Disclaimer: Pet Fly created this universe. I just play there.

Warnings: Soap opera-style medicine herein.

Author's Notes: For Alberte.

Detective Ellison



Jim Ellison sat on the edge of the hospital bed, swinging his heels. He hated hospitals. Hated everything about them. The way they smelled, the way it was always freezing, the food, the way nurses woke you up in the middle of the night to ask if you wanted a pain pill. Everything.

Hopefully, they wouldn't be keeping him here much longer. Sure, he'd been KO'd and unconscious for a little while, but he was awake now, fine except for a slight headache, they'd looked at his pupils and given him the usual checklist, do you know your name, James Joseph Ellison, do you know what year it is, 1996, etcetera.

Now he was just waiting for them to release him. He'd asked them to hurry it up, because he was on a case. He had a lead on the Switchman, if the trail got cold because he was cooling his heels in the ER, and somebody got killed in the next bombing, he'd hold Cascade General responsible.

He looked up when the doctor came in, frowning in surprise at the man who accompanied her. "Simon? Since when does the captain of Major Crimes show up to give one of his men a ride back to the station?" He joked, uneasily. Why would they call Simon Banks down here? He'd been clobbered from behind, not shot, nothing serious. Then a thought struck him. "Did Carolyn find another email?"

"An email..." Banks repeated slowly, looking at the doctor.

"From the Switchman, what's he going to blow next?"

"Detective Ellison," his doctor began, stuffing her fists into the pockets of her lab coat. "I'm afraid I have some unsettling news... you seem to be experiencing some recent long-term memory loss. The year is not 1996. It is 1998."

Ellison stared at her. "You've got to be kidding." He glanced warily at his old friend, but Banks looked slightly at sea himself. "You're not kidding. It's 1998. Did we ever catch him?"

Banks hesitated. "Yes, Jim. You caught him."

That settled, Ellison returned his attention to his doctor again. "This is gonna get better, right? I mean, my memory will come back?"

"I can't say for certain. It should begin to come back to you in bits and pieces over the next few days, if it will at all. I do suggest you go home, spend some time with family and friends... in familiar surroundings. It will help trigger memories."

"I don't have family," he started, and then froze. "I didn't get married or anything, did I?" He brought a shaky hand up to run over his face, gingerly probing the tender, painful patch and the butterfly bandage at his left temple, as he contemplated the gap in his memory. Banks shook his head and he let out a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't have to deal with some stranger he was supposed to know intimately and didn't. "I don't have family, and most of my friends are people I work with. I feel fine, doc, can't I go back to work? I'll ride a desk, I just figure that if I'm supposed to be in familiar surroundings, the bullpen is my best bet."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Banks began, then relented. "Maybe on a part-time basis."

"You should certainly go home and get some rest for today," the doctor insisted, and finally released him.

Banks kept shooting him odd little sidelong glances as they made their way to the parking garage. Probably deciding what to do with a detective who'd lost his mind, or part of it.

"What's the last thing you remember, Jim?"

Ellison shrugged. "You'd just given me the go ahead to stakeout the old lumber mill in Auburn. I packed up my camping gear, started hauling it down to the land rover, boom, I wake up in an ambulance. So what happened to me?"

"According to the witnesses, you came out of the diner over on Copeland, and this guy was waiting for you. Big guy, over six foot, dark hair and a beard, wearing jeans and a blue sweatshirt. Decked you, and the back of your head hit the sidewalk pretty hard."

"Ouch. It's not ringing any bells, though." An ambulance screamed by, heading for the ER entrance, and Ellison's entire world became pain. He crumpled to the garage floor, clapping his hands over his ears as what felt like hot acid was poured into them, running down his spine. Tears came to his eyes and he clenched them shut as well. When he could speak, he choked out, "What the hell was that?"

Banks was trying to help him stand, looking almost as panicked as he felt. "I think it was a... a sensory spike."

"Spike." Jim staggered to his feet. "Yeah, feels like somebody just drove one through my ears. Damn doctor didn't warn me about that... maybe I should go in and get checked out again, get a second opinion..."

"Jim." Banks looked very uncomfortable. "Does the word 'sentinel' mean anything to you?"

"No, why?"

The captain sighed wearily. "Let's get you to the car. I'll tell you on the way."

Banks explained it to him. That after losing the Switchman at the lumber mill, he had come in to ask for a leave of absence, complaining of these strange sensory episodes. That Simon had refused, telling him to go see a specialist and get checked out. That what he'd found was an anthropologist, a student at Rainier University named Blair Sandburg, who'd told Ellison that he was a sentinel, that he had hyperactive senses, something that had been common among the human race in prehistoric times but had been lost to modern man. That he'd captured the Switchman, and brought Sandburg in to get observer's credentials because these sentinels needed someone with them, because of the spikes and something called zones, mild catatonia. That Jim had originally tried to pass Sandburg off as his cousin's kid, but had eventually told Simon the truth after he'd seen Jim in action when the HQ was taken over by the Sunrise Patriots. Not long after Sandburg's place had been blown up by drug dealers and he'd moved in and was still living with Jim.

Ellison stared at him. "It isn't nice to tease people with head injuries, sir."

Banks looked him in the eye. "Jim, you know me. Could I possibly make up a story like this?"

Ellison reluctantly had to admit that he doubted it. He still didn't quite believe any of it, even the amnesia, until they got to the loft.

It was green. And there was all this... stuff... in it. The loft he'd left that morning had been white, with painted kitchen cabinets, and had been decorated in 'early divorced guy.'

Now the walls were dark green, and the kitchen cabinets had been stripped and refinished to the natural wood. There was a big yellow armchair he'd never seen before, and when he turned to close the front door he found a Red Heron Fishhooks poster pasted to the back of it. A string of braided garlic hung in the kitchen. There were french doors where the curtain had been hanging in the doorway to the spare room. Woven folk art tapestries hanging from the walls, framed photographs and Indian-patterned pottery on the shelves. It certainly looked like an anthropology student lived here.

"Guess I've got to believe you," Jim sighed. "There's no way anybody could set this up in a couple of hours. Paint wouldn't have time to dry." He rattled the knob of one of the french doors, and it opened. Bookshelves, a small desk littered with textbooks and papers, a futon opened into a bed with a batik-print bedspread. He stared at the arrows and a horned demon-mask decorating the walls. Sandburg's room. "Don't even know where you'd find half this stuff. Unless the Addams Family had a garage sale."

Banks laughed at that a little, and Ellison scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to take in the enormity of how his life had changed. He walked back, noting that the green paint really darkened the main room, there'd always been a glare off the white walls. He wondered if painting it that color had been his idea or the college kid's. Speaking of which... "So... where is this resident expert and loyal sidekick of mine? I should probably tell him he's gonna have to start from scratch, here."

Banks' face fell. "Well... there's a small problem with that, Jim."

A problem with Sandburg. It didn't really ring any bells but it sounded familiar. "What?"

Banks sighed and sat down on the couch. Jim leaned against the nearby post. "It all started with your last case. You tracked down the killer by tracing an obscure brand of breath mints he chewed obsessively. We were congratulating you, and, well, I guess too much was made of you being able to smell the breath mint... you got pissy about being a good detective without your senses. So the kid came up with a challenge. He's in hiding. You've got three days to find him, starting this morning. He said he was going to leave clues, nothing too obvious, but enough to give you a lead."

Ellison bristled at that, the suggestion that he was nothing but a bunch of souped-up nerve endings, that he couldn't solve a case without some kind of an edge, but shrugged it off. "Well, I guess he'll come home on his own when it's over. You said I left my car on Copeland?"

"I had a uniform bring it here. And it's a blue and white '69 Ford Ranger pickup. The red land rover was three vehicles ago," Banks said, frowning. "You aren't going to look for the kid?"

Ellison frowned back. "Sensory spikes. Zone outs. So I get a couple of headaches, I'll watch myself to keep from going into a trance... what, are you saying I can't survive for three days without this Sandburg babysitting me?"

"No, I'm not saying that. Not under ordinary circumstances. But you said it yourself, you're back to square one with this thing. The senses are there, but you don't know how to control them."

"So I'll be careful. Look, Simon, as much as I'd like to go play hide and seek, right now my priority is getting my memory back and finding out why this guy attacked me."

"You're right," Banks admitted reluctantly. "But Sandburg may be able to help you with the memory, he does this hypnosis thing, he's helped you remember details for cases before. I want you to rest. I've got Joel and Megan working on rounding up witnesses, getting a description and an ID. Come in around four, you can take a look at your recent case files."

"Sure thing." Ellison showed him to the door, then wondered aloud, "Who the hell are Joel and Megan?" The only Joel he knew was the captain of the bomb squad. Must be some new guy. And gal.

He ran a hand over his head, fingering the longer strands of hair and wondering when he'd grown out the buzzcut, then walked over to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Milk. Orange juice. Cans of soda and bottles of beer. Eggs. Pickles. Red and blue lidded Tupperware. He opened the meat-keeper and found a pound of bacon. A quick search turned up lettuce, tomatoes, fresh bread, and potato chips. Good, BLT sounded good for lunch.

He put on the TV. Mostly soaps and daytime television, thank god for cable. He changed channels until he found 'The Best Of This Old House' and left that on. Still, the idea that he'd let some strange guy move in with him nagged at him, like an itch he couldn't scratch. Dumb, really. Sandburg wasn't just some strange guy to the Jim Ellison who'd been hit over the head this morning. Banks had made it sound like he and the kid were attached at the hip. For what? Two years, going on three?

He got up and prowled around a little. On one of the bookshelves, flanked by two large yellow pillar candles that smelled like jasmine, there was a framed photograph. He recognized himself, dressed in fishing clothes, a rocky streambed in the background. He didn't know the younger man grinning proudly and holding up a beaut of a salmon and a weird-looking forked stick. He had shoulder-length curling brown hair, and there was a glint of silver at one ear. Earrings. "Sandburg," he identified tentatively. "Blair. Sandburg." The name felt familiar, the shape of it in his mouth, the sound of it.

So this was Sandburg. He was sure of it, but he didn't know if he recognized him or was just guessing. He supposed it was possible that this was somebody else he'd taken on a fishing trip and not Sandburg at all. Looking at the picture he did some quick math and shook off a sudden panicked supposition. Nah. The age might work but he was sure Banks would have mentioned it if a son he hadn't known about had turned up between '96 and now. Banks would have said something when he asked if he'd gotten married or anything. This had to be Sandburg.

He studied the photograph with new interest. Funny, but when Banks had told him about the anthropology grad student studying this sentinel stuff, he'd pictured someone... more academic looking. Older. Tweed instead of flannel. More of a mentor. Looked like he was a bit of a mentor to the kid. He smiled slightly at the thought.

He'd lost contact with Danny Choi when he'd gone undercover... he'd been in college, still following the old man's plan and the Big Brother program had the right mix of civic awareness for a future resume. The young Jim, faced with being a surrogate father-figure, had simply taken his mental list of all the things his own father had promised and never gotten around to and worked his way through it, not just doing stuff, but being there to listen, and talking to the younger boy like an equal. He had felt a kind of near-paternal pride when he came home from Peru and learned Danny had joined the police force, as he himself planned to.

It was nice to think he still had that kind of relationship in his life. One close friendship. He assumed he liked Sandburg or he wouldn't be letting the kid live in his spare room. It wasn't like these senses were some kind of disability that required round the clock supervision. He wasn't an invalid. Banks had said Sandburg's old place had been blown up by the drug lab next door. He'd probably let the kid stay for a few days then casually made it permanent to keep him out of that kind of neighborhood. Unless Sandburg came from money, college was expensive and if he spent his days tagging along with him and taking notes, then he wasn't earning much. Again, he thought that Sandburg lived off scholarships, grant money, and part-time jobs when school was out... but he couldn't tell if he was remembering or guessing.

He hated this... this feeling like there was a piece missing, inside.

It was an unsettling feeling. For most of his life, the one person he could always trust was himself. Now, he couldn't trust his own memory, and apparently his body betrayed him occasionally. At least the last echoes of that ambulance siren were fading.

Food. When in doubt, eat. You never know if you'll get another chance. An old lesson from his Ranger days.

The frying pan was where he'd left it, that morning, three years ago. Ellison got out the stuff for his BLT. Light mayo? He shrugged, and started step one of sandwich assembly, frying bacon. Fat spit and popped. First strips were cooked, nice and crispy. He forked them out and set them on folded paper towels to drain and cool, and dropped another set of strips into the pan. The smell seemed to go straight up his nose and into his stomach, making his mouth water in anticipation. Mmmm. Maybe he'd make two. Might as well cook all the bacon since he had it out now. One mess to clean up.

Cooked bacon out. Raw bacon in. It sizzled. The golden brown grease bubbled up, tiny opalescent bubbles forming and bursting as the strips of bacon curled and floated... and he choked on the thick cloud of smoke blowing into his face. Ellison stared at the stovetop inferno in momentary shock, then carefully turned off the heat, and grabbed a flat lid to smother the smoldering pan. When he was sure the fire was out, he flipped a switch to start the fan that vented the kitchen into an airshaft, then slowly walked over to the couch and sat down, burying his face in his hands.

He'd zoned. On bacon grease. And damn near burned the loft down around his ears.

How long had he been standing there like a freaking statue helpless while the pan burst into flames? How long would he have stood there, letting it burn?

He shook with fear and humiliation. Helpless. He'd been trying to deny what this sentinel crap had done to him, but he couldn't. Not now. He could have killed himself, he could have destroyed the building. Left the residents of the other lofts homeless, closed the businesses on the ground floor.

Because he'd zoned. On bacon grease.

Is this what his life was like now? Pain and helplessness? Hell, what was he still doing out on the street, carrying a gun? He should have taken retirement. What the hell was he doing with a civilian observer following him around on cases? He couldn't keep the kid safe, he couldn't even cook a pan of bacon...

No. Banks had told him that ordinarily there'd be no problem with his being on his own, that he was only worried that Ellison had forgotten everything Sandburg had taught him about controlling his senses. And Sandburg was hiding from him now for some game, he'd wanted to prove that he could solve a case without using his senses, so they had to be more of an asset than a liability in general terms. He could think of a couple of uses if he had control... fine tune his nose and who'd need a drug or bomb sniffing dog.

Okay. He had these heightened senses. He'd dealt with them, he'd found Sandburg, Sandburg had taught him enough to be able to function. The problem was that he'd forgotten everything Sandburg had taught him. The solution was to find Sandburg.

Ellison got up and fixed himself his sandwich. He'd always been a pragmatic man. When in doubt, eat. You never know if you'll get another chance. Then he cleaned up the kitchen. Luckily there wasn't any damage, just one big mess.

After cleaning up the kitchen, he walked over to the spare room, Sandburg's room, and went inside.

The basic starting points to track someone down. Place of residence, place of business, known associates, known hangouts. He'd start with tossing the residence, since he shared it. Sandburg was supposed to have left him a clue to get started, this was as logical a place to look as any.

The place was decorated in 'Pier 1'. And kind of cluttered. Kid must be either very rent-poor, dedicated to the sentinel project, or a claustrophile to have lived here for so long. The futon bed, covered with a variety of wildly colored throw pillows, took up a lot of room. There was also a desk, a chest of drawers and a couple of small tables, as well as a floor to ceiling bookcase. A woven rug of grey and white stripes.

He walked over to the desk, picked up a photo in a carved frame. The long-haired kid, definitely Sandburg, with a real knock-out of a redhead. Probably not a clue. He turned on the brass desk lamp and started looking. Textbooks. A spiral-bound notebook looked interesting, paging through it found only lecture notes. Ellison read a few pages, in spite of himself, impressed. Sandburg must be one hell of a good teacher to make this dry historical stuff interesting. It was giving him a better feel for who this Sandburg was, what kind of man he was, but it wasn't helping locate him. He opened the desk drawer. More old papers. Paperclips, a black BIC round stic medium with the cap chewed up. He went over to the small table that served as a nightstand. There was a notepad there, with a phone number scrawled on it. That might be something, he'd check it out later. Right now it was time to go to work.

On his way out the door, he noticed the message light blinking on the answering machine. He played the message. "This is Stables and Royale, the copy of 'Bed And Breakfast: The Best Inns Of The Washington Coast' by Paige Turner that Blair Sandburg ordered is in." The time stamp on the message was for yesterday. Plenty of time for Sandburg to have heard it. Was this the clue or was Sandburg just planning a romantic weekend with a ladyfriend? Ellison pulled on his jacket and headed out the door.

There was indeed a beautifully restored '69 Ford Ranger pickup, two-toned in cream and turquoise, parked in his parking spot. Nice, but he wondered what had happened to his beloved 'Red Rover. Banks had said that was three vehicles ago. He winced, wondering how he'd managed to wreck so many vehicles in such a short period of time, and what it had done to his insurance. He paused, considering what would happen if he had one of these zoning fits while driving, and caught a cab.

Stepping off the elevator left him with a subtle disconnected feel. The changes in the loft had been more obvious, but there were changes here too... familiar but different. In a way, it was like coming back to the States after Peru. But he'd only lost eighteen months in the jungle.

A pretty redhead was coming out of the Major Crimes bullpen as he approached it. He didn't know her, but he smiled in tentative greeting, and in appreciation of the amethyst purple scoop-neck top she was wearing. The way her face lit up when she saw him was promising, maybe life post-sentinel wasn't as bleak as he'd feared.

"Ooh Jim, Joel and Megan found the guy that assaulted you, you just won't believe his story though. That must've hurt, are you feeling better?"

He waved a hand at his head. "Better, but I uh..."

She smiled, understanding. "Cassie Welles. Forensics. I hope you get your memory back soon, but, we kind of got off on the wrong foot when we met, so, when you do remember, I'd like a fresh start."

He gave her his best 'Ellison Charm' smile, "Well, it isn't every day you get a second chance to make a first impression." and was pleased at the way she smiled at him. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, watching her walk away. She seemed nice, he wondered why they had gotten off on the wrong foot. Of course, Carolyn had hated his guts the first three months they had known each other. And the last three months of their marriage...

Ellison looked around the bullpen, which was empty except for Brown and some flashy dresser, both of whom were busy. He walked over to the captain's office and knocked. Banks called "Come in."

"So I hear it's all over?" he asked, shutting the door behind him.

Banks looked up with a grin. "You've been working a series of restaurant robberies. You interviewed one of the witnesses, a waitress, while her husband was supposed to be at work, but he comes home early, and sees you coming out of the house..."

Ellison began to grin. "Oh man, Simon, you're telling me I got beat up by a jealous husband?"

Banks shook his head. "Sandburg would be proud."

Ellison's smile faded and he rubbed his chin. "Speaking of Sandburg... I'm going to track him down."

"Oh yeah?" Banks said mildly.

"Yeah. I'm never going to have a better chance to prove I can do this without the hyped-up senses, since I can't use them. And I'm not really getting my memory back, if the kid can help me with that... I figure the sooner the better. So, if you don't need me... I'm heading over to Rainier to look at his office. Hargrove Hall, right?"

"Right. Go on. I'd say, good luck, but you are a good cop, you don't need it."

Ellison managed a wry smile at the compliment, and left. It took awhile to get to the University, to find Hargrove Hall and to find Sandburg's office. He admired the etched glass panel in the door, a stylized wolf. The office was a lot like the kid's bedroom. Books and artifacts. A coffee mug with the PD seal held highlighters and red marking pens. A notepad was placed neatly in the middle of the desk. A little too neatly. And in the by now familiar handwriting was Stables And Royale, and the address.

Hmm. Time to check out this bookstore.

He walked into the Stables and Royale, and checked it out. No Sandburg drinking overpriced coffee in the cafe. No Sandburg browsing through CDs. No Sandburg curled up reading in one of the oversized armchairs. He got into line. A stern look and a flash of his badge got the teenager at the till to confirm Sandburg had picked up his book.

Dead end. Ellison had been sure... he had a rule about erasing messages on the answering machine as soon as you'd heard it... the fact that the message has still been on, a day after it came in... the notepad with the store's address had been so deliberately placed...

Ellison frowned, and marched over to the travel section. They had a copy of the book. Flipping through it, he found that one of the recommended Bed and Breakfast joints was here in Cascade. Hollyberry House. Sometimes you just had to follow a hunch. He made a note of the address.

Blair Sandburg put the paint roller down in its tray and looked at the freshly painted midnight blue wall in satisfaction. Hal and Gloria had been glad to give him a temporary place to stay... they weren't booked and another hand with the redecorating the place was certainly welcome.

He walked down the newly carpeted hallway and stairs and headed down to the lobby. Hal was just finishing stenciling holly leaves and berries onto the front of the reception desk.

"Hey, it's starting to shape up," Blair commented.

Hal looked up, and grinned. A fine-boned man in his late fifties, with thinning hair pulled back in a grey-washed ponytail. Blair had known him most of his life and privately had him in the top five of the Dad list, of his mother's old boyfriends.

"Yeah, it looks nice."

They both turned as the bell to the front door jingled. "Oh boy, the unhappy honeymooners," Hal muttered. "The neighbors," he explained in an aside to Blair as the door opened and a thin girl, not far out of her teens, stepped hesitantly into the lobby. She had a cheap suitcase, and a black eye.

"Can I rent a room? Just for today?"

Gloria came to the door of the office, behind the reception desk. "You want a room for the rest of today?"

"I... I'm leaving him. My flight home leaves tonight at six... I just want somewhere to wait..." His composure broke. Gloria swooped around the desk, put an arm around the thin, shaking shoulders, comforting her and taking her back to the kitchen.

The men traded the weary glance of good men in an unfair world, and went back to work.

Blair finished painting in the room he was working on, and got a first coat on in one of the other ones. He cleaned up, put the paint and stuff away, and washed up, planning to offer to give that poor kid a lift to the airport.

He found her in the kitchen, helping Gloria put down new shelf paper and talking animatedly about her plans to go back to school, get her GED, then maybe community college and computers. She accepted his offer with a quick thanks, and he headed back out to find Hal.

Hal was in the office, setting up the accounting program on the new computer. Blair gave him a hand, and they almost had it installed when the bell tinkled again.

"Gee," Hal muttered. "We ought to close for remodeling more often, we get more foot traffic this way."

Blair followed Hal out, grinning at the tall man in the foyer. Jim. He hadn't expected Jim to catch up with him this soon. Unless Jim had put an APB out on his Volvo, and that was against the rules. This contest was supposed to be one-on-one. One detective's skill at detecting versus one anthropologist's skill at going to ground, blending in, and disappearing.

"I'm looking for a Blair Sandburg..." Jim was saying in his 'official' voice.

"You found him." Blair came around Hal's shoulder. "Damn, Jim, you are good." Then he got a better look at him. "Oh man! What happened to your face?"

"Occupational hazard."

Hal shook his head. "So we're losing our unpaid labor?"

Blair patted his shoulder. "Nah. Deal's a deal, I'll come back tomorrow and help. Just let me grab my stuff... oh, and I've got to give someone a ride to the airport, so I'll meet you back at the loft."

Jim smiled faintly. "I was hoping for a lift, I took a cab here."

Blair frowned. "You took a cab? What happened to your truck?"

"Didn't feel like driving."

"What, you wrecked another one?" Blair frowned. Jim seemed... off. Probably had a headache with that bruise covering half his forehead and that cut, and probably hadn't felt like playing this game. "Well, if you can stand a side trip to the airport?"

Jim gave a little wave of acknowledgment. Blair ran upstairs to grab the duffelbag he hadn't unpacked yet, and Hal went to get the neighbor girl.

Unfortunately, when the three of them left, a scrawny kid just barely out of his teens, who had been sitting on the porch of a rundown house across the street with a beer in his hands, came over at a slow jog, face red with fury.

"Luanne! Where the hell you think you going?"

"I told you Ronnie. You hit me once, I'm going home."

"I didn't hit you, you know that. Sure I pushed you and you fell..."

"Hey look, maybe you guys just need some space, let her have some time to herself..." Blair started, just trying to defuse the situation so they could leave.

Ronnie glared at him, eyes narrowing. "Stay out of this, pretty boy, it ain't none of your business."

"But it's mine," Jim said mildly, pulling out his badge. "Cascade PD. Would you like to press charges against this man, ma'am?"

"No officer. I just want to go." Luanne lifted her chin. "Get on with my life."

Like most bullies, faced with someone he couldn't intimidate, Ronnie backed down. They took Luanne to the airport. On the drive home, Jim told him what had happened.

"So you don't remember anything?" Blair asked. It was kind of a weird feeling, knowing that Jim... this Jim... didn't know him from Adam, but it explained the polite distance he'd felt from Jim. Jim asked about the memory recovery technique, and Blair agreed to try it.

Back at the loft, he told Jim to go sit down on the couch, and get comfortable. Jim did, looking around the loft with an oddly wistful expression.

"So, this works, I'll get my memory back... you get your 'sentinel' back..."


He nodded a little, and to Blair's surprise, stuck out his hand. "Nice meeting you, Chief."

When the memory returned and reintegrated, then this man, the man Jim had been, would once again become part of his past. Blair shook his hand solemnly. "Pleasure meeting you, Detective Ellison," he paused. "Close your eyes and take a deep breath..."

~ End ~

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Page last updated 8/15/03.