WARNING, Part II: I'm not kidding. This story deals with the aftermath of rape. It is intense, graphic, violent, and contains bad words. If you are under 18 or apt to be disturbed by such content, PLEASE DO NOT READ THE STORY. Thank you.

DISCLAIMER: They're not mine, drat it. Neither is Chris Smither's song, "The Devil's Real", which can be found on his Happier Blue CD.

CLAIMER: The following characters are mine. Please don't use them without my permission: Sandy Kolchak, Martin Ballard, Steve Connelly, Tabitha Crowe, Victoria (Vicky) Smithers, Arthur Hatch, Lancelot Geoffrey Hatch, Antoinette (Toni) LeClaire, Rupert (Mr. Beige) Crowley, Dr. Alice Hawthorne, Ponytail, Olive Palmer, Wilkins, Dr. Elsie Cranmore, Keith Parks, Joshua Stanhope, Ms. Alvarez, Benjamin Sandburg, Miriam Sandburg, David Sandburg, Sarah Sandburg, Torvald Lindstrom. Still awake?

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: MASKS wasn't supposed to be written. But several readers of TDYK were kind enough to ask for a sequel, and a certain long-haired anthropologist wouldn't leave me alone until I'd written it. So, after ten months and much agonizing, what started out to be a longish story and became a short novel was finally finished. This would not have happened without the assistance of The Three Graces, all excellent writers and even better friends: Kris Williams, who managed to discover that the Kombai Tree People are real; Sue Palmatier, Super Librarian, who researched untold numbers of subjects for me with never a word of complaint; and Jo Duffy, Writer Extraordinaire and Keeper of Herbal Knowledge, who gave me wonderful advice, most of which I was smart enough to take. Without these three, MASKS would not be what it is. I hope you enjoy it.

written October, 1996 - August, 1997

Masks

by

Susan L. Williams

The gun went off in his hand. The double flew back, slammed down onto the floor, and lay still, but he didn't put the gun down, he couldn't. Jim came, bleeding, and took the gun away from him.

"You did good, kid. You got rid of him." A smile stretched his lips. "Now it's just you and me."

A hard mouth fastened on his, tongue thrusting into his throat. Jim pushed him down to the floor, and he was too weak to fight, too weak to get away. Jim flipped him onto his stomach, wrenched his legs apart. Jim's cock tore into his ass, and he screamed with pain and betrayal and shame, screamed until his throat burst.

"Sandburg! Sandburg, wake up! Sandburg!"

Hands on him. Hard hands, gripping his arms, shaking him. No, not again! Not again, please! Blair fought, trying to twist away, but he couldn't break the grip on his arms, he couldn't get away.

"Let go!" he shouted, panic increasing his struggles. "Let me go!"

"Sandburg, it's okay. It's me, it's Jim. Calm down."

"Let go!"

The grip relaxed. Blair tore free and threw himself away from the hands, too scared to see where he was going. He crashed to the floor and scrambled to his feet, facing the man across the bed. Tall, hard-muscled, face sculpted from stone, set with blue eyes that seemed to glow from within. Brown hair in a buzz cut, receding from the forehead in a widow's peak. Jim. It was Jim, Jim, not Ponytail. Ponytail was gone.

Jim stared at him like he didn't know him. One hand stretched toward him, and dropped to his side. Blair felt his face go hot. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to Jim, and tried to get his breathing and heartbeat back to something approaching normal. His voice was low, but he knew Jim would hear.

"I'm sorry, man."

"You were screaming."

"Yeah. Nightmares. Scared the shit out of the monks at St. Sebastian's."

"What about you?"

Blair shrugged.

"Sorry about grabbing you. I--forgot."

"It's okay, man. It's not your fault."

"It feels like it is."

Blair stared at him. How was he supposed to handle this? Jim just didn't talk about his feelings. Ever. "No, Jim. If not for you..." If not for Jim, Ponytail would have butchered him. Sliced him up and slit his throat, and recorded the whole thing on videotape.

"If not for me, he never would have come after you."

"He was after us both, man. I was just--easier." That was putting it mildly. Ponytail had beaten the shit out of him, raped him, kidnapped him, and he'd never gotten in a single punch to defend himself. Not one. "You're not responsible, Jim. Don't take it on yourself." Blair forced a smile. "One of us has got to stay sane."

"You're not crazy!"

Blair winced. "Okay."

"Sandburg." Jim waited until Blair met his eyes. "You're not crazy."

"Okay, I'm not crazy." Just slightly insane. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

"No point," Jim replied. "We've got to get up in ten minutes anyway. Work today, remember?"

Blair fell back onto the bed, groaning. "Already?"

"What are you complaining about? You've just had three weeks off. Now get your ass into the shower, and don't use all the hot water."

Blair groaned again, and rolled off the bed. Jim backed into the hall, giving him room to get by without touching him. "Yes, sir, Detective Ellison, sir."

"Wiseass," Jim growled after him.

"Yes, sir." He flashed a grin before ducking into the bathroom. "That's me, sir."

Jim drove to the station. Blair sat in the passenger seat beside him, fiddling with the straps on his backpack. His heart was pounding, his breathing was too fast, and he knew Jim could hear it, and that just made it worse. Shame kept him silent. He couldn't get this morning's incident out of his head. He kept seeing Jim's face, the hurt and confusion he'd glimpsed there when he'd fought to get away from the bigger man. He'd been back in Cascade for less than 24 hours, and Jim was already so upset that he was letting his emotions show. It was all his fault. Maybe he should've stayed at St. Sebastian's. He was still having nightmares, still afraid to let anyone touch him--maybe it had been a mistake to leave. Maybe he wasn't ready.

Jim's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Blair looked away, out the window. Dammit, this wasn't fair to Jim. First Jim saved his life, then did everything he could to save his sanity, and Blair repaid him by flinching every time he came near and going nuts if Jim so much as touched him. And now Jim thought that he was afraid just to be in the truck with him. It wasn't fair. Jim deserved better. At least, an attempt to explain.

"Jim?" Blair ventured.

"Yeah?"

"It's not you, man. I'm just--nervous. Okay?"

Jim nodded, accepting his words without question. "Okay."

Jim didn't try to tell him there was nothing to be nervous about. Blair wasn't sure if he was grateful for that or not, but he wasn't about to beg for hollow reassurance.

Jim pulled into a space at the station and shut off the truck. They sat for a minute, neither one moving. Finally, Jim looked at him.

"You ready, Chief?"

Blair winced at the nickname, and cursed himself for his reaction. It was just a word! Jim had been calling him that since they met, sarcasm at first, gradually evolving into sort of an affectionate jibe. At least, that was how he'd thought of it. Until Ponytail had made it an obscenity. Now he couldn't stand to hear it. He felt so stupid. It was just one more thing to hurt Jim, and he hated it.

"Sorry," Jim said.

"No, man, it's okay." Blair couldn't look at him. "We gonna sit out here all day?"

Jim got out of the truck. Blair jumped down and hurried to catch up with him. They went inside, flashed their ID's at the desk, and went to the elevator. While they were waiting, a bunch of uniforms walked past. They all spoke to Jim, or at least nodded, but Blair might as well have been invisible. Blair stared at the floor, pretending he didn't notice.

"Sandburg?"

Blair looked up. Steve Connelly stood in front of him. Connelly had been guarding him when Ponytail took him from the loft. Blair hadn't seen him since that night. "Yeah?"

Connelly cleared his throat. "I--uh--I just wanted to say that--"

"Forget it," Blair said. "It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, well." Connelly shook his head. "Maybe. Anyway, uh, welcome back."

Blair's eyebrows shot up. "Thanks."

Connelly walked away. Blair stared after him for a moment, then shifted his gaze back to the floor. The elevator arrived, and they boarded. Jim punched "6", and stepped back beside Blair.

"Surprised?" Jim asked.

"Stunned."

"'Mr. Military's' not such a bad guy, huh?"

Blair grinned sheepishly. "I guess not."

The doors opened, and they stepped off, heading for the squadroom. Sandy Kolchak from Records was just coming out, her arms full of files. She was a year or so younger than him, pretty, and wore her blonde hair short and her skirts even shorter. They'd talked a few times, but nothing had ever come of it.

"Blair!"

Blair smiled uncertainly. "Hi, Sandy."

Sandy freed one hand from the stack of files and squeezed his wrist. Blair managed not to flinch. "It's nice to see you. We've missed you around here."

"Really?"

"Really. I have, anyway. Gotta go. See you later, Blair."

Sandy moved off, juggling her files. Jim grinned down at him. "She's got the hots for you, Sandburg."

Blair felt himself blushing, but a grin stole across his face. "She does not."

"Her heart rate was up, she was slightly flushed. Trust me on this, Casanova, she's after your scrawny body."

"Jim!" Blair knew his face was redder than his shirt. "Come on, man."

"You should ask her out."

The smile died, but the blush didn't. Blair looked away, mumbling. "Yeah, well, maybe I'll call her some time."

"What's wrong with now?" Jim prodded.

"I can't now."

"Why not?"

Blair hesitated. "Because--" Because she wouldn't want him. Not if she knew. Couldn't Jim see that?

"Because why?"

"Because I don't want to, dammit! Get off my back!"

"Fine." Jim's face was an impenetrable mask. "Let's get to work."

Guilt flooded him. "Jim--"

Jim stalked away, through the squadroom to his desk, leaving Blair standing alone at the door. Oh God, everyone was looking at him. What was he going to do? How could he walk across that room, knowing everyone was staring at him? God, Jim, don't make me do this alone. But Jim wasn't coming back. He had two choices: go in, or turn tail and run and never come back. Ever. Dammit. Dammit!

Blair took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked through the squadroom. Taggert greeted him, and he said something in return, but he didn't know what and he didn't see him. His eyes were fixed on Jim's desk. All he had to do was reach it, and he'd be through the gauntlet. It didn't matter if no one else spoke to him; he didn't care about them anyway. The only one in that room he cared about was sitting at his desk, switching his computer on, never once glancing his way. Blair stopped in front of the desk, and stood there unmoving until Jim finally relented and looked up.

"I'm sorry, man," Blair said quietly. "I just--It's hard, you know?"

Jim studied him for a minute, then nodded. "Sit down, Sandburg. You want coffee?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Jim went to the coffeepot. Several detectives stopped to talk to him while he poured their coffee, but no one came near the desk, and everyone except Martin Ballard avoided Blair's eyes. Ballard gazed back at him, a half-smile on his face, until Blair looked away.

"Hands off, Matthews, that's Sandburg's."

Simon's secretary, Rhonda, ducked out of Tom Matthews' reach and swooped over to Jim's desk, depositing a bagel in front of Blair.

"There you go, Blair. Welcome back."

Blair grinned. "Hey, pumpernickel, my favorite. Thanks, Rhonda."

She smiled. "Anytime, sweetie. Maybe now that you're back, Detective Grim Ellison will lighten up a little."

"Has he been giving you a hard time?"

"Nothing I can't handle." She leaned down, whispering, "He'll never say it, but he missed you. A lot." Rhonda straightened up, and winked at him. "Eat that, now, it's fresh this morning."

"Yes, ma'am."

Rhonda moved off, and Blair shook his head, still grinning. Rhonda wasn't any older than Jim, but she always treated Blair like he was a little kid. Usually, it drove him crazy. Today, he didn't mind so much.

Simon emerged from his office just as Blair bit into the bagel. The tall, dark-skinned man strode to Jim's desk, twisting his normally grim features into a smile.

"Sandburg. Good to have you back."

Blair almost choked. He coughed, chewed rapidly, and swallowed. "Uh--thanks, Captain."

The smile vanished, but there was a suspicious glint in the brown eyes behind the gold-framed glasses. "Has Jim briefed you on this Kenyan thing?"

"Um, not really. He just said it has something to do with Mombatu artifacts."

"Right. My office. Jim, bring the file. We may as well go over this together."

Jim handed Blair his mug, scooped a file folder off his desk, and followed Simon into his office. Sticking the bagel between his teeth, Blair picked up his pack with one hand, kept the mug in the other, and carried it all into the office, kicking the door closed behind him. The door slammed, startling Simon, who turned to glare at him.

"Shorry, Shimon," he said around the bagel. "No handsh."

He slid into his accustomed seat beside Jim, setting his mug on the table and his pack on the floor, and removed the bagel from his mouth. "So, what've we got, Jim?"

"That's what we need you to tell us." Jim opened the folder and spread out a series of photographs, each of about half a dozen masks, carved from wood, painted in various colors. Some were decorated with animal hair, or grass, or feathers; others were studded with stones or bits of bone. "What do you think Darwin? Are they real?"

Blair studied the pictures. "They're in the Mombatu style. In fact, they're representative of several different periods. You see how they evolve from relatively plain, to elaborate, to abstract? They did that over generations; over centuries, really."

"So they're real?" Jim asked.

Blair shook his head. "I have no idea."

"What?"

Simon scowled at Jim. "I thought you said he knew this stuff."

"I do," Blair protested. "But I can't tell if they're authentic from photographs. I need to see the real thing, to examine them. I need to check the carving marks, the ingredients in the paint, the application of the hair and grass. There's more to this than just looking at a picture. For all I can tell from these, this stuff could've been made last week with crazy glue and poster paints."

"Great." Jim ran a hand over his face. "Just great."

"What's the problem? I just need to see the masks."

"The problem is, we don't have them."

"What? Why not? Where are they? Jim, don't tell me they were stolen. That's terrible!"

"Whoa, slow down there, Sandburg. The masks weren't stolen."

"Then where are they?"

"They were shipped here from Kenya last month. Customs thought there was something weird--that's why the pictures--but they couldn't prove anything and they had to release the masks to the owner."

"Who's the owner?"

"They went to an art gallery on 14th."

"Well, can't we just go there?"

"Too late. All the masks have been sold. They're scattered all over the country now."

"Can't the gallery owner tell us who bought them?"

"The owner can't tell us anything: he's dead. He was found hanging in the gallery a week ago."

"Suicide?"

"Uh-uh. His hands were tied behind his back, and there was a mask over his face."

"Oh, man." Blair closed his eyes, trying not to remember hanging by his wrists in the attic, helpless, unable to escape Ponytail's touch, or his knife. He pushed the image from his mind, but the memory turned his stomach. The bagel was a lump of lead inside him.

"You okay, Sandburg?" Jim asked.

"Fine. Um, what kind of mask was it?"

"We don't know." Jim slid another photograph toward him. "It's in evidence, if you need to see it."

Blair glanced at the picture, and shook his head. "This isn't Mombatu. Onkantu, maybe."

"If these masks are real, how much would they be worth?" Simon asked.

"It depends," Blair replied. "Y'see, mask-making is a thriving trade now. The tribespeople churn them out for tourists. They're still real, but basically worthless. The older ones..." He shrugged. "It would depend on their rarity. Anywhere between a thousand dollars and a million."

"A million dollars? For one of those?"

"About there, yeah. But that would be for something incredibly rare. Usually, the government won't let those out of the country. They have too much historical significance. You think these were smuggled out of Kenya? And that's why the gallery owner was killed?"

"That's our best guess," Jim said.

"But who would kill him?"

"Probably his partners. We figure he tried to cheat them out of their share of the profits. Whoever they are."

Blair nodded. It sounded logical. But-- "What if it wasn't partners? What if it was someone trying to recover the stolen masks? Some of them are considered sacred."

"Could be," Jim conceded. "The list of buyers is missing. The gallery's trying to reconstruct it for us."

"So you think somebody's after the buyers?"

"Or possibly just the masks. We can't be sure."

"Got anything else?" Banks asked.

Jim shook his head. "Not yet, Simon."

Simon stood. "You and Sandburg keep working on it. Let me know if you find anything."

"Yes, sir."

They rose, and Jim left the office. Blair started to follow, but Simon called him back. He faced the older man, looking up to meet his eyes.

"How are you doing, Sandburg?" the Captain asked.

"Okay. Better now than I was. I, um, I want to thank you for letting me stay at your place. I appreciate it."

"Least I could do," Simon said. "Besides, I owed you."

"What for?"

"For coming to Peru, to get Daryl and me."

Blair shrugged. "I wasn't much good. All I did was get captured."

"You came, Sandburg. That's what counts."

"Yeah." Blair smiled briefly. "I guess. Anyway, thanks."

"You're welcome."

Blair left the office, closing the door behind him--quietly this time--and dropped his pack beside Jim's desk. Jim was already absorbed in some report, so Blair took the opportunity to slip off to the men's room. He still felt sick; if he was going to lose his breakfast, he didn't want to do it in the squadroom. He was in one of the stalls when he heard the outer door open and two men walk in, talking. He didn't know the first voice; the second, he recognized as Martin Ballard.

"I hear Ellison's partner's back."

"Yeah, he's back, all right. Flounced in here this morning like he owned the place."

"I'm surprised he's got the balls to show his face, after what happened."

"Me, too. If you ask me, the little Jew-boy faggot got what he deserved. Prancing around here with that hair and those earrings, pretending he's one of us. Makes me sick. Ellison should have tossed him out on his ass a long time ago."

"Maybe his ass is why Ellison keeps him around."

Ballard laughed. "Yeah, maybe."

Ballard and his friend left the men's room. As soon as he heard the door close, Blair started to shake. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, taking deep breaths, but it didn't help. God! They thought he--that Jim-- How could they? How could anyone believe that? How could anyone think that he deserved Ponytail? Ballard and his friend wouldn't be the only ones, either. Ballard was just a big enough asshole to say it out loud. What were the rest of the cops thinking? Did they all know? Did they all believe that he--that he'd had it coming to him? Did they despise him as much as Ballard did? Did Jim know? Jim had worked with these guys for years, how could he not know? God! Oh, God--

Blair dropped to his knees, grabbed his hair out of the way, and vomited. Once breakfast was gone, there was nothing else in his stomach, but the retching continued for what seemed like forever. When it finally ended, Blair sat on the floor and waited for the shaking to stop. He climbed to his feet, flushed the toilet, and left the stall to splash cold water on his face and wash out his mouth. Oh God, Jim would be able to smell it on him. How was he going to explain? He couldn't tell him what Ballard had said, he didn't know what Jim would do, and there was no way he could ever get the words out. What if Jim already knew? What if he knew exactly what his colleagues thought of his partner, what if he'd always known? What if they were right?

No! No, he was not going to do this. He was not going to let that jerk Ballard make him doubt Jim. Jim was his friend. If Jim knew what the others thought, and hadn't told him, it was because Jim was protecting him, making sure he didn't get hurt. That was all it was. Most likely, Jim didn't know. And Blair wasn't going to be the one to tell him.

But he couldn't stay here. He couldn't spend all day sitting in the squadroom, separated from Ballard by no more than twenty feet. He couldn't sit there and pretend he didn't know what Ballard thought of him, and of Jim. Not today. He wouldn't be able to keep it off his face, and Jim would know something was wrong. He had to get out. But he couldn't just run. He wouldn't give Ballard the satisfaction. And he didn't want to alarm Jim.

Blair went back to the desk. Jim was still reading the same report, something to do with another case he was working on. Blair grabbed his jacket and pack. "Jim?"

"Hmmm?"

"I gotta go."

"What?" Jim looked up, and frowned. "Are you okay, Sandburg? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine. I've gotta go to the U. You don't need me here, and I've got a lot to catch up on. I've gotta clean up my office, and talk to whoever subbed for me."

Jim didn't look convinced. But all he said was, "You want a ride?"

"No, I'll take the bus. Thanks."

"You have enough cash?"

"Yes." Maybe. "Jim, I'm not a kid. I can get across town all by myself. I'll see you later."

Blair shouldered his pack and walked away without giving Jim a chance to argue. He felt eyes on him all the way out of the room, but he didn't know if they were Jim's, or Ballard's. Or the eyes of everyone in the squadroom.

Blair didn't get home until after eleven. Jim heard a car stop out front, then drive away; heard the outside door open and close; heard footsteps on the stairs, approaching the door. He shut the television off, leaving the living room in darkness. A key turned in the lock, and Blair tiptoed in. Jim studied his partner from the shadows. Streaked with auburn and gold by the lamplight, the wild tumble of brown curls brushed Blair's shoulders, falling forward to screen his face until he remembered to shove it back. The kid was too thin. The cleft in his chin was more pronounced, his angular jaw so sharp it looked as though it would cut through the flesh. His full lips were dark against pale skin, and there were circles under the wide blue eyes. Normally, those eyes were clear and open; now they were shadowed, the color darkened.

Jim stood up, and Blair started violently. He went white in fear of a memory, then red when memory gave way to reason. There was a tremor in his voice.

"Jim. What are you doing up?"

"Waiting for you."

"In the dark?"

"I had the TV on."

"Oh."

Blair hung up his jacket, turned to find Jim near, and backed up a step. Jim shook his head. He was handling this all wrong. The last thing he wanted was to frighten Blair. He made sure his voice was quiet, but he couldn't keep it as flat as he wanted.

"Sandburg, where have you been?"

Blair wouldn't look at him. One hand slid back and forth over the strap of his backpack. "At the U."

"I called there two hours ago. There was no answer."

"I wasn't in my office two hours ago. I was talking to Keith Parks. He subbed for me while I was--while I was gone." Blair looked up then, a spark of defiance in his eyes. "What is this, Jim? Are you checking up on me now?"

"No. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You left kind of suddenly this morning."

Blair's gaze dropped again. "I had a lot of work to do. I told you that."

"I know what you told me, Sandburg."

The clear blue eyes met his, anger in their depths. "You don't believe me. You think I'm a liar, now? You don't trust me anymore, is that it?"

Where did that come from? Jim started to reach out, saw Sandburg tense, and turned the gesture into spreading his hands. "Sandburg, I trust you. You're my partner. But I'm not blind. You were upset about something when you left this morning. What happened?"

"Nothing!"

Folding his arms, Jim fixed his eyes on the younger man. He didn't say another word; he didn't have to.

"I had a flashback," Blair admitted. "It was no big deal, I just--had to get out. So I went to the U. I had to go there anyway."

"The last bus leaves the campus at 9:30. How'd you get home?"

"Keith gave me a ride!" The anger was back. "Dammit, Jim, since when do you get to interrogate me?"

"Since a month ago."

The minute he said it, he knew he shouldn't have. Fear drained all the anger from Blair's eyes. His voice was almost a whisper.

"Ponytail's gone, Jim. He's gone. He's not coming back. That's what you told me. Didn't you?"

Ponytail? Well, it fit. Jim nodded. "He's gone, Partner. We won't see him again."

"Then why are you--why are you doing this?" Blair's heart was slamming in his chest. "Is someone else after me?"

Jim's first impulse was to put his hand on the narrow shoulder, to reassure Blair without words. But he couldn't do that anymore. If he touched him, Blair would bolt. He folded his arms more tightly, and kept his distance.

"No, Sandburg. No one's after you."

"Then why? You must have a reason." Eyes wide and blue as a newborn pup's rose to his. "Tell me, Jim."

Aw, hell. "I was worried, that's all."

"That's all?" Blair's heartbeat was slowing, returning to normal. "There's no other reason?"

"No."

Blair gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. "You were worried." He shook his head again, and smiled. "Thanks, Jim."

Blair shouldered his pack and disappeared into his room. Jim stared after him. He didn't get it. A minute ago, Blair had been ripping into him for asking questions, and now he was grateful? Sometimes, he thought he was never going to understand how his partner's mind worked. It didn't follow any logical pattern. What had Blair said once? "I go back and forth with things when the Muse strikes." That statement certainly seemed to fit his reasoning. He'd never seen anyone jump between seemingly unrelated subjects as quickly as Blair did, and then incorporate them all into a single unique solution. But right now, that didn't matter. The kid had survived his first day back. He was home, safe, and peace was restored. That was all that mattered.

Jim rapped on the bathroom door. "Let's go, Sandburg. Breakfast's on."

He went back to the kitchen, shoveled a stack of pancakes out of the frying pan and onto a plate, and set the plate at Sandburg's place. Blair emerged from the bathroom, shuffling down the hall in socks and Jim's old Cascade PD sweatshirt. He'd pushed the sleeves up so they wouldn't cover his hands, but the sweatshirt was so long on him that it fell halfway to his knees. Jim hoped there were boxers under there somewhere, but he wasn't about to ask. A huge yawn split Blair's face. He raised a hand to cover it, and ended up with sleeve instead of fingers. Jim hid his grin behind his coffee mug. He gestured at the sweatshirt with the spatula.

"Where'd you get that?"

"The laundry," Blair replied.

"The dirty laundry."

"Come on, Jim, it's not like you were mud-wrestling in it." Alarm crossed his face. "You don't mind, do you? It's a little cold this morning, and--well, it was right there."

"No, Sandburg, I don't mind. But if you're cold, why don't you put some pants on?"

"Huh?" Blair looked down at his bare legs. "Oh. Right. Be right back."

Blair vanished into his room, and reappeared moments later wearing his jeans. And the sweatshirt. Yawning, he slipped into his chair, his eyes going wide at the sight of breakfast. "Pancakes! Great!"

Show time. Blair forked the pancakes one at a time and laid them out around his plate, making sure that no edge overlapped any other. Next, he carefully spread strawberry jam over each one, coating the entire surface. Finally, he grabbed the maple syrup and poured a thin stream on top of the jam, back and forth, around and around, creating an intricate pattern. Jim shook his head. Blair did it the same way every time. Lately, Jim made pancakes just to see the performance. He couldn't understand how Blair could actually eat it.

"Got enough sugar, there, Partner?"

Blair just waggled his eyebrows, and shoved a forkful of jam and maple pancake into his mouth. Jim looked away, switching his concentration to his own breakfast. Blair ate quickly, alternating sips of orange juice and coffee. At least he didn't mix them together. He'd threatened to, once. He finished the pancakes, and poured himself another cup of coffee, yawning again.

"You gonna be able to stay awake today, Sandburg?"

"Yeah." Blair yawned once more. "I was up late last night, reading Keith's notes. I've gotta teach a class today, and I have to know what they've been doing."

"Does this mean you're not coming with me today?"

Blair studied his mug. "I can't, Jim. Class goes from 9 to 11, then I've gotta try to get caught up."

Jim nodded, accepting the excuse. "Did you get your office cleaned up?"

Blair laughed a little. "I didn't have to. Someone did it for me." He fixed Jim with a direct eye and a raised eyebrow. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Me?" Jim shook his head. "Sorry, Sherlock, wrong suspect."

"I wish I knew who it was. I'd like to thank them. You should've seen the place, Jim, I totally trashed it. Whoever cleaned it up restored all the artifacts, put them back on the shelves, and straightened out all the paperwork. It's never been so neat in there." The eye was back. "It really wasn't you?"

"Sandburg, I don't know squat about restoring artifacts."

Fortunately, there were plenty on campus who did. When Jim had asked for volunteers, he'd been surprised and gratified by the response. Blair had no idea how well-liked he was at the university. Of course, most of the volunteers had been female. Blair was always more popular with women than with men, a fact that Jim was sure didn't bother Sandburg at all.

"Well, it sure saved me a lot of time," Blair said. "I would've been months putting that stuff back together. The truth is, I was kind of afraid to go in there yesterday. When I saw it--" A smile lit his face. "Man, I was flabbergasted."

Jim smiled, and said nothing. That was just the effect he'd wanted to create.

They drank their coffee in companionable silence. Now and again, Jim glanced at Blair's face, to get an idea of what was going through his partner's head. Things seemed okay, until some thought jolted Blair, and his expression abruptly changed. Any trace of a smile vanished. He stared at the table, running his thumb up and down the handle of his mug.

"Jim, is it okay?" he blurted. "I mean, me not going in with you today? You don't need me for anything, do you?"

He had to be careful with this one. He was no psychologist, but he knew there was more to Blair's questions than what was on the surface. "Partner, I always need you. But if you have other work today, I guess I can get by without you. I can call if I have to."

Blair let out his breath. "Okay. Thanks, Jim."

Jim concealed his own relief. He'd gotten past that one. Now for the big one. "Don't forget your appointment with the counselor tonight."

Panic flashed through Blair's eyes. The thumb on the handle moved faster. "Jim, I've been thinking about that. I don't see how I can go."

Calmly. Calmly, dammit. "Why not?"

"Well, she's going to want me to tell her what happened. I can't do that. If I tell her about the shapeshifting, she'll think I'm nuts and have me locked up."

"No, she won't. Dr. Hawthorne knows all about it."

"But I can't tell her about the Sentinel stuff."

"She knows that, too."

Blair's eyes went wide. "You told her?"

Jim nodded. "You're right, Sandburg, she had to know or she would think you were nuts. So I told her."

"And she believed you?"

"Simon backed me up. I had to give her a little demonstration, to convince her, but she believed me." Eventually. "Don't worry, Sandburg: Dr. Hawthorne's the best. She's worked with the Department for years." Jim looked directly into Blair's eyes. "I want you to promise me that you'll show up tonight."

A small voice. "I will."

"That doesn't sound like a promise, Sandburg."

"Okay, I promise, I swear, on my honor as an anthropologist!" Blair snapped. "Is that enough, or do you want blood, too?"

"That should do it," Jim said quietly. He was not going to let the kid provoke him. Not about this. "Besides, at the moment, your blood's about three-quarters maple syrup. You can't swear an oath on maple syrup."

"You can in Vermont," Blair quipped.

Jim didn't even bother to reply.

Blair sat in Dr. Hawthorne's waiting room, trying to read over his notes. He couldn't concentrate. Every time he looked at the page, he saw Ponytail's face, heard Ponytail's voice--Jim's voice--spouting filth or whispering promises of pain. He sprang to his feet, pacing the room, but it didn't help. He couldn't drive the images away, couldn't shut the voice out. Thank God this hadn't happened while he was teaching this morning. If he'd lost it in the lecture hall, he could never have faced his students again. It had been hard enough as it was, and they had no idea what had happened to him. As far as anyone at the University knew, he'd been sick for the last month. He'd known that going in, but some unreasoning voice within him had insisted that they knew the truth, that their eyes would be fixed on him not because they were paying attention, but because they found him disgusting, or pathetic. They would stare at him, and then they would get up and leave, walk out rather than be taught by him. That hadn't happened, of course. Except for a few expressions of welcome, or sympathy for his illness, the students had behaved no differently than they always did. After the first minutes of utter panic, he'd gotten through the class with no trouble. He just wished things had gone that well at the station yesterday.

The office door opened. A woman emerged, fortyish, with greying brown hair smoothly styled, and warm brown eyes. She wore a classically-cut suit in a soft blue, and a silver pin centered with ever-changing images of stars and planets.

"Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair approached her, shook her outstretched hand. "Um, yeah. Blair. Hi."

"I'm Alice Hawthorne." Her handshake was firm, her skin cool. His own was sweaty, but she gave no indication of noticing. "Come in. Sit anywhere you like."

Blair entered the office, looking around. It was furnished in cool shades, blues and greens, the creamy walls papered in what looked like a pattern of woven grass. She had a desk of dark wood with a couple of chairs in front of it, the couch you always heard about, and three armchairs, cushioned and comfortable. Plants lined the walls and sat on tables: African violets, philodendrons, more exotic types he couldn't recall the names of. He half-expected to hear bird calls, or the chattering of monkeys.

"Whoa," he joked. "It's a jungle in here."

Dr. Hawthorne smiled. "It seems that way sometimes. They just won't stop growing, and people keep giving me more. Would you like coffee? Or tea? I've got a lovely herbal blend from Brazil. It's very soothing."

"Um, that sounds great. Thanks."

The doctor disappeared into a side room, and Blair heard cups clinking. He chose one of the armchairs and sat down, glancing around. Drums and flutes played faintly in the background, in a rhythm that was familiar to him. She must be playing a tape, but he couldn't see a stereo or any speakers. God. Brazilian tea, Peruvian music--had she set this all up just for him? Did she do this for all her patients? How much had Jim told her about him?

Blair's heart began to pound. How could he do this? How could he sit here and tell this woman--this stranger--about himself, about what had happened to him, never knowing how much she already knew, what judgments she'd already made? God, he couldn't. Blair shot to his feet. He couldn't stay here--

The panther paced in front of the door, sleek black coat a shadow among shadows, golden eyes gleaming. Blair stopped, frozen in place. He glanced toward the other room. If Dr. Hawthorne came out now, would she see the panther? What would she do if she did? How would he explain it? He looked back: the panther was gone.

Blair sat down again, set his pack on the floor. Jim had said to do what the panther told him. He'd never seen it while he was awake, except for that night in the attic, and he hadn't been sure, then, that it was real. If it had taken the trouble to appear to him now, here, then it must seriously want him to stay. So okay, he'd stay. He wasn't about to argue with a 200 pound cat, real or not.

"Here we are."

Dr. Hawthorne came back in, carrying a tray holding a ceramic teapot and matching cups in mossy shades of green. Blair stood at her entrance and remained standing until the doctor had seated herself in one of the other armchairs. She handed him a cup, and he sat back, trying to relax, cradling the cup between his hands.

"Well, Blair." Dr. Hawthorne settled back with her own cup. "You know why you're here. Do you know what to expect?"

"Um, you want me to talk," he said, studying the incised leaf-pattern on his cup. "About what happened."

"Yes. About that, and about you. We're going to work together to help you deal with the rape, and with what's happening to you now as a result."

"What's happening now?"

She nodded. "Rape is a devastating violation, Blair. It causes psychological injuries as well as physical, which can take a long time to heal. You don't see things the way you did before--even simple, everyday things. So much reminds you, so much frightens you. It can make you unable to function, make you doubt your sanity. Many survivors of rape blame themselves for what happened. It's wrong--rape is never the fault of the victim, no matter what the circumstances--but they can't help it. My job is to help them--to help you--work through all this, and more. And yes, you do need to talk to me, because if you don't, I can't tell how to help. Are you okay with this, Blair?"

He shrugged. "I guess so."

Dr. Hawthorne leaned forward slightly. "I know it isn't easy. Talking about it will hurt. But it's the only way to help you, and I am going to help you, Blair. I want you to trust me. Do you think you can do that?"

"I don't know. I'll try."

"Good." Dr. Hawthorne sat back again, and sipped her tea. "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

"Like what?"

"Whatever you want."

"Well, I'm an anthropologist." Blair gestured vaguely with the cup. "But you know that, right? And you know that I work with Jim Ellison, as a civilian observer. What else is there?"

"I don't know much about you personally. What about your family?"

Blair stiffened. "What about them?"

"Are your parents living? Do you have any siblings?"

"Yes."

"Have you told them what happened to you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Blair shook his head. "I don't want to talk about them. They have nothing to do with--with what happened."

"All right. What do you want to talk about?"

A shrug. Blair knew he was being uncooperative, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to be here, talking to this woman. She wanted him to bare his soul, and he couldn't do it. He sipped his tea, concentrating on that so he wouldn't have to look at her, wouldn't have to think.

"Jim said you were quite a talker. Never at a loss for words."

He didn't know whether to laugh or get mad. "Jim doesn't know everything."

"Does anyone?"

"I thought you did," Blair shot back. Dr. Hawthorne just looked at him. Blair ducked his head, feeling a blush creep over his face. "Sorry. I don't mean to be a jerk. I'm--really nervous."

"That's okay. It's allowed." Dr. Hawthorne drank some tea, and Blair followed suit. "Blair, I have to ask you: Have you been tested for STD's?"

"ST--" Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Like syphilis, herpes--or AIDS. Oh God. "No. No, I--I never thought..."

Dr. Hawthorne picked up a prescription pad from the table next to her chair, scribbled something on the top sheet, tore it off and handed it to him. "There's probably nothing to worry about, but I want to make sure. I'd like you to have a blood test tomorrow. The minute the results are in, I'll call you. All right?"

Blair nodded. He couldn't find words. He couldn't think. Didn't want to think.

"You look tired," Dr. Hawthorne said. "Have you been sleeping?"

It took a minute for the question to penetrate. Sleeping. Had he been sleeping? "Some," he said. Just not last night. "I have--um--I have nightmares."

She nodded. "That's to be expected. Are you having flashbacks, too?"

"Yeah. They were pretty much gone while I was at St. Sebastian's, but when I--when I got back, they started again."

"That's normal, too. You were attacked in your home. Returning to the apartment triggered your memories. Almost anything can, I'm afraid. A sound, a scent--anything that reminds you of the attack."

"For how long?"

"It could be years. It could be--and this is only in extreme cases--it could be for the rest of your life."

"God." Blair pushed the hair back from his face. "God, it can't. I can't go the rest of my life having flashbacks every time I see--"

"Every time you see what?" Dr. Hawthorne asked. He shook his head, unable to answer, but she wouldn't give up. "Blair? Every time you see what?"

He had to force the word, from a throat so tight he could only whisper. "Jim."

Blair came in at 8:30. He dropped his keys in the basket, closed the door, and took a deep breath. Jim knew what he was smelling: garlic, hot oil, the more subtle scent of Parmesan. Linguini with white clam sauce was one meal they could both agree on. Jim didn't want any arguments tonight.

"Hey, Partner," he said, stirring the sauce. "How'd it go?"

"Okay," Blair answered, his automatic response to everything these days. Jim learned quickly. If he waited long enough, the truth might come out. "It was kind of intense. I've gotta go back Thursday."

"Dr. Hawthorne's okay, huh?"

"Yeah, she's nice. And she's honest." Blair shook his head. "This isn't going to be easy."

"You knew that going in."

"Yeah, but knowing it and going through it are two different things." Blair fixed his gaze on the counter, using his finger to trace a pattern of spilled olive oil. "When I first got in there, I panicked big time. I almost ran."

"What stopped you?"

Blair's finger stilled, his body tensing. "The panther."

The sauce was neglected. "In the doctor's office?"

Blair nodded. "He didn't want me to leave."

"Did he speak to you?"

"No. But the message was pretty clear."

"Did you tell Dr. Hawthorne he was there?"

Sandburg looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "No, man, I couldn't tell her that. You didn't tell her about him, did you?"

"No. I didn't want to put any more strain on her credulity."

"You mean, you didn't want her to think you were nuts."

"That, too."

"Your cheese is sticking," Blair pointed out.

"Huh? Oh, damn." Jim went back to stirring, and scraping melted cheese off the bottom of the pan. "Dinner in five, Sandburg."

Dinner went smoothly. They discussed Jim's cases and Blair's class, safe topics that weren't likely to stir up any bad memories for Blair. For that reason, Jim tried to steer the conversation more toward Blair's doings at Rainier, but Blair insisted on hearing the details of every case Jim was working on. Fortunately, there was nothing too gruesome. Blair heard it all without flinching or getting that trapped, terrified, blind stare that meant he was flashing back. He offered some suggestions that were right on the money, and managed to look directly at Jim without the hesitation Jim had learned to expect. He smiled a few times, and even cracked a couple of bad jokes. Jim smiled to himself. If one visit to Dr. Hawthorne had helped this much, Blair would be his old self again in no time.

"So, Partner, you think you can help me out tomorrow?" he asked.

A wariness entered Blair's clear gaze. "How?"

"I've gotta visit that art gallery about the masks. I'd appreciate it if you'd come along and look around, maybe talk to the employees. You know a lot more about this stuff than I do. I can ask the cop questions, but I need somebody to ask the right questions about the masks."

Blair relaxed. "Sure, Jim."

"Great. I've gotta go to the station first. Is that going to be a problem?"

Blair was suddenly concentrating on his fork. "No, Jim. No problem."

No sense challenging him. It would only start a fight. Trying to lighten things up, he said, "Sandy Kolchak was looking for you today."

The fork clattered to his plate. Blair pushed the hair away from his face. "God, Jim, give it a rest, will you?"

Jim held up his hands. "Hey, sorry. I'm just passing the message along."

"Yeah." Blair picked up his fork again. "Okay. Sure." He twirled linguini on his fork, and left it there, staring at it. He had to try three times before he got the words out. "Jim, I'm not ready."

"For Sandy?"

"For any woman. It's too soon. I can't--I--" Blair shook his head, unable to finish. "Don't push me, okay, man?"

"Okay, Partner."

They got through the rest of dinner without a disaster. Blair did the dishes, then went to his room with a pot of some weird, twiggy tea, and turned some music on. Jim could hear it in the living room, but it was fairly mild stuff, without the driving drumbeat behind most of Blair's preferred music, so he let it go without complaint. He watched television for a while, then went to bed and fell asleep to the piping of wooden flutes.

"No! Jim!"

Jim's eyes snapped open, his limbs paralyzed while his ears tried to identify the sound that had woken him. The clock on his nightstand read 2:13.

"Jim!"

Blair. Jesus, Blair. Snatching the gun from beneath his pillow, Jim rolled out of bed and padded barefoot down the stairs. Rain made it dark--too dark to make out anything but shapes. Nothing moved. There was nothing that didn't belong. He heard Blair's heartbeat, his own, no one else. They were alone in the loft.

"No! Please, Jim. Please, don't!"

There was a light on in Sandburg's room. Jim opened the door, cautiously, not entirely trusting his Sentinel hearing. Blair lay on the bed, eyes closed, his body immobilized by nightmare.

"God, stop! Please!"

Christ, what should he do? If he shook Blair awake, he'd only terrify him. But he couldn't do nothing while Blair was tortured by the nightmare. Bad enough that it had happened, without Blair having to live through it all again in his dreams. Jim set his gun on the floor, and approached the bed.

"Sandburg," he called. Louder. "Sandburg!"

No response. Blair was moaning now, wordless, his face twisted in agony. He couldn't let this go on. Blair would get over his fright sooner than the nightmare would let him go. Sweat ran into Jim's eyes. He wiped it away, reached down to grip Blair's shoulder, and shook him.

"Sandburg, wake up! Come on, kid!"

Blair's eyes flew open, a great gasp of air filling his lungs. Jim let go immediately, but it wasn't fast enough. Blair cried out and flung himself away, trying to get off the bed, but he was so tangled up in sheets and blankets that he couldn't get free. Jim held his hands out to his sides, speaking as calmly as he could.

"Sandburg, it's okay. You had another nightmare. You're awake now, it's okay."

Blair stopped fighting the covers and stared at him, emotions chasing each other across his face too fast for Jim to identify. "Oh, God." He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God, Jim, I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about, Partner," Jim said gently.

"You don't understand!"

"Then explain it to me."

"I--" Blair looked at him, and away again, whispering, "I can't."

"Blair, you're not responsible for your nightmares."

"I--know."

"You don't sound convinced."

Blair's bleak stare was directed at something Jim couldn't see. "I'm just tired. I'd like to go back to sleep."

"So would I. But I don't think that's gonna happen for a while."

"Sorry, man."

"Dammit, Sandburg, quit blaming yourself for everything!"

Big mistake. Blair jerked back as if Jim had hit him, terror flashing through his eyes. He recovered almost instantly, and flushed deep red, staring down at the bedclothes. Jim cursed himself. Every time he tried to help, it seemed he only made things worse. Now Blair was afraid of him, and he didn't know what to do. It was all that bastard Ponytail's fault. He should've killed the son of a bitch when he had the chance. Hell, he never should've let him get his hands on Blair in the first place. Blair was his partner; he was supposed to watch out for him. He was doing a lousy job of it. First Lash got him, then Ponytail, and they both came right into the loft to get him, the one place where Blair should be safe. And he hadn't been here. He was never here when Blair really needed him. And now on top of everything else, he yelled at the poor kid. He couldn't stand being the cause of the fear in those eyes.

"I'm sorry, Partner," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's not your fault, man," Blair said to the blankets.

"This time, it is. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I just get so mad when I see you trying to take the blame for what that bastard did to you. Not mad at you; it just comes out that way, and I'm sorry." Blair didn't move. Jim took a step closer to the bed. "Sandburg, look at me."

Blair raised his eyes.

"None of this is your fault. Not what he did to you, and not anything that's happened after. It's all his fault. All of it. Do you understand that?"

Blair nodded hesitantly.

"There's two things I have to tell you, Blair. I should've told you before now, but--well--dammit, you know how I am with this stuff. I just kept hoping you'd know without me having to actually say it. But that wasn't fair to you. You can't be expected to read my mind all the time. So, here goes.

"First, I would never hurt you. Ever."

"I know that," Blair said softly.

"Maybe. But it had to be said anyway. Second--" Jim took a breath. "Blair, I will do whatever it takes to help you get through this. Anything you want, anything you need. Just tell me, Partner, and you've got it. Okay?"

Blair nodded. His throat worked, but he didn't speak, and his gaze was fixed once more on the bedclothes. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. Jim pretended not to notice.

"So, whaddaya say, Partner? How about a peanut butter and sprout on whole wheat?"

Blair looked up. "Now?"

"Sure, why not? My mother always says, 'When you're up, eat.'"

Sandburg shrugged. "Okay, man."

He untangled himself from the bedclothes and followed Jim into the kitchen. They were halfway through a sandwich and a glass of milk each, when Blair glanced up with a look in his eye that Jim had seen too many times.

"So, Jim, tell me something, man."

He braced himself. "What?"

"Just exactly how much does your mother weigh?"

Blair breezed into the squadroom behind Jim, smiling, greeting everyone he knew, trying his damnedest to give the impression that he was someone just back from a month's vacation and not a headcase back from something they didn't want to know about. He'd thought about it after he went back to bed last night--he hadn't slept again--and he knew he'd blown it Monday, approaching his return to the station like it was some kind of trial, a test to see if he could keep working with Jim. He'd worried too much, that was all. Expected too much, maybe. Sure, Ballard was an asshole, but most of the cops probably didn't care about him one way or the other, and those who did were mostly sympathetic, like Taggert, or Rhonda, or even Steve Connelly. If they hadn't spoken, it was because they were waiting for clues from him to tell them how to act, and his clues had all been of the "leave me alone" variety, guaranteed to keep everyone away. What he should have done was what he was going to do now: act normally, as if nothing had ever happened. Get them to relax, and everything would be fine. He could handle this. Hell, he was good at this.

It worked. He could see people relaxing as he went by. They were probably relieved that they didn't have to tiptoe around him, or treat him like some kind of invalid. He even managed to get by Martin Ballard's desk without giving in to the urge to deck him.

"Nice performance," Jim muttered when they reached his desk.

"Huh?"

"Come on, Sandburg, you're faking it."

Blair widened his eyes. "Faking what, Jim?"

Jim shook his head. "Have it your way, Partner." He grabbed a bunch of files from his desk. "I've gotta update Simon on this stuff. Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes. You going to be okay out here?"

"Sure, Jim."

Jim knocked on Simon's door and went in, leaving Blair on his own. He was fine. He didn't need Jim to baby-sit him. He wasn't going to have a breakdown just because Jim wasn't at his side every minute. He'd just sit here and work on his lesson-plan. But first, coffee. And maybe a bagel, if there were any good ones left. He couldn't expect Rhonda to save him the pumpernickel every day.

She had, though. Blair grinned his thanks, and took the bagel back to his desk with his coffee. He ate and worked undisturbed for about fifteen minutes, long enough to begin relaxing himself. He could do this. This wasn't a problem at all. Why had he been so nervous Monday?

"Feeling better, Hairboy?"

Ballard. Dammit, not now, things had been going so well. He looked up, meeting Ballard's eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Ballard grinned. "You looked kind of green when you ran out of here Monday. I thought maybe you were sick."

"I'm fine," Blair bit off. "Thanks for asking."

He returned his gaze to his notebook, but Ballard didn't take the hint. The paunchy detective parked his butt on the corner of the desk. "I hear you spent some time in a monastery."

"That's right."

"So, tell me something, Sandburg." Ballard leaned closer, leering. "Is it true what they say about those places?"

"Is what true?"

"You know. No women, but they still have--urges. So they take care of each other, right?"

Blair's grip on his pen tightened. If he slugged Ballard, Jim would get in trouble. If he slugged Ballard, Jim would get in trouble. If he slugged--"No, that's not true," he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. "But you know what? I read somewhere that guys who obsess over homosexual activity are really suppressing their own latent homosexuality. So, tell me, Ballard, is that true?"

Ballard stood, his face going purple. "Are you calling me a faggot?"

"Not me, man." Blair smiled. "I don't use that word. It's against departmental policy, isn't it? I mean, don't you guys get reprimanded or suspended or something for that? Or is this some kind of microcultural thing? You know, where only those within the particular group are allowed to use derogatory terms about that group? This stuff fascinates me. Did you know, there's a tribe in the Amazon where it's a deadly insult to give someone a compliment? Y'see, they believe that to do so invites the wrath of the gods upon the recipient. So what they do is, they say the worst things imaginable to each other when what they really mean is something nice. For example, if I were to call you, oh, a complete asshole with your mind in the Dark Ages, to them, that would mean you were a really great, forward-thinking guy. Funny how these things develop, huh, Marty? Well, it's been great chatting with you, man, but I've gotta get back to work. Maybe we can talk more later."

Blair fixed his eyes on his notebook, scribbling some nonsense. Ballard stood there for a few seconds, then turned and went back to his desk. Suppressed laughter came from the coffee cart, where Taggert was checking out the Danish while he waited to see Simon; Blair grinned, but didn't dare look at the big man or he'd laugh out loud and Ballard would know he'd been had. Not that he was afraid of Ballard, but the man was armed, and who knew what a jerk like that would do if he got mad enough?

Jim came out of Simon's office and dumped the files back on his desk. "Let's go, Partner."

Blair closed his notebook and stuffed it into his backpack. He stopped beside Taggert on the way out. The big man was still laughing. "Joel, man, you gotta get hold of yourself. You're gonna bust something."

Taggert just shook his head and waved Blair away. Jim was waiting for him outside the squadroom. "What was that all about?"

"Oh, nothing." Blair grinned. "Taggert just likes my jokes."

"God knows why," Jim deadpanned.

"He's obviously a man of taste."

"Yeah. Bad taste."

Blair just let it go. He couldn't win, not with Jim. He didn't even want to try, he was feeling too good. He'd done it. He'd gotten in and out of the station without any trouble. He'd even handled that jerk Ballard, and come out on top. Not that Ballard knew it. Too bad, but it would be safer for him if Ballard never found out. He didn't trust that guy not to go postal.

Blair swung up into the truck, buckled in, and began to shake. What the hell--? His heart raced; he started to hyperventilate. He tried to stick his hands in his pockets, so Jim wouldn't see, but it was too late.

"Sandburg, what's the matter?"

Blair just shook his head. He couldn't get the breath to speak.

Jim started the truck. "I'm going to get you to the hospital."

"No!" Blair tried desperately to calm himself. "No--Jim--I'm okay. It's just--just a--delayed reaction."

"To what?"

"I--I dunno. Stress, I--guess."

"We're still going to the hospital."

"No, man. Really. I'm--okay. I just--need to relax. Trust me--Jim."

Jim rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Okay, Partner. But if this gets any worse--"

"It won't."

"If it gets any worse, we're going to the hospital. And no arguments."

"O--okay."

Closing his eyes, Blair leaned back against the seat and focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Slowly. Slowly. No problem. He could do this. He was fine. Nothing a couple of years in a sanitarium wouldn't cure. If he wasn't careful, that's where he'd end up. No, don't think about that. That train of thought didn't help at all.

"Easy," Jim soothed. "Take it easy, Partner. Just breathe. That's good."

That's what he needed. A coach, just like in Lamaze class. He'd gone to one of those, once. He'd have to tell Jim about it sometime. It would freak him out, wondering if he'd gone because he was the father. Then he wouldn't tell him. Let him wonder.

"Something funny, Sandburg?"

Blair's grin widened. Let him wonder. He'd stopped shaking. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and opened his eyes. Jim had turned to face him, one hand on the seatback, the other on the dash, gripping so hard that his knuckles were white.

"Relax, man," Blair said. "I'm okay."

Jim eyed him suspiciously. "You sure?"

"Yeah. It was just an anxiety attack. I've had 'em before."

"Not with me, you haven't."

"No. It was before I met you."

"When?"

He shrugged. "Most of my life. It's no big deal, it's just a stress thing."

Jim turned away, put his hand on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you come in with me."

"You didn't make me, Jim. I chose to go in. And I'm glad I did." Without thinking, Blair lightly punched Jim's arm. "Come on, man, let's get to that gallery."

Only when Jim stared did Blair realize what he had done. That was the first time he had touched Jim since--since it happened. Blair looked away quickly, praying that Jim wouldn't say anything, that he'd just accept it and let it go. God, he was so embarrassed, and he knew he shouldn't be, and that just made it worse.

Jim put the truck in gear and drove out of the garage. He didn't say a word, but a tiny smile curved the corners of his mouth.

They rode in silence for a while. But silence wasn't something Blair was good at.

"So, Jim, fill me in. What do we know about the gallery owner?"

"His name was Arthur Hatch. He was fifty-two, unmarried, no kids. He opened the gallery in--"

"1987," Blair supplied.

Jim eyed him. "You been holding out on me, Sandburg?"

"Come on, man, you're talking about the Hatch Gallery. It's the biggest art gallery in Cascade. Everybody knows--" He caught Jim's look. "Well, a lot of people know about it. Why didn't you tell me the victim was Arthur Hatch?"

"You didn't ask. What else do you know about this guy?"

"Nothing, really. I mean, he's supposed to have lots of money--you know, always had enough to get the really important artists. He sponsored new artists, too. I heard that he made Judith Carnover's career." Realizing that Jim had no idea what he was talking about, Blair toned it down. "I never knew that he dealt in African art, though."

"Maybe it's the next big thing."

"Yeah, maybe. Jim, you said Hatch had no heirs. Now that he's gone, who gets the gallery?"

"He had one heir, a brother: Lancelot, if you can believe it. They were partners in the gallery. Now Lancelot owns the whole shebang."

"The whole what?"

"The whole--" Jim gave him a dirty look.

Blair laughed. "Shebang!" Jim didn't join in. It took Blair a minute to get control. "Hey, Jim, man, what if we're wrong about this? What if Hatch wasn't killed because of the masks at all? What if his brother did it, to get the gallery for himself?"

"That's a good theory," Jim conceded. "He's a definite suspect. But my gut says it's the masks. I just wish I knew why."

"You'll figure it out."

"Not unless you get me some information on those masks."

"Oh, right. Okay. No pressure. Thanks a lot, Jim."

"Sandburg, if you can't handle it--"

"I can handle it."

Jim parked the truck in front of the gallery, between a Mercedes and a Jaguar. Blair grinned as he followed Jim inside. The 4X4 would do a lot for the gallery's reputation. Hatch would probably rather they parked it out back, with the delivery trucks. He'd love for someone to ask Jim to do that, just to see his partner's reaction.

"May I help you?"

A man in a suit that cost more than Blair made in a month--in two months--approached them, the utter unlikelihood of his being able to do more for them than show them the exit made absolutely plain by his tone. He was as colorless as his suit: hair, eyes and skin all of a dull, faded beige. The gold stud in his ear was the only thing about him that wouldn't fade instantly into the background. He might as well have had, "I am nowhere near as important as I think I am" etched into his forehead.

Jim flashed his badge. "Detective Ellison, Cascade PD. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. We'd like to see your boss."

Mr. Beige looked down his nose at him, not easy considering Jim had about five inches on him. "You're not the same policeman who was here before."

"No," Jim replied affably. "I'm a different one. Now go get your boss for me, okay, Slim?"

"I'll see if Mr. Hatch is available."

"You do that."

Mr. Beige hurried off and dashed up a spiral staircase in the center of the gallery. Jim watched him all the way, but Blair took a minute to glance around the gallery and admire the work hung there. Not all of it was to his taste, but every piece was considered the current best of whatever style it represented. There were three other people in the gallery: a white-haired man of about sixty in a blue suit, who was inspecting some abstract paintings; a flamboyantly-dressed woman with a flame-red pageboy and lots of scarves; and another woman whose back was to Blair. All he could see were black ringlets cascading down the back of a coral-colored suit with a fashionably short skirt beneath a long, fitted jacket. The redhead was talking to her, but Blair couldn't hear what she said. Jim could, he was sure, if his partner was listening.

Blair's attention was caught by two masks hanging in an alcove, facing each other across the stylized statue of a rhino. Mr. Beige still hadn't come back, so Blair stepped away from Jim to get a closer look. The masks were Onkantu, about seventy years old. There was an empty hook on the rear wall of the alcove. That must be where the mask that had been found on Arthur Hatch's body had come from. Blair suppressed a shudder.

"You like African art?"

The voice was soft, musical, and low. Blair turned toward it, and saw the face that went with the black ringlets: large eyes, so dark a brown they could drink you in and you'd never come out; high, delicate cheekbones, full lips, skin the color of cinnamon. Blair smiled in delight just to look at her.

"Hi." Belatedly, his brain kicked in. "Um, yeah. I study it. Well, it's part of my studies, actually. I'm an anthropologist. How about you?"

"I'm not an anthropologist."

"That's not what I--"

She smiled, and he shut up. Stupid, Blair. She was joking.

"It's not my field of expertise," she said. "But now that we're showing some African pieces, I've started to learn about them. I'm still new at it, though."

"What is your field?"

"Contemporary American, with an emphasis on the southern United States, particularly Louisiana. I'm from New Orleans, so I just fell into it naturally." She held out her hand. "Antoinette LeClaire. Everyone calls me Toni."

"Blair Sandburg."

Her hand was soft, just like he'd known it would be. He held onto it for a second longer than he should, but she didn't seem anxious to pull away. She smiled.

"I have a cousin named Blair. But you're not from the south, are you?"

"How'd you guess?" Blair grinned. "Actually, I'm from Connecticut. But don't tell anybody, okay? I'm trying to keep it quiet."

"I'll tell everyone I know that you're from New Orleans, and you just never did learn to speak properly, poor boy."

Blair's smile widened. "Thanks."

A familiar voice intruded. "Sandburg."

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Work. Remember?"

"Huh?" Blair looked around, remembered where he was, who he was. Mr. Beige had come back. He and Jim were standing there, obviously waiting for him. "Oh. Yeah." He turned back to Toni. "Sorry. Gotta--um...."

She just smiled. Jim and Mr. Beige had already started for the stairs. Blair hurried to catch up, feeling Toni's eyes on him as he walked. Not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all. God, she was beautiful. And she seemed to like him. Maybe.... Oh, who was he kidding? She worked here. That made her at least a witness, probably a suspect. She was off-limits. Jim would kill him if he messed up this case. Even if she wasn't involved, he could never ask her out. She deserved better than him.

Mr. Beige showed them into an office at the top of the stairs, and left. Hatch wasn't there. The room was dominated by a huge desk topped by a curving sweep of black glass. The chair behind it was black leather. Paintings hung on the white walls. Blair recognized a Carnover, a Daneir, a Lopez; the rest he wasn't sure of. A gold nameplate on the desk said "Geoffrey Hatch" in black letters. Blair picked it up.

"Geoffrey? I thought his name was Lancelot."

"It is," said a new voice. Blair hastily put the nameplate down. A man strode into the office through a door to their left. He was tall, with graying brown hair carefully blown dry. He wore a charcoal gray Armani suit, pale gray shirt, and a pearl-gray silk tie. Blair briefly wondered if a monochromatic wardrobe was a requirement in this place. The man shook his hand, then Jim's, still talking. "My mother had a romantic bent, unfortunately. Equally unfortunately, she named us. Arthur was the eldest, the King. So when I came along ten years later, I had to be Lancelot, the loyal knight."

"But Lancelot betrayed Arthur," Blair said.

"Over a woman," Hatch qualified. "I swear, I never once stole a girlfriend from my brother. They were always too old for me." Even white teeth bared in a smile. "I prefer my middle name."

"After Chaucer?"

"Of course. But at least it's not instantly recognizable. Sit down, gentlemen, please." Hatch took his own invitation and sat in the leather chair. "What brings you here, Detective Ellison? Have you found my brother's killer?"

"No, sir, not yet. If you don't mind, I have a few questions."

"Go ahead."

"Did your brother have any enemies?"

Hatch frowned. "Another detective already asked me this."

"I know, sir."

"No. No enemies. Competitors, yes, but this is an art gallery. Art dealers don't kill each other."

"Was he engaged in any illegal activities that you know of?"

"Of course not," Hatch snapped, his face going red with anger. "My brother was highly respected."

Jim's jaw muscle jumped. "Someone killed him, Mr. Hatch. It wasn't a robbery; his wallet was found on him, and none of the artwork was missing. There was no sign of forced entry. Your brother let his killer in after hours, which means it was someone he knew, either a business associate or a personal acquaintance."

"Do you have any suspects?" Hatch demanded.

"Several."

"And I'm one of them."

"Well, sir, the way it stands now, you had the most to gain from your brother's death. So, yes, you are a suspect."

"I did not kill my brother."

"Then we'd appreciate any help you can give us in finding out who did."

Hatch scowled. "What do you need, Detective?"

"What do you know about Mombatu masks?"

"Nothing. Arthur made the purchase on his own, I had nothing to do with the arrangements."

A tiny line appeared between Jim's brows. "Was that normal? You were partners, didn't your brother consult you about purchases?"

"Not always. We allowed each other a certain amount of discretion."

"Were the masks on display here?"

"For a short time. They sold very quickly. I believe Arthur had buyers for most of them before the shipment arrived."

"Have you been able to put together a list of the buyers?"

"Not yet. My brother was buried yesterday, Detective. The gallery's been closed until today."

"Did you get a close look at any of the masks?"

"Not really. I'm not usually on the floor. Toni and Rupert handle the walk-ins. And I didn't have much interest in them." Hatch grimaced. "Thought they were pretty ugly, actually. Why? Do you think there was something wrong with them?"

"That's what we'd like to determine. My partner, here, is an expert on Mombatu artifacts. We'd like him to talk to your staff. We'd also appreciate it if you'd let him get a look at your computer. He may be able to help you restore the list of buyers."

Hatch raised his eyebrows. "A policeman who's an expert on computers and Mombatu artifacts?"

Jim smiled tightly. "He's a man of many talents." He turned to Blair. "Why don't you get started, Partner? I've got a few more questions for Mr. Hatch."

A man of many talents. Wow. He'd had no idea Jim thought that about him. Or was he just trying to aggravate Hatch? Blair got up from his chair. "Sure."

Jim beckoned to him, and he leaned down. Jim spoke softly, into his ear. "Talk to them separately. Start with Rupert. And when you get to the girl, keep it professional."

"No problem, Jim."

Blair left the office and started down the stairs. He could see Toni at the front of the gallery, talking to the woman with the scarves. Toni glanced his way, and smiled. Blair gripped the railing hard, and knew he was in trouble. Keep it professional. Oh yeah, no problem. No problem at all. As long as he didn't have to look at her, talk to her, or come within twenty feet of her. No problem at all.

"So, you didn't see anyone?"

Rupert "Mr. Beige" Crowley heaved a bored sigh. "No. I told you, Toni and I left together. Mr. Hatch stayed behind. There was no one else in or near the gallery."

"And he wasn't expecting anyone that you know of?"

"No. He didn't clear his appointments with me."

Blair nodded. So far, Rupert was no help. He was not at all pleased to be in the back room of the gallery answering questions when he could be out on the floor trying to earn some commission off a sale. He was particularly displeased that the questions came from a scruffy, long-haired kid, and he made that apparent by being even less polite than he'd been to Jim. Blair wasn't any too happy himself. Aside from some of the artwork, the only thing he liked about this gallery was Toni. He didn't like being here, and it showed. He couldn't sit down, or stand still. He was all over the room, pacing, touching things, shoving his hair back--he'd done that about twenty times since they came in here--and he couldn't stop. Rupert leaned against a desk, legs crossed, pale eyes shifting back and forth to follow him. Rupert wasn't the problem, he knew that. It was being alone in a room with another man. Any other man. Which was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it. There was nothing to be afraid of. Rupert wasn't going to attack him. And if he did, Blair was pretty sure he could take him. Rupert was only a couple of inches taller than him, skinny, and he'd probably never hit anyone in his life. All of which was completely insignificant, because nothing was going to happen. There was no reason for him to be nervous. No reason at all. Rupert wasn't Ponytail. But he could be. Anyone could be.

"Is there anything else, officer?"

Blair pushed his hair back again. Dammit! "Yeah. I wanted to ask you about the masks."

Rupert smiled. "They're African."

Blair returned the smile. "No kidding? From the photographs, I estimated the oldest mask to be mid-16th century, and the newest late 19th, probably during the cholera epidemic. Would you say that's about right?"

Rupert shut his gaping mouth. "I wouldn't know. It's not my field."

"Oh? Did you sell any of them?"

"No. Mr. Hatch sold all of them personally."

"You've never shown African art here before, have you?"

"No. The masks were the first."

"What made Mr. Hatch decide to buy them?"

"I wouldn't know that, either."

"Oh. You're just the help, huh?"

Rupert glared daggers at him. "Actually, I brought several artists to Mr. Hatch's attention."

"Just not these?"

"Yes."

"Yes you did, or yes you didn't?"

"I didn't," Rupert gritted.

"Do you know who he bought the masks from?"

"No."

Blair asked a few more questions, got no more information, and let Rupert out of the back room. He didn't know which of them was happier to get him out of there. Scarf-woman was gone; Toni was studying one of the Onkantu masks, reaching up to touch the wood. She turned toward Blair, and smiled.

"My turn, Detective Sandburg?"

He couldn't help answering her smile. "Yes. But it's just Blair. I'm not a cop, I'm a civilian observer."

Rupert shot him a dirty look, and Blair shrugged. He'd "forgotten" to mention that little fact to Mr. Beige. Toni preceded him into the back room.

"I wondered how you could be an anthropologist and a policeman. I was afraid you were lying to me."

"I wouldn't do that."

"Except in the line of duty?"

"No, I--well--" Oh, God, he was blushing. "This isn't fair. I'm supposed to ask the questions."

Toni smiled. "Well, you go on and ask, Mr. Sandburg."

Toni's answers were pretty much the same as Rupert's, though she phrased them a lot more politely. She had no more idea than Crowley of why Arthur Hatch had suddenly decided to branch out into African art, and she hadn't seen anyone near the gallery when she left on the night of the murder. Blair didn't push any more than he had with Rupert; Jim would question them both again anyway, and their stories agreed in every area but one: Toni claimed that she had sold one of the masks.

"Really? Do you remember who you sold it to?"

"A Mr. Wainwright. He was in Cascade on business."

"From where?"

"Boston, I think."

"Great." Blair nodded, his mind racing. "I know the list of buyers is gone. Would you have anything else that might have Wainwright's address or phone number on it?"

"Packing slips? No, wait." Toni sat down at the computer. "We keep records of all the customers, what they've bought, their preferences, things like that."

"Fantastic!"

Her slender fingers tapped in commands. In seconds, she was into the database, searching for the record on Wainwright. It took a few minutes--the gallery didn't have the most advanced system in the world--but eventually, Wainwright's name flashed onto the screen.

"Can you print it for me?"

Toni obliged. Blair hovered over the printer, bouncing on the balls of his feet, until the paper came out. He snatched it up. "This is great. This is really great. Jim's gonna love this."

"Jim's gonna love what?"

Jim stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised in inquiry. Blair dashed across the room, waving the paper.

"Jim, Toni sold one of the masks to this guy, Wainwright, in Boston. We've got an address and phone number."

Jim took the paper from him, scanning the printout. "Good work, Partner."

"Actually, it was Toni's work."

Jim smiled at her. "Thank you, Ms. LeClaire. Would you by chance remember any of the other buyers?"

"No, I'm sorry, Detective. I only sold one."

Still smiling. "Would you excuse us for a minute, please?"

"Of course."

Toni left the room. Both men watched her go. The moment the door closed, Jim turned to Blair. "Got anything else?"

"No. Rupert claims he doesn't know anything."

"You think he's lying?"

Blair shrugged. "You're the human lie-detector, man, not me. Toni tells the same story, but..."

"What?"

A grimace. "I guess I just don't like him."

"You don't seem to have that problem with Ms. LeClaire. Remember what I said, Sandburg?"

Heat mounted in Blair's face. "Jim, she's cooperating. She got that guy's address for m--us."

"She's still a suspect. Along with everyone else here. So--"

"I know, I know. Keep it professional. Come on, Jim, give me some credit."

"I am. I left you alone with her, didn't I? Listen, Partner, do you think you can reconstruct that list of buyers?"

"I don't know yet. I haven't had a chance to get into the computer."

"Why don't you hang out here for a while and see what you can do? I'm going to question our friends out there, then go back to the station and see if I can reach Wainwright and persuade him to send the mask back here so you can have a look at it."

"You sure you trust me?" Blair couldn't keep the sarcasm from his tone. "Toni'll be here, too."

"Sandburg, I trust you," Jim said. "Her, I'm a little worried about."

"Right. Sure."

"Blair--"

Jim reached out, and panic slashed Blair's heart. He flinched away, then tried to cover by ducking his head and moving behind the desk to sit at the computer.

"I'll get started."

Jim opened his mouth, and shut it. Blair shifted his gaze to the screen. God, don't let Jim apologize again. He couldn't stand it.

"Okay, Partner," Jim said. "Call me if you find anything, or you want out of here before I get back."

"Okay."

He didn't see Jim leave. His eyes were fixed on the computer screen, seeing nothing.

Blair sipped his tea and gently stroked the purple blossom of an African violet, wishing he were somewhere else. He didn't want to talk about what he was feeling, how he was--or wasn't--dealing with things. He didn't like talking about himself. External stuff, sure. He could go on for days about the places he'd been, the people he'd met and lived or worked with. But talking about the inner Blair Sandburg, about his thoughts and feelings, about what made him the way he was--that, he hated. Letting other people see inside him made him uncomfortable. Hell, it scared him. People liked the surface Blair. But people who knew him--really knew him--didn't want him around. It had always been that way. There was something wrong with him, something he couldn't let other people see. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was there.

"Blair, are you with me?"

Blair glanced at Dr. Hawthorne, smiled briefly. "Sure."

He'd told her about going to the station, and the anxiety attack, but not about Ballard. About feeling uncomfortable with Rupert, but not about his attraction to Toni. About having the nightmares and what Jim had said to him, but not what the nightmares were about, or staying awake the rest of the night, or not going to bed at all some nights. He wasn't lying to her; he was just being selective. After all, he couldn't tell her every little thing that happened, or they'd be here all night.

"Blair, you've been coming to me for a few weeks now, and you've never told me about the attacks. Do you think you can do that?"

No! "I thought you already knew."

"I know what you told Jim and Captain Banks. But you left things out, didn't you?"

"I didn't lie."

"Of course you didn't. I'm sure everything you told them was the truth. But there were things you couldn't tell them, weren't there?"

"And you think I can tell you?"

"I don't know. But I'd like you to try. If you don't feel you can, we can leave it for another time. But the sooner you get through this--the sooner you can tell someone--the sooner you'll start to heal. Complete honesty really is cathartic, Blair. It will also give me more of an idea of exactly what we need to work on. Would you like to try?"

"No." How's that for honesty, doc? "I don't--I don't think I can."

"All right. Maybe next time."

That was it? All he had to do was say no and she folded? He wished Jim could be put off so easily.

"How are you and Jim getting along?"

What, was she reading his mind? "Okay. I told you what he said."

"Yes. I was glad to hear it. I think Jim can be a lot of help to you. How is he dealing with the flashbacks?"

Blair shrugged. "He apologizes a lot."

"Why do you think he does that?"

"I don't know. I guess he feels guilty about reminding me. I just wish he'd stop."

"Have you told him that?"

"No. He'd just feel guilty about that, too. It's bad enough I'm--the way I am. I don't want to dump anything else on him."

"You don't think he could handle it?"

"He shouldn't have to!" Blair rocketed out of the chair and began to pace. "He shouldn't have to deal with any of this. It's not fair."

"What would be fair?"

He stopped, staring at a curling vine. "If he had a better partner."

"As I understand it, you serve as Jim's Guide, and help him to use his Sentinel abilities. Who would be a better partner?"

"Someone who could take care of himself. Someone Jim wouldn't have to worry about all the time. Someone who could watch his back. A real cop, with the training, the gun, the whole deal."

"Do you think that's what Jim wants?"

Pacing again. "I don't know. He'd never tell me."

"Why not?"

"He'd be afraid of hurting my feelings."

"And would your feelings be hurt?"

Blair threw his hands in the air. "What difference does that make? We're talking about Jim's life here! He deserves a partner who can help him, not some stupid kid anthropologist who can't even--deal with his own nightmares."

"Maybe you should discuss this with Jim."

"Yeah. I should. But I can't."

"Why?

"Jim won't hear it. He'll just brush me off and tell me I'm his partner and that's that."

"Because he doesn't want to hurt your feelings?"

"Yes." Blair pushed his hair back. "I don't know. Maybe I should just leave. Get the hell out and let Jim get on with his life."

"Is that what you want?"

Blair shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes I can't stand the thought of going back to the loft, of facing Jim, trying to act like everything's back to normal when we both know it's not. Sometimes, I just want to run away, and keep on running. Go someplace where nobody knows me, or feels sorry for me, or guilty, or--despises me."

"Running away won't help you, Blair."

"It might help Jim."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Yes." Blair sighed. "Sometimes."

"Blair, I think it would be a good idea for you to talk to Jim, tell him how you feel."

"What good would that do? He'd just feel guilty again, and tell me I'm wrong."

"How can he be honest with you, if you won't be honest with him?"

Blair shook his head. "You don't understand. Jim won't do anything he thinks would hurt me. Not even to save himself. This is something I have to decide on my own."

"Then give it time, Blair. Don't rush into anything now. It's too soon to make decisions that will affect the rest of your life."

"You mean I'm not rational?"

"I mean the rape is coloring everything you think, see, and do. And you need some time to work through it, time in which you shouldn't be making decisions that you might regret later. All right?"

Blair nodded. "All right."

Dr. Hawthorne leaned forward. "Blair, you haven't had the blood tests I recommended, have you?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "No."

She put a hand on his wrist. "I understand that you're afraid, Blair. Believe me, I do. But you have to have it done. It's better to know than to wonder. Promise me you'll have it done tomorrow."

Blair opened his mouth with an excuse, and shut it again. He knew she was right. "Okay. I promise."

Dr. Hawthorne smiled. "You're strong, Blair. You can deal with the results, no matter what they are. I promise."

Blair nodded, because she expected it. But he didn't believe.

He hung by his wrists in the attic while Ponytail raped him, wearing Jim's face, speaking with Jim's voice, and Jim looked on, doing nothing. Ponytail's cock rammed into his ass, fingers digging into his thighs.

"You've never really--'had' him--have you--Ellison? Living with him--all these months--and you never--once--fucked his--tight--little--ass. I'm--disappointed in you--Ellison. That's what a Guide's--for. I expected you--to figure that out--but I--had to--show you."

Ponytail came, and he thought the torment would end, but it didn't stop. Jim's watching face shifted, his features melting into Ponytail's. Jim's voice whispered in his ear, big hands grasping his buttocks, yanking them farther apart while Jim's cock drove deep inside him.

"You've got a great ass, you know that, Chief? I can't believe I waited this long. We've got a lot of lost time to make up for."

"Don't!" he gasped. "Please, Jim."

Jim chuckled. "Now, I know you don't mean that, Chief. You want this as much as I do. You're just too scared to admit it."

"No! I don't want it! Please, Jim! Please, don't do this! Please!"

Jim just laughed. One hand moved to his shoulder, gripping hard, shaking him. He twisted away, and slammed into something hard. Lightning shot behind his eyes, and he grabbed his head, moaning, unable to move.

"Blair? Sandburg, answer me!"

Jim? Oh God, he-- No. No, dammit! He wasn't in the attic. He'd had another nightmare. It wasn't real. Blair forced his eyes open, focused first on his tangled bedclothes, then on Jim's face, the normally impassive features lined with concern. He looked away, back at the blanket, studying the pattern woven into it.

"I'm okay," he muttered.

"Look at me," Jim ordered.

He couldn't. Jim picked up the lamp beside the bed and angled the light into Blair's face. Blair lifted a hand to shield his eyes. "Come on, man, cut it out."

"You hit your head pretty hard, Sandburg. Let me check your pupils."

"It wasn't that hard."

Jim's voice rumbled in his throat. "Sandburg--"

"Okay, okay. Don't go grizzly on me, man." Blair raised his head and looked into the light, trying not to squint. "Happy now?"

Jim nodded and put the lamp down. "You're okay."

"Told you."

"Don't get smart with me, kid. I'm not in the mood."

Blair pushed his hair back. "What time is it?"

"About three."

"Oh, man!" Blair's face went hot. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Do you want to talk about it?"

Oh, sure. Tell Jim all the nasty little details. He'd be thrilled to find out Blair was having nightmares about him as well as Ponytail. Yeah, that would go over real big. "No. But thanks for asking. And for waking me up."

"You sure, Partner?"

"Yeah. Go back to bed, man."

Jim didn't move. "Blair, do you want me to wake you up? I mean, I'm not sure I'm doing you a favor, here."

"Yes, you are. Trust me, man, I'd rather be awake."

Jim stood a moment longer. "Well, try to get some sleep, Partner. We've got that mask finally coming in from Boston this morning."

"I will."

"You want me to get the light?"

"No, I'll get it." Blair picked up a notebook and pen from his nightstand. "I've gotta do my homework first."

"Homework?"

"From Dr. Hawthorne. I'm supposed to keep a journal. Dreams, flashbacks, that kind of stuff."

Jim nodded. "Good night."

"G'night."

Jim left, closing the door behind him. Blair opened the notebook and began to write. He was still writing when he heard Jim get up, four hours later.

Jim walked into Simon's office carrying the overnight package. It was about damn time the Boston PD had sent Wainwright's mask. Bad enough it had taken them three weeks to get hold of Wainwright in the first place--he'd been out of the country on business and unreachable--but Boston PD had put up so many bureaucratic road blocks that Simon had ended up going to the Commissioner just to get some cooperation.

The Captain and Blair were already there, Simon seated behind his desk, Blair standing at the windows, staring out at the city, the morning's fifth cup of coffee clutched in his hand. If Jim hadn't already known, the caffeine overdosing would have made it clear that Blair hadn't slept after his nightmare last night. He'd almost called the younger man on it back at the loft, but he wasn't sure it would do any good. He knew Blair would be embarrassed if he brought it up, and there was enough between them now without adding more.

Maybe it was better to wait Blair out, let him talk when he was ready. Dr. Hawthorne was supposed to be helping him with this stuff. Maybe Blair was talking to her about the nightmares and didn't want to discuss them with anyone else. Maybe she'd told him not to, for some reason. She did have him keeping that journal. Maybe Blair was supposed to write this stuff down instead of talking to anyone else about it. He could ask her--no, he couldn't. Blair's therapy was confidential. If his partner didn't want to tell him anything, that was that. Besides, Blair was pretty tense right now. They'd stopped off at the hospital on the way to work so Blair could have blood taken to test for STD's. Jim had offered to go in with him, but Blair had refused. He knew the kid was trying to downplay this, so he wouldn't worry. Hell, if Blair hadn't promised Dr. Hawthorne he'd go today, Jim was sure the kid wouldn't even have told him about it. Jim didn't like that, but he wouldn't push. Just like he wouldn't push about the dreams. But, God, it was killing him, having to keep waking Blair from these nightmares. Nightmares that had the kid screaming his name--his name, not Ponytail's--and pleading with him to stop whatever horror was going on in Blair's sleeping mind. The nightmares had to stop. If it was this bad for him, what must it be like for Blair?

Jim dropped the box onto the table. Blair winced, turning from the window. "Careful, man, that mask could be hundreds of years old."

"And it could have been made la