It was over before Ellison knew it had begun. For him, it began at 0h-dark-thirty, with an insistently ringing phone. Letting it ring wasn't worth the headache, so he let one hand flop limply over the edge of the bed and lifted the receiver to his ear without bothering to roll over. "Ellison."

"Jim. Hey. How ya doin', man?" Sandburg's voice sounded weary, and Ellison recognized the faint rasp it developed when Blair was in pain.

"Sandburg?" Ellison rolled over and sat up, instantly alert. "What's wrong? You OK?"

"Relax, big guy. Sorry about the time. I was afraid if I waited... Never mind. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I'm OK. We're cutting things short, so I'll be home in a couple of days. I'll let you know when I get a flight."

Ellison ran a hand over his face, and forced himself to restrain his impatience. "OK. I'm awake. Now you want to tell me the rest of it? And don't tell me you're OK, because no one, least of all you, calls anyone in the middle of the night to say they're OK unless they're not."

Sandburg sighed. "Seriously, this is not a big deal, but I was afraid you'd see it on the news and worry."

"Sandburg," Ellison growled. "See what on the news?"

"Right. Well, there was a little incident at the site. A group of anti-government guerrillas hassled us a little. Nothing serious, but the government isn't going to let us go back in. Thing is, there were cameras around, and I think the press may have got hold of the footage. Sorry about waking you, but I needed to be sure to reach you before you saw it on the morning news. You know how they spectacularize things."

"How little an incident are we talking about here? You don't sound OK."

"To be honest, I'm not. It really sucks having to pull out early. But physically, I'm fine. They had a doc check us out. Everyone was a little dehydrated. A few cuts and bruises, but no injuries to speak of. Look, I gotta go. This card's about to run out. I'll call your cell later on."

"All right, Chief. Thanks for the heads up. And you be careful."

"Will do. Talk to you soon."

The line went dead. Ellison held on to it a moment longer, reluctant to let go of the tenuous connection. Then he got up, pulled on a robe and went downstairs to turn on the television. Whatever had happened, it hadn't reached any of the major networks yet. After half an hour, Ellison gave it up and went back to bed."

In a hotel room two thousand miles away, Blair Sandburg tugged the leather tie from his hair and shook his mane of auburn curls free. He hated having it down on his neck in the humid Nicaraguan climate, but the slight tension created by having it tied back was annoying him. He still had a killer headache, and his neck screamed at him every time he moved. Getting clubbed in the head with a rifle butt had a way of doing that to a person. He wasn't too worried about it. Could have been worse. A lot worse. He glanced around the three- star room. The Nicaraguan government had been well aware that the incident had been caught on film that was even now in the hands of the American media. So now they were eager to make a public show of concern for the rescued American students, and Sandburg wasn't too proud to accept it. His brief press statement praising the Nicaraguan government's hospitality had been a small price to pay for the air-conditioned haven with its immaculate shower, free laundry and room service. His fellow students were similarly ensconced down the hall. Yeah. Things could have been a lot worse.

Sandburg turned back the heavy cotton spread on the bed. The sheets were soft and smelled faintly of bleach. He slipped between them and quickly drifted into an uneasy sleep filled with images of leering soldiers, rough hands and the frightened faces of his teammates.

Ellison arrived at the precinct twenty minutes earlier than usual. Even so, Joel Taggart met him at the bullpen door. The big man's face was pale with shock.

"Jesus Christ, Jim, have you seen the news? Have you heard from Sandburg?"

"He called early this morning. Said there was some kind of incident, but that he was OK."

"Thank God." Taggart gestured toward the captain's office where the others were gathered around the television Banks kept for use with videotaped evidence. "I don't know if you want to see the film. They'll probably show it again in a few minutes. Simon wanted me to meet you, in case you hadn't heard."

"How bad was it?" Ellison asked, following Taggart back to the office. "Sandburg didn't have time to talk. Said he'd call later on. He just didn't want me getting it from the news before he talked to me."

"Well..." Taggart hesitated. "You know how the media pumps things up."

"That bad?"

Taggart shrugged, and stepped aside to let Ellison enter the office ahead of him.

Simon Banks looked up sharply at his arrival. "Jim..."

Ellison held up a hand. "It's OK. He called. He's mostly just upset about having to come back early. He said the film might look bad, but they were all checked out by doctors and released."

"Thank God," Banks said.

Megan Connor looked up at Ellison. "He's spot on about the film. They'll probably show it again at the top of the hour. Sandy's really OK?"

"More or less. He sounded tired, and he was pretty down about losing the site. He said some of the team had some cuts and bruises. I suspect he's one of them."

"Here it is," Rafe said.

Ellison turned his attention to the television, where the anchor was announcing an update on the incident in Nicaragua.

"This morning, we aired a horrifying video that accidentally captured the first moments of the 24 hour ordeal suffered by a team of American researchers at a remote camp in Nicaragua." His image was replaced by a slightly out of focus image showing Sandburg's team being rounded up by armed guerrillas and forced to line up on their knees with their hands on their heads.

The camera continued to roll while one of the rebels took hold of the long sun-bleached hair of the girl closest to Sandburg. She hardly looked old enough to be in college, let alone a grad student. Sandburg surged forward furiously, and was brutally clubbed down with the butt of a rifle. Ellison flinched, but stayed put, jaw clenched, refusing to look away, as a second rebel hauled Sandburg up by the hair and threw him back into line with the others. Sandburg met their eyes defiantly, with blood running down his chin from a split lip. At that moment the image tilted abruptly on its side and then went blank.

The news anchor returned to continue his update. "In breaking news, a representative for the Nicaraguan government reports that all nine team members have been released from an undisclosed medical facility where they were taken following their rescue by government forces. Team leader Blair Sandburg was greeted with a standing ovation when he spoke to members of the Nicaraguan press early this morning. Sandburg is the young man seen courageously defending his team in the video clip recovered from the incident. He had been left in charge of the project during the temporary absence of principle investigator Eli Stoddard. Speaking first in Spanish and then in English, Sandburg gave a brief statement expressing his team's gratitude for the Nicaraguan government's quick response and the hospitality extended to the team in the aftermath of the incident."

"Thank God," Connor murmured.

Ellison remained standing stock-still, eyes still glued to the screen, but seeing only a rifle butt connecting with his partner's head, and Sandburg, bloody and terrified but defiant, determined to be the leader Stoddard trusted him to be, no matter what the cost.

"Jim." Banks gripped Ellison's arm, clearly concerned that he was zoning in front of the others.

Ellison drew a deep breath and turned his head to look at him. "It's all right, Simon. Just a little more than I expected to see." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "He's all right. He'll be OK." It wasn't Simon he was trying to convince, but the others allowed him the illusion.

Taggart and Rafe exchanged glances and left the office. Conner laid a hand on Ellison's wrist. "Come on, Ellison. Buy me a cup of coffee. I missed my Starbuck's this morning."

Ellison shook his head. "I'd better get to work. I'm fine. Really."

"Well maybe I'm not," Conner said. "I didn't get the same phone call you got."

Ellison smiled down at her. "I guess I got a minute. I haven't had any yet either."

Sandburg called Ellison's cell just after two in the afternoon. He'd arranged for a flight in two days. He hadn't been able to get a direct flight, so he'd have a three-hour layover in Denver and arrive in Cascade just after four in the afternoon. Ellison couldn't help feeling a twinge of disappointment. He'd been hoping irrationally to be picking his guide up at the airport first thing in the morning. The rest of Blair's team members were flying back immediately, but Blair had opted to stay on and play tourist for an extra day. He wasn't happy about having to come home early, but he'd gotten some rest in the meantime and was enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of the air-conditioned hotel. He planned to spend the next day exploring the city. Ellison grinned at the enthusiasm in his guide's voice. You could knock the kid down all right, but you couldn't keep him there for long.

Sandburg rose early, anxious to take full advantage of the one day he had before his flight. He skipped the hotel's complimentary breakfast in favor of experimenting with some of the local delicacies available in the city's open-air market. The market proved to be enormous. Exploring it took most of the morning. A lot of what was available was cheap mass-produced trash, meant for ignorant tourists, but there were real craftsmen there as well. At one stall, Sandburg found a jaguar exquisitely carved in obsidian. It was only three inches long, intended to be strung on a cord, but it stood nicely on its own. Sandburg held it in his hand and for a moment he was unbearably homesick. He shook off the feeling, and entered enthusiastically into the ritual of negotiating the price. He dismissed the piece scornfully as tourist bait, not worth his time, while the seller declared that he'd give the piece away as a gift before he'd sell it at the ridiculously low price Sandburg was offering. Sandburg shrugged. All the same to him. He could find something else. He took a step away and waited. Sure enough, the seller might possibly consider a slightly lower price, only because his youngest child was ill and he needed to sell everything he could to pay for a doctor. Suppressing a grin, Sandburg allowed as how he wasn't entirely without feeling. For the sake of the child, he'd pay twice what the worthless thing would bring from a less compassionate man. In the end he walked away with it for less than he'd planned. Jim would be proud of him.

By the time he'd finished with the bargaining, his headache was back with a vengeance, the residual pain in his neck spreading down his back, thanks to all the walking. His plan to spend the afternoon exploring the rest of the city was looking less appealing by the minute. Shifting his pack on his stiff shoulders, he paused to consider his next move. The heat and humidity hadn't bothered him in the jungle, but here in the city it was oppressive, the air thick with exhaust fumes that made him vaguely queasy. He found a small cafe with sidewalk tables and ordered a glass of glass of limeade, made with sparkling water just for the tourists, who preferred -- with good reason -- to avoid drinking water that hadn't come from a freshly opened bottle.

The break and the cool drink improved his outlook considerably. He decided to forego any strenuous exploration, but he took a long circuitous route back to the hotel, taking a few photos along the way. A mob of street kids offered to pose for him - for hard cash, of course. Sandburg spent half an hour with them and paid them with the change from his pockets and energy bars from his pack. In return for his generosity, they didn't lift his wallet when he said goodbye.

He arrived back at his hotel late in the afternoon. His second wind had given out half a mile back and he was dragging badly. He took the elevator to his floor and fell onto the bed, unable to summon up the energy to shower until the air conditioned chill settled into his sweat-damp clothing and left him clammy and uncomfortable. Eventually, though, the discomfort outweighed his reluctance to move, and he made himself sit up. His laundry had been returned while he was out. Sandburg stripped and left his clothes on the floor beside the bed, then walked naked to the bathroom. He turned the water on and adjusted the nozzle for a hard spray, sighing with relief as the jets pounded heat into his stiff neck and released the tension in his back and shoulders. Afterward, he toweled off the water and spent a moment examining the livid bruise and swollen lip left by the rifle butt. His stomach churned at the memory. If the rebels hadn't been looking to trade the team for the release of an imprisoned comrade, he'd no doubt have gotten the other end of the gun.

He turned away from the mirror and returned to the main room, where he tugged on a pair of boxers and his "Go with the Gecko" t-shirt. The bed beckoned, but he had a feeling that once he gave in to it he'd be down for the count.

Most of his gear would be shipped back to the university with the research equipment. He packed his few remaining belongings into his canvas pack so that he could just grab it and go. The canvas pack was a little bigger than the pack he normally carried but it would still fit easily as a carry-on and spare him the hassle of luggage.

That task finished, Sandburg scanned the room service menu. Nothing appealed to him. He suspected he was still a little dehydrated, especially after spending the day in the sun. Finally he picked up the phone and ordered couple of bottles of water and a six AM wake-up call, then sprawled comfortably on the bed until the water arrived. A man could get used to this, he thought, stretching luxuriously on the queen-sized bed and sipping the chilled water from the bottle. Unfortunately he only had until six AM tomorrow and that wasn't long enough to get used to anything. He'd just have to enjoy it while he could.

The phone rang at six AM, just as Sandburg had requested. He swore viciously and threw a pillow at it. The phone remained unintimidated. Sandburg stretched his arm to its fullest extent and snagged the receiver with his fingertips. "Sandburg."

"Your wake-up call, Senor. Will you be ordering breakfast?"

"No. Gracias."

"Our pleasure to serve you, Senor."

Sandburg set the phone down and rolled onto his back with a frustrated groan. The doctor had told him to take it easy for a few days. To rest and drink plenty of water. But who could spend a whole day resting and drinking water with a whole city outside and only one day to see it? The advice had seemed like overkill at the time, but he was paying now for ignoring it. His head was still pounding and the ache in his neck was playing tag with the one in his back. He rolled out of bed, and took a long hot shower, grateful that he'd had the foresight to set his wake-up call early enough to allow for it. By the time he got out, he'd changed his mind about breakfast. He hadn't eaten since yesterday's late breakfast and his stomach definitely wanted something other than itself to work on.

He dressed quickly in khakis and a t-shirt and tied his damp hair back, pausing for a moment to examine his bruised face critically in mirror. It was beginning to color spectacularly. No chance of slipping it past Jim's radar. At least the split lip was back to something resembling its normal size. It was more of an annoyance than anything. The cut tended to reopen when he spoke or ate. He hated the metallic taste when his tongue ran over it. He'd live, though. And so would the rest of his team. And tonight he'd be sleeping soundly in his own room, with his best friend upstairs and real beer -- cold beer -- in the fridge just waiting to be drunk to excess. No, life wasn't perfect, but it wasn't so bad, and in just a few hours it was going to be a whole lot better.

He hesitated at the mirror a moment longer, debating the pros and cons of shaving. He didn't relish the thought of scraping a razor over the bruises, but the four-day growth did nothing to conceal the bruises and it made him look like a derelict. Some guys could do the whole Don Johnson, Miami Vice thing and pull it off. Sandburg wasn't one of them. He decided to tough it out. The closer to normal he looked when Jim saw him, the shorter the lecture would be. The shaving took longer than he thought it would. Breakfast would have to be a bagel at the airport. Sandburg slung his canvas pack over one shoulder, locked the key in the room and headed for the street. Even this early, the heat hit him like a solid wall when he left the air-conditioned comfort of the lobby. He grabbed the first cab he saw. Directing the driver to take him to the airport, he sat back and closed his eyes, massaging his temples in a futile attempt to ease the pounding headache.

"Are you all right, Senor?"

Sandburg opened his eyes to see the driver frowning at him in the rearview mirror. "It looks worse than it is."

The driver grinned at him. "I hope so. If it doesn't, they'll put you in a box instead of a seat." His English was barely accented.

Sandburg laughed. "It might be cheaper that way."

The driver chuckled and pulled the cab out into the light, early-morning traffic. Sandburg sat back again, forcing himself to relax. It was only a five-minute drive to the airport. Not long enough to catch a nap. When they pulled up beside the terminal, he reached for his wallet, but the driver held up a hand to stop him.

"I know who you are, Senor Sandburg. Some say courage is its own reward. I say courage deserves a free ride. It is my honor to help you get home safely."

"I can't let you do that," Sandburg said.

The driver flashed him a broad grin. "Don't worry about me." He held up camera. "If you allow me to take a photograph, I will be the most famous cab driver in the city -- the man who drove the American hero to the airport. And I will tell everyone how I would not accept a peso from you. It will double my tips."

Sandburg laughed and did his best to look the part of a battered hero while driver snapped his photos, and then he shifted his pack to his shoulder and made his way into the terminal. Perversely, he'd had just enough time to adjust to the heat and now the blast of cool air as he entered the terminal sent a shiver through him. Waiting in the security line, he dug a flannel shirt out of his pack. With his luck he'd probably get on the plane and be stuck on the runway for two hours while it baked in the Nicaraguan sun.

The line crept forward. Sandburg set his pack on the floor between his feet. He still hadn't eaten and the hunger was turning to nausea, made all the worse by the pounding headache and the unrelenting pain in his neck and back. He wanted desperately to sit down, but if he left the line, he'd have to start all over and he'd never make the flight on time. There was nothing to do but cowboy up and deal with it.

Reaching the front of the line at last, he held out his passport and plane ticket. The guard stared curiously at his bruised face and then glanced at the documents and handed them back. Sandburg hefted the pack onto the conveyer belt and stepped through the metal detector. They passed him through with a nod and he retrieved his pack. He paid an outrageous price for a bottle of water and a plain bagel at the nearest kiosk and then headed straight for his gate. It only took a moment to check in there and change his seat assignment to an exit row window for more leg-room. He still had half an hour before the flight was scheduled to board. He spent most of it working his way slowly through the bagel and the bottled water. The plain, solid food solved one issue, at least, making the others more bearable, but it was still a relief to board and know that for the next six hours he had nothing to do but relax and let the huge machine carry him steadily toward home.

He stuffed his pack under the seat in front of him and settled into the corner, not bothering to open his eyes when the seat next to him was taken. It was a woman. He knew that by the same light perfume that told him she was from his grandmother's generation. That was enough to tell him he didn't need to feel threatened by her presence. It also told him that if he opened his eyes, she was going to insist on talking to him and he wasn't up to looking at photos of her grandkids just now. Better to just pretend to be asleep. Not long after takeoff, pretense became reality.

He woke groggy and disoriented, unsure how long he'd been asleep. The headache was worse than ever and he hissed in pain when his neck and back protested at his first movement. Stupid, he thought. What the hell was he thinking, sleeping in that position? The woman beside him had moved over to claim the empty aisle seat. She looked exactly like he'd thought she would. A plump matron returning from a vacation she'd probably saved up for years to afford. She was working the crossword puzzle in the in-flight magazine but she looked up in concern at his obvious distress.

"Are you all right? You don't look very well."

He did his best to turn on the Sandburg charm. "Fine, thanks. Cricked my neck up sleeping like that is all. I hope I wasn't snoring too badly."

"Not at all. I'm Elizabeth McAllister. You're sure you're all right? You were sure sleeping hard. We're nearly there."

"Blair Sandburg. And I'm fine. It's just been a very long couple of days."

"I can see that," she said with a gentle humor that he couldn't help smiling at. "You'd better lead with your right, the next time you come up against that door."

"Believe me," Sandburg said, "If I see that door again, I plan to turn around and run like h... like the dickens."

She laughed out loud at that. "Probably the wisest course. Have you been on vacation?"

Sandburg shook his head. "Research. I'm an anthropologist." The flannel shirt he was wearing wasn't enough under the direct flow of the air vent. He reached up to turn the vent aside. "What about you?"

"Just a trip I've promised myself for years. It's beautiful there, isn't it? Too hot for some, I suppose, but I love the heat."

"I didn't think I did, but I'm starting to look back fondly on it," Sandburg joked, wrapping his arms around his ribs.

Elizabeth looked at him curiously. "Are you cold?"

"I guess I got used to the heat." This was getting ridiculous. He was actually shivering.

"There's a blanket in the overhead."

"I'm fine. I'm just readjusting, that's all."

She nodded. "So... an anthropologist. And so young. How did you...? I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"The bruises? That's O.K. It's not a secret. My team and I ran into some trouble on-site. I was never very good at staying down when I'm knocked down."

"Oh. I heard something on the news, I think. A group of scientists. You weren't with them?"

"'Fraid so." A shudder went through him, and then another, sending bolts of lightning through his stiff neck and back. He reached up again to adjust the vent, to stop the frigid air that was cutting right through him. Where the hell was the vent? If he could only think straight he could find it, but he was still groggy and half-blinded by the damn headache.

"Mr. Sandburg?" Elizabeth's voice cut through his misery. He'd almost forgotten she was there. How long had she been calling his name?

He tried to smile at her but his teeth were chattering. "I'm all right. Just cold. Think I'll get that blanket out after all."

"I'll get it." She stood up and opened the compartment, returning a moment later with two light blankets and two pillows.

"You'd better keep one," he said. "At least until they get the air conditioning sorted out."

"I'm warm enough."

Sandburg fumbled with the blankets. One of them slipped to the floor. He reached for it and grunted in pain when his attempt to retrieve it reawakened the abused muscles in his back. Elizabeth McAllister leaned over him to pick it up and then tucked both blankets securely around him.

"Thanks." He flashed her a hundred watt Sandburg smile, but it didn't seem to dispel her concern. Maybe he was losing his touch.

"I think maybe I should call someone," she said.

"We're almost there," he said. "I'll be fine. I'm just not used to the air conditioning."

She hesitated, clearly unconvinced. "At least let me see if I can find you a hot cup of tea."

Sandburg intended to refuse but his body betrayed him and he found himself nodding. The lure of liquid heat was too great to resist.

Elizabeth reached out and squeezed his wrist gently. "I'll be right back."

She was only gone a few moments before she returned to report that a flight attendant had offered to bring the tea when the water was hot. Sandburg nodded an acknowledgement and huddled deeper into the blankets. They weren't helping. He was freezing from the inside out and the blankets only served to contain the ice so that it wouldn't expand to engulf the entire plane. When the flight attendant brought his tea, he couldn't get his hands on it fast enough, but it was all he could do to keep his shaking hands from spilling it all over himself.

The fight attendant leaned in a little, smiling an apology at Elizabeth for violating her space. "Are you all right? Would you like me to see if there's a doctor on board?"

Sandburg forced a ghost of his usual flirtatious grin. "No. Thanks. But if you wanted to leave me your phone number, just in case...?"

Yep. He was definitely losing his touch. The girl saw right through his bluff. "All right, tough guy. Try to relax then. We'll be landing in half an hour. If you need anything, push the call button. If we need to have medics meet you at the ramp, we can make that happen, O.K.?"

Sandburg gave up the pretense and nodded. "Thanks, but I'll be O.K."

Elizabeth laid a hand on the flight attendant's wrist. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." With one last concerned glance, the attendant withdrew.

Sandburg sipped the tea slowly at first, then gulped it down when he realized it was cooling rapidly. No way he was going to let the cold air steal the precious heat before it got into his body. His seatmate was still watching him with worried eyes.

"Is someone meeting you in Denver?"

He shook his head and tucked the empty cup into the seat pocket. "Just got a three hour layover there."

"Oh. Are you sure you should fly again today? Honestly, you really don't look well."

"I just wanna go home." What the hell was that? Way to whine, Sandburg. He gave her an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I'd just rather not delay things. I've got a friend who's changed his schedule around to pick me up in Cascade. I'll be fine."

Elizabeth leaned forward and tucked a slip of paper into the pocket of his flannel shirt before she tucked his blanket in again. "That's not the phone number you wanted but you'd make this old lady feel a lot better if you let me know you got home safely."

He raised his head to look around. "What old lady? I don't see any old lady."

"You're terrible," she said. "I may be old, honey, but I'm not senile yet." She reached over and patted his blanket-covered shoulder.

Maybe he wasn't entirely losing it.

When they landed, he let the crowd disperse before making his way down the ramp and out into the terminal. He found his gate, but with his flight still three hours away, the counter was closed. For half an hour, he huddled miserably in a chair, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs in a futile attempt to defeat the chills that went through him in waves, shaking him so hard his bones hurt. When he couldn't take it anymore, he left the chair, willing to do anything to get warm, even if it meant dragging his reluctant body up and walking laps.

Halfway through the first lap, it began to pay off. The chills faded and gave way to a welcome warmth. Only it didn't stop there. The warmth flared into a smoldering fire that engulfed his body and crept toward his mind. He needed to get back to the gate, to where a plane waited to take him home, but he couldn't think straight. He wasn't sure which direction he'd come from. He only knew he'd come a long way and the dragging weight of the pack slung over his shoulder was threatening to haul him off his feet. Struggling forward, Sandburg stumbled into the path of an oncoming traveler and was knocked aside. One shoulder hit a wall. He pressed his back against the solid support and slid down it to the floor.

He wanted desperately to curl up right there and close his eyes to stop the chaos swirling around him, but his mind wouldn't let him rest. He had to get back to... to what? He let the pack slip from his shoulder and clamped both hands to his head, willing the pain to stop just long enough for him to remember where he was supposed to be. The pain didn't recede but the answer came to him at last. He'd flown in from Nicaragua. Jim was supposed to pick him up. Ellison didn't like to park, so Sandburg was to meet him outside, in front of the terminal. His mind was clear now. The relief was incredible. Jim was waiting for him. All he had to do was to go out and meet him. How could he possibly have forgotten?

Sandburg caught hold of the pack with one hand and used the other to claw his way up the wall, but it was no use. Cursing in frustration, he tried it again, and again slid right back down the floor. He let go of the pack and used both hands to lever himself up. He spared only one brief, regretful glance at the abandoned pack. He could come back for it later. For now, he needed to get moving, before Jim was forced to park and come looking for him. The big guy wasn't going to be happy if he had to park and come looking for him.

Ellison told himself he was leaving early so as to be sure of arriving on time if the traffic was bad. He almost believed it too. Only the traffic was never bad in Cascade at three in the afternoon. To admit that, though, would be to admit that he'd missed his noisy, untidy, overly energetic roommate a lot more than he was allowing himself to believe. And Stone Cold Jim Ellison was not going there. No way, no how. Not gonna happen. The fact that he arrived early enough to meet him at the gate instead of in front of the terminal -- entirely a matter of practicality. Why waste gas driving in circles for most of an hour, when he could sit comfortably inside until the flight arrived?

The flight, for once, came in right on time. Ellison watched the passengers file off. All of them. There was no sign of his roommate. Frowning, Ellison rechecked his cell phone. No messages. Sandburg had been known to be a bit of a flake at times but it wasn't like him not to call if they'd made arrangements. Still, who knew what he could have run into in a Nicaraguan airport. Ellison looked around for a screener who looked like he was at the end of a long shift. He found one on the far left, and had no trouble flashing his badge and getting passed on through.

He flashed the badge again at the gate. "Detective Ellison. Cascade PD. I was to meet a Blair Sandburg on the flight that just emptied out. Can you check for me and confirm that he was listed on it?"

"Hold on." The young Asian man at the counter turned to his computer and entered a few notes. After a moment he turned back to Ellison. "I'm sorry, but there was no Sandburg on the passenger manifest. Maybe you've got the wrong flight."

"That was flight 47? From Denver?"

The clerk nodded. "That's right."

"Was it overbooked?" It would be just like Sandburg to give up his seat.

"It was only about half full." The clerk put on a carefully crafted look of official regret. "I'm sorry, but I really can't help you and there are people waiting to be checked in."

Ellison nodded and backed off. It wasn't over by a long shot, but he knew the clerk was right. There was nothing more he could do from here. Anything could have happened. Sandburg could have missed his flight from Nicaragua to Denver, or it could have been delayed enough to miss the Denver to Cascade. He could be stuck in Denver, trying to get on another flight. If he didn't have a phone card, he'd have to call collect and with no one at the loft to take the call, he wouldn't have gotten through. No point panicking just yet.

He found a quiet corner and called the loft. The answering machine picked up. Ellison entered the remote retrieval code, but there were no new messages. He paused for a moment, considering his next move. For one thing, Simon was expecting him for a late meeting, and that wasn't going to happen. He hit the speed dial. Simon picked up on the second ring.

"Banks."

"Simon. It's Jim. I'm not going to make it back in."

He expected an explosion, but Banks knew him well enough to read him. "You sound worried. Everything all right?"

"Sandburg wasn't on the flight. It's probably just a snafu. But I'm going to hang around in case he's on the next one."

"Yeah. That's fine. We can meet tomorrow. Tell the kid welcome home for me."

"Will do." Ellison closed the cell phone and then moved out into the corridor to get a look at the incoming flight board. The next arrival from Denver wouldn't arrive for another two hours. Ellison made his way back toward the main terminal. With a little luck, his badge could save him some time in trying to find out whether Sandburg had booked another flight.

"I don't know what to tell you, Jim." Banks voice on the line sounded discouraged. "I've checked with all the major airlines and as far as I can tell, Sandburg never boarded any flight leaving Denver."

"Yeah, all right. Thanks Simon." It was nearly midnight. Ellison rubbed a hand over dry, gritty eyes and dropped into a chair. "I guess you might as well go to bed. I'll just stay here, In case he shows up. Maybe his flight out of Nicaragua was cancelled. Maybe whatever flight he got didn't land in Denver. Maybe he stopped in Salt Lake City."

"Have you eaten anything? Why don't you go on home? Whatever's going on, we have no reason to think it's anything but a flight mix-up."

"He would have called," Ellison snapped. There was no point in telling Banks the truth, which was that his gut was telling him something was very wrong in the Sandburg Zone.

"Jim, go home. He's not coming in tonight. We know that much."

"Unless he didn't go through Stapleton after all."

"Unless he didn't go through Stapleton," Banks agreed. "O.K., look. It's too early to put in a Missing Persons report, but I have an old college buddy in the Denver PD. I'll ask him to put the word out, unofficially. If Blair doesn't turn up by morning, we'll talk to Stapleton's security, and see if they can get passenger manifests for flights coming in from Nicaragua today... uh, yesterday. Then we'll know if he landed in Denver. I guess you already had him paged there?"

"Yeah. But he could have arrived after I called."

"You do know how much mileage he's going to get out of this when he gets off a plane tomorrow and find out you've sent out the Saint Bernards? He'll never let you live it down."

"He can yank my chain from now to kingdom come if he wants to," Ellison said. "I just want him... want to get this cleared up, so I can get back to work. I haven't got time for this."

"Mm-hm."

Ellison could almost hear Banks shaking his head. The man knew him all too well. He didn't have to be so smug about it.

"Look, lady, I don't give a damn what kind of a day you're having. You... Don't you hang up on me! Goddammit!" Ellison slammed the phone down, stared at it for a moment and then swept it off the desk with a single hard swipe of his hand. The crash wasn't nearly as satisfying as he'd thought it would be.

"Ellison! My office. Now."

Ellison stepped over the battered phone and stalked past Banks, into the office.

"Sit," Banks said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Ellison sat and turned a silent, unrepentant glare on his boss.

"I heard from Denver," Banks said. "They got a hit on Sandburg's credit card."

"Where?"

"A 7-11 near the airport."

"I'm going to need some time off."

"No you aren't."

"Simon..."

Banks shook his head. "He's a consultant to this department. Have Rhonda make the arrangements. You called the hospitals?"

"No Sandburgs and no John Does matching his description."

Banks rested his arms on the desk and pulled off his glasses. "My contact in Denver checked the morgues. Nothing even close. They're putting out an APB. Anything from the airport?"

"Only what we knew. He got on in Nicaragua and he was scheduled to connect on flight 47, but he never checked in."

Banks sighed. "All right. Go talk to Rhonda. Get the next flight." He held out a folded sheet of paper. "Have Rhonda give me your flight details. I'll have Ken meet you, but if for whatever reason he's not there, here's his contact info."

"Thanks, Simon."

"Just bring the kid home."

Ellison nodded, but his jaw was clenched too tightly to answer. He turned sharply and left without looking back.

The flight to Denver was only two hours long, but crossing from Pacific to Mountain time cost him another hour, so it was just after four when Ellison arrived at Stapleton International. He didn't have to look far for Simon's friend. The stocky, sandy-haired cop approached him as soon as he left the gate.

"Detective Ellison?" He flashed a badge. "Ken Filmore."

Ellison nodded. "Thanks for meeting me. What have we got?"

Filmore led the way from the gate. "We followed up on the credit card, but I'm afraid the news isn't good. The clerk who ran the card is sure your friend wasn't in the store on her shift. Her exact words were, 'I'd absolutely remember it if a babe like him came in on my shift.' She was pretty definite."

"Whatever happened to him, it happened here. We need to get the run logs for your airport medics."

"I already did." Filmore stopped at a Starbuck's kiosk. "Coffee?"

Anything that would keep him alert was welcome. Ellison nodded. "Thanks. What about the run logs?"

Filmore paused to trade cash for two large cups, and handed one over to Ellison. "No one by your friend's name. No John Does. We do have another lead, though. Security picked up an abandoned backpack. Sandburg's passport was in it. That's where we're headed now." He led the way onto a moving sidewalk.

"I'll want to see where they found it."

"Mmhm," Filmore agreed around the rim of his coffee cup.

They stepped off the walkway and Filmore navigated them unerringly through the crowds to the group of offices that housed the airport's safety and security services. The main desk was manned by a forty-something African American officer with a broad face and a thick moustache. He smiled when he spotted Filmore.

"How's it going, Ken?"

"Can't complain," Filmore said. "This is Jim Ellison, Cascade, Washington PD. I wondered if we could have a look at the backpack you folks picked up this morning."

"Right. Yeah, Gordon said you'd be wanting that. Come on back."

He unlocked a door and led them into a small windowless room, hardly bigger than a storage closet. Its walls were lined with metal shelves. Through the tapestry of strange odors floated a single faint, familiar thread. Sandburg. Ellison's breath caught sharply in his throat.

Filmore gave him an odd look.

"He was here," Ellison said, reaching for the pack before their guide had time to locate it. "This is his."

He set it on the table that occupied the center of the room, and unzipped it. There wasn't much in it. Blair's passport. A notebook. A couple of pens. A change of clothes. Nothing that even hinted at where Blair might have gone. Lifting out a rolled up t-shirt, Ellison was startled by its unexpected weight. He set it on the table and unrolled it carefully. Tucked into the center was a three-inch long jaguar, carved in jet-black obsidian. Ellison stopped, both hands braced on the table, while he forced back the wave of emotion that threatened to drown him.

"You all right?" Filmore asked.

"Yeah. Sorry."

Filmore glanced at the small carved figure. "That mean something?"

"Sandburg's an anthropologist. He's into shamanic stuff. Believes we all have spirit guides in the form of animals. He's always said mine was a black jaguar."

Filmore nodded sympathetically. "Simon said you two are pretty tight."

"Yeah," Ellison said. "My partner was killed a couple of years ago. I haven't been partnered up since then. I guess the kid's kind of filled the space." He shrugged, unwilling to expose the depth of his affection for his guide. He wrapped the jaguar in the t-shirt and returned it to the pack. "What about security cameras? Can we get the footage from where this was found?"

"We should be able to." Filmore turned to the guard, who was waiting discreetly behind them. "Dave?"

"I'll see what I can do. Just give me a minute to track it down."

Waiting wasn't in Ellison's vocabulary at the moment. "We'll come back for it. I want to see where you found the pack."

Filmore frowned. "There's nothing there. If we can get the tape, you'll get a good look at it."

"I want to go there."

"All right. Your nickel." Filmore shrugged.

They left the security offices and made their way back through the main terminal. Ellison had been sure he'd find some evidence of his friend's presence, but Filmore was right. Sandburg hadn't been there for long, and there had been too many people through the area in the meantime. Even Ellison's enhanced senses could find nothing to indicate what had happened to his partner. He turned back, taking the lead and leaving the shorter man struggling to match his long stride as they returned to the security office.

Dave had the footage waiting for them on a video monitor in a glass-walled office off the main security center. He left them with it and returned to his post. Too impatient to sit, Ellison hunched over the desk and focused all his attention on the fuzzy black and white video. He zipped through the first section on fast forward, until he reached the time Sandburg's flight was scheduled to arrive. Then he slowed it down a little, using the cue function to watch it at double speed. When a familiar form caught his eye he dropped the playback into normal speed and then paused it.

Filmore leaned in closer. "That's him."

"Yeah," Ellison muttered, intent on the image. Even the poor quality of the video couldn't hide the fact that Blair looked seriously ill. He was staggering like a drunk, and clearly disoriented. Ellison hit the play button again, letting the image move forward.

"Looks like he's been drinking," Filmore commented.

"He's not drunk. Look at his eyes. He's sick, or injured." Ellison paused the tape again, studying Sandburg's bruised face. For a moment the image on the screen was obscured by a mental replay of the blow that had left the bruises and Ellison had to swallow hard to control his stomach's threatening rebellion.

"Wait." Filmore leaned in closer. "I thought it was just a shadow at first, but look at the right side of his face. That's all bruising. No wonder he's staggering."

Ellison shook his head. "That happened in Nicaragua. I talked to him two days afterward. He'd seen a doctor, but he was fine." He took the pause off and watched as Sandburg stumbled into another traveler and was knocked off balance. His gut clenched again when Sandburg clutched at a wall, then slid down slowly to sit on the floor. Sandburg looked completely played out. Worse, he looked utterly lost, as if he'd awakened to find himself in an airport and had no idea which airport it was, or what he was doing there. Finally he raised his head and struggled to his feet, leaving the pack behind. When he moved away and out of the range of the camera, Ellison fought an irrational urge to call him back.

"At least now we know which direction he headed from there," Filmore said. "That narrows down the number of cameras he's likely to have been picked up on. I'll see what we can do about getting the tapes."

Ellison nodded. "That's going to take time. I want to talk to the medics who were on duty."

"I checked the logs."

"I want to talk to them anyway. Maybe there was something they didn't log. Maybe they saw him and he refused treatment."

"They'd have logged that. He'd have had to sign forms."

Ellison rewound the tape a little. He'd seen all it had to offer, but he needed the sight of his partner alive and moving to drive out the images fear was constructing in the back of his mind.

He was still watching it when cell rang. He snatched it from his belt. "Ellison."

"Jim, it's me," Simon Banks said.

"Oh." Ellison couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice. "What's up?"

"We've confirmed that Sandburg was on the flight to Denver."

"Yeah." Ellison reached out and paused the tape. "We've got him on an airport security video. What have you got?"

"A flight attendant and a passenger both remember him. But, Jim, it's not great news. The reason they remember him is that he was sick. The woman in the seat next to him got worried and talked to a flight attendant. The flight attendant said he looked bad enough that she offered to have the pilot radio ahead to have medics meet him at the gate."

"No one met him. Security found his pack abandoned, and the video shows he was on his own."

"Yeah. He told her he was O.K. That he was on his way home and a friend was picking him up at the airport."

"Damn it." Ellison took a moment to regain control. "Simon, he's here somewhere. I know he is. I can feel it. We just haven't talked to the right people yet."

"Stay as long as it takes," Banks said. "I'll see you both when you get home. Rhonda booked a room for you at the Best Western near the airport. You won't do him any good if you're out on your feet and missing details."

"I'll call you," Ellison said, and snapped the phone shut. "All right. Have you got a list of the EMTs on duty around the time Sandburg's flight got in?"

"I do," Filmore said, "But like I said, if they'd treated him or seen him and he'd refused treatment, they'd have logged it. And the hospitals have no records in his name and no John Does. We know he left the pack behind. Someone probably went through it for valuables. The only thing we found in it of any value was that jaguar, and the way it was wrapped up, someone in a hurry would have missed it. I'd say that's how the credit card ended up at the 7-11. I think your boy left the airport under his own power. I'll get some of the folks here to screen the security footage in case he shows up on it again, but I think our time would be better spent canvassing the area with photos than going over old ground with the EMTs."

He was right. It was the only thing that made sense. But it meant giving up the last bit of hope that Blair was somewhere safe. It meant he was, at best, wandering around sick and disoriented in a strange city. Ellison wasn't ready to consider the remaining alternative. He nodded. "All right. You're right. Let's get moving on it."

"You got that photo?" Filmore put out a hand for it. Let's run over to the office and make a couple of copies."

"Right," Ellison said, handing the photo over. He followed Filmore through two more doors to a cluttered office with a coffee pot, two computer stations and a battered photocopier. Filmore set it up to make twenty-five copies, then moved to the coffee pot to fill a Styrofoam cup. Still holding the pot up, he raised an eyebrow at Ellison.

Ellison shook his head impatiently. The last thing he needed was more acid burning in his gut.

While they waited for the copies to finish emerging from the machine, a clean-cut sandy-haired man about Blair's age stuck his head into the doorway to wave a casual greeting to Filmore. "Ken! Been forever. Where have you been hiding yourself these days?"

"Hey, Matt. I've been chained to a desk," Filmore said. "Promotion's not all it's cracked up to be."

The young man chuckled. "Yeah. I'll bet. You won't catch me in that line anytime soon. Don't get much of a rush from riding a desk. Hey, that's gorilla man!" He picked up one of the fresh copies.

"What?" Ellison said. "You know this man? You've seen him?"

"Sure. Couple of days ago. He was pretty out of it. I don't remember his name, but it'd be in the log."

"Sandburg," Ellison said. "His name's Blair Sandburg. Where did you see him?"

The young man shook his head. "Sandburg. No. I'm sure that wasn't the name he gave us, but that's him all right." He looked up from the photo. "Sorry. Matt Malloy. I'm an EMT. I work here at the airport. What's this about anyway?"

"This is Detective Ellison," Filmore said. "Mr. Sandburg's a consultant to his department. He went missing from a flight two days ago. We'll need you to tell us everything you remember."

"No problem. Bonny Seaver and I handled the call."

*EMT Matt Malloy crouched beside the inert body he'd been sent to investigate. It was a young man maybe twenty-four, twenty-five years old. He was lying in a huddle on the pavement, face turned to one side, mostly obscured by a mane of auburn curls. Matt slipped a gloved hand under the chin, immediately making two determinations. The man had a pulse -- and a fever that would fry his brain if they didn't get him to a hospital pretty quickly.

His partner set the med kit down and came to crouch next to him. "What have we got?"

Malloy glanced at her once and then returned his attention to the victim. "Don't know yet. He's burning up. We need to transport as soon as we can."

"I'll get on the horn." Bonnie reached past him to brush the young man's hair back from his face. "Holy shit. Did you see this bruising? What did he do? Run into a semi?"

Malloy leaned closer. "It's not recent. Couple of days at least. He hasn't been here that long."

"Yeah. Pretty ugly, though."

Malloy checked vitals while his partner called for transport. "I'm not finding any other serious injuries," he said when she rejoined him. "A few bruises. No ID that I can find. No wallet. My guess is he was sick to begin with, maybe disoriented, and someone pegged him as an easy target. Probably took his wallet and luggage."

"Works for me. You get a temp?"

"1o5.1. He's pretty dehydrated." He looked down in surprise as the young man startled them both by shifting sluggishly, trying to push himself up on uncoordinated limbs.

"Easy." Matt put a hand on his back to keep him still. "Just lie still for now. My name's Matt. I'm an EMT. I'm here to help. Can you tell me your name?" He leaned closer to catch the mumbled response. "Jim Nelson? Is that it? O.K., Jim. You're running a pretty high fever. How long have you not been feeling well? Jim? Talk to me. I need you to tell me what happened. Do you remember what happened?"

It was no use. The moment of lucidity had passed. The young man's brow furrowed in pain and confusion. "Gorillas... Damn gorillas."

Malloy shook his head. "I don't think we'll get much out of him. Let's just get him transported."

"Maybe he's a zookeeper or an animal trainer or something. You think he could have picked something up from working with primates?" She leaned close to the patient. "Jim? What about the gorillas? Tell me about the gorillas."

"No..." He struggled against Malloy's restraining hands. "Get away! You don't wanna know! Don' wanna hear goddamn gorillas ...on the line. You're outta line! You're outta line. Goddamn gorillas gotta be on the line."

Malloy cast an annoyed glance at his partner. "Great. Get him all wound up. All right. All right. Easy now. No gorillas here, buddy. Just us little monkeys, O.K.? Nooooo gorillas. That's it. Just relax."

The ambulance pulled up beside them. They helped the attendants load the patient, then flipped a coin. Malloy grinned at the result. His partner would accompany the patient to the hospital.

"Meet ya there," Malloy said. "But look. You stay close to the radio, and if you hear any gorillas on the line, you call for back up, you hear?"

"Not even close to funny, Malloy."*

"That's it," Malloy said. We don't have any contact once we turn them over. He was in bad shape, though. If he made it, he's probably still there."

"Let's go." Ellison was already out the door.

"Hold on," Filmore said, moving to catch up with him. "I got the car keys."

"You're welcome!" Malloy called after them. Ellison raised a hand in acknowledgement, but didn't look back.

Storming into the hospital, Ellison neither knew nor cared how many people he shouldered aside to get to the admissions desk. He was barely aware of Filmore following in his wake, muttering, "Sorry. Sorry. Denver PD. Excuse me. Sorry."

Ellison slapped the photo down on the desk. "Where is he?"

"I'm sorry." The middle-aged desk attendant frowned at him over her glasses. "You'll have to wait like everyone else. We'll get to you as soon as we can."

Ellison was out of patience. He reached across the desk and caught her wrist before she could turn away. "Look at the damn picture!"

"Whoa," Filmore said, catching up finally and putting a restraining hand on Ellison's arm. "Sorry, ma'am. Captain Filmore. Denver PD." He flashed his badge. "And this is Detective Ellison, Cascade, Washington PD. You'll have to pardon his manners. He's a little out of control." He glared at Ellison until Ellison released his hold on the woman's wrist before he continued. "His partner's been missing for two days. If you wouldn't mind just taking a look at the photo." He slid it closer to her.

Slightly mollified by his courtesy, she picked up the photo. "That's Mr. Nelson. Dr. Bakare's been treating him."

"Then he's alive? You're sure?" Ellison demanded. The overwhelming antiseptic odor of the hospital made his senses virtually useless and he could detect no trace of his partner's distinctive scent or heartbeat.

"Yes. Of course. He's--"

"Where is he? Take me to him."

"I can't just leave the desk. Hold on a minute and I'll page Dr. Bakare for you."

Ellison paced while the attendant paged the doctor. Paced some more while they waited for him to arrive. But at last a slender Nigerian doctor was guiding him through the maze of corridors.

"Your friend will be fine," Bakare said, his soft Nigerian accent somehow adding an extra measure of assurance to the words. "He was found unconscious outside a terminal at Stapleton International. Unfortunately he didn't arrive on my shift, and so he wasn't diagnosed as quickly as we might have hoped. A doctor here in Denver might see two cases of malaria in his entire practice, but I grew up where it's as common as the flu. I recognized it immediately when I came on shift, and a blood test confirmed it. He's already doing much better. His temperature is normal today. He hasn't been awake enough to talk to us yet, but he's sleeping normally, and I expect he'll be waking up any time now."

For the first time in days, Ellison felt a little of the tension leave his shoulders, but he knew he wouldn't relax until he and his partner were safely back at the loft sharing a pizza and fighting over the remote.

"Here we are," the doctor said, guiding them into a room.

Filmore hung back in the doorway to avoid crowding the small room, but Ellison was drawn immediately to the bed by a need to touch the man lying in it -- to confirm physically what he could hardly believe he was seeing. Amazingly, except for the bruises and the two-day stubble, Sandburg looked completely at ease. He might as well have been taking a nap on the sofa in the loft. Ellison brushed the tips of his fingers over his partner's arm, then brought his hand up to ghost over the dark bruises on his face.

"God, Chief, you have no idea what you've put us through these last couple of days."

"Hmm?" Sandburg murmured. Then his eyes snapped open and he stared at Ellison in shock. "Jim! Aw hell! I'm late, aren't I? I was supposed to meet you, so you wouldn't have to park!"

Ellison smiled down at him. "Just this once, I guess I don't mind parking."

Sandburg looked around, his eyes narrowing with confusion. "What -- Where are we?"

"Denver. You never made your connecting flight. We've had quite the runaround trying to find you. How you feeling?"

Sandburg took a moment to think about that one. "O.K. Just really tired. I wasn't feeling so hot when I left the hotel this morning, but... what am I doing here?"

Bakare moved to the bedside. "That was several days ago and there was a good reason you weren't feeling well. You had malaria."

"Oh." He sighed. "I would, wouldn't I?"

Bakare raised a brow. "What makes you say that?"

"'Cause it's like, I'm a walking clich, man. Anthropologist goes to Central America, gets taken hostage by anti-government rebels, takes a rifle butt to the face for trying to save the girl, and ends up with malaria. It's like a bad episode of every TV show that's ever been on." He finally paused for a breath that turned into a yawn. "Except that I didn't get the girl."

Ellison chuckled. "You may yet. I hear she's pretty grateful. And it isn't a total loss in any case. You've earned yourself quite a reputation with the medics at the airport."

Sandburg groaned. "Oh, God. What did I do?"

"You don't want to know, Chief. Suffice to say you've gone down in their logs -- and in the history of the airport -- as Gorilla Man."

"All right," Bakare interrupted. "Let's let Mr. Nelson get some rest."

"Nelson?" Sandburg looked to Ellison for clarification.

"When the medics found you," Ellison said, "We figure you were either asking for me or just coherent enough to try to give them contact info. They couldn't make it out clearly and you ended up being admitted as Jim Nelson. That's what made you so hard to track down. No one had any record of treating you, and there were no John Does matching your description at the hospitals or..." He refused to say the word.

"Yeah." Sandburg reached out and gripped his wrist briefly. "Sorry about that."

"And I'm sorry too," Bakare interrupted, "But I'm going to insist that you get some rest now. We're going to keep you for tonight, but you should be O.K. to be released tomorrow, with medication. I don't recommend traveling for another couple of days."

"I'll call Simon from the hotel," Ellison said, "And I'll be back first thing in the morning. Do as the doc says and get some sleep, so I can get you out of here tomorrow."

"Wait!" Sandburg leaned forward to stop him. "My pack! What happened to it?"

"Security found it in the airport after you went missing. It was being held as evidence. I'll swing by and pick it up."

"Good." Sandburg settled back into the pillows, already relaxing into sleep again. "There's something... I was afraid I'd lost something important."

Ellison had to look away for a moment before he said, "Not today. Nobody's losing anything today. Get some sleep."

After making sure he was soundly asleep, Ellison got into the overhead bin and pulled out the blanket he'd purchased in Denver. He had no intention of ever letting on that he'd spent most of four hours picking it out. That he'd tested dozens of different fabrics until he'd finally settled on the dark green shaggy throw that looked like some sort of moss monster but lay warm and weightless as feathers against his skin. Let Sandburg think he picked it up out of a clearance bin. He laid it over the sleeping man, careful not to wake him and equally careful to place it in such a way as to make it appear casually tossed. Finally satisfied, he settled in to watch Stargate SG-1 reruns on the SciFi channel for the rest of the three-hour flight.

Sandburg slept through the landing. Ellison didn't bother to wake him until most of the crowd had dispersed. Then they made their way off the aircraft and into the terminal. Sandburg trailed a few steps behind until they'd passed the security checkpoints. Then he stopped short and glared at his partner.

"You're a dead man, Ellison. From here on out, you had better sleep with your senses dialed up, because I swear to God I will strangle you in your sleep."

Ellison raised an eyebrow. He knew his smile was more than a little smug, but he couldn't seem to help it. "Come on now, Chief. Where's the intrepid anthropologist? Just think of it as a social bonding ritual."

"Bonding ritual, my ass," Sandburg grumbled, but he pasted on an almost credible smile and moved forward into the waiting arms of three large, hairy gorillas. Beside them, something that looked a lot like Curious George on steroids waved a crudely lettered sign reading, "WELCOME HOME GORILLA MAN!"

"Simon," Ellison said as he became aware of the distinctive scent of Simon Banks' cigar to his left. He turned to face him. "Where's your gorilla suit?"

"Oh no," Banks protested. "Don't you try to pin that one on me. Those bozos showed up all on their own. How's the kid doing, anyway?"

Ellison shrugged. "He's all right. Tired. It'll take a while."

"I believe it." Banks studied him for a moment. "What about you?"

"Might take me awhile too," Ellison said, softening it with a wry smile. "But we both know it could have been a lot worse."

Banks nodded. "Twice in one week. Someone's looking out for him."

They set the conversation aside as the others arrived. They'd removed their masks as they walked, to reveal "gorillas" Henri Brown, Joel Taggart and Brian Rafe, along with Megan Connor in the monkey suit. Sandburg looked tired but his smile was broad and genuine this time as he accepted the hand Banks put out to him.

"Good to have you back," Banks said. "And I want you to know I had nothing to do with the welcoming committee. I'm here quite innocently to give you two a ride home. That's all."

"Ah," Sandburg said. "I didn't mind." He reached out to give a playful tug on the monkey's wiry tail. "In fact, I'd like to take this opportunity to say that Megan has a really cute tail. Don't you think she has a cute tail, Jim?"

Ellison raised his hands. "Not touching that one."

"You got that bloody right," Connor retorted.

Sandburg laughed so hard that Banks had to steady him with a hand on his arm, and the others joined in with equal enthusiasm, while Ellison sputtered and flushed a deep crimson.

Banks slapped him on the back. "Better quit while you're behind, Jim!" he advised, prompting another burst of hilarity from the peanut gallery.

No doubt about it. Payback was a bitch. A glorious, beautiful bitch.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Saoirse

Home

[an error occurred while processing this directive]