Francisco detective to say something that would ease the pain in his heart.  "What do you know, Harvey?"

 

"I told you about the dream I had last night."

 

"Yes."

 

"Well, I got to thinking about it.  In my dream I was at that music festival I told you about in 1971.  When I got off work tonight, I went home and looked through some old albums until I found some photos of that concert."

 

Harvey paused, then rushed on. "I didn't find any of Blair, but looking at the pictures sparked some memories, and I think I remember him being there.  Someone my mind wants to interpret as Blair helped me out in the food tent I was manning. There were some problems;  there was a murder, several of them, but that weekend was significant for me in other ways, too.  I met Nash and Joe that night, and the events of the weekend steered me to my present course as a police officer.  Everything came together: who I was, my understanding of my world, and my desire to help that world in a positive manner.  And Blair was at the heart of it."

 

"He usually is," Ellison said softly.

 

"Jim, I remember Blair was hurt in a fight or something.  And I remember looking for him afterwards, but I thought they had taken him away.  And I remember a lost child was found."

 

"How badly was he hurt?"

 

"Your guide?  I don't think the injuries were life-threatening.  I know I talked with him afterwards but I don't remember what was said.  It's all rather jumbled.  I've been trying to sort it out, but felt I should tell you what little I remembered."

 

"Thank you."  Ellison rubbed his aching neck, a thousand questions halted on his tongue.

 

"I'll call you if I remember anything else."

 

"Do me a favor, Harvey, ask Bridges to look up that murder case and send me the file.  I think it might be significant."

 

"Sure thing.  Good night, Jim.  He's coming back.  I know he is."

 

"I just have to keep telling myself that."  Ellison said good-bye and hung up the phone.

 

With a weary sigh, he gave up the idea of sleeping on the couch and turned to the kitchen, rinsed out the coffee maker and set it up for the next day, then washed the few dishes remaining from their Chinese dinner.

 

The balcony drew him again, and he stood at the window, his forehead leaning against the cool glass, as he let the gentle rainfall become a roaring waterfall, each droplet crashing to the ground.  His head ached from the pain of it.  Suddenly, it was too loud.  Too much.

 

Leadened arms pushed away from the window, leaving the sentinel staggering.  He found himself in his guide's room, hunched over the bed.  With a weary heart, he picked up the sleeping baby and lay down on the bed, repositioning the toddler on his chest.

 

With the restful beat of his tiny guide's heart reverberating through his body, the sentinel slept.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

"Hey, Blair?  You okay?"

 

No.

 

"Hey, come on, man.  Wake up."

 

No.

 

Another voice, one of authority.  "What's the problem here?"

 

"Some guys beat up on him."

 

No shit, man.

 

"Can he move at all?"

 

Oh, please, no.

 

"Hey, kid.  You there?"

 

"Hmmmm."

 

"He's coming around, I think."

 

"What's your name?"

 

"They call me Hang Dog, but it's Harvey."

 

"You run the food tent, right?"

 

"Yeah, that's me."

 

"I'd like you and my partner here, Constable Dominguez, to take this guy inside your tent.  Joe, see if you can get someone to help with first aid, then call for backup and a coroner."

 

"Sure thing, Nash," another voice said.

 

Blair groaned, turning his head slowly.

 

"Harvey -- Hang Dog -- we've got another situation here.  I do want to deal with your friend here, but I've got to do this first.  Can you stay with him?  Let me know if we need an ambulance."

 

"Okay."

 

There was no discernable words for a short while, just noises he couldn't identify.

 

"Son?  Can you hear me?  I'm Officer Dominguez."

 

Yeah, I can hear you. Especially when you yell in my ear.  "Hmmmm."

 

"Are you here alone?  Can we find someone for you?"

 

"Want Jim."  Hey, I said that.  "Want Jim."

 

"Jim?  Is Jim here?"

 

No.  Damn.

 

The horrible sensation of being moved brought blessed relief as consciousness fled.

 

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Two hours later, Jim woke up to a still-pounding headache and the distinct impression of being watched in the relative darkness of the loft.  The toddler was sitting next to him on the outside edge of the bed, studying him carefully while playing with the hem of the adult-sized T-shirt he was wearing.  Once he made eye contact, the child scooted closer, smiling as he tugged on Jim's shirt.

 

"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked softly.

 

"Want Mama."

 

"She's not here.  Well, not really."  Jim closed his eyes, then opened them hurriedly as another thought occurred. "Do you need to use the toilet or anything?"

 

"Did.  Big boy."  Baby slid off the bed, gathered up his overalls and striped shirt and brought them to Jim, pushing them toward him.  "Want Mama."

 

Jim rested his arm over his eyes, not knowing what to say to the child.  "Yeah, I know you do.  Sorry, I don't think that's going to happen yet."

 

"Want Mama."  The new clothes were abandoned and his brown shorts were retrieved, then placed on the bed next to Jim's hand.  "Mama.  Go Mama," Baby asked, tears beginning to run down his face.

 

Jim sat up, put the clothes on the night table, then picked up the little boy.  The tyke laid his head on Jim's shoulder as he carried him to the kitchen.  One-handed, Jim put some milk in the new bottle and heated it slightly.  Baby seemed able to drink from a glass, yet he had gladly taken the bottle when they had given it to him earlier.

 

Jim checked the temperature of the milk, listening to the forlorn thumb sucking near his ear.  He didn't say anything, relieved that somehow this child knew he could be trusted and didn't seem to be blaming him for being apart from his mother.  Problem was, the adventure of being away and having fun had faded and now all the little guy wanted was to go home.

 

Taking him back to Blair's bed, Jim sat leaning against the wall, cradling Baby in his arms and letting him find some comfort in the familiarity of feeding.  Before the bottle was half drained, however, Baby had pushed it aside and clung to Jim, sobbing, heartbroken, until he had cried himself to sleep.  Jim's own heart felt like it was about to break as he settled back on the bed, still holding Baby in his arms, listening to the deep hitches in the child's breathing as he finally slept, exhausted.

 

Is this why you're with me now, Chief?  Because I held you when you were a toddler?

 

Had Sandburg somehow instinctively made the connection when first they met -- only because it wasn't the first time they had met?  Was this the beginning of their bond, or merely the forerunner to it?

 

Will this time spent with me remain with you?  This comfort you have in my arms?

 

Where you are now, I pray someone is offering you some measure of peace.  I can't bear the thought that you are alone and in pain . . . and without me.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

When Blair opened his eyes finally, daylight had broken on the trampled festival grounds that he could see through the partially open back entrance to the tent.  He was lying on a cot in the back of the food tent, a tattered Indian blanket spread over him.

 

He slowly turned his head to the left, wincing at the domino effect of painful twinges that ran down his body. For a few minutes, he watched a blurry figure moving back and forth nearby.  Gradually his vision cleared until he realized it was young Harvey dishing out bowls of oatmeal for half-stoned customers.  One kid barely out of his teens was staring into his bowl as though it held the secrets of the universe.  The starry-eyed female hanging on his arm alternated between beaming adoringly at him and looking like she was going to hurl into the porridge.

 

Geez, can life get better than this . . . ?

 

He grabbed hold of the edges of the cot.  Well, both hands seemed to be working.  As for the rest of him . . . Blair sat up slowly, feeling the universe waver around him.  Oh, yes.  No doubt about it. He felt like shit.

 

"Still here, I see," he whispered to himself, swinging his feet over the side of the cot.  He wasn't quite up to standing yet.  On second thought, he wasn't quite up to sitting yet.  He eased himself back on the thin mattress, his stomach muscles protesting.

 

He turned his head at the rustle behind him to see Nash Bridges lift up the flap entranceway near him.  It was strange to be the oldest one there.  When he stopped to figure it, Blair realized he was probably ten years older than Harvey at this particular moment in time, and maybe six or seven years older than Nash or his partner Joe.

 

"You're looking better than the last time I saw you," Nash said, perching confidently on the edge of a table.  "How are you feeling?"

 

"Been better, thanks.  I guess I slept through the night."

 

"Do you remember much of it?"

 

"It?"

 

"Getting beaten up."

 

Blair stopped to think, and realized he remembered very little.  "I'm pretty sure it was a guy named Icy who started it, but I think he got some help -- whether it was premeditated on their behalf or not, I don't know."

 

"Icy?"

 

"Ivan Chomski," Officer Dominguez said, coming in after Bridges.  "We spoke to him before about the missing child."

 

"I know, Joe.  I have a photographic memory, remember?"

 

"Huh? What are you talking about?" Dominguez grinned at him suddenly, a shared joke between them.  He turned and smiled at Blair.  "Hey, how you doing?"

 

"Been better, but I'll survive."

 

Nash scratched at his chin.  "Just so you know, we have a statement by Chomski's girlfriend that he was with her at the time of the latest murder and the attack on this man.  Which brings me to --  what's your name?"

 

"My name?" Blair asked, feeling the heavy thump of his heart.

 

"Yeah.  Your name. You didn't have any identification when we checked."

 

"Oh. Right.  My name.  It's -- Jim Ellison."

 

"Where are you from, Mr Ellison?"

 

"Uh, Cascade."

 

"Cascade, Washington?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Your occupation?"

 

Okay, that was a little trickier.  It was one thing borrowing Jim's name, but he couldn't really say he was an elementary school student, could he?

 

Hey, I wonder what would happen if I called Jim up on the phone?  That would be weird.  Hi, you don't know me, but don't be afraid to use your senses.  There's nothing wrong with you and don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

 

But that would probably mess up the time continuum or something.  ''I'm unemployed.  A student."

 

"Are you up to making a statement?"

 

"Sure."  Concisely, Blair rattled off his vague memories from the night before, accepting a cup of coffee from Hang Dog in mid speech.

 

Nash finished writing and looked up at him, surprised.  "You did that very well.  Are you beaten up often?"

 

Actually, yes, Blair thought, wearily.  "I've had some practice."

 

"You mentioned you thought Icy started this."

 

"That's right.  I realize you have a statement otherwise, but that's what I remember."

 

"Any idea why he would want to hurt you?"

 

"As I said, I was helping his girlfriend look for her child, so I guess he felt threatened somehow."

 

"We already have a statement by Icy's girlfriend saying he couldn't have done it, and when we interviewed Hang Dog, he didn't mention Icy.  He remembers someone else being there.  Do you remember anyone else?"

 

Blair shook his head thoughtfully. "There were probably others, but I was just trying to stay upright at the time."

 

"I hear you," Nash said with a smile.

 

A thought occurred to Blair.  "Did someone die last night?  I seem to remember something about that."

 

"Yes, a young woman was found strangled behind the stage."

 

"Any idea who killed her?" Blair asked, carefully.

 

"It was pitch black there.  No one really saw anything, or maybe they were too stoned to remember anything."

 

"Or else they just didn't trust the cops enough to tell them."

 

"Yes," Nash agreed, "there's always that."

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Ellison woke with a kink in his neck, lying at a bad angle on his partner's futon.  The child was gone and the door to the bedroom was closed.

 

Argh.

 

The clock's luminous readout declared it was 10:15, which actually was impossible, so he rolled from the bed and made his way into the other room.

 

Naomi was in the kitchen.  Fu-Fu Bunny was in the living room mesmerizing a thumb-sucking Baby sunk back into the couch's cushions.

 

The kitchen clock also read 10:15.  As did the VCR.  Okay, he could live with that.  "Good morning.  I guess I--"

 

"Simon phoned," Naomi said, handing him a coffee.  "Said to set your schedule yourself today."

 

Ellison nodded, sipping at the hot drink and trying to get his mind around the time.  Maybe it did bother him.  He never slept in.  Ever.

 

Naomi stretched, reaching for the ceiling, then bending at the waist and touching the floor.  She repeated it as he drank his coffee.  "I got up a few hours ago and did my morning meditation."

 

"How long has he been up?"

 

"He came out here about ten minutes ago, so I put the television on for him.  He never watched much when he was young, so I guess it wouldn't hurt him now."

 

"Have you fed him?"

 

"I just made some oatmeal, and I'm waiting for it to cool enough to give it to him."

 

Ellison nodded absently, not sure what else to do. Usually he made coffee when he was at loss for what to do next, and Naomi had taken that from him. So he went and had a shower.

 

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, he was feeling much more human.  He also didn't feel like talking to Naomi, so he took his bowl of oatmeal, and another cup of coffee and sat next to Baby on the couch.  The child wasn't using his spoon, but seemed to be dipping his thumb in the oatmeal, stirring it around, then sucking it.

 

Great.  

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Blair pushed his oatmeal aside, only half eaten.  He couldn't eat, his stomach churning at the thought.

 

"You should try, man," Hang Dog said, standing across from him.

 

"Thanks -- but no."  Blair leaned forward, resting his forehead on his crossed arms on the table.

 

"Is your name Blair or Jim?"

 

Blair slowly raised his head and looked at his benefactor.  "Pardon me?"

 

"You told me before that your name was Blair.  You told the cop that your name was Jim.  Which is it?"

 

"Does it matter?  Are you Harvey or Hang Dog?"

 

"My name is Harvey.  Hang Dog is obviously a nickname.  And no, I guess it doesn't matter.  Call yourself whatever you want to.  It doesn't matter to me."

 

I've lost his trust, Blair realized. "Listen, man, I really appreciate everything you've done for me."

 

Hand Dog studied the back of his hands for a moment, then looked up. "I saw a dead body last night."

 

"First time?"

 

"Yeah. I don't get this violence. We're supposed to be peace and love and yet murders are happening here, in this environment. I don't get it. Why did they beat you up last night?"

 

"Because they could. Because they were high and didn't like me. Take your pick."

 

"That's not right, though. It's not fair to you. Someone should have stopped them earlier."

 

"Life is rarely fair. You can't make people do the right thing, Harvey – at least not often. But thanks for trying. Don't stop trying to make things right, okay? Enough people doing that will make a difference."

 

Hang Dog smiled at him, nodding, then went outside to listen to the music.

 

Blair put his head back down. He had to think.  There had been more than one murder.  Did Chomski do them?  Could he have?

 

Is that why I'm here?  To figure that out?

 

What other reason would there be?

 

Blair sat up, rubbing his temples.  Coffee.  He needed coffee. Strong coffee.

 

 

 * * * * *

 

Ellison finished dressing Baby, wiping the solemn face with a damp cloth.  "Ready?"  He accepted the non-answer as an answer.  "Good.  Let's go."

 

"Where are you taking him?" Naomi demanded, reappearing suddenly from the upper bedroom.

 

"To the station."  He put his badge in his back pocket, and tucked his gun in a holster under his left arm.

 

"To a police station?  I absolutely forbid it."

 

Ellison smiled tiredly at her, picked Baby up, and walked out of the loft.  Yeah, right.  

 

 

 * * * * *

 

The air was heavy with smoke and flies, the heat rising as midday approached.  The Sunday crowd was a real mixture.  There were those who had been there for three days, unshowered, tired and sore, and for the most part, high or coming down from a high.  A few beaded and barefoot children ran loose, unsupervised and wild.  There were those in the crowd who had just arrived the day before or who had arrived that morning, and they were fresher, full of energy and enthusiasm for the bands, who were now recycling music like a tired old jukebox, churning out songs they knew by heart and could perform regardless of their mental competence at the time.

 

Blair wandered over to the main stage, listening to the up-beat British band playing.  They weren't bad.  Okay, they were awful, but unfortunately, he had heard worse that weekend.  The sound system stank, but the crowd hooted and hollered politely as they finished their piece and began to pack up.  Another band was already setting up, and the crowd members took the opportunity of the break to smoke yet another joint, passing little white cigarettes around.

 

This is getting old.

 

He saw Naomi sitting alone on a Navaho blanket on the trampled grass before the stage.  He headed over toward her until he saw the alarmed look on her face and stopped.  She looked from him to a man approaching on her left, laughing drunkenly with two other men as they weaved through the crowd.  Icy and two of his band members.  Sadly, Blair nodded at Naomi that he understood and kept walking.

 

On the far side of a long slanted fence w