The number turned out to be a residential phone belonging to a Roger Cho, and in less than an hour Jim and Blair were parked in front of a flimsy-looking bungalow in the northwest suburbs. If Trager and his buddies are into something illegal, Jim thought, they're not very good at It. The blinds were drawn, and throwaway papers and takeout menus had piled up on the cracked concrete doorstep.

But as he and Blair walked to the door, he could hear a voice inside, speaking quietly but in great distress: "Please please please, oh please, God, just let this be over. Just finish this one way or another because I can't take it anymore. Please, oh God please..."

Glad that Blair couldn't hear the miserable litany coming from inside, Jim knocked softly at the door. The inhabitant gave a startled gasp, then froze. Jim knocked again. "Roger Cho! Cascade Police. We have a couple of questions we'd like to ask you, so open up, please."

A half a minute later the door cracked open, revealing a sliver of face: a dark eye with even darker circles under it, a tearstained cheek, and unkempt hair, above a shirtless torso and sweatpants. Jim flashed his badge. "I'm Detective James Ellison, and this is my partner, Blair Sandburg. Can we come in and ask you a few questions?"

"Ellison and Sandburg?" Cho gave a slightly hysterical giggle. "Just my luck. Normally I'd be glad to see you but now is not a good time."

"I'm afraid we don't have a choice," Jim said. "If you need medical attention, I can call for an ambulance."

"It's not my safety you should be worry about."

Jim pushed Blair further behind him, away from what he assumed was a threat, and slowly drew his service revolver. "What do you mean, Roger?"

"Ask your guide," Cho said huskily.

Jim looked in surprise at Blair, who had grown pale and was staring intently back at Roger. "Jim, he's in bad shape. I think it's Fincham Syndrome." The words shoved Jim back into unpleasant memories. Refusing a guide, Jim had allowed his senses to spin out of control, into not a zone but its evil twin, a state of sensory saturation in which he could hear, see, smell and taste everything in the world at once. Blair had rescued him from this maelstrom of despair and inevitable death. If Roger Cho was headed into the same storm, he needed to get Blair out of there as quickly as possible.

"Have you called the GDP? I'm sure they can send someone to help," Jim said, holstering his gun and reaching for his cell phone, all the while pushing Blair away, away, away.

"Those assholes? Who do you think let me get like this?" Cho's eyes already looked crazy. "They wrote me off a long time ago. If I go back now, they'll just drug me up. So why don't you get out of here and let me die. I know that's what's going to happen. I'd rather do it here than where those bastards can watch and videotape the whole thing for their fucking research." He was crying again, and Jim could see Blair responding, his empathic abilities being drawn like a moth to a dying flame. He put a hand on Jim's shoulder and turned him away from the door, giving Cho a reassuring smile.

"Roger, can you give us a minute? I promise we won't call the GDP. Just relax. Why don't you leave the door open and go lie down. How about putting on some music? You got anything classical, like Mozart? Or how about some reggae? That always makes me feel better." Roger nodded, actually looking calmer, probably as a result of Blair's soothing guide voice more than his helpful suggestions. As soon as Cho moved away from the door, Blair began whispering urgently to Jim. "Jim, I'm going to suggest something, and I know you're not going to like it at first, so just..."

"No."

"Oh, man, just hear me out, OK? You know what Roger is going through, I know you do. Whatever his problem is with the GDP it's obvious that we can't take him there. They'd just put him in a padded room and drug him up. If I..."

"No. I know what you're going to suggest. There's absolutely no way I'm going to let you connect with him. My God, Blair, he's an unbonded sentinel in full arrest. Best case, you're going to have channel away a sensory overload that he could have been developing for months. At worst he could try to force a bonding with you. And this is me talking, by the way, not the Dark Sentinel, so you can forget about working that angle." It was all perfectly reasonable, and as usual Jim felt hopelessly outmatched by what he knew was going to be a barrage of compassionate non-argument.

"He's dying. Not now, but it won't be long. Are you really suggesting we just walk away?" Blair's voice had dropped down into the deep, urgent register he used when stressed, or seriously pissed off. "Jim, I held my own against four unbonded sentinels while I was drugged out of my gourd, and you weren't even there. This is one unbonded sentinel, and I don't think a very strong one at that. And you'll be here to pull me out if anything gets out of hand. Please Jim--you know I respect your wishes as sentinel, but this is something I have to do." His hands were hovering just above Jim's shoulders, obviously wanting to touch but afraid, whether of Jim's anger or his refusal to be sweet-talked Jim didn't know. He did know that he was arguing from fear, and that Blair would know it--the Dark Sentinel had padded out from his lair at the first suggestion of someone else connecting with his guide.

He couldn't ask Blair to promise him he wouldn't get hurt; he wouldn't lie to Jim that way, no matter how much he might need it. On the whole it might be safer to go along with him, and reserve the right to pull him out of there, kicking and screaming, if necessary, if things got bad. The sooner he gave in, the less leverage he'd be giving up. "OK. But not alone. The second anything goes wrong, I'm calling the GDP."

Blair had already relaxed and was looking elated, a sign that Jim had learned meant that he was about to do something risky that he shouldn't be doing. Jim gave him a last reproachful, hopeless look before pushing open the door and stepping into the lair of an unbonded sentinel.

It was pleasant enough, much more so than the exterior, and although the blinds had been drawn Jim could see easily the general outlines of decent Scandinavian furniture and framed photos on the wall. Roger Cho himself was huddled, shivering, on a blocky cream-colored sofa, clutching a tasseled pillow that looked like it had gone ten rounds and lost.

Blair advanced on him slowly, hands raised. "Roger, my sentinel has agreed to let me try to help you."

Jim knew that gentle tone well, low and tinged with perfect compassion. It shouldn't have been used for anyone else, but Jim had given his word, and there was little he could do now but watch.

"With your permission, I'd like to try to connect with you. I can't bond with you, you know that, but I can try to channel away the overload, and at least get you back to a point that you can handle the input. How about it, Roger?" Blair opened his eyes wide and smiled, the way you did when you were trying to get a child to take medicine. "You want to try that?"

Cho looked at Blair wonderingly, his eyes still damp, and nodded slowly. "You can really do that? Without him killing me?"

Blair beamed at him, which Jim didn't exactly like. Was Blair really taking Jim's reaction so lightly, or was he just try to reassure Cho?

"He's housebroken, I promise," Blair said. "He not thrilled but he understands. He's just going to stay near in case I need his help, OK?"

Cho nodded again as Blair moved toward him, as if at the approach of some exotic animal that speaking might scare away. He scooted to the corner of the sofa to make room for Blair, who settled down close to him. Too close. Jim steeled himself for the inevitable, as Blair extended his miraculous touch toward Cho, hand resting on the back of his sweat-sheened neck.

As Blair's hand made contact, Cho whimpered, eyes flying wide. "It's OK, Roger, I know it's a little intense now, but just relax. Close your eyes and lie back. That's it...just let it all go and let me take over for a while."

Cho settled back, not trying to resist that irresistible voice, while Blair kept up the calming, meaningless babble. He could do it for hours, Jim knew that well, but all the while it seemed that Blair's energy was being drained from him, like the charge from a battery. Going into another sentinel, making him strong, while Jim's guide grew weaker and more vulnerable with each moment.

After interminable minutes of this, Cho's eyes fluttered open again, and he smiled at Blair. It was a nice smile, Jim had to admit, full of warmth and gratitude, and Jim hated it. He hated it even more when Cho reached up and hooked a hand around Blair's neck, pulling the unresisting guide toward him and against his shoulder, where he wrapped him in a peaceful and gentle embrace.

Jim watched for a few seconds in open-mouthed disbelief before pouncing. "Goddammit, if you're trying to bond with my guide, I'll kill you!" He grabbed Blair's shoulder, wrenching him out of the other sentinel's grasp. Startled out of the link, Blair overbalanced and slid off the sofa, falling at Jim's feet and grabbing the front of his shirt to haul himself up to his feet, his face no more than an inch from Jim's.

"Jesus, Jim, are you nuts?" His tone was a yell, but his voice no more than a harsh whisper, for Cho's sake, Jim surmised jealously. "Do you know how dangerous that is, pulling me out like that? You could send him into a hard zone, not to mention the massive headache I'm going to have later..."

Jim said nothing, letting his expression do the talking. Blair evidently got the message because he immediately backed down, bowing his head and lowering his voice. "Sentinel, I didn't mean it. I know this is difficult for you. Just give me a few minutes and then we can get out of here."

Somewhere in Jim regret already hovered, but the picture of Blair in another sentinel's embrace was burned in his mind like an afterimage from the sun. "We're leaving. Do what you have to, and then I'm taking my guide home." With that he stalked to the door and stood there, arms folded, vibrating with impatience to get going, not wanting to see any more of the scene on the couch. Behind him Blair spoke quietly.

"Sorry about that, Roger. Jim's a little impatient, that's all. How are you feeling?"

"Good." Jim heard Roger pass a hand through his thick, black hair. Or maybe the hand was Blair's. "I feel like a human being again. I feel good. Really good. A little tired, maybe. I'm not sure if I had anything to eat today, either."

"How about your senses?"

"Normal. Normal for me, anyway. Blair, I don't know how to thank you. Are you OK? Your sentinel's not going to punish you for this, is he? Please tell me he's not. I won't let you get hurt, I promise that."

Great, now the little twerp was offering to protect his guide from his sentinel. "Sandburg!" he barked. "I said we're leaving. Now."

Annoyingly, Blair just kept talking to Cho. "Do you have somebody you can call to stay with you for a while?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend. If she's still talking to me. I've been pretty pissy for the last few days."

"I don't doubt that, man," Blair laughed. "Take care of yourself and don't do anything to overload your senses for the next few days, OK? Oh, and Jim still needs to talk to you about a case he's working on."

"Any time. I owe you big, Blair, I mean it." Jim strenuously ignored whatever cloth-on-skin contact formed their good-bye.

Blair moved to the door, subdued now and clearly exhausted. Jim tried hard not to notice; acknowledging Blair's depleted state would mean opening himself to the emotions of the experience, and he wasn't ready to do that. Not here, in another sentinel's territory.

Blair scrunched down in the passenger seat of the truck, feeling as if the seatbelt were the only thing keeping him upright. He was so empty now that it hurt, and with something like the queasy feeling that came from days without eating. He wasn't really empty, he knew that; he was filled with the accumulated pain of Roger's days of chaos, and only contact with his sentinel could drain it away. But doing that meant touching Jim, who hadn't looked his way once since they'd left the house, and was about as approachable as a porcupine. He's not really angry, Blair had to keep reminding himself. He's just holding it in, for my sake, so I don't have to deal with that, too. Everything will be fine once we get home. Never mind that he'd done the guide equivalent of committing adultery on the front steps of city hall. Jim would have it out with the Dark Sentinel and win. He always did. In the meantime, though, he seemed to be hitting every pothole of Cascade's endless supply. Blair wrapped his arms around himself and willed it to be over soon.

Jim's control lasted until about a second after the door to the loft slammed shut. He wheeled around, blocking the door and thereby implying that Blair might have a good reason to want to leave.

"What the hell do you think you were doing, guide?" Jim yelled. "Bonding with another sentinel? Is that what you want, to get rid of me? Because I promise you the only way that's going to happen is if one of us dies." He was only a hand-length taller than Blair, but he seemed to be towering over him, the Dark Sentinel reveling in his primitive rage.

Blair dropped to his knees, grateful not to be standing at least, and touched his head to the floor for good measure. It was a gesture of profound obedience, guide to sentinel, and one that Jim particularly despised. Blair hoped he wouldn't blame himself too much when he came back to himself.

"Sentinel, I give you my word I only connected to the other sentinel to help him gain control of his senses, as we agreed. I am your Dark Guide, marked and claimed, until death separates us, and after." No response. "If you doubt me, bond with me now. You'll see I'm telling the truth." He wasn't falling for that either. Blair sighed, keeping his eyes down as Jim stalked past him into the living room. Blair took the opportunity to sit back on his heels and pivot around, so he could at least keep a surreptitious eye on Jim's movements.

The Dark Sentinel paced back in forth in front of the bank of windows, scanning for non-existent threats while constantly darting his eyes back to Blair. For the moment, Blair had ceased to be a breathing (and at this point, rapidly cramping) person, and had become simply the Guide, to be defended at all costs.

Which was textbook behavior but also highly inconvenient, since in addition to feeling limp with fatigue, Blair was getting sore knees from the well-buffed hardwood floor. Jim must know that on some level--was he trying to punish him? No, that was impossible--he had only done that once before, when he was almost literally out of his head. No part of Jim really believed that being a sentinel gave him the right to punish, nor did he have any appetite for Blair's suffering. The aching emptiness was draining Blair's faith along with his strength, and he needed to do something quickly to snap them both out of it.

"Sentinel," he called softly. "Jim. I need your help here." Jim instantly stopped his pacing and swiveled to face Blair. The burning eyes, set in an otherwise blank face, did not bode well. Blair had to remind himself that all he was really risking was another half-hour spent contemplating wood grains. "Jim, my barriers are pretty much shot. I know I really tried your patience back there, and you're handling it great, you really are. But I need you back now." That should be enough to start with. If the Dark Sentinel sensed that he was in physical pain, it could trigger a protective reaction that could keep him trapped on the couch for the rest of the day, watching Jim snarl and prowl and retrieve a series of things to be eaten, drunk, or slept under. What Blair had in mind was more a quick bonding to restore his barriers, then maybe fixing some grilled cheese sandwiches and getting back to work.

Jim blinked, and Blair could almost hear Jim processing, the man that was his partner locked in a subconscious negotiation with the instinct-driven sentinel. After a long moment, Jim snapped his head as if to clear it, and hurried to Blair's side, bending down for the second time that day to help him to his feet.

It probably did nothing for Jim's evident and onrushing guilt that Blair wobbled slightly as he rose, the blood rushing back into his lower limbs and away from his aching head. "God, Blair, I'm sorry," he said softly. "You should have whacked me on the head or something. I could have stayed like that all day."

"It's OK. I know this morning was pretty bad. You were entitled to a good prowl. But maybe I could get a rain check for that whack on the head?" Jim hadn't moved his arms, one of which was around Blair's shoulders, the other supporting Blair's left elbow and with it, most of his weight. "I'll be fine. Nothing a couple of aspirin won't fix. After..." In spite of himself, his voice held a little plea. Jim had never refused to bond with him, had let him know that he considered it a right, not a privilege. But Blair always felt a little flutter when he asked, more worried about what Jim's refusal than any actual pain.

"Yeah, and a couple hours of sleep," Jim finished for him. "You're wiped out. C'mon, we'll take care of both at once." Jim piloted him toward Blair's room, but turned just before, at the foot of the steps to the loft. Blair smiled; Jim barely considered his futon a piece of furniture, let alone an adequate place to sleep. He put a hand in the small of Blair's back and pushed. As Blair ascended, the hand became more of a necessary support than a gesture.

The early afternoon sun had penetrated the loft, and motes of dust danced in the beam of light. Jim's bed stretched out before him, blue and pristine as a polar sea. A little push and he sat down gingerly, superstitiously afraid of mussing the covers. Jim bent to pull off his shoes. Embarrassed, Blair leaned over to help, but a wave of vertigo stopped him. He hoped for Jim's sake he wasn't wearing the same socks from yesterday. Jim laid the shoes neatly, side by side, under the night table, then bent and removed his own. To Blair's foggy mind it seemed like a ritual, but he couldn't place it. Medieval Europe? A Japanese steakhouse?

"Scoot over, Chief." The GDP disapproved of using beds as bonding platforms, for all sorts of reasons but primarily, Blair guessed, because they were comfortable. It made no difference to Jim, who curled around his partner, a heavy arm draped over him, so close he could feel Jim's breath ruffling his hair. He had no doubts now; as usual Jim had offered more than he could ask for. When he reached out with his mind Jim was completely open to him, and he gave a little sigh. It was not the biting relief of the cessation of pain, but something more gentle, like slipping into a hot bath on a raw February night. The sun, and Jim's body, warmed him even as the pillow was cool against his aching head. His last thought as he fell asleep was that whatever power had given this to them both, it was benign.

Jim roused himself from a light dose and looked at the clock. Somehow it was already 2:00. It would have been pleasant to laze away the rest of the golden afternoon, watching over Blair's sleep, making some sandwiches out of the leftover steak from the night before, maybe reading a little of that thriller about the Canadian War he'd been meaning to get to. But there was a sentinel murderer out there, a guide missing, and the GDP had probably been all over Simon six times already. The best way to keep them out of everybody's hair was to solve the case quickly. Jim slide noiselessly off the bed, but of course Blair woke instantly.

"Hey. What time is it?"

"Daytime. Go back to sleep. I'm going back to the scene to see if they've found anything."

"Unh. Give me a sec, I'll..."

"No, I'm going to need you later when we question Roger Cho. Get your rest now." Jim had pulled a cotton throw out of the closet and draped it over Blair.

"Oh, OK..." Blair clutched a corner of the blanket to his chest like a baby and was out cold again in seconds. Blair usually did sleep like a baby, meaning he woke up about every two hours, when he went to bed at all. Half the time he conked out on the sofa, half-buried in books and papers. It had taken a while for Jim to get used to, always thinking something was wrong. He'd even teased Blair about it, speculating that he had some deep-seated fear of beds. He'd gotten nowhere, and probably wouldn't until he admitted what really bothered him about it, which was that he hated seeing Blair tired, or uncomfortable. Blair would only have smiled, and said something neutral about protective instincts, and gone on doing it anyway.

Jim only put in about ten minutes at the crime scene, long enough to confirm that the orderly, scientific trashing of Daniel Trager's apartment proceeded apace, and that nothing of importance had turned up. With a quick phone call to secure Simon's permission, Jim turned it back over to the able supervision of Keysha Simmons, who claimed it was a big improvement over taking stolen camera reports from tourists at the Cascade Pier.

Instead, Jim headed for the GDP campus. Blair would have wanted to come with him; indeed, he seemed to perversely welcome opportunities to prove to himself, and Jim, that the GDP could no longer intimidate him. Jim hated the whole ordeal; Blair would be in a state of controlled panic before they even reached the gates. At least things had gotten a little better under Director Claydove. He seemed receptive to new ideas and had more or less left him and Blair alone. Even the GDP campus was looking more like the training facility it was supposed to be, and less like an army base. A new, glass-clad dormitory building towered over the ugly brick blocks that had made up the campus before, and it looked like they had just broken ground on another one.

Jim made his way straight to Claydove's office; no point in starting lower on the food chain, since Claydove would want to get involved directly. To Jim's surprise his ID was only checked twice, and not at all when he approached the receptionist in Claydove's office.

"Yes, Sentinel Ellison, Dr. Claydove has been trying to reach you. Please have a seat and I'll let him know you're here." A well-buffed set of nails clicked furiously on the keyboard, presumably sending a silent alert via computer to the great man. Jim dropped into a leather chair and picked up a golf magazine. He didn't play, but the shiny receptionist wouldn't know that. Of course Claydove had a white-noise generator running, but Blair had taught him to hear around them, by separating out each individual thread of noise. The key, Blair had said, was that they weren't really random, and once you accepted that a pattern would begin to emerge.

Jim let his vision go, until the photos in the magazine became blurs of green, white and pink. The chaotic sound began to resolve into distinct rhythms and tones, like a hundred bands playing at once, but each playing their own tune, over and over. There just beyond, a little faint but quite distinct, were the voices of Claydove and two other people.

"...until we have an opportunity to mount a more formal response." That was Claydove, pausing to take a drag from a cigarette. Jim didn't remember seeing him smoke in public, but then he was trying to cultivate the image of the GDP as a place of learning and medical research. "In the meantime, just remember that this can be done as long as everyone stays on message."

"Right. It's not like we haven't done this before," said a female voice. That sounded like Maggie Speke, the director of the guide training program. "Well, if Detective Ellison is outside, I suppose we should end this meeting. Call me and let me know how it goes, Norman." Jim heard chairs being pushed back and snapped his attention back to the magazine quickly enough that he felt a little wave of vertigo. The sound of more fingernail clicking snapped him out of it.

"Sentinel Ellison, Dr. Claydove will see you now." Jim tossed the magazine aside and went to Claydove's door, pushing it open slowly and coughing as a blast of cigarette smoke hit him. He expected a crowded room, but instead Claydove was there alone, behind a Chippendale Ping-Pong table of a desk. Claydove's guests had evidently exited stage right, through a discrete door that Jim doubted was guarded by another shiny receptionist. Jim could hear a faint, steady whoosh coming from the thin space underneath it. Evidently it led to the outside. Every executive's dream, Jim thought: a window office with a built-in escape hatch.

"Good to see you again, sentinel, even under these unfortunate circumstances. I apologize about the smoke; I've been trying to quit. For the fifth time. May I have Sheila bring you some coffee?" Claydove had just the right expression for the occasion, a bland smile on his lips, a slight crease of concern on his forehead. Jim counted ten cigarette butts, all the same brand, in the ashtray, and under the desk Claydove's fingers were beating a soft, impatient tattoo.

"Thank you, no. I assume you know why I'm here?"

"Sentinel Trager's death. Very unfortunate. I remember when he arrived, a farm boy from Iowa. We did our best for him. It's a shame things turned out the way they did."

"Yes, it is. We're still collecting evidence at the scene, but before I started talking to Trager's friend and co-workers I wanted to find out about his background as a sentinel. We're also concerned about his guide, who wasn't at the scene. Do you know whether she's returned here?"

Claydove's frown deepened, while his tone remained avuncular. "A guide? Sentinel Trager didn't have a guide."

"A couple of GDP police who were present at the scene this morning seemed to think that he did. Elena Olvera?"

"Sentinel Ellison, Guide Olvera was a working guide who accompanied Sentinel Trager to his job for a few weeks while he settled in. Trager is--was--a fairly weak sentinel who we did not feel required the full-time services of a guide. After he got into some trouble at work, we removed the guide as a disciplinary measure."

And is that why a couple of GDP guards showed up at his place this morning, carrying restraints? Jim wondered. He wished for the first time that Blair were here with him, to gauge whether Claydove believed the words coming out of his own mouth. His heart rate was elevated, but that could just have been cigarette-aided progress toward a heart attack. "What kind of trouble was he in? When he found him this morning he was in a Rockland Security uniform, so I assume he wasn't fired."

"Yes. Well." Claydove's fingers, now on the desktop, had resumed their drumming. Jim thought that on the whole, having him smoke a cigarette would be less annoying. "We managed to smooth it over with his employer. People trust sentinels, as you know, and with good reason; the vast majority follow their genetic predisposition to protect and serve. But every now and then we get a bad apple, as it were."

"Like Alex Barnes."

Claydove winced. "Yes, a lesson for us all. Sentinel ability unfortunately does not preclude psychosis. In the case of Trager, though, it was something much simpler: greed. Rockland Security is, as I'm sure you know, a respected private security firm that does a fair amount of subcontracting for the government, including the GDP. It's therefore considered an appropriate venue for some of our less, er, proficient sentinels. One of Trager's assignments was guarding a downtown office building. Within a week of his leaving for another assignment, office equipment began disappearing. Sentinel Trager was found to have made copies of the keys and sold them to a Seattle theft ring. I understand they do a good business in removing the serial numbers from computers and shipping them overseas, but of course you'd know more about that than I would."

By all appearances, Trager had not been living the high life, Jim thought. Was that a motive for crooked dealing, or evidence against it? "And was Elena Olvera with him when this was going on?"

"Yes, but she knew nothing about it. As I said, Guide Olvera's presence was strictly to help Trager stabilize in his new environment. Trager had expressed a desire for a permanent bonding, but of course his moral turpitude made that undesirable."

"And Olvera? What was her reaction when you took her away?"

"Surely you're not suggesting what I think you are?" Claydove's voice dropped, adding a touch of academic sternness. "Just because your own guide is capable of homicidal rage, don't assume it's true of all of them." He braced his hands against the edge of the desk and pushed a few inches back, apparently in reaction to Jim's glare. "I only mean that in the most positive way, sentinel. Blair Sandburg is a Dark Guide, a unique phenomenon in modern times. The average guide possesses neither the temperament nor the physical wherewithal to engage in acts of violence. Guide Olvera was content to proceed to her next assignment."

"Which is?" Jim chose to ignore the exceedingly backhanded compliment to Blair.

"A coast guard vessel, I believe. Assisting sentinels with search and rescue operations. I'm sorry, I didn't anticipate your interest in her, or I would have found out for certain."

And gotten her safely to the Yukon, or Tierra del Fuego, Jim thought. "How long ago did she leave Trager?"

"I don't know for certain. At least a week, I believe."

Jim thought about the strands of hair and the earring backing. They could be from another woman, yet both the GDP officers and the neighbor, Mrs. Hall, acted as if Olvera had been there recently. And it would be impossible to check whether she were really on a ship somewhere, since sentinel assignments were classified.

"Sentinel Ellison, I'm no detective, but if I were you, I'd be taking a look at Trager's involvement with this theft ring. Perhaps he made some unsavory friends, who were distressed when he had to stop his illegal activities. Dennis Marks at Rockland Security will be glad to share any information that will help you with your investigation."

Jim rose, feeling that Claydove had come to the end of his script and that there would be little more useful, or truthful, information forthcoming.

"Thank you, Dr. Claydove. I'll look into it."

Jim was tempted to leave by the unofficial door, but made a conventional exit. Claydove's office was in the same building that Blair said housed the bust of Dr. Edward Merganthaler. Jim felt a little affection for the old guy who had rescued him from shopping hell, and decided to stop off on the main floor and see it.

There was an alcove outside the big hall, where Jim had attended, as well as given, a few talks. But in the alcove outside stood a water fountain. Jim walked over to get a drink--the Merganthaler memorial fountain?--and saw that the patch of carpet around it had been carefully cut to fit, and was almost brand new.

Jim returned to the loft by way of Zorba's, a little deli three blocks down Prospect with decent souvlaki and ample parking, and was nearly restored in the blood sugar department by the time he arrived. Of course he'd gotten something for Blair, who was probably still fast asleep, poor kid.

But Blair was not asleep. He was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. To Jim's relief it was almost full, and cold. The last thing the kid needed at this point was caffeine. The Merganthaler monograph was open in Blair's lap.

Jim handed him the bag, a little worse for Jim's yogurt-daubed fingers. "Hey, how are you feeling."

"Just fine, thanks." Blair glanced up, a little shy as he always was after a bonding. He turned his attention back to the bag. "Falafel! Score! Hey, did they find anything more at the crime scene?"

"No. Cho's our best shot at this point." He watched Blair take a huge bite of the sandwich, somehow keeping the filling inside, a feat Jim could never accomplish. "Didn't you eat lunch?"

"Forgot. Jim, this Merganthaler stuff is unbelievable."

"I'll bet. You can tell me about while we're driving over to Cho's."

Which Blair did, at his usual obsessive length. "Jim, Merganthaler thought that sentinels and guides could be conditioned in ways that would benefit society. 'Primitive' cultures saw enhanced abilities and sentinel/guide behavior as part of a continuum, and so they didn't try to change it. Merganthaler believed that provided the training started early enough, sentinels and guides could be conditioned not to exhibit anti-social behavior."

"Like wanting to kill people who touch their guides?"

"For example. He didn't even think they necessarily had to work with each other. Either the right reinforcement could be administered by professionals, or they might be trained not to need them altogether. Sounds like a dream come true, huh, Jim?" Jim thought the last sentence sounded a little hollow.

"Not my dream, but maybe the GDP's. What soured them on Merganthaler?"

"He was a behaviorist all the way. A few years after he published that monograph, DNA was discovered and suddenly everything was about genetics. I'm guessing the GDP thought it would be easier just to breed sentinels than to go through all the steps Merganthaler proposed, which would take years and years of effort, probably by thousands of people. Plus, they had no proof it would work, and they wanted to use sentinels right away. So they accepted a genetic basis for sentinel/guide behavior as official doctrine." Blair paused, as usual running out of breath before he had run out of words. "Jim, do you ever wonder if we have kids out there we don't know about?"

"What?" Jim swung his head around to look at Blair, getting every piece of a large pothole as a result.

"Whoa, I just tasted lunch again. I mean, how much genetic material do you think they've gathered from us over the years? What if all those blood samples weren't just for routine medical tests? I don't know about you, but they got, um, other samples from me while I was in correction."

Jim had, in fact, reluctantly provided "samples" on several occasions to an earnest doctor who swore up and down they were a part of routine sentinel physicals. He supposed he owed it to Blair to admit it, but the whole subject was giving him the creeps. "I thought sentinel and guide traits were recessive. There's no guarantee that the children of sentinels, or guides, would have those abilities. That's why the GDP screens kids all over the continent."

"But they also encourage sentinels and guides to get married, especially to each other. Jim, doesn't it seem like there are more sentinels around lately?"

Jim felt relieved to be pulling up in front of the little bungalow, effectively ending the discussion. The porch light was on against the coming twilight, and the old papers had been cleared away. "Then the GDP is doing a good job of screening, just like it says in all those newspaper stories," Jim said. "I guess they have to be good at something. Come on, Chief, time to talk to your pal Roger."

But it was a woman who greeted them at the door, a petite, wholesome-looking blonde in an oversized Ole Miss sweatshirt, arms folded and hands tucked under her armpits as if she were cold, or nervous. "Hi. You guys must be Blair and Jim. I'm Cheryl. Come on in, Roger's awake now."

He looked like a different man, washed and combed and wearing a cotton sweater over slacks and loafers. Jim had to admit to himself that he was good-looking in a kind of preppy way. He certainly looked far less threatening than he had before, although Jim reserved the right to feel threatened and act accordingly. Cheryl had disappeared into the kitchen, where Jim heard a spoon clinking over and over as it was swirled what sounded like a lot of sugar in a coffee mug.

"I'm glad you came back," Cho said. "I heard about the murder on the news. That really sucks. Poor Dan." He let them in, smiling at Blair and steering clear of Jim. "Blair, I don't know what to say. You saved my life. I hope you're feeling OK? And that everything's alright between you guys?"

"Glad to help, man." Blair looked at Jim for approval before giving Roger a pat on the shoulder. "But you should really see about hooking up with a guide, even a working guide, every few weeks."

"I wish it were that simple." Cho let them take the couch and perched on the arm of an easy chair. "I lost access to guides in any shape or form when I dropped out of the program."

"You left the GDP? Just like that?" Blair asked, startled. "Is it really that simple these days? I tried to leave and they sent five guards to haul me back kicking and screaming."

"I'm sorry about that, Blair, I really am." Cho looked at Blair with earnest, liquid brown eyes, and Jim felt himself getting antsy again. "I guess with your abilities, they'd care enough to send someone after you. I think they were glad to see me go. Apparently I tested weak, and they said assigning a guide would be a waste. I'd already been waiting two years for an assignment, and I got frustrated. Figured I wouldn't be any worse off on my own than I was before the program."

"Listen, Roger, I'm sure we appreciate your problems with the GDP," Jim said, smoothly interrupting before Blair could offer any more sympathetic advice. "But right now I'm more interested in hearing about your relationship with Daniel Trager. Why did you call his cell phone this morning?"

Cho's face fell. He looked down at the floor, his brow creasing as he evidently tried to make up his mind about something.

"Roger, we're here to help," Blair interjected. "If you're in some kind of trouble, it's better to let us know."

"OK. Yeah, alright. I guess I owe it to you, huh?" Cho turned to call out over his shoulder. "Cheryl?"

She reappeared at the kitchen door, clutching a mug in both hands. "Hon?" Roger said more softly. "I need to talk to these guys about stuff. Would you mind running down to Pharmco and picking up some more of those migraine tablets? And maybe a twelve-pack of soda?"

She nodded, looking at Jim and Blair as if they might suddenly turn into bats and fly away. "Are you sure you'll be OK?" she managed to squeak out.

"I'll be fine. Here, take my car." He tossed her the keys and she caught them and disappeared out the door in one continuous movement.

"Sorry," Roger said. "I told her what happened and she's grateful to you, she really is. But she's a physician's assistant at the GDP clinic, and she's heard about you guys. Sentinel Prime and Dark Guide and all that."

Jim thought it odd that, given his experience, Roger would be dating anyone working for the GDP, but he decided to keep Roger on track, since it seemed he was willing to talk. "You were about to explain why you called Trager this morning?"

"Right. I was calling Dan to warn him. About one of our friends, or ex-friends." He took a deep breath. "Here's the deal, detective. Dan and I used to be good buddies. We roomed together when we joined the academy, and since we were both rejects, we stuck together."

"Rejects from what?" Blair asked.

"Like I said, my sentinel abilities have never been that great. Dan was pretty strong in that department, but he argued a lot with the teachers. He didn't like the way guides were treated." Cho was looking at Blair now. "A lot of us didn't. We wanted to be like you guys, partners. The guides on campus always looked so lifeless, like they were afraid to speak or more or anything."

"So Dan complained," Jim said. "Is that why he didn't get a permanent guide?"

"Oh, but he did," Cho said earnestly. "Her name is Elena. But he only got her after he agreed to tow the line. They gave him this lousy job, as a security guard. A session with a working guide every few weeks, drugs the rest of the time. After a while he couldn't stand it anymore and he got with the program. He went through re-training and when he came out, they gave him Elena."

"How did they get along?" Blair asked.

"Alright, I suppose. I don't think Dan mistreated her or anything, but he made her obey him just like they taught us. Kneeling, sleeping at the foot of his bed, the whole nine yards. Did you talk to her? What did she say? She must be really upset about Dan, I mean, they were bonded and everything."

"Bonded?" Jim looked sharply at Cho. "Are you sure about that?"

"Oh, yeah. Dan invited me to the party. We kind of drifted apart, because Dan was afraid I might hurt him with the GDP, but he said he wanted me to be there for the bonding."

Blair was right all along, Jim thought It was as simple as basic police work: if you have a dead body and something big and valuable is missing, robbery is a likely motive. Nothing was more valuable to a sentinel than a guide.

Jim said carefully, "Roger, what would you say if I told you that we didn't find Elena when we found Dan's body? That no one has seen her since?"

The color drained from Cho's tawny face. "Son of a bitch. They did it. Those bastards did it. I didn't think they were crazy enough to do it, but they did it..." His voice rose, higher and higher, before trailing off in a distressed squeak.

Blair shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward as if he wanted to go Roger, but didn't want to interrupt him. Jim figured that he had his barriers partially lowered to detect whether Roger was telling the truth. Blair gave him a minute to rest, hand covering his eyes, before asking softly, "Who, Roger? Who did what?"

"A bunch of guys I used to hang out with," Roger said at last. "Sentinels. They were all annoyed about not getting guides, same as everyone else. But they started talking about doing something about it. Taking guides for themselves."

"Stealing them?" Blair asked hollowly. He had been a victim of this himself, more than once, for which Jim had barely forgiven himself.

"No, nothing like that. Recruiting them, I guess you'd call it. There's this guy, Justin Lanier. He was another troublemaker, like Dan. But he started coming up with all these conspiracy theories, about how the GDP was limiting the number of guides so they could control the sentinels. He had a bunch of documents marked confidential that he showed us. He stole them, I think from one of the directors' offices."

Roger paused, his discomfort with the topic clearly growing. Jim prompted him again. "And so he decided to take matters into his own hands? Roger, do you know whether this guy Justin intended to take Elena Olvera for himself?"

Roger shook his head. "I can't believe he's murder anyone, not even Dan. He had a big problem with Dan, said he sold out, but I can't believe he'd kill him. He thought Elena was too good for Dan, I mean, she was a full guide and all. He started talking about how he and Elena were meant to be together, that they were each other's true match."

"Was that what you were warning Dan about?" Jim asked.

"Yeah." Roger sighed. "Justin was over here last night. When he saw how sick I was, he said he could get me a guide. I wasn't thinking too clear, but eventually I figured out that he probably meant Elena. Now I think maybe Justin was just looking for an excuse. To take her for himself."

"What time was this?"

"Maybe one in the morning, by the time he left. I told him to forget it, that breaking up a bonded pair was wrong, and that he could hurt Dan and Elena both. He heard me out, but later I got worried and called Dan. I called over and over, until you finally answered."

Jim felt a little of his dislike melt away. "And where do you think we might find Justin Lanier?"

Judging from the trendy Warehouse District address, Lanier had pretensions beyond those of his sad-sack buddies. Personally, Jim didn't understand its popularity. Upper Prospect wasn't exactly Nob Hill, but when it came to industrial squalor, South of Stanford was the rat-infested real thing.

"What do you think, Chief--does it give the yuppies a thrill when they peek out of their custom mini-blinds at night and see trash fires?"

"I think someone would have to be crazy to live in a warehouse, period," Blair sniffed. "Can you imagine trying to heat those things?"

It took a good quarter of a hour to find the address Cho had given them. Oddly, it really was a warehouse, with a small sign that said "Intracoastal Shipping Co." just above the bell. Jim rang, none too hopefully.

No response. From inside, he could hear the patter of little rodent feet, which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. But he could also smell something.

"Rosewater."

"Jim?" Blair was giving him that Are you sensing something, or are you just nuts? look.

"Rosewater. My grandmother used it. She kept it in a bottle on her dresser. A big, blue bottle with an old-fashioned label on it." Blair was staring in earnest now. "I can smell it inside. Chief, I think Elena's in there. You stay here."

Jim drew his gun and tried the door, which was open. He followed the scent down a long hallway and rounded the corner, gun first, and found himself in the middle of a large, nearly empty room with glaring overhead lights, which gave off an irritating buzz like a nest of wasps. Nearly empty, except for a striking woman with long, copper hair, standing placidly in the middle of it.

"Sentinel Ellison," she said, smiling faintly. "I've been wanting to meet you for a long time."

"Elena?" She nodded. "I'm glad to see you, too. We were afraid you were hurt. Or maybe you were the one doing the hurting?"

"Oh, no, no. I heard about Dan. He may have been a bastard, but we were bonded, after all. Justin didn't hurt him either, if that's what you were thinking. We don't do things like that."

"Who is 'we'?" She had high cheekbones and deep, large eyes. Jim couldn't have said she was beautiful, but she possessed an unsettling magnetism.

"Those of us who are trying to make a change." She took a few steps toward him, unearthly in the harsh white light. The bright pools cast the rest of the room into utter shadow, so that it looked infinitely large. "Have you noticed, Detective Ellison, that there are more sentinels around lately?"

That did it. Jim bolted, running for the door and for Blair. Maybe it was a guide thing, maybe Blair could help him explain it. Except that when he got to the door, Blair was gone.

"Blair! Chief?" He listened, desperate. There was no sound but the tinny scrape of the wind dragging a piece of wire across the cracked asphalt.

"I'm sorry, Jim, but he's gone, for now." He jumped; Elena was right behind him, calm and unearthly.

"Who took him? Where?" He wanted to shake her, but feared her touch.

"Our friends. He's needed for something very important."

"I need him. He's important to me. I demand you tell me where he is." Jim was almost hyperventilating now; could his control already be slipping, so quickly?

"He's gone to make more guides." Elena smiled beneficently, as if this should make everything alright. "But don't worry, sentinel." She reached out long, strong fingers to gently touch his cheek. "You won't be alone. You'll have me."

To be continued