Quinn moved through the trees, making the slow trek back down the mountain. He was totally unaware of the scenery around him, was only barely concentrating on the path before him. Instead, all he could see in his mind's eye was Blair Sandburg being airlifted to safety.

  I can't believe that little prick survived.

  He'd made a mistake leaving him alive. An even bigger mistake going ahead with his plan before Banks had been taken care of once and for all. It had to have been Banks who figured out where they were and sent help. "Should have slipped into his room and slit his throat when I had the chance," he chastised himself.

  He kicked aside a small branch that was in his way and barreled onward. His plan had been perfect. Ellison and Sandburg would have died in that cave. And it wouldn't have taken long. A week at most. He'd planned to camp outside and just wait. Because he wanted to see their bodies being taken out. Wanted to watch as each rock and stone was removed. He'd intended to call in the rescue crew himself. A week. All I needed was a damn week! Even if Ellison had survived, Sandburg would be dead for sure in that time.

  That was all that really mattered. Having Sandburg die in front of Ellison. Leaving Ellison helpless to stop it. Leaving him for days with the corpse of his partner at his side.

  But it hadn't worked out that way. He shook his head at his own ineptness. Next time he'd just kill them. First Banks, then Sandburg, then Ellison. Quickly. One bullet between the eyes for each of them. No more messing around. No more games.

  A branch snapped behind him, drawing his attention. He stopped and raised a hand to his eyes. Blocking out the late afternoon sun, he searched the trees. Nothing. He stood still for a minute more, then turned back to his path and started walking again.

  How long should he wait before going after them again? A week? A month? Long enough for them to recover fully. To think that they were safe and that he was long gone. Two months, he decided. In two months, they would all go back to their normal lives, let their guards down. Then he would come back and finish what he had started.

  Sandburg would be the easiest target. He was alone at that university a lot. He could go there one morning and take that punk out right in front of his class. He chuckled at the thought. Now there would be a lesson those kids would never forget.

  Another branched snapped. Quinn spun left at the sound, pulling his weapon. Movement caught his eye. He shifted behind a tree, scanning the area, sure he'd seen.... something.

  Had Ellison sent a hunting party after him?

  "Dammit." He'd been sure that Ellison would figure he was long gone. That no one would come searching for him. Now he wondered if he'd been wrong about that, too. He squinted, trying to see deeper into the trees.

  "Don't move."

  The voice was low and menacing and Quinn froze. Again, Ellison spoke, his voice coming from directly behind him.

  "Toss your weapon away and turn around."

  Quinn hesitated only a moment before doing as he was ordered. Slowly, he turned to face Ellison. The detective stood a few feet away, his gun trained on Quinn's chest, his heart. The man looked haggard; there were dark circles under his eyes, dirt covering his clothes and face. Is he out here alone? His gaze swept the area. No one else. Just Ellison. A smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. This would be fun.

  "How'd you know I'd still be out here?" he asked, keeping his hands out to his sides, playing the part of the defeated criminal.

  "I could smell you," Ellison muttered.

  "Yeah, well, a few days in the woods will do that. But you know? Most of this smell is your buddy's sweat and blood." His smile increased as he watched anger flicker across Ellison's face. You're so easy. So predictable. "Talking about your friend...do you know what I was thinking about just before you caught up to me? I was planning out my next visit to him. Maybe kill him right in front of his class next time. Whadda ya think?"

  "I think you're in no position to threaten anyone anymore." Ellison gestured with his weapon. "Turn around and put your hands behind your back. I'm taking you in."

  Quinn could feel the knife he kept strapped to the back of his belt. It pressed against him, telling him he still had a chance to kill Ellison. "I don't think so."

  "Do it!"

  "Or what? You'll shoot me where I stand?" He shook his head. "You don't have it in you... just like you didn't have it in you to dump me over the edge of that well three years ago." He took a step closer, needing to close the distance between them, to get within a few feet of his target. "You're a cop, Ellison. You won't kill an unarmed man. I know it. You know it. So just give it up."

  Ellison glared at him, his eyes darkening with rage. "I'm giving you a chance here, Quinn."

  "A chance to what? Go back to prison?" He took two more steps closer. "Thanks anyway but I don't think so. Besides, I had so much fun with Sandburg that it seems a shame to just end it like this."

  "You'll never get near Sandburg again."

  "You know what the best part of all of this was?" Quinn continued, ignoring Ellison's threat, knowing his words were getting to the detective, putting him off his game. He could see it in the tightening of his jaw. The slight tremor in his hand. "The best part was when I cuffed Sandburg to that beam in the mine. He said one word to me - 'please'. I can still hear it in my head. 'Please'. Like I was going to let him go." He took another step toward Ellison, chuckling softly. "I should have killed him right then. Glad I didn't though. Cause when I get out of these woods, I'm going to go after him again." Quinn slipped his hand behind his back. "Next time, I'm gonna just dump his sorry ass down that well." He gripped the knife handle and....

  .... a single gunshot rang out, echoing through the woods. Then there was nothing but silence.

  Jim Ellison cocked his head to the side, listening. No heartbeat. No breath sounds.

  Dawson Quinn was dead.

  Jim stared down at the body at his feet. The bullet hole in his chest. The sun glinted off the hunting knife in Quinn's right hand, drawing Jim's attention. The sentinel raised one eyebrow. Forgot he had that thing. He tucked his gun into the holster at his back, turned and walked away.

  /

  /

  Simon stepped out into the hospital corridor, leaning heavily on his cane, and closed the door to Blair's room behind him. The kid had finally fallen asleep and Simon wanted to find out if there was any word on Jim before he woke again. But as he turned toward the nurse's station, he saw the detective striding purposely toward him. Relief washed through the captain. He's alive! Thank God! But as Jim drew near, Simon frowned. His clothes were covered in dirt and blood, his hair disheveled, his hands bruised and covered in small cuts.

  "Glad to see you up and about, sir." Jim indicated the cane with a tilt of his head. "How long will you need that thing?"

  Simon shrugged one shoulder. "A few weeks. I got off lucky."

  Jim's gaze darted to the door to Blair's room, regret etched in his features, and Simon silently chided himself. He may have gotten off lucky. Sandburg had not. "Jim, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

  "It's all right, Simon. I know what you meant."

  He started to move past him, but Simon reached out and gripped his arm, stopping him. "Jim, don't you think you ought to get yourself cleaned up a bit?"

  "I will as soon as I check on Sandburg."

  "You're hurt. Your hands-"

  "I'm checking on my partner first." His steely gaze locked on Simon, telling him there would be no changing his mind.

  "Okay." Simon released him but there was something else in those blue eyes. Something... "Jim, what happened out in those woods? With Quinn?"

  Jim held his gaze, unblinking. "I found him."

  "And?" he prompted when Jim fell silent again.

  "I shot him."

  Simon stared at Jim, unable to respond. Not because he found it hard to believe that Jim had shot Dawson Quinn but because the sentinel had said the words with such a matter-of-fact calmness. And in that moment, Simon knew without a doubt that Jim Ellison hadn't just shot Dawson Quinn -- he had killed him.

  What had happened in those woods?

  But as he continued to stare into Jim's steady gaze, he realized that it didn't really matter. Quinn was dead. There was no changing that. They could only move forward from here. "You had no choice." It was not a question but a statement of fact. "That will be made clear to everyone."

  Something in Jim's expression changed, softened. He let out a weary sigh. "Thank you, Simon," he said, his voice soft. "For sending the help to us. For being here for Blair when he woke up. For... understanding."

  "Nothing to understand. You did your job, Detective. I wouldn't have expected anything less." He nodded toward the closed door behind him. "Now go to your partner. He's been worried sick about you."

  Without saying another word, Jim moved to the door and disappeared into the room. Simon stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door. Whatever Jim had done, he had not done it out of a sense of vengeance. No. Jim was not a vengeful man. He had killed Quinn for one reason and one reason only - to protect Blair. Simon considered the implications of that knowledge, weighing them against his duty as an officer of the law and his duty as a friend. The decision came easily. The captain turned back toward his room, knowing he would take that knowledge to his grave.

  /

  /

  Jim stepped quietly into the small hospital room and immediately focused his attention on the still form of his partner, asleep in the room's solitary bed. Blair's face was bruised and swollen. The deep, inflamed cuts bore silent testimony to the ordeal he had undergone in the woods. Long shafts of sunlight angled in through the room's windows and fell mercilessly across Blair's face, accentuating every inch of his pale, damaged skin with unforgiving clarity.

  Jim closed his eyes briefly against the image of his battered partner. He was dimly aware of being thankful that Sandburg was asleep--he doubted he would be able to speak around the small, tight lump that had formed in his throat.

  Opening his eyes, he frowned, then strode purposely over to the windows. He reached up, grabbed roughly at the drapes, and pulled them closed in one swift motion. Immediately, the interior of the room--as well as the appearance of Blair's injuries--were softened in the muted light.

  Slowly, Jim stepped up to the hospital bed and leaned over his sleeping partner. He studied him silently for several moments, cataloging the myriad cuts and bruises. Reaching up, he placed his thumb gently against Blair's chin and let it trace softly down the perimeter of the long gash that was being held together by a trio of butterfly bandages. It was obvious to Jim that the wound would leave a scar, a permanent physical reminder of Quinn's barbarity.

  He dropped his fingers to Blair's shoulder and trailed them gently down the length of his partner's right arm, coming at last to the white gauze bandage that encircled Blair's wrist and concealed the lacerations inflicted by Jim's own cuffs. He exhaled a slow, weary sigh, the sound manifesting the tragic needlessness of it all: Quinn could have just come after me if he had wanted to... he could have left Blair out of it... Jim moved his hand again, sliding his fingers down across Blair's wrist and slipping them into his palm.

  Two broken ribs, a bruised kidney and a partially collapsed lung. Injuries that had very nearly killed him.

  A hot surge of anger welled up within Jim again. Anger at Dawson Quinn. Anger that he had been able to inflict such misery on another human being. Anger that he had hurt Blair, and that he had hurt him without remorse, without mercy.

  But the anger was short-lived--Quinn was dead. And Blair was going to be all right. Breathing deeply, Jim grounded himself in the sensation of Blair's pulse beating beneath his sensitive fingertips where they lay tucked within his partner's palm. He closed his eyes and allowed the silent rage to slip away, knowing it was no longer necessary to harbor it inside himself. Quinn was dead. Never again would he hurt an innocent individual. Never again would he hurt Blair.

  Backing away just far enough to reach one of the visitor's chairs, Jim maneuvered it close to the bed and sat down next to his partner. He rested his forearm on the mattress and leaned forward, allowing his arm to support his weight. He was conscious of the warmth of Blair's arm against his and of the sensations of calm and comfort that that warmth provided. He raised his left hand to Blair's forehead and rested his palm there lightly. Blair's skin was hot and dry beneath his hand, telltale signs of the fever that still coursed through his body.

  Jim settled in to wait. He didn't expect Blair to wake soon. But it was as though the young man could sense his presence, and after only a few short minutes Jim felt Blair shifting slightly as his body began to shake off the bonds of sleep. Drowsily, he blinked his eyes a few times then let them remain closed, the pull of exhaustion winning out.

  Jim stroked gently at Sandburg's hair as the young man lay quietly, eyes closed, somewhere between fading sleep and encroaching wakefulness. Minutes slipped past, a peaceful and serene fragment of time during which Blair's body pulled itself slowly to consciousness. Jim was content to sit close, to touch his friend, to provide a form of watchful care and protection. Jim needed this as much as Blair did--probably more than Blair did. He realized that part of that need was rooted in a desire to redeem himself for failing to keep his young partner out of Quinn's grasp. And sitting there, quietly waiting for Blair to wake, he felt at peace for the first time since Quinn had lured him and his partner onto the rooftop of that abandoned building.

  Eventually Blair's eyes opened. He looked up at the ceiling, confused. Jim watched quietly as the confusion gave way to recognition and then to remembrance. Blair turned his head against the pillow and saw Ellison sitting beside him. He blinked away the last of his drowsiness, then smiled lazily. "Jim..." he whispered, his tired eyes brightening at the sight of his partner, sitting close beside him, safe and well. Alive.

  "Hey, Buddy," Jim whispered back. He smiled, then groused good-naturedly: "I'm glad you woke up to keep me company. I was just about to start talking to myself."

  Blair exhaled a small, weak chuckle. "Hey, I do that all the time," he replied softly. "It's not so bad... I have some of my most intelligent conversations that way."

  Jim's laughed heartily, shaking his head in amusement as the laugh faded naturally into a bright smile. "Yeah, well I'm not so sure it would work like that in my case, Sandburg." He leaned closer to Blair and ran his hand gently across his hair. Their eyes locked and for several seconds they simply enjoyed the companionable silence.

  Finally, Jim asked softly, "How are you feeling?"

  Blair lifted one shoulder in a small shrug and glanced up briefly at the intravenous bag that hung above him at the head of his bed. Bringing his eyes back to Jim's, he smiled and said, "I guess you could say I'm feeling no pain." His smile widened. "No pain at all."

  Jim laughed again. "You like that stuff, huh?"

  "Oh, yeah, man. I wonder if they offer it in the convenient take-home size?"

  "I'll check that out for you," Jim teased. As he watched his friend, Blair's eyes slipped closed for a brief moment. When they blinked open again, the smile within them had been replaced by a cloud of concern, almost fear.

  Jim tensed. "Blair? What is it?" he asked anxiously. "Are you in pain? Do you need me to call a nurse?"

  Blair swallowed and shook his head against the pillow. "No," he whispered. "It's not that." He turned an accusing glare on Jim. "You went after Quinn."

  Jim took a deep breath and bit at the inside of his lip. He knew his decision to remain on the mountain and deal with Quinn would have never been acceptable to Blair had he been conscious at the time. And a part of him knew that he had taken advantage of his partner's unconscious condition, using that time to slip away after Quinn, allowing Blair no say in the matter. But there had been no other way--

  "Are you all right?" Blair's voice, filled with concern, sliced through his thoughts and scattered his brief introspection.

  Returning his attention to his partner, he nodded. "I'm fine."

  "You shouldn't have done that, Jim. I woke up and you weren't here. Do you have any idea how I felt when I found out you'd stayed behind to go after that lunatic?"

  Jim shifted in his chair and leaned forward, his body unconsciously posturing itself to help drive home his point. "I had to go after him, Chief. He was still there when you were airlifted out. I could hear him. And I knew if I stayed I could put this behind us once and for all."

  "But you went after him alone!"

  "This was between Quinn and me. I couldn't justify putting anyone else at risk."

  "But you didn't hesitate to put yourself at risk," Sandburg pointed out. He looked at Jim, a hint of displeasure still evident in his features. "I was afraid he'd kill you, Jim," he admitted.

  "I had no choice," Jim insisted. "I had to be sure Quinn wouldn't come after us again."

  "You always have a choice, man."

  Jim dropped his gaze to the bed, knowing he would never be able to make Blair fully understand why he had decided to go after Quinn. He heard Blair sigh lightly, and Sandburg's tone was softer when he continued, "It's okay, Jim. We can talk about it later... and we will talk about it."

  Jim lifted his eyes again and found Blair smiling at him. He couldn't help but smile in return. He knew Blair well enough to know that if he said they would talk about it later, then they would talk about it later. But that could wait.

  "So," Blair spoke again. "What about Quinn. Did you find him?"

  "Yes," Jim answered simply. "He wasn't trying to hide."

  "And is he...?"

  "He's dead, Blair. He won't be hurting anyone else."

  Jim wasn't sure how he expected Blair to react to the news, but as he gazed into Blair's eyes, he saw no questioning of Quinn's fate, only trust and relief. A small pang of guilt pricked at Jim's heart, and he had to force himself to maintain eye contact with his partner. Blair trusted him so implicitly... if he ever found out....

  Jim took a deep breath and pushed at the guilt, locking it away with practiced ease. If he had to live with a little guilt, so be it. It was something he would willingly bear. He thought of the young man before him and of his captain--both of them alive and on their way to recovering from Quinn's abuse--and his heart told him he had done the only thing he could have done.