Smoke and Mirrors

By K.Ryn

Part 3 (see part 1 for disclaimers)

**************************************

Holding Jankowski with a frigid, blue-eyed glare, the Sentinel 
relied on his other senses to feed him the data he needed. 
Shuffles of leather and rubber soles against the concrete; a 
harsh chronic smoker's cough; heavy, excited breathing; the 
scrape of denim; and the thunder of heartbeats, fixed the nine 
men's positions in his mind. Rogers stood just beyond the old 
man and Jenson a few feet to Jim's right. The rest stood in a 
rough semi-circle, waiting with evident impatience for the kill.

*Like the carrion-eaters that they are,* the Sentinel raged 
silently. *Vulturous birds of prey...damn them. They took an 
oath.*

And so had he. One far more ancient and binding than any that 
these men could have even dreamed of. The proud old man in 
his gunsights might have recognized the truth of it--the need to 
protect; the need to find justice for those who couldn't fight for 
themselves--but at the moment he was blinded by his own 
anger and feelings of betrayal. 

"Go ahead. Kill me," Jankowski hissed. "Look right into my 
eyes and pull the trigger. If you can."

"Oh, I assure you that's going to happen, old man," Jim 
sneered, never flinching or lowering the gun. Still hoping to run 
the bluff, he directed his next words to Jenson. "I assume you 
want him done the same way as the others."

"Yes. One to the back of the head," Jenson answered. "It will 
reinforce our message to the rest of the holdouts. That gun's 
clean, by the way. No way to trace it to us, or to you."

The ex-ranger didn't blink an eye although his gut tightened. 
*This sucks,*  he thought, using his partner's patented 
expression
 
"Tell me where you want it finished," he requested, hoping to 
buy a little more time. If this killing ran to pattern, there would 
be another building set ablaze to cover the murder. The factory 
wasn't within the target area. He hoped that Jenson would 
order him to take Jankowski to the selected site. Even if half of 
the men went as chaperones, the odds that he could overcome 
them and get both the old man and himself to safety increased 
dramatically.

"Here. Now," Jenson said quietly.

Jim nodded and tightened his grip on the weapon, his mind 
racing, his expression giving nothing of his inner turmoil away. 
The gun felt light and almost like a toy in his hands. His eyes 
narrowed as suspicion bloomed. Was the gun actually loaded? 
He dialed up his sense of smell.

*Gun oil...it's been cleaned very recently...just a trace of 
gunpowder...no reek of metal casings...damn...I don't think 
there's any ammunition in the clip...a bluff...another test... 
Jenson's not sure of me so going to let me hang myself...I pull 
the trigger and I'm in...if I don't shoot they gun both of us 
down...loaded or not...How sure are you, Ellison? Willing to 
risk a man's life on these senses of yours? Blair would say go 
for it, but he's the one with absolute faith in your abilities. 
You're the one with the doubts...*

Jim took a deep breath and made his decision.  *When in 
doubt, follow the wisdom of your Guide, Sentinel,* he told 
himself.

Unfortunately Jankowski chose that moment to take matters 
into his own hands. The old man jerked away from the gun, 
lowered his head, and barreled into Jim. One bony shoulder 
struck Ellison mid-chest, throwing the detective off balance. At 
the same time Jankowski jerked his head upward, the top of his 
skull connecting with the underside of Jim's jaw. The impact 
drove the Sentinel's teeth together with an audible click and 
snapped his head back.

Silently cursing the old man's timing, Jim immediately changed 
tactics, shifting from attacked to attacker. Clutching 
Jankowski, the Sentinel used their combined momentum and 
weight to carry them several steps backward. As the two men 
tumbled toward the floor, Jim swept outward with one leg, 
knocking the feet out from under the two men standing closest 
to them. Gordon and Hiller wavered and toppled like errant 
bowling pins, carrying Allen to the floor in a jumble of 
thrashing arms and legs as well. 

The ex-ranger hit the floor and rolled away from Jankowski, 
pushing the old man flat against the concrete and rising fluidly 
to his feet in one blurred motion. He homed in on the next 
closest target--Randolph. Jim raised the weapon he still held 
and pressed the trigger. There was a click, not the reassuring 
sound of a bullet leaving the chamber. The gun was useless--
empty as he'd suspected. 

Nonetheless, it was still a weapon and significantly harder than 
his fist. Ellison stepped toward the advancing man. He swung 
the gun in a punishing arc, connecting with Randolph's jaw. 
The force of the blow sent the other detective reeling.

The Sentinel's mind registered four enemies down as he pulled 
a knife free from its hiding place in his left boot. He feinted 
right toward Smithson, then lunged to the left to take down 
Jenson. He grabbed the vice-cop's jacket and spun both of 
them toward the concrete. Jenson rolled with the movement 
and even as they fell he jabbed upward, striking Ellison's right 
elbow with an expert blow that jarred the knife from Jim's 
suddenly nerveless fingers. The Sentinel grunted as the air 
whooshed out of his lungs and he ended up on the unyielding 
floor with Jenson's weight pinning him down. 

His head snapped to the right as Jenson's fist connected with 
his jaw. Jim fought off the blackness, trying to free himself. 
The air was filled with the sounds of scuffling feet; grunts as 
flesh struck flesh, moans of pain; the metallic slide of a weapon 
being primed; and his Guide's voice ringing in his head--"Stay 
out of your own way, man!"

Instinct and training took over, launching the Sentinel into 
action again as he fought back. He wrenched his arms free of 
Jenson's hold and struck out with his fists, pummeling short 
blows into his adversary's ribs. The resulting grunts of pain 
energized him and he arched his back, driving one knee upward 
at the same time.

Jenson collapsed to the side, doubled over and gasping. Jim 
rolled in the opposite direction, snagging one of his guns from 
the other man's waist. He lurched to his feet and took two 
running steps toward Jankowski. The old man was crouched 
on the floor next to Barnes, who he had somehow managed to 
take out. The Sentinel heard the cocking of two more guns and 
whirled around, resolutely placing himself between Jankowski 
and death, his own weapon rising.

The explosion as someone fired, blasted the Sentinel's hearing. 
He was reeling in anguish before the burning pain registered 
midway between the center of his chest and his right shoulder. 
Ellison fell backwards, crashing into Jankowski and knocking 
the older man aside. Dazed and half blinded by the sweat 
pouring into his eyes, Jim struggled to get up, swinging his 
head groggily toward where he thought his attackers would be. 
He caught a blurred glimpse of jeans-clad legs just before 
something hard struck him along the left side of the head. A 
regretful apology to his Guide and the old man that he'd failed 
to save flashed through his mind before a lightning bolt of red-
hot agony seared his sight and darkness took him.

*******************************

Seething with fury, Jenson glared down at Ellison's motionless 
body. "You're good, Ellison. I almost bought the act. Almost." 
He shifted his gaze to Jankowski who stood unresisting in 
Rogers' grasp, a stunned look of horror on his face. "You blew 
it old man. Army was on your side all along." 

Gordon stumbled up, glanced at the blood pooling under Jim 
and grabbed his partner's arm in panic. "Jesus, Phil...What are 
we going to do now?"

"We're going to finish off tonight's work as scheduled," Jenson 
answered, shirking off Gordon's grip and shooting a disgusted 
glance at his partner. "We'll take them to the site and finish 
things off there. Ellison will just be another unexplained body. 
It'll look like he was investigating the fires and got careless."

"He knew about us," Allen said quietly, joining them at last.

"It would appear so," Jenson said darkly. "Somewhere along 
the line someone's made a mistake." He turned his glare on the 
assembled men. "That won't happen again," he declared.

"If Ellison was on to us, then we've got some damage control 
to do besides tonight's cleanup," Randolph murmured. 

Jenson nodded. "Starting with Sandburg. That punk's got to be 
in on this--that's why Ellison got him out of the picture. We'll 
finish this and then find him, wherever he's gone to ground. 
He'll tell us who else was involved and how much evidence 
they've got." Jenson gestured toward Jim. "Strip him of 
anything that looks like a weapon and then load him up with 
the old man. Be thorough. He's probably carrying enough gear 
to take out a small army. Move it gentlemen. I want to be clear 
of this location within ten minutes."

**************************

<Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror cracked from side to side.>

Blair's universe was shrinking.

Two hours earlier, it had included every mile of the city of 
Cascade. Simon's call had sent him into a flurry of frantic 
activity. He'd scrutinized every insurance record that he had in 
his possession, desperate to figure out where Gordon--
assuming he'd handled the pickup--might have taken his 
partner.

The world had been reduced to the geometric proportions of 
six square blocks thirty minutes later, when Joel had contacted 
him to let him know that Rafe and Brown had managed to 
trace Jim's cell phone to a manufacturing district in the older 
part of town. 

It had shrunk to 23,000 feet of deserted factory space five 
minutes after that. Taggert had called again. Simon was 
confident that they had a fix on the exact location and he was 
moving into position.

The news that the signal was no longer active had constricted 
the viable space around the anxious young man to a seven foot 
by two foot section of threadbare carpeting in a seedy motel 
room.

Blair had paced, hard-pressed to control his rising fear and to 
ignore the printouts which lay strewn across every flat surface 
of the room, taunting him with his failure. Thirty minutes of 
examining the weave of the rug and the tips of his sneakers, 
he'd punched in the speed dial to reach Joel. Talking to Taggert 
had been far from reassuring. He hadn't heard from the backup 
team either. The 'no news is good news' adage hadn't been the 
least bit comforting. 

Fourteen square feet had became eight as his stride had grown 
shorter and his nerves more frazzled. Eight had become four, 
finally reduced to the footprint that his battered Nike's 
occupied as he ground to a halt. Shaking so hard that he was 
unable to take another step, his mind obsessed on the passage 
of time. Too much time. And no reassuring phone call.

Stress-induced fatigue had dropped him to where he sat, a 
forlorn, cross-legged figure on a lumpy bed. Mind and body 
burning with the certainty that his Sentinel was in grave 
danger, he was vaguely surprised that he himself hadn't already 
ceased to exist--extinguished, like the rest of his world, in a 
puff of smoke. 

*After all, what good is a Guide or a Shaman with no Sentinel 
to lead and counsel? What good is an observer without a 
detective to traipse around after? What good is it to be alive 
when your best friend was...*

Blair's bloodshot eyes swung to the door. He wanted to break 
down that barrier and reclaim his world again. To scour the 
depths of the city on his own. To run, screaming into the night 
and somehow find a way to his partner's side. 

But his own words bound him. His promise to Joel to 'stay put' 
he would have broken in a flash. His oath to his Sentinel was 
another matter entirely--one formed by honor, trust and faith.

He shot off the bed as heavy pounding rattled the front door 
and the sound of Simon's voice urgently calling his name 
thundered through the cracks in the walls. Blair fumbled the 
safety chain in his frantic efforts. Banks shoved one shoulder 
against the flimsy panel and the scream of tortured metal and 
stripped screws sent the younger man stumbling back several 
steps to avoid the door as it crashed inward.

"Grab your things, Sandburg, we're getting you out of here," 
Simon ordered tersely.

"Where's Jim?" Blair was surprised at the steadiness of his own 
voice.

"We don't know." 

The regret and concern that tinged the captain's brusque 
answer and the grim expression on his face made Blair's heart 
twist, but he struggled to retain his composure. He turned back 
to the bed and began stuffing items into his backpack. "You 
located the factory?" he asked softly.

Simon nodded. "Yes, but by the time we'd determined that it 
was safe to go in, the place was deserted."

Puzzled, Blair glanced up and met Simon's gaze. "If there was 
no one there, then how do you know..." His voice died and he 
swallowed. Hard. "What *did* you find, Simon?" he 
whispered, already dreading the answer.

"There were partial tire tracks on the floor not too far from the 
main garage door. At least two vehicles had been inside. 
Looked like one of the vehicles was leaking oil. It could have 
been the car Jim's contact was driving--the thing sounded like it 
was on its last legs. There was a fair coating of dirt and dust. 
Enough to find evidence of shoe and boot prints. Jim's boots 
leave a pretty distinctive pattern." 

Simon drew in a deep breath and Blair felt his stomach lurch.

"There were signs of what was probably a fight involving 
several men. There was also an area of the floor near where we 
found the oil that had been scrubbed clean. I didn't want to 
bring in forensics yet, but I can only think of one reason for 
that much effort."

Blair felt the blood drain from his face and he leaned against 
the side of the bed for support.

"We also found this." 

Simon handed Blair a three inch wide coil of narrow-gauge 
wire. The anthropologist let the strand spiral out to its full 
twenty inch length and stared at it in confusion. "I don't..."

"That's a garrote. High tensile steel," Banks explained. "It's the 
kind of thing Jim would have learned to use in the rangers. 
Easy to conceal. It'd be a logical backup weapon, especially if 
you thought you were going to be searched."

It was Blair's turn to nod. He gathered the wire back into a 
tight coil and slipped it into his pocket. Given Jenson's military 
background, the garrote could have been his, or one of his 
men's, but the worried Guide's instincts told him that Simon 
was correct in assuming it was Jim's. The ex-ranger would 
have planned for any contingency, including the possibility--no, 
certainty--that Banks had just mentioned.

*Simon didn't spell it out...of course he doesn't have to... 
Things went to hell and Jim's either dead or badly wounded. 
Let's hope for the latter. Let's not even contemplate why they 
cleaned that space on the floor, or how much blood that 
meant...*

The anthropologist swallowed against the bile that had risen in 
his throat and reached for his headset and CDs, mechanically 
stuffing them into his bag. 

"Guess that explains why you practically broke down the 
door," he murmured as he slipped the backpack on his shoulder 
and looked up to meet Simon's gaze once more, struggling to 
project more confidence than he felt. "Okay. I'm ready. What's 
the plan?"

"Joel's dug in at a motel just a block away. He'll run 
surveillance on this place. If Jenson or one of his men comes 
looking for you, we'll gather them in." 

Blair breathed a small sigh of relief. "Great. That leaves us free 
to look for Jim." He immediately started gathering up the 
insurance records. "We'd better take these with us," he 
muttered as he darted about the small room to retrieve the 
precious sheets. "I should know them by heart, all the 
addresses, I mean..."

"Sandburg..."

"...but I don't want to take the chance I forgot something, or 
transposed a number, you know? Now's not the time to waste 
time, right?"

"Sandburg..."

"...I figure we'll start with the process of elimination thing," 
Blair rambled on, not even registering Simon's attempts to 
break into his overdrive monologue. "We'll check out the 
properties we know they hold the deeds and insurance 
coverage on. If we don't find any sign of them, then we'll just 
cruise the streets. I mean, how hard can it be to find a small 
army of crooked cops and one Sentinel in less than ten city 
blocks?" 

Blair's voice cracked as a wave of despair tightened his throat. 
Shaking his head he reached toward another pile of papers 
stacked on the chair near the door, only to find his path 
blocked and his wrist pinned in a firm, dark grip. Stunned and 
surprised he looked up and met Simon's determined glare. 

"You're not going anywhere near that neighborhood, 
Sandburg," Banks decreed.

Blair pulled angrily out of Simon's hold. "The hell I'm not."

"Sandburg..."

"Don't 'Sandburg' me, Simon," Blair retorted heatedly. "I've 
done everything you and Jim wanted throughout this whole 
damn case. I am NOT sitting on the sidelines any longer. My 
partner's out there, and if he's not already dead, he's sure to be 
a corpse before the night is over. We have to find him. *I* 
have to find him. A Guide's duty is to protect his Sentinel. I let 
all of you sidetrack me from that obligation up until now, but 
no longer."

"You go out there and *you'll* be a dead man the second 
Jenson gets his hands on you," Simon thundered. "Right now 
you're the only witness who can testify to everything that you 
and Jim discovered. I can't allow you to jeopardize the case, or 
your own safety."

"I don't care about the case, Simon! All I care about is getting 
Jim out of this mess alive! I can't believe you don't feel the 
same way!"

Banks grabbed Blair by both arms and gave him a hard shake. 
"I do feel the same way! But I'm also a cop and protecting you 
as the prime witness to a major crime is MY duty." Simon's 
harsh expression softened and his grip loosened slightly. 
"Besides, you're not the only one that made Jim a promise."

Blair flinched at the reminder. He had promised to keep himself 
safe, but that was before Jim's life was at stake. Surely the 
Sentinel would forgive him this breach of trust--and if he 
didn't? What was his soul worth if one half of it was gone?

"I'm prepared to live with the consequences of breaking that 
vow, Simon," he whispered, holding his head high.

"Well, I'm not," Banks countered, releasing the younger man. 
"I gave Jim my word that I'd personally take charge of your 
safety. If anything went wrong, I agreed to keep you out of the 
action. That's exactly what I intend to do. You're going to get 
in that car outside and I'm going to take you back to my place. 
You're going to do exactly what I tell you and if I so much as 
get a hint that you're thinking about sneaking off to go running 
around on your own, I'll handcuff you to the pipes under the 
bathroom sink."

The older man's face was set in stone. He looked just like Jim 
did when he pulled his 'I'm the boss' routine. It was an 
expression that Blair was all too familiar with, and one that he 
usually had to back down from--at least temporarily. But this 
time the stakes were too high to give way without a fight.

"Damn it, Simon. Don't do this! Jim's depending on me. On us! 
We're the only chance he has!" Blair pleaded.

"I'll make you a deal, Sandburg," Simon growled. "You tell me 
where he is, and we'll go get him. Can you do that? Can you 
use this bizarre connection that the two of you have as Sentinel 
and Guide to tell me precisely where he is?"

Blair inhaled sharply. Banks had hit a nerve. A raw one. *You 
don't know how badly I wish I could do just that Simon,* he 
thought bitterly, closing his eyes against the tears of frustration 
that threatened. 

Tongues of flame flickered against the inside of his eyelids and 
he shuddered. Maybe there was a way. When he opened his 
eyes again, they blazed with an inner fire of their own and he 
barely heard Simon's stammered apology.

"Blair, I'm sorry...I shouldn't have said that...We'll do our best 
to find him. Rafe and Brown are out looking. They'll call us as 
soon as they find anything."

"You just made me a promise, Simon. And I'm going to hold 
you to it," Blair said firmly. "Let's get going. I've got some 
work to do."

He strode out the door to the waiting car, ignoring the 
captain's suspicious stare.

*******************************

Blair didn't utter a sound during the drive to Simon's 
apartment. He looked out the passenger window, his vision 
focused not on the wet streets, but inward. Simon's words 
played over and over again in his mind.

//"You tell me where he is, and we'll go get him...Can you do 
that?...Can you use this bizarre connection that the two of you 
have as Sentinel and Guide to tell me precisely where he is?"//

*I could do it...Not as Jim's Guide, but as his Shaman...if I 
have the courage...*

Blair forced himself to take a deep breath and released it 
slowly. He focused on the sensation of the air moving out of 
his lungs, willing the individual molecules of vapor to carry 
away the fear and tension that gripped his body and mind. To 
act as the Sentinel's Shaman would mean facing the firewall, 
something he'd been unable to do. There was a connection 
between the vision and his partner. It had been a premonition 
of danger--of death for his Sentinel. He was sure of it. All he 
had to do was figure out what it meant and how to alter the 
outcome.

He remained silent as Simon opened the door to his apartment 
and ushered Blair inside. 

"Why don't you try to get some rest, Sandburg," Banks 
suggested, gesturing toward the bedroom that Daryl used on 
the weekends that he visited. "I'll make a few calls and see 
what progress Rafe and Brown have made."

Blair wanted to scream that rest was the last thing on his mind 
at that moment, but he didn't have the energy to waste on 
another verbal confrontation. Gripping the strap on his pack, 
he nodded his assent and crossed to the room that Simon had 
indicated. He stepped inside and closed the door. Leaning back 
against it, he absorbed the strength of the hard, smooth surface 
and inhaled the enclosed darkness, trying to settle his nerves 
even further. 

A flip of the switch just inside the doorway bathed the modest 
space in a warm soft glow. The queen sized bed looked 
inviting, but he had no intention of giving in to the need for 
sleep. He pulled the backpack from his shoulder and crossed 
over to the bed. Upending the bag, he poured out its contents. 
With trembling fingers, he sorted through the mess, selecting 
specific items that he tossed into a second pile. The balance he 
stuffed back into the pack.

He stretched, rolling his head in clockwise, then counter-
clockwise circles to loosen the tension in his neck and 
shoulders. Blair took several more deep, cleansing breaths and 
then seated himself in a full lotus on the center of the bed. 

Out of the pile he drew his CD player and the drumming disk. 
He inserted the CD and fiddled with the controls. Queuing up 
the track he'd played the night before, he donned the headset. 
He reached for the remaining item--the notebook in which he'd 
catalogued his thoughts and impressions of the vision. He 
didn't need to open it to see the words that he'd scribbled on 
those pages. They burned in his mind like bright beacons. He 
could follow them to the answers he needed, if he could 
overcome his own fears. 

*But can I?...I failed before...I couldn't face that wall of fire...I 
panicked every time I got close...*

An image of his Sentinel, blood pooling slowly around him, 
filled his mind. He angrily pushed his doubts away and began 
the breathing exercises that would lead him into the beginning 
stages of a meditative trance. Impatient, he turned on the 
player long before he was in the proper mindset. His body 
jerked at each beat of the drums. Their echoes pulsed in 
discordant patterns of sound and energy. He tried to mentally 
wade through the barrier of sound, but it twisted and 
enveloped him. 

Sound became flames that leaped to life, searing his 
outstretched hands as he attempted to force his way forward. 
He tried to see beyond the fire, but it was as if it filled the 
universe. A strangled cry was choked from him and he fell 
back...

Smothered by defeat, he came out of the trance, shaking with 
anger. He ripped off the  headset and threw the notebook 
across the room. He clasped his hands behind his neck and 
leaned forward, rocking out the extremes of his emotions. 

*Why can't I do this? What's wrong with me?* he agonized. 

Abruptly, the sound of Taggert's voice filled his head. //"You're 
not acting like yourself, Sandburg."//

Blair's eyes widened and he froze in mid-rock. 

The memory of sitting in his office, pondering the same 
thought that Joel's words evoked, surfaced--as did the 
recollection of staring at himself in a mirror and seeing a 
stranger's face looking back.

Held motionless by an elemental truth, he felt the world tilt 
dizzily on its axis again, as it fought to right itself. 

*My God...Could it be that simple?* 

By pure force of will he brought himself under control. He 
dropped his hands to his knees, turning them palm up, feeling 
the coarseness of his denim jeans and the warmth of his own 
body heat against his skin. He raised his head and straightened 
his back, rolling his shoulders so that he sat erect once again. 
Closing his eyes he breathed deeply and turned his sight 
inward, using the drumming of his own heartbeat to guide him.

*Calm...find your center...yours...not that of the man that 
you've created over the past few weeks...but yours...that which 
is truly Blair Sandburg's...that which is the Guide's...the truth 
that the Shaman requires...find the balance that you've 
lost...shatter the illusion...you know who you are...*

"I am friend and partner. I am Guide and Shaman to the 
Sentinel," Blair whispered aloud.

The firewall filled his mind like a roaring inferno. This time he 
didn't flinch from it, nor did he try to force his way through. He 
held back, studying the flames. They hissed and danced like a 
living entity. 

"I know what you are," Blair whispered. "In my ignorance and 
fear I mistook you for death, ignoring the truth that fire also 
cleanses and renews, like a prairie fire bringing life out of the 
blackened debris of destruction. I forgot that, just as I forgot 
who I was. Jim warned me, but I didn't listen. I let the illusion 
gain substance until it was reality. I let myself believe that the 
physical separation between myself and my Sentinel had 
severed the ties that bind us. I allowed myself to listen to the 
pretense of the angry words between us and let them drown 
out the voice of my heart. I betrayed the Shaman's need to seek 
truth and cloaked my soul in lies."

In his mind, he took a step closer to the firewall, feeling the 
heat beat against him, hearing the crackle of the waiting flames.  

"But no more. I know who I am again. And I know my duty as 
his Shaman. I need to understand your purpose, your truth. 
Not for myself, but for my Sentinel. I broached you once for a 
brief instant when I saw the light of your fire in his eyes. I 
reached through you and touched him--he was strong and solid 
on the other side just as always. In that split second I put aside 
my own fears and acted from my heart, with his safety my only 
concern. Destroy what you will of me, but his life waits on the 
far side of your existence and I will do whatever it takes to 
save it."  

With a roar, the flames surged forward, engulfing him. This 
time, instead of pulling back, or trying to fight it, he nurtured 
the fire, feeding it his memories, his desires, his dreams, his 
need. He fought to hold onto the image of his Sentinel that he'd 
built in his mind, drawing on the connection that they shared to 
hold his own. 

Unbidden, the red tongues of fire became blood--his Sentinel's-
-and his concentration wavered. Pain such as he'd never 
imagined burned across his skin and a deafening wind stoked 
the flames even higher. 

He screamed his defiance into its fury and filled his mind with 
the memory of clear blue eyes--the color of the morning sky 
reflected in a cool pool of water fed by a mountain stream.

The strength that lay behind those eyes extinguished the pain. 
Blair stepped forward, becoming one with the fire as he shed 
the charred remnants of the persona he'd assumed. No longer a 
stranger to its consciousness, the Shaman moved through the 
red-orange sea like a living flame himself...

And stepped beyond it into another memory.

********************* 

<In yon smoke concealed>

"Come on, Simon. Can't this tank go any faster? We've got to 
get there!"

Banks let the squeal of rubber tires on wet pavement answer 
for him as he tapped the brakes and spun the wheel to the left, 
guiding his special edition Taurus around another corner. He 
spared a glance for the 'backseat driver' in the passenger seat 
next to him before turning his attention back to the slick 
streets.

The darkly subdued and brooding young man of the past two 
weeks was gone, replaced by the barely contained bundle of 
white energy that had always typified the anthropologist in his 
most--at least to Simon's way of thinking--aggravating and 
headstrong mode. Banks welcomed the change, surprised at 
how much he'd missed the 'real' Sandburg.

"Just keep your seatbelt on and your hand off the door release, 
Sandburg," Simon growled, in earnest disgust. "I don't know 
how I let you talk me into this in the first place."

"Because you're a man of honor, Simon. You issued a 
challenge and I met it," Blair replied softly. 

There was no hint of smugness in his tone, and none on his 
expressive face when Simon risked another look. Worry, 
exhaustion that the nervous energy held at bay, and a trace of 
fear, yes, but those faint clues were all but wiped out by the 
light of determination shining in the grad student's eyes.

It was the same adamant expression that had filled them when 
Sandburg had burst out of the guest room ten minutes earlier. 
His abrupt and emphatic entrance had practically given Simon 
a heart attack. The frantic explanation for his actions had 
almost had Banks reaching for the phone to call an ambulance. 
He'd thought for sure that the kid had gone off the deep end, 
spouting a rapid stream of nonsense about firewalls and 
premonitions.

*I was sure the stress had gotten to him and he'd just folded. 
That he needed to be sedated. But one long look into those 
eyes...*

Simon shook his head and tightened his grip on the steering 
wheel.

*Admit it Banks, he got to you the same way he always gets to 
Ellison. You stonewalled him so he pulled an end-and-around 
like a pro running back. Now you're scrambling to keep up. I 
don't get it...How could Blair know where Jim is? Some sixth 
sense or just some new Sentinel/Guide weirdness?*

Simon saw the light ahead turn red and gunned the engine. The 
car streaked through the intersection to the accompaniment of 
honking horns and at least one shouted obscenity from a cab 
driver whose taxi they nearly clipped in passing.

*Damn, this is nuts...driving pell-mell across town...It's 
madness, chasing after a vision...But the kid looked so certain 
when he claimed to know where Jim was being held...How 
could I not check it out?*

"Don't you think we should call Rafe and Brown, Simon?" 
Blair asked, interrupting Banks' mental grumblings. "And 
anyone else you think we can trust? We're going to need 
backup. An ambulance too, for Jim."

"I'm not pulling them off their own search until I'm sure this 
isn't some wild trip into the Sandburg Zone," Simon answered 
grimly. 

A small, firm hand wrapped around his right forearm and he 
glanced sideways to find Blair staring at him, dark eyes 
pleading.

"I know you don't understand this, Simon. I'm not sure I do 
either, to tell the truth," the grad student admitted, his voice 
tight with strain. "Call it a hunch or instinct, or whatever you're 
comfortable with. Just trust me. We need to go back to the site 
of the sixth fire. That's where this all started. That's when the 
vision of the firewall first appeared. I just didn't understand the 
significance until now. Until I faced it. When I walked through 
the flames, I came out standing right where I was when I met 
Jankowski. The building where they've taken Jim--it's the one 
across the street from the apartments they torched that night."

Blair squeezed Simon's arm once and then let go, turning his 
gaze back to the darkened night. "Jim will be there. So will 
Jenson and his men...if we're not already too late."

The last came out as a cracked whisper and Simon frowned. If 
they didn't find Jim in time, the kid was going to crash and 
crash hard. He didn't relish the idea of being the one left behind 
to pick up the pieces--especially when half of them were 
missing. 

He pressed down a little harder on the accelerator. Only a few 
more miles to go.

**************************************
 
Blair ground his teeth, but kept his frustrated comments to 
himself when Simon slowed the car to a crawl before they'd 
reached their destination. He chided himself for his impatience. 
The captain was being justifiably cautious. They couldn't just 
blow in there and demand that Jenson and his men release Jim 
and give themselves up. 

*Although it would be nice if they would,* Blair mused 
wistfully. He sent a silent round of encouraging thoughts in the 
direction of his Sentinel. *Just hang on a little longer, Jim. 
We'll get you out of there.* 

"I don't know about this, Sandburg. Outside of a few wrecks 
that look like they've been rusting at the curb since the 
beginning of the decade, the street's deserted. Not a soul in 
sight," Simon observed as he peered through the rain-
splattered windshield. "Which building did you say it was?"

Blair wiped away the condensation that had formed on his own 
window. The rain had started again--a fine misting drizzle 
combined with a clinging ground-fog that had reduced their 
visibility drastically.

"Third from the corner." Blair pointed toward a large, four-
story brick apartment building on his side of the street.

"Looks deserted." 

"It is. The guy that owned the property before Jenson got his 
hands on it had already started to gut the place. Apparently he 
ran out of money half-way into the renovations. It's a shame 
that he couldn't hold onto the property. Each floor of that 
building could have easily housed a dozen families." 

Blair studied the structure as Simon inched the car forward. 

"It's one of the few buildings that Jim and I didn't check out 
from top to bottom, but I'd guess the layout's pretty similar to 
the place that burned down across the street. One entrance at 
the front, another at the rear that leads out onto the alley. 
Some of the owners added an emergency exit to bring things 
up to code, but I don't know about this one. Which way do we 
go in?"

"We don't. Not yet."

"But Simon..."

Banks shot Blair a withering glare. "We do this my way, or not 
at all. Is that clear?"

"Okay, okay!" Blair responded, waving his hands in surrender. 
"Anything you say as long as we keep things moving."

"Oh, we'll move, all right. I'm going to drive by and take a 
look. You get your head down and keep it down. The last 
thing we need is to have one of Jenson's goons get a good look 
at you."

"I'll crawl under the car and hang from the front axle, if it'll get 
us to Jim," Blair muttered. He grabbed the release for the seat 
and slid it back as far as it would go, then crouched down 
sideways under the dash, facing the older man. 

Simon eased the car forward, maintaining a slow, but steady 
speed as he cruised past the building that Blair had targeted.

"Still nothing," Banks reported. "Stay put, I'm going to swing 
around the corner and take a look down the alley."

Blair nodded, his eyes glued to the dark captain. He leaned into 
the seat, shifting his balance to match the motion of the car. He 
saw Simon take a quick glance out the window at his back and 
stiffened at the anger that filled the older man's face.

"Damn...there are at least four vehicles parked behind the 
building," Banks hissed. "Keep down. I'm going to circle the 
block and find a place to park us out front." 

Blair felt every hole in the pavement as a separate and distinct 
jolt through his spine as Simon sped up the back side of the 
block. Banks cranked the car to the right, then right again. He 
had his cell phone out before he braked to a full stop. 

"Rafe, I need you and Brown with whatever backup from the 
department you can muster at 1722 Almond Street...yeah, we 
think Jim's inside with Jenson and who knows what army...No, 
I'm not waiting for a warrant...as far as I'm concerned we've 
got probable cause..."

While Banks barked orders into the phone, Blair crawled up 
onto the seat. "Don't forget the ambulance, Simon," he 
reminded the older man. Banks nodded and added that 
requirement to the list he was reeling off. 

Blair rolled down his window, trying to get a better look at the 
building, but his view was obscured by the rain and the 
windswept fog. The snick of a seat belt being released brought 
his attention back to Simon.

"Backup will be here in a few minutes," Banks said tersely. 
"You stay in the car and wait for them. I thought I saw a flash 
of light in the alley when we drove by...could have been 
someone with a cigarette. I'm going to check it out."

"It could be Gordon," Blair offered. "He's a chain smoker. 
Never saw him without a butt dangling from his fingers."

Simon nodded and opened the driver's door, easing silently out 
of the car, his gun already out of its holster. Banks paused and 
glared in at Blair before closing the door. "I mean it, Sandburg. 
Stay put. If Jim is in there, he's not alone."

Blair didn't argue, but he didn't do anything that might be 
interpreted as agreement, either. He watched as Simon headed 
down the street, using the parked cars as cover. Once Banks 
was out of sight, Blair slipped out of the car and followed the 
same path until he was just a few feet from the front entrance. 
He let his gaze drift upward, scanning the windows--some 
broken, some surprisingly still intact--for any sign of life or 
light. 

*I know you're in there, Jim, but where?*  

He found nothing on the first floor, nor the second. But his 
breath caught when he saw what he was sure was a flicker in 
one of the third-story windows. 

*Not a light, but a flame!* 

Propelled by the fear that they'd arrived too late, Blair shot 
toward the entrance. Flinging open the front door, he stumbled 
into the darkness.

*Stairs...gotta find the stairs...*

He almost gasped out loud when his groping fingers touched 
the smooth metal of a firedoor. Fumbling for the knob, he 
wrenched the door open and took several shuffling steps 
forward. When the toe of his shoe hit the base of a step, he 
reached out and grabbed the railing. Guided by instinct and the 
smooth metal under his fingertips, he headed upward, 
searching for his Sentinel.

******************************

Blair scrambled up the dark stairs as silently as he could. He 
was relieved that he hadn't smelled smoke yet, although he was 
sure that it had been flames that he'd seen in the open windows. 

*Maybe you just have fire on the brain...Don't start questioning 
a good run of luck when you find it, Sandburg,* he 
admonished himself. *No smoke and no flames means that Jim 
might still be alive.*

Buoyed by that hope, he charged upward. He'd just passed the 
second floor landing when he heard the sound of a door slam 
shut somewhere above him. Blair froze, one sneakered foot 
hanging in midair, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. The 
thud of heavy footsteps headed his way broke him out of his 
fear-imposed stasis. He whirled and fled back down the steps. 

He opened the firedoor to the second floor and slipped out of 
the stairwell. He left the door slightly ajar and plastered himself 
to the inside wall. Holding his breath, he peered out through 
the slim vertical crack, straining for some glimpse of whoever 
was coming down the stairs. A faint circle of light bounced 
from step to step, and within seconds, a figure rounded the 
landing and continued down toward the front entrance. There 
wasn't enough light from the flashlight the man carried for Blair 
to recognize him.

Blair exhaled slowly through his mouth, swallowing hard 
against a new surge of fear. The close call had reminded him 
that just finding Jim wasn't going to be the end of this. If his 
Sentinel was badly injured, it would be his responsibility as 
Guide to figure out a way to get both of them past an unknown 
number of undoubtedly well-armed cops who would like 
nothing better than to see them both dead. 

Opening the firedoor, Blair poked his head out into the 
stairwell. He could hear the faint rumblings of voices up above, 
but he couldn't make out what they were saying.

*I could really use your enhanced hearing right about now, 
Jim.*  He retreated to the relative safety behind the closed 
door. *Okay, time for a plan...At least one guy down at the 
front exit and who knows how many right over my head. 
Maybe the safest route is the back stairs. Hopefully that's the 
end of the building where they're keeping Jim. Once I find him, 
we could head down the rear stairwell. Simon's got to have 
corralled whoever was out in the alley by now...*

With that decision made, Blair turned and surveyed his 
surroundings. Two safety lights pulsed in fitful bursts along 
both long walls. Their intermittent glows cast a weird strobe 
effect across the interior. Most of the internal walls that had 
formed the original rooms and apartments had been 
demolished. The structural beams loomed like black telephone 
poles strung in a bizarre zig-zag pattern across the depth of the 
space. The abandoned remodeling blitz had left huge piles of 
splintered wood, jagged shards of drywall and  mounds of 
plaster scattered like miniature chains of rugged mountains in 
its wake. 

Blair moved cautiously forward, sliding his feet along the 
rubble strewn flooring. The last thing he wanted to do was run 
into something and announce his presence. However, when he 
did slam his toes into a hard, unyielding object, it came as no 
surprise. He clamped his mouth shut and swallowed a grunt of 
pain. Kneeling down, he examined his inanimate assailant. 

To his delight, he found a well-equipped tool box. He quickly 
rummaged through the contents, stuffing two screwdrivers, a 
good sized hammer and a handful of nuts and bolts into his 
jacket pockets. He hefted a heavy pipe wrench and laid it 
quietly on the floor next to his feet. A lopsided grin filled his 
face as his fingers wrapped around a familiar cylindrical shape. 
He pulled the small acetylene torch from the box and clutched 
it to his chest. A few more seconds of digging unearthed a 
small lighter which he also pocketed before picking up the 
wrench once more. 

Armed with his odd assortment of makeshift weapons, he rose 
to his feet and headed toward the back end of the building.

******************************* 

Andrew Jankowski pressed the folded length of cloth that had 
once been Ellison's shirt sleeve against the bullet hole in the 
detective's shoulder, relieved to see that the flow of blood had 
lessened. Part of his own shirt was wedged under the 
unconscious man's back, soaking up the leakage from the exit 
wound. Shredding their clothing to form the rough bandages 
had been difficult with his wrists still handcuffed, but he figured 
it was the least he owed to the man who'd tried to save his life.

"I've done some foolish things in my long life, but I've never 
*been* a fool until today," he murmured ruefully, staring down 
at the prone figure under his hands.

Their captors hadn't been gentle with the injured detective. 
After stripping him of an impressive array of weapons, they'd 
cuffed his wrists in front of him and stuffed him into the trunk 
of one of the vehicles. Jankowski had been forced into the back 
seat of a second car. He hadn't seen Ellison again until the ex-
ranger was dumped on the floor of the room that they now 
occupied.

The harsh sounds of voices raised in angry argument caused 
the old man to lift his head and glance toward the door--the 
only way in or out of their temporary cell. The roughly 6-by 8-
foot space appeared to be new construction; part of the 
renovations that he'd glimpsed when he'd been hauled upstairs. 
The small room was largely finished, except for an opening 
above the cheap wooden door. That area had been framed in, 
but hadn't been dry-walled yet, which Jankowski took for a 
providential twist of luck in their favor. If not for that opening, 
the room would have been pitch black and there would have 
been no way he would have managed even the rudimentary 
first aid that he'd applied to the detective's wounds.

Jankowski strained to make out the words of the arguing men, 
but all he caught were fragments. He smiled grimly. As long as 
they were fighting amongst themselves, he and the detective 
still had some time. Not that he contemplated any hope of 
rescue. He'd eliminated that option when he'd made his 
preemptive strike against Ellison. 

"I should have listened to that young partner of yours," 
Jankowski mused softly, his gaze still fixed on the faintly lit 
space above the door. "Although it's still hard to believe that he 
was hooked up with you. Pretty mismatched pair if you ask 
me. He must be something special."

"He is..."

Jankowski looked down in surprise at the rough whisper. 
Against all reason, Ellison was awake. The warm, 
compassionate blue eyes that strained to remain open were a 
far cry from the cold, empty orbs that the detective had turned 
on him at the factory. 

Before Ellison could attempt to move, Jankowski pressed 
down gently against the makeshift bandage. "Take it easy. I've 
almost got the bleeding stopped. You move around and you'll 
start it up again." 

The detective's reply was an almost imperceptible nod and a 
soft question. "Are you wounded?" 
 
"Just my pride," Jankowski muttered. "You're the one who 
needs a hospital. I've done what I could, but it isn't much."

"How bad?"

"Bullet went clean through. Doesn't look like it did much 
damage, but you've lost a lot of blood and you're running a bit 
of a fever. You took a nasty knock to the head, too."

Ellison's eyes fluttered shut for a moment and Jankowski 
watched him closely, fearing that he'd slipped under again. A 
worried frown creased the detective's brow and the heavy 
eyelids raised once more. The old man found himself gripped in 
a fierce, piercing gaze. 

"Sandburg...he's not here, is he?" Ellison's voice was as harsh 
and demanding as his glare.

"No, I don't think so. The guy in charge said something about 
sending one of his thugs out after him, but I haven't heard 
anything to suggest that they found him. Not that I can hear 
much beyond odd snatches of their bickering."

Jankowski gestured with a lift of his chin toward the opening 
above the door. Ellison slowly turned his head in that direction, 
his eyes narrowing and his face assuming an expression of 
intense concentration. 

After ten long seconds, the detective shook his head in disgust. 
"Can't focus...can't control the dials...need my Guide..."   

Jankowski eased up on the pressure he was applying to the 
wound and placed the back of one hand against Jim's sweaty 
forehead. He pulled away and repositioned his hands on the 
bandage, confused. The detective's fever didn't seem to be any 
worse than it had been a few minutes earlier. 

"This guide that you need...what is it?" the old man asked 
softly, trying to understand what Jim's disjointed rambles 
meant.

"Not 'what'...who...Sandburg...grounds me...guides...can't do 
much...without him...not like this..." 

"Now I know I've heard everything," Jankowski teased gently. 
"An ex-ranger admitting that he needs help from a rough 
around the edges kid? He must be one exceptional young 
man." 
 
A faint smile lifted the corner of Ellison's mouth. "He is...full of 
surprises...always popping up when you'd least...expect him 
to..."

"Any chance he's going to materialize out of the woodwork 
and bring the cavalry?" Jankowski asked, half in jest.

The smile died. "I hope not," Ellison answered grimly. 

Jankowski nodded his understanding. It was obvious that the 
detective cared a great deal for the younger man that he 
claimed as his partner. It wasn't at all strange for Ellison to 
wish him far away from this deadly situation.

Jim's gaze seemed stronger as it flickered around the empty 
room before returning to Jankowski's face. "Where are we? 
Where's Jenson?" 

"Is Jenson the guy in charge?" At the detective's nod, 
Jankowski motioned toward the door again. "He and his 
buddies are out there, determining our fate. Sounds like they 
can't quite agree on the details. As for where we are, I think 
we're pretty close to where I met your friend the night of the 
fire. We came in the back door, off an alley. They dragged me 
up three flights of stairs to this room. I can't be certain about 
the time, but I figure that it's been close to and hour and a half 
since you were shot."

"They'll have to...make their move soon..." Ellison observed. 
"They can't risk...waiting too long..."

"That was pretty much my conclusion, too. Any chance you 
had backup that might have followed us here?" the old man 
asked hopefully.

"If they'd found...the factory...they would have been here...by 
now. I'm afraid we're out of luck...from that quarter. Guess 
we'll have to...make our own. I had a second knife...in the seam 
of my left boot..."

Jankowski shook his head. "They took it. Along with the rest 
of your weapons. The one that Jenson called Randolph did a 
pretty thorough search."

Ellison's frown returned and he let his head fall back wearily, 
his eyes closing against the pain and the bad news. "I'm sorry 
that you got swept into this, Mr. Jankowski," he apologized 
quietly. "Once the APB was out, there was no way to cancel it 
without raising suspicions that we didn't want. Blair was 
worried about your safety. If we don't get out of here, he's 
going to blame himself for your death. And mine."

The detective opened his eyes and stared up at Jankowski. 
Once again they were as hard and cold as milled steel and filled 
with resolve. "I don't want him to carry that guilt around for 
the rest of his life. At least one of us has to survive this. Both 
of us, preferably. I'm going to need..."

Ellison's head jerked toward the door and he froze. 

Jankowski glanced nervously at the door and then back to the 
detective. "What? What is it?" 

"Someone's out there..."

*****************************

Blair slumped to his knees and let the pipe wrench slip to the 
floor from numb fingers. He stared at the man he'd just decked 
and tried to convince his heart to climb down out of his throat 
and back into his chest where it belonged. He gave the 
motionless body a tentative shove with the end of the 
blowtorch, relieved when it didn't jump to life. 

*Shit...I didn't intend to play Rambo...Why'd the guy have to 
be standing right there when I came around the corner? Who is 
he, anyway?*

Still wary, Blair edged closer for a better look.

*No one I recognize...not one of the original six...* Frowning, 
he silently addressed the prone figure. *Guess I'll just refer to 
you as Number 8 and the guy out front as Number 7 until we're 
all properly introduced, which I sincerely hope will happen 
with you two on one side of a locked jail cell and me on the 
other. Now, what do I do with you? You're too heavy to lug 
very far and I haven't got any time to waste...*

Blair got to his feet and took a quick look around. The prior 
owner had made a fair amount of progress with his efforts on 
the third floor. Blair had found several fully constructed rooms 
and had threaded his way through the skeletal wooden framing 
for a dozen more. He hadn't seen any signs of life until he'd 
come around one side of a dry-walled upright and found 
himself face to face with Number 8, who'd been as shocked as 
he was. The anthropologist had struck out with his left arm, 
intending to try and ward off the hands that had reached for 
him. He'd forgotten the fifteen pounds of pipe wrench clenched 
in his fist. The next thing he knew, his attacker was lying flat 
on the floor.

*Crude, but effective--and that's all that matters at this point,* 
Blair reminded himself. He caught sight of a door about ten 
feet to his left and nodded. *That looks like it might have been 
intended as a storage closet. Precisely what I need.*

He set the blowtorch on the floor and grabbed Number 8's 
ankles since they were the closest part of the man's anatomy to 
his chosen hidey-hole. He was puffing by the time he'd lugged 
the unwieldy body to the door and was grateful that he didn't 
have to drag the unconscious lump any further. He grabbed the 
doorknob and gave it a hard twist. It didn't turn. Blair stared at 
the ugly wooden panel in confusion--he hadn't expected to find 
it locked. 

Confusion turned to irritation. *I do NOT have time for this!*  
He pulled one of the screwdrivers from his pocket, placed the 
tip into the keyhole at the center of the knob and shoved 
inward. Wincing at the sound the cheap lock core made when 
it broke and released, he hurriedly shouldered the door open.

Blair turned around to retrieve his unconscious adversary and 
suddenly found himself grabbed from behind. A pair of strong 
hands latched onto his jacket and dragged him backward into 
the room he'd assumed was empty. When he tried to struggle 
free, something hard struck his ankles. He fell sideways, both 
feet knocked out from under him. The hammer that he'd stuck 
in his pocket tumbled free. He snatched it up, rolled to his 
knees and came up swinging...

...face to face with Andrew Jankowski.

"It would seem you *do* pop up, and in, unexpectedly, Mr. 
Sandburg," the old man said dryly.

Blair gaped at him, astonished. It took a few seconds for his 
brain to send an intelligent signal to his vocal chords and when 
it did, the result was a choked, high-pitched squeak.

"Mr. Jankowski?"

"Given the present circumstances, I think we can forgo the 
formalities. I'd be honored if you and your partner would call 
me Andrew."

"My part..." 

The Observer's stammered response died in his throat, replaced 
by an anguished whisper torn from the Guide's soul as he 
caught sight of the room's other occupant.

"Jim..."

Wide-eyed with fear, the Guide scrambled to his downed 
Sentinel's side. Blair reached out to touch Jim--needing to 
assure himself that it was his partner lying there and not some 
illusion--and immediately snatched his hand back, hissing in 
dismay at the sight of the blood soaked bandage.

"Oh, man..."

His gasped whisper was barely audible, yet it elicited an 
unexpected response.

"You thinking of taking up carpentry...as a new career, Chief?"

Blair's gaze shifted to Jim's face. His partner stared back, pale 
blue eyes smiling in welcome recognition. For the second time 
in less than a minute, the younger man found himself 
speechless.

"Earth to Sandburg...come in, buddy," Jim prodded, his 
expression changing to one of concern.

Feeling slightly dazed, Blair touched his friend's face, rejoicing 
in the warmth of the skin under the tips of his trembling 
fingers.

"You're alive..." he whispered, his voice filled with relief and 
wonder.

"Still ticking," Jim joked weakly. 
 
The worried Guide cringed at the pain he saw imbedded in his 
Sentinel's eyes, but he was too grateful for the life that 
emanated from them to register any complaints with the deities 
that he'd mentally assigned to watch over his partner.

"Yeah, but man...you're a mess," Blair growled. "You see what 
happens when I let you go off alone?" The tremulous smile that 
filled his face negated the gruffness of his tone. "And what's 
that crack about carpentry for?" 

The anthropologist followed the direction of Jim's glance and 
realized that he still held the hammer in his right hand. Blair's 
smile broadened to one of his trademark grins. 

"What? This?" He waved the tool like a conductor brandishing 
a baton and then dropped it to the floor. "Just something I 
picked up along the way, like the rest of my skills."

Ignoring Jankowski's presence, Blair dropped into Guide 
mode. Putting his own fears about the severity of the bullet 
wound aside, he concentrated solely on his Sentinel, lowering 
the pitch and volume of his voice to it's most soothing. 

"So... tell me how you're doing, Jim. Where are the dials?"

"Pretty far out of whack," the Sentinel admitted softly. "I didn't 
know it was you out there...until you made your grand 
entrance."

Blair reached out to take Jim's pulse and paused, frowning, 
when he saw the handcuffs. He dug out the second screwdriver 
that he'd acquired earlier. 

"How 'bout we try 'em one at a time," his Guide-voice 
crooned, while he started to work the locks on the restraints. 
"Start with the pain receptors. We've got to get you on your 
feet."

Jim closed his eyes, opening them a few moments later when 
Blair uttered a satisfied grunt and snapped the locks, freeing his 
partner's hands. 

"Nice to know I haven't lost my touch," the anthropologist 
murmured. He glanced down into the Sentinel's eyes. "Any 
luck on your end?"

"Down to four and still dropping," Jim answered.

"Good. Take it to two and then concentrate on getting the 
audio dial under control. I have a feeling we're going to need 
it."

Jim's expression shifted abruptly from pleased to troubled. "As 
much as I appreciate the refresher course in sensory control 
and the picklock service, I want to point out that you're not 
supposed to be here."

"Then pretend that I'm not," Blair retorted. He tossed the 
handcuffs aside and motioned for Jankowski to kneel down 
beside him so that he could work on the old man's restraints. 
"With any luck, I'll have you out of here before Simon realizes 
that I'm not still sitting down in the car like a good Observer."

"Simon's here?" 

Jim started to try to get up, but Blair flattened him with a glare 
and a gentle touch. "Just stay put until I'm finished with these, 
will you?" He waited until he was sure his partner was going to 
do as he said before returning to the task of opening the locks 
on Jankowski's cuffs. "Yes, Simon's here. He's taking care of 
some trash out in the alley. We've also got backup on the way. 
And an ambulance."

"We're going to need to secure those bandages at least 
temporarily," Jankowski said quietly, rubbing his sore wrists 
gingerly. 

Blair froze. "Bandages...plural?" He turned to look at Jim, his 
heart stuck in his throat once more. "Where else are you hurt?" 
His frantic gaze raked the Sentinel's body, searching for 
another injury.

"Take it easy, Chief," Jim urged. "One bullet, two holes. Front 
and back."

Jankowski's steadying hand on his shoulder helped the young 
Guide hold off the panic that swept over him. 

"I'm no expert, but the bullet looks like it went through clean," 
the old man assured  him. "I think he'll be fine once we get him 
to some medical help."

Blair nodded, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Jim's, nor 
could he seem to find the strength to move. He couldn't get the 
image of his partner lying in a rapidly spreading pool of blood 
out of his mind--not until the Sentinel reached out and took his 
hand, entwining their fingers together. 

"It's going to be all right, Blair. We can do this. Together. Just 
like always."

"Yeah...sure..." Blair managed a small smile. "Guess I'm going 
to get that downtime after all. Maybe you can milk this for a 
couple of weeks, huh?"

Jim nodded. "Sounds like a plan, Chief." 

Jankowski squeezed Blair's shoulder and gestured toward the 
body that lay just outside the door. "Help me haul in *this* 
trash, and then I'll give you a hand with your partner."

Leaving his Sentinel's side, even for a few seconds, was the last 
thing that the frazzled Guide wanted to do, but he recognized 
the urgency in Jankowski's voice and pushed himself to his 
feet.

*******************************

The Sentinel watched his Guide worriedly as the younger man 
helped Jankowski drag Hiller's body inside the room. Blair's 
presence had given him the grounding that he needed to bring 
his senses under at least marginal control and he used them to 
monitor his partner closely. The anthropologist's face was lined 
with fatigue and the dark circles under his eyes were a stark 
contrast to the pale complexion. 

*Blair's exhausted. How the hell is he staying on his feet? His 
heart's pounding like it's going to jump out of his chest any 
minute, if he doesn't drop from a stroke first.*

Yet underneath the surface signs of stress there was a strength 
in the slim form and a sense of purpose in those deep blue eyes 
that Jim hadn't seen in weeks. It was as if the radiant spirit that 
the Sentinel had feared was dying had been rekindled. 

*Or reclaimed. He's himself again. Something happened. He's 
fought a war and won--scarred, but victorious. What kind of 
battle was it? He looks worn to the bone, but otherwise 
physically unharmed. One of the mind and spirit, then? Some 
inner conflict that only Blair could resolve? Is that the threat 
that I felt, but didn't understand?*

The Sentinel brought his confused thoughts to a halt. 
Explanations would have to wait. They were all still in very 
real danger. He was grateful to have his Guide back, but it 
chilled him to think of what Blair must have gone through to 
reach him. The young man had faced not only his own inner 
demons, but those that occupied the physical world as well. 

The Sentinel drew upon his own inner strength and fought 
against the pain and weariness of his injuries. He had a Guide 
and a witness to protect and he was determined not to rely on 
whatever blind luck had carried his partner safely through the 
ranks of nine stone cold killers to get them out of this mess.

"Maybe I can rig something to hold those bandages in place 
with my jacket," Blair muttered, shirking out of the garment 
and moving back to Jim's side. He dug a handful of objects out 
of one pocket, transferring them to the front pocket of his 
jeans. "Andrew, I'm going to need your help here."

The old man cuffed and gagged Hiller before  positioning 
himself at Jim's right side, across from Blair. He eased one 
hand under the Sentinel's injured shoulder and steadied the 
bandage on the exit wound. He glanced up at Blair and 
signaled his readiness.

"Okay, Jim," Blair murmured, sliding his arm under his 
partner's good shoulder for support. "We're going to sit you 
up. Just concentrate on breathing, all right?"

Jim nodded. "Let's do it." He concentrated on holding the pain 
dial level as the two men lifted, physically doing what he could 
to assist their efforts. He managed to choke back all but a small 
grunt as agony surfed through his body at the change of 
position. Blair wrapped both arms around him for a moment 
and anchored him against a tide of dizziness.

"You're doing great, big guy." His Guide's tone was filled with 
encouragement, but the younger man's eyes broadcast fear and 
regret at having caused his Sentinel additional pain.

"So are you," Jim responded. "The jacket's a good idea...use 
the sleeves like the ties on a sling..."
 
"Got ya," Blair muttered as he wrapped the garment around his 
partner as instructed and tied off the sleeves. The hastily rigged 
support trapped Jim's right arm across his chest, but it held the 
bandages in place. "This should do it 'til we get out of here. 
Ready for the full upright position?"

Jim was standing a few seconds later, leaning into the support 
of his Guide. Blair's arm tightened around his waist. With his 
arm draped over the younger man's shoulder and his wrist 
locked in the anthropologist's firm grasp, the Sentinel drew 
upon the offered strength and adjusted the mental sensory dials 
once more. He smiled, grimly. His control was back, but the 
blood loss had drained him, making him dangerously weak. 
Resolutely pushing that frailty aside, he concentrated on the 
rough voices of Jenson and his men.

"Sounds like they're winding down their argument," he 
reported. "Time to go." 

"We're closest to the back stairs," Blair murmured as he guided 
them out of the storeroom. "Hold on just a second." The 
Sentinel raised one eyebrow curiously as his Guide leaned over 
and snagged a small acetylene torch from the floor. Blair hefted 
it in his right hand and shot Jim a grin. "Can't forget my backup 
weapon."

The Sentinel gave him a terse nod. He had no intention of 
seeking out a fight. They were seriously under-equipped and 
out-numbered, which meant flight was definitely the way to go. 
Jankowski had offered Jim Hiller's gun, but the detective had 
pressed him to keep it. Even if he was a little rusty, the old man 
had the training and right now he was steadier on his feet--and 
had both hands free. A welding torch wasn't going to have 
much impact against the firepower that Jenson and his men had 
at their disposal, but if it gave Blair some comfort, Jim wasn't 
about to argue.

With painstaking care Blair guided them through the maze of 
half-formed walls and piles of lumber toward the rear of the 
building. It was slow going. His Guide stumbled several times 
as they picked their way through darkness broken only by the 
dim illumination of some randomly placed safety lights. The 
Sentinel clenched his jaw, dialed down the pain another notch 
and urged them forward. 

They rounded a corner and entered a hallway that appeared to 
be nearly finished. Open doorways gaped on both sides of the 
corridor. Blair scooted them past the empty rooms that they 
represented. 

His Guide's forward momentum slowed as they approached the 
far end. "Almost there," he whispered, eyeing the closed 
firedoor ahead. "You ready for some steps?"
 
The Sentinel nodded and then froze, head cocked to the side.

Blair looked up into Jim's face, anxious, but silent. "What?" he 
mouthed.

Jim jerked his head in the direction of the firedoor. "Company," 
he hissed.

Jankowski hovered at Jim's right, and raised his gun, thumbing 
the safety off in one smooth motion. He glanced at the Sentinel 
and raised an eyebrow as if asking "How many?"

Jim held up two fingers. 

Jankowski motioned for Blair and Jim to move back along the 
way they'd come. The Sentinel and his Guide ducked into one 
darkened room and the old man ducked into the other, directly 
across the corridor. 

Jim almost protested as Blair eased him back against the wall 
to the left of the doorway. The younger man cut him off with a 
glare and tapped his ear. His Guide gripped the torch at the 
nozzle end and positioned himself in front of the Sentinel, 
ready to attack or defend as the situation required. 

Cursing silently at the twist of fate that had him playing the 
role of protectee instead of protector, the Sentinel armed 
himself with the only weapon he had at hand. He placed one 
hand on his young partner's shoulder and sent his senses out in 
pursuit of information.
 
*Heavy footsteps...definitely two sets...No trace of Simon's 
cigars and unless Rafe and Brown have changed aftershave it's 
not them either...Foes then, not friends...Cloth rubbing against 
what? Metal?...What's that splashing noise?... check the smell, 
not the sound, Ellison...damn...gasoline...*

Jim tracked their progress and gave Blair's shoulder a slight 
squeeze when the men reached the third floor landing. The 
anthropologist nodded and tensed, leaning forward slightly to 
sign a warning to Jankowski across the way. 

There was a loud thump as the metal firedoor was thrust open. 
The Sentinel's eyes glittered with feral pleasure--their 
adversaries weren't concerned about making noise, which 
would make them easier targets. Under his sensitive fingertips, 
Jim felt the shudder that rumbled through Blair's body and 
heard the sharp inhalation as the younger man drew in a deep 
breath and held it.

Jim gave Blair's shoulder one more squeeze and then eased 
back out of the younger man's way. His Guide shifted his 
stance and brought the tank up to his shoulder like a batter 
waiting for a juicy pitch.

The Sentinel distinctly heard every grumble of the two men. 
Harris and Rogers weren't happy with the grunt duty they'd 
been assigned. Jim allowed himself a grim smile as the two 
walked unsuspectingly into the ambush. 

Blair struck first, taking a step forward and lashing out with a 
major league swing. He caught Harris square in the stomach. 
The cop let out a choked grunt and dropped to his knees. The 
metal gas cans he'd been carrying tumbled to the floor with a 
loud clang. Jankowski nailed Rogers with a hard rap to the 
back of the head as the man spun to see what had happened to 
his partner. The anthropologist followed up his first strike with 
a second back hand blow that downed Harris instantly.

Using the wall for support, Jim eased out into the corridor. 
Jankowski was already dragging Rogers into the room that 
he'd occupied. Blair stood straddling the man he'd taken out. 
He still clutched the torch, but the younger man's breath was 
surging in and out of his lungs in ragged gasps, his free hand 
braced against his left leg to keep him upright. 

The Sentinel moved to his Guide's side and placed his hand on 
the younger man's back, rubbing gently as Blair struggled to 
catch his breath. Jim was just about to congratulate him on his 
aim when the sound of gunfire ruptured the silence. 

Blair jerked upright and whirled around to face the firedoor. 
More shots rang out, echoing up the stairwell from the alley 
below as Jankowski moved to join them. Jim gripped Blair's 
shoulder and glanced in the opposite direction, scanning for 
any signs of activity out of Jenson's group. The sounds of 
running feet and shouted curses were obvious even without 
enhanced senses.

All three men exchanged grim looks. They were in the 
proverbial space between the hard place and the rock. With 
enemies blocking their escape route and coming up behind, 
they were trapped unless they could create a diversion. 

Blair shifted into action, motioning for Jankowski to take 
charge of Jim. "See if you can get down to the second floor. 
We can cut across to the front exit. I'll try to stall these guys up 
here."

The old man nodded and grabbed Jim around the waist, but the 
Sentinel shirked out of his grip and reached for his Guide. "No 
way, Sandburg. If anyone's staying behind it's me." 

Blair met Jim's glare with a determined one of his own. "I'm 
not staying behind," he explained as he dug furiously in his 
pockets. "Here." He dropped a generous handful of nuts and 
bolts into the Sentinel's palm. "Pretend these are marbles...toss 
'em down the steps below the second floor landing. That 
stairwell's dark. Maybe we'll trip them up and buy a little time." 
He set down the torch and snatched up two of the gasoline 
cans. Wrenching the caps off, Blair shot his partner a crooked 
grin. "I'm just going to give these guys a taste of their own 
medicine."

Jim's eyes glowed with approval for his partner's inventiveness, 
but he still refused to yield to Jankowski's insistent tugging. 

"I'm not leaving you behind, Chief." 

His Guide touched him gently on the chest. "Then at least take 
cover behind the firedoor. Andrew, get this stubborn partner of 
mine moving, will you?"

"If you don't come flying through that door in sixty seconds, 
I'm coming after you," Jim vowed, tightening his grip on Blair's 
arm.

"Start counting, man. I'm shooting for fifteen," Blair retorted.

"I'm serious, Sandburg."

Blair's gaze hardened. "So am I, Jim." 

Against his better judgment and all his instincts, the Sentinel 
released his Guide and let Jankowski lead him toward the 
stairwell.

*****************************

Another burst of bullets struck the wall over Simon's head, 
sending needle-sharp shards of brick flying in all directions. 
Banks popped up, fired off a round of his own and then ducked 
down behind the dumpster that he was using for cover.

*Where the hell is my backup?* he wondered, glancing down 
the alley toward the street. Another volley of shots turned his 
attention back to the two men crouched behind the cars at the 
rear of the building. He fired again, hoping to keep the 
shooters pinned down until help arrived. 

It had taken him longer than he'd hoped to find a position 
where he could take out the man he'd originally found in the 
alley. He'd been about to act when the odds had shifted 
drastically. Three more men had emerged from the back door 
of the building. In the faint light from the stairwell, he'd 
recognized Harris, Rogers, Smithson and Gordon. Unwilling to 
tip his hand, he'd been forced to sit back and watch. Harris and 
Rogers had dragged several items out of the trunk of one of 
the vehicles and headed back inside. It didn't take a genius to 
figure out what happening. Simon had stealthily shifted 
positions to get a better angle on the two remaining targets. 

Unfortunately he'd disturbed a very large rat in the process. 
The creature scurried out of a toppled trash can and scrambled 
down the alley. Its abrupt exit sent the rusting container 
rolling. The sound caused the two men near the cars to turn in 
Simon's direction. With a muttered curse, Banks had flung 
himself behind a metal dumpster just in time to avoid the first 
burst of gunfire. 

Now he was not only trapped, but the firefight was sure to 
bring more of Jenson's men to see what was happening, 
worsening the situation even further. 

*All I need is to have Sandburg come running up and this 
disaster will be complete. I hope for once the kid's got enough 
sense to stay in the car...ah, who am I kidding? If Jim can't get 
him to stay put, why would I think I could?*

He winced as bullets ricocheted off the metal barrier. He 
started to lean around the dumpster to fire again and froze as 
the chatter of more gunfire filled the night. The thick moisture-
drenched air made it hard to be certain, but the sounds 
appeared to be coming from the front of the building. Banks 
fired again and ducked back, hoping desperately that it was his 
reinforcements. If not, Sandburg had found fresh trouble.

*******************************

*One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one 
thousand...*

Blair jogged down the corridor, the upended gas cans spilling 
their toxic contents in glugging torrents at his heels. His rough 
plan was simple and inspired by the vision that had haunted 
him--create a firewall of his own to keep Jenson and his men 
from pursuing them down the back stairs. At the end of the 
finished section of hallway he dodged right through a series of 
half-erected walls and ran another dozen feet before stopping. 

*...six, one thousand, seven, one thousand...*

He set one can on the floor and splashed the contents of the 
other over the raw pine timbers, soaking them. When there was 
still an inch or so of liquid remaining, he laid the can on the 
floor, letting the balance of the contents gurgle out on its own. 

*...ten...eleven...twelve...*

Retracing his steps he crossed the corridor and started to douse 
that area as well, forming the left side of the 'T' shaped barrier. 
He regretted being the cause of more destruction, but if the 
diversion would mean the difference between getting his 
Sentinel to safety or not--well, it wasn't hard to choose life 
over crumbling bricks.

*...seventeen...eighteen...*

He was just about to upend the second can when a bullet 
whistled by his ear, tearing off splinters of the wood framing to 
his right. 

///////////////////////////////////////////

"...eighteen..." The whispered count died in the Sentinel's 
throat when the sound of a gunshot tore through his 
awareness.

"NO!" 

//////////////////////////////////////////

Still holding the gas can, Blair spun and launched himself 
toward the corridor, dodging a hail of deadly missiles. He dug 
in his pocket as he ran, searching for the lighter. His fingers 
closed on the garrote, instead. It uncoiled as he tugged it from 
his jeans. Skidding to a stop when he reached the hallway, he 
took shelter behind the length of finished wall. With trembling 
fingers he wrapped one end of the wire around the handle of 
the container. Jenson and his men were too close--he had to 
buy a few more precious seconds.

/////////////////////////////////////////

Jankowski was hard-pressed to keep Ellison from bolting into 
the corridor. He wedged himself between the detective and the 
firedoor, pushing the metal panel open so that they'd have a 
clear view of the hallway.

Sandburg suddenly appeared, a half-step ahead of the bullets 
and Jim's grip on the old man's shoulder tightened. It grew to 
vice-like intensity when the younger man stopped and turned to 
face the enemy instead of rushing to join them.

"Chief, come on!" the detective shouted, straining to get 
around the old man who blocked his way.

//////////////////////////////////////

The Guide could hear his Sentinel calling frantically for him to 
move, but he held his position. Gripping the free end of the 
deadly wire in both hands, he started to swing the can back and 
forth. He almost dropped it when a fusillade of bullets 
peppered the wall behind him. He felt fire streak across his 
back as he stepped forward into the opening. The wire burned 
a trail across his palms as he released the container, heaving it 
through the air in the direction of his pursuers.

////////////////////////////////////

With his senses fully extended, the Sentinel staggered as the 
thunder of gunfire assaulted his ears. The deceptively soft 
'whump' that followed as the partially filled can exploded, 
pierced by one of the bullets, nearly drove him to his knees.

"Sandburg!" he gasped. "Get out of there now!" 

////////////////////////////////////

Having seen the results of the explosion first hand, Blair 
needed no encouragement. Fire was already licking greedily 
wherever the burning liquid had fallen. He spun around and 
slipped on the gasoline soaked floor, falling to his hands and 
knees. Coughing on the fumes, he scrambled to his feet, only to 
be knocked flat as a heavy body collided with his. He managed 
to roll over to his back and found himself staring up into 
Randolph's sneering face.

"Good try, punk," the angry cop snarled. "Just not good 
enough."

The black hole that was the end of Randolph's gun loomed and 
filled the anthropologist's vision. He felt a moment of absolute 
despair. He'd come so close...

//////////////////////////////////////

Fighting to regain control over his senses, the Sentinel caught 
the blur of movement as Randolph launched himself toward the 
unsuspecting Guide. He'd pulled a flanking move and attacked 
from the right side of the corridor while the other's held Blair's 
attention. 

"One o'clock!" he screamed in Jankowski's ear.

///////////////////////////////////////

Blair flinched at the sound of a discharging gun. He blinked, 
astonished to see Randolph reeling backward. The cop 
dropped to the floor, his eyes blank, a small round hole at the 
center of his forehead. 

"MOVE IT, BLAIR!"

The stunned anthropologist twisted his head around. 
Jankowski stood in the stairwell doorway, still posed in a 
classic firing stance. Jim stood just behind the old man, the fury 
in his eyes rousing Blair to action.

The Guide crab-crawled toward the firedoor, fumbling in his 
pocket for the lighter. When he reached the two remaining gas 
cans he twisted off the caps and dumped their contents. The 
rank fuel flowed down the corridor in a wave. His hands were 
shaking as he struggled to flick the lighter to life. Blair heard 
the sound of running feet approaching, of voices screaming as 
Jenson's men attacked--and froze. 

*They're too close! If I light this, they'll die! They'll be trapped 
in the flames!*

He'd intended the blazing barrier to delay, not kill. Horrified by 
the thought of ending a life--even those of the men that had 
intended to murder his partner--the young Shaman uttered a 
choked cry of grief. 

"I can't..."

Gnarled hands closed over his, pulling the lighter from his 
grasp. Jankowski thumbed the tiny torch to life and touched it 
to the floor, jerking Blair backward at the same time. A river of 
fire sprang to life as tongues of flame danced over the fumes. 
Sweeping toward the far end of the corridor, the inferno grew 
with each inch it consumed.

Blair felt himself hauled to his feet and pulled urgently toward 
the firedoor. The hands that held him were gentle, familiar, 
insistent. Guide instincts kicked in, drowning out the screams 
of the fire, the men that it hunted, and the guilty pangs of his 
conscience. He wrapped his arm around the waist of his injured 
Sentinel and hung on tight.

Jankowski shoved open the firedoor and took up a position on 
Jim's other side as the three men bolted down the stairs.

********************************

Jim's whispered "wait" halted them just inside the firedoor to 
the second floor. Their frantic descent had jarred the bandages 
loose from his wounds, but he ignored the fresh trails of blood 
seeping down his chest and back and fought to hold on to the 
controls for his senses. The trembling body of his Guide 
plastered to his side and Jankowski's harsh breathing were 
more than sufficient incentive. 

The Sentinel scanned the dim landscape of the second level 
trying to ignore the thunder above them. The roar of the fire 
continued to grow in intensity as the blaze swept through the 
flimsy new construction and began to feed on the structure of 
the building itself. They had to get out before it spread any 
further.

He nodded toward the firedoor. "Open it."

Jankowski complied with his order, pulling the metal panel 
open a few inches. Jim strained to filter out everything but the 
noises rising from below. There was gunfire, a loud answering 
volley, and then voices raised in warning. The detective 
allowed himself a grim smile. The reinforcements that Simon 
had been waiting for had arrived and had Jenson's men pinned 
down. Unfortunately, their position at the bottom of the stairs 
blocked the escape route the Sentinel had hoped to use. That 
left the plan that Blair had suggested--cut across the second 
floor and out the front.

Jim handed the nuts and bolts to Jankowski with a terse "toss 
these." In the few seconds that the old man was gone, the 
Sentinel turned his full attention to his Guide. What he found 
was less than heartening.

Blair's arm was still locked in a death grip around Jim's waist. 
The younger man appeared dazed and deep, gasping breaths 
racked his body. The Sentinel inhaled the scent of sweat and 
fear and gasoline--his Guide's clothes reeked of the rank fuel. 
The threat of the raging inferno above took on a whole new 
meaning. There was something else as well. The sour smell of 
blood. Its stickiness coated Jim's fingers as the Sentinel traced 
the furrow that one of their attacker's bullets had carved across 
his Guide's back. Biting back a curse, he gently squeezed 
Blair's right shoulder.

"You still with me, Chief?"

His Guide's head raised and turned, instinctively looking 
upward. The dark eyes squinted in the dim light, filled with 
confusion and dull regret.

"I'm sorry, man..." Blair whispered.

"Save the apologies for the next time you leave your wet 
towels on the bathroom floor, Chief," Jim growled softly. 
Jankowski rejoined them and took his place at the detective's 
right side. The Sentinel's words of encouragement were meant 
for all of them. "Just hang in there. Backup's waiting 
downstairs. All we need to do is get to them."

Together they began a lurching journey through the wasteland 
of debris. Blair seemed oblivious to the moans of the tortured 
ceiling above them, but Jim exchanged a wordless gaze with 
Jankowski and knew that the old man was aware of the danger. 

They were halfway to the opposite end when Jim heard the 
sound he'd been dreading. He shifted his weight and sent them 
all tumbling backward. Before they hit the floor, an entire 
section of the ceiling gave way. Smoke and flames poured 
forth like a waterfall. The cascade of burning wood and 
smoldering insulation rained down, casting deadly sparks that 
eagerly sought fresh territory for destruction.

The bone jarring impact with the floor broke the Sentinel's 
control over his senses. A shaft of debilitating pain shot 
through him as he tried to roll off of his injured shoulder. 
Smoke filled his lungs with each breath, causing fresh blasts of 
agony each time he coughed. The scream of the fire deafened 
him. He kicked off the smoldering pieces of wood and ceiling 
tile that had fallen onto his legs and blindly reached for his 
Guide. Fingertips touched snarled silken strands and groped 
their way to the throbbing pulse point at the younger man's 
throat. 

A hand locked around his wrist. Blair's grip was weak, but 
reassuring. Jim blinked rapidly, trying to clear his tearing eyes 
and found Jankowski crouched next to him. The old man had 
to shout to make himself heard.

"We're not cut off yet, but we will be if we don't get moving!"

The Sentinel nodded and with the old man's assistance 
managed to sit upright. He felt the grip on his wrist loosen and 
turned toward his Guide. The younger man was still crumpled 
on the floor where he'd fallen, half-buried under a smoking pile 
of debris. 

Blair stared in horror and let out a choked cry as a line of fire 
sprang to life along the length of his shirtsleeve, feeding on the 
gasoline soaked cloth. Jankowski tore off his coat and beat out 
the flames.

Jim's eyes grew as wide as his Guide's. He levered himself 
awkwardly to his knees and crawled the few short feet to the 
younger man's side. The Sentinel grabbed a smoldering board 
and flung it aside. Cursing the injury that made it a one-handed 
effort, he ripped off the sling. He kept digging, ignoring the 
fresh bursts of pain from the bullet wounds and the burns that 
lanced his palms, working frantically to clear the deadly litter 
off of his partner's body. 

Having dislodged all but one large wooden beam that lay 
across his Guide's left leg, the Sentinel rose to his feet and 
grasped Blair's wrist. He strained backward, hoping to pull the 
anthropologist free. His partner's strangled gasp ended that 
attempt.

"We're going to need help!" Jankowski shouted, his face only 
inches away from Jim's. 

"GO!" the Sentinel screamed, waving the older man toward the 
door.

"Jim...go with him!" Blair urged. "Andrew...please...make him 
go!"

The old man hesitated, his gaze locking with Jim's. The 
Sentinel shook his head. Jankowski nodded and dug the gun 
out of the waistband of his pants. He dropped it and his jacket 
at the detective's side. Sketching a rough salute, the old man 
disappeared into the smoke. 

Blair groaned in despair. "Damn it, Jim..."

"I told you upstairs...that I wasn't leaving you behind, Chief," 
Jim responded amidst a fit of coughing. "Just hang on."

His Guide's answer was drowned out by the sound of gunfire. 
Bullets chipped at the beam that held Blair's leg pinned to the 
rapidly heating floor. Jim snatched up the gun and swiveled in 
the direction of the shooter.

"You're dead, Ellison!" Jenson's scream of rage floated eerily 
out of the firey chaos. "You and that punk partner of yours 
ruined everything! Now you'll both pay!"

The Sentinel shook his head, trying to clear the smoke and 
sweat from his eyes. He scanned for Jenson's location, but the 
overwhelming barrier of heat and sound and smells resisted his 
efforts. Suddenly a familiar warmth pressed against his left leg. 
He absorbed the strength and grounding of his Guide's simple 
touch and sent his hearing questing outward. Jenson's enraged 
shouts drew him like a beacon. The ex-ranger raised the gun 
and fired, catching Jenson square in the chest, just as the 
crooked vice-cop emerged from the smoke.

The force of the bullet's impact drove Jenson backward. He 
staggered and started to raise his weapon, intent on finishing 
what he'd begun with his dying breath. The elemental entity 
that the fire had become acted before either detective could 
shoot again.

An agonized scream tore from Jenson's throat as tendrils of fire 
wrapped around him. Like fingers closing into a fist, the flames 
enclosed the writhing man and drew him backward into its 
deadly embrace.  

Amidst the crackling harmonies of the fire, Jim heard Blair's 
harshly whispered prayer--the Shaman's chant for a fallen 
enemy. He stared at the younger man in amazed silence for a 
few seconds, then shifted positions so that he could renew his 
efforts to move the beam.

Their world became a nightmare of heat and smoke--and 
flames that the Sentinel struggled to keep from reaching his 
Guide. He beat back another tongue of fire that had begun to 
crawl up Blair's pinned leg and dropped, exhausted, at the 
younger man's side. He sought the Shaman's eyes and drew in a 
sharp breath.
   
Blair's dark gaze was fixed on the wall of flames that danced 
only yards away.

"Guess...one trip...through the fire...wasn't enough..." the 
younger man murmured obliquely. 

The oddly calm, accepting expression in his Guide's eyes 
terrified the Sentinel more than the fire. "Don't you even think 
about giving up on me, Sandburg," he ordered. "Say not the 
struggle nought availeth..."

Sluggishly, Blair turned his head toward Jim, the corner of his 
mouth lifting in a grimacing smile. "Didn't know...you had 
it...in you..."

The Sentinel bent forward to catch the soft words. His body 
shielded his Guide, cutting off the younger man's view of the 
flames. "What's that?"

"...never thought...I'd live to hear...you...quoting poetry..."   

"I've still got a few...secrets, Sandburg," Jim managed a 
lopsided smile of his own. "Picked it up...years ago...I'll regale 
you...with the whole thing...if you promise...to stay awake..."

"...deal..."

Jim reached down and pulled at the front neck of Blair's t-shirt, 
shifting the cloth up and over the lower part of the 
anthropologist's face and nose to form a rough filter against the 
smoke. Gripping his Guide's hand, he began to speak. From the 
depths of memory and his heart, he cast the words of verse 
defiantly at the wall of fire that was nearly upon them.

*Say not the struggle nought availeth, 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back through creeks and inlets making
Came, silent, flooding in, the main,

And not by eastern windows only, 
When daylight comes, comes in the light, 
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward look, the land is bright.*

The Sentinel's voice trailed off as he looked down and met his 
Guide's eyes. He heard a muffled, "See you on the other side, 
Jim," before they fluttered shut. 

The Sentinel felt the heat and screams of the fire at his back. 

Trained to look death in the eye, he turned to face it. 

And was rewarded with the sight of a full complement of 
firefighters stepping through the firewall to their aid.

******************************

<Speech is a mirror of the soul; 
as a man speaks, so is he.>

Jim let himself into the loft, breathing a soft sigh of relief at 
having reached the quiet refuge of home. Hanging his jacket on 
the hook by the door, he located his partner, sitting on a chair 
on the balcony, bare feet resting on the railing.

The twitter of flutes and jungle drums danced in counterpoint 
to the fragrant aroma of lasagna wafting out of the kitchen--
fitting accompaniments to the litter of papers and books that 
covered the coffee table. The Sentinel smiled as he detoured to 
the refrigerator and pulled two bottles of beer from its depths. 

Home. Filled with the sights and sounds and scents of his 
Guide. After three long grueling weeks, things were back to 
normal. 

Jim frowned as he caught a glimpse of the piles of still 
unemptied boxes in the younger man's room. 

*Correction...almost normal.*

He set the beers down on the table and headed upstairs to his 
bedroom to change clothes. He felt the twinge of protesting 
shoulder muscles as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head, but it 
was the pain of healing, not the agony of fresh injury. The 
burns on his palms were nearly gone, too, the bandages more 
of an inconvenience than anything else at this point. 

Slipping into a pair of well-worn jeans, Jim padded down the 
steps. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, monitoring the 
young man on the balcony.

Blair was healing as well--at least on the outside. The burns 
that he'd acquired in their escape had, thankfully, been minor. 
The bullet wound had been painful, but not serious and would 
leave only the faint trace of a scar. And his energy level, while 
still a far cry from Sandburg-normal, was vastly improved--
after spending several days in the hospital, lodged in a room 
with his Sentinel, the exhausted Guide had retreated to the 
quiet haven of his room, spending several more days in a sleep-
eat regimen that Jim had eagerly encouraged. 

Both of them had suffered surprisingly minimal affects from 
smoke-inhalation, although the anthropologist's voice still had 
a tendency to take on an unhealthy, raspy quality when he 
spoke for an extended period of time.  

And talk they had. To the district attorney. To the mayor. To 
the commissioner. To Internal Affairs. To the media. They'd 
made statement after statement; reviewed every word of the 
painstakingly detailed written reports that Blair had kept; 
repeated the same story word for word until it was etched 
forever, not just into their memories,  but into the legal 
paperwork that accompanied the completion of the case. 

Simon had finally put his foot down during a meeting with 
Internal Affairs that had become more of an interrogation than 
a fact-finding session. The IA officer in charge had become 
almost belligerent when questioning Blair. The inquiry kept 
returning to the issue of how the young man had known where 
his partner was being held. His Guide's sudden increase in 
respiration and the pounding of his heart had sent Jim's Blessed 
Protector instincts into overdrive. 

Banks had cut off the inquisition before the Sentinel had 
decked the man, announcing that he, as Captain of Major 
Crimes, was satisfied with the answers that the Observer had 
already given. He also made it clear that both Ellison and 
Sandburg were unavailable for further questioning, placing 
them on a medical leave of absence and banishing them from 
the station until further notice. 

They'd spent the following days together, neither content to be 
far from the other's side. The partners had both indulged in a 
little 'mother-henning"--Blair hovering and muttering about 
stubborn Sentinel's who didn't know enough to rest after 
having been pierced both front and back by foreign substances 
that had no place in the human body; and Jim hovering and 
muttering about headstrong Guide's that didn't know enough to 
stop tapping at the keyboard at all hours of the night when he 
should be resting.

The partners had been grateful for the respite. Joel, Rafe and 
Brown had brought Blair's possessions back from the motel, 
saving the anthropologist from having to revisit that scene. 
Andrew Jankowski had called several times, both to check on 
Jim and Blair, and also to deliver some good news--the old 
man was heading up an effort within the neighborhood to buy 
back some of the properties that Jenson's group had gotten 
their hands on, and they were making surprisingly good 
headway in their efforts. Simon had continued to shelter them 
from the fallout from within the department and the insistent 
media pursuit, giving the Sentinel and his Guide the time they 
needed to recover not only their health, but their stability.

Jim had spent what he hoped was the last session with the 
district attorney that very afternoon. Simon had been there as 
well, rehashing the part that he'd played in the case. The 
detective had listened to his captain intently, searching for 
some tidbit of information that he might have missed before--
something that would give him a clue as to what was going on 
inside his partner's head.

Because there was still something bothering his Guide--some 
inner turmoil that Blair was struggling with. 

At first, Jim had thought that it was the ghosts of the men who 
had perished in the fire that haunted the anthropologist. Of the 
nine men who had been involved, only three survived the 
inferno that reduced the building to ashes. Smithson, Gordon 
and Barnes were in secure cells, guarded by officers that Simon 
had hand-picked. Internal Affairs and the DA's office were 
having a field day with the testimony that had spewed out of 
their mouths. Fortunately, the disease that Allen and Jenson 
had incubated hadn't spread any further. Still, Banks had been 
adamant that there would be no deals struck on his watch. His 
men had risked too much to allow that to happen. 

The remains of Jenson, Hiller, Harris, Rogers, Randolph and 
Robert Allen had been identified by forensics after several days 
of detailed examination and sifting. It had been a time-
consuming process--the fire hadn't left much.

In the early hours of a sleepless night a week earlier, Blair had 
admitted to feeling some lingering guilt at being the cause of 
the men's deaths. He felt responsible for the fire, even though it 
had been Jankowski that had sparked the flames to life. The 
Sentinel had done what he could to put the loss into 
perspective, but he knew that the burden of those lost lives 
would continue to weigh heavily on the Shaman's soul for 
some time to come.

Blair had also confessed to feeling like he'd failed Jim in their 
final moments. The Sentinel's own memories of that time were 
fuzzy at best, but he had adamantly rejected his Guide's 
contention, reminding the younger man of his inventiveness 
and courage. 

Jim had gotten the details from Simon the day after they'd been 
pulled from the fire. While Blair had dozed in the bed next to 
his--an arrangement that suited both Ellison's preference, the 
doctor's requirements and the hospital staff's needs--Banks had 
filled him in on the events that had transpired. 

Rafe and Brown had surprised Barnes at the front entrance, 
before the shootout at the rear of the building had brought 
them to Simon's assistance. Smithson and Gordon had beat a 
retreat into the stairwell. Banks and his reinforcements had 
been ready to give chase. To their stunned surprise, the two 
felons had  tumbled head over heels down the steps to land at 
their feet, saving them the chore. 

Apprised by Brown that Blair had been no where in sight out 
front, Simon had attempted to reach the upper levels of the 
building from the rear stairs, only to be forced back by the 
billowing clouds of acrid smoke. Banks had ordered his men 
around to the front of the burning structure to meet the 
remaining backup and emergency personnel who had arrived in 
a blare of sirens and flashing bubble lights.

A soot-blackened, coughing figure had emerged at a dead run 
from the front doors as the first group of firefighters stepped 
foot off their trucks. Simon had been closest and had grabbed 
the old man. Barely recognizable under the grime and ash that 
coated his hair, clothing and skin, Jankowski had identified 
himself and crisply delivered his urgent message. Jim and Blair 
had been brought out only a few minutes later--just seconds 
before the blazing structure collapsed inward.

The Sentinel remembered arguing the need to remain at his 
Guide's side until the younger man was freed. He knew that he 
had managed to scream a warning about the anthropologist's 
gasoline drenched clothing in between bouts of coughing--one 
of the firefighters had draped a fire-resistant blanket around 
Blair before they lifted him off the floor. Once he'd seen that 
his partner was in good hands and on the way out of the 
hellhole that the second floor had become, his own pain had 
resurfaced, thrusting him up into the light of pure agony before 
drawing him down into velvety black darkness.

He'd awoken in a hospital bed. Two anxious blue eyes, burning 
with studied impatience, had fixed him with a glare. When he'd 
muttered some marginally intelligible responses to the barrage 
of questions that had poured forth, his Guide's expression had 
softened to one of relief--a feeling that the Sentinel 
wholeheartedly shared when his not-so-subtle monitoring of his 
partner revealed that he too was all right. The news that 
Andrew Jankowski had also escaped unharmed had generated 
wide smiles from both men, and the healing had begun in 
earnest. 

Jim heard Blair stir and shift positions in his chair. With a 
determined stride, the detective retrieved the still-chilled 
beverages and crossed the room. Only a few unresolved issues 
still lingered and they all revolved around the young man on 
the balcony. 

A soft, "Hey, Jim," greeted the Sentinel when he stepped out 
to join his Guide. He handed Blair a beer and settled into a 
chair. His own stockinged feet joined the anthropologist's.

"There's a welcome back party planned for Friday after the day 
shift's finished," Jim informed his partner casually. "We've been 
warned to leave the truck and the Volvo at home. Joel's going 
to chauffeur."

"Cool. Where's the bash?"

"Someplace where they won't mind you dancing on the bar, I 
presume," Jim responded drolly.

A low chuckle was the younger man's only response. 

They sat together in companionable silence as dusk slipped 
quietly into the robes of night. Flickers of light dotted the city, 
challenging the pinpricks of stars in the cloudless sky for 
dominance.  
 
"I really missed this."

Blair's soft declaration floated out into the darkness. The 
Sentinel found himself frowning again at the sigh that followed 
it. He studied his Guide with eyes that pierced the shadows, 
but couldn't penetrate the invisible barrier that his friend had 
erected. There was a new, quiet strength in the younger man. 
There was also a sense of profound sadness.

"Then why haven't you unpacked?"

A sharp inhalation of breath met Jim's question.

"Because we need to talk...and after we do, I might be 
leaving," Blair finally answered.

The Sentinel feet slid off the railing and he sat forward in his 
chair, stunned. "Leaving? You want to leave?"

"No...but you might want me to."

Jim took a mental step backward, reminding himself that this 
was the convoluted territory of Sandburg's psyche that he was 
trying to navigate. Even with a roadmap crafted by nearly three 
years of friendship, it was a difficult path to follow. The 
emotional pitfalls could easily swallow you alive if you weren't 
careful. 

"And why would I want that?" the Sentinel asked quietly. 

"It's kind of hard to explain." His Guide's voice was a bare 
whisper. Hesitant. Filled with longing and regret at the same 
time.

Jim decided to test the theory about a straight line being the 
shortest distance between two points. "Does this have 
something to do with why my Spirit Guide showed up and 
camped himself outside your door the first night you were out 
of the loft?"

Blair's bare feet thumped to the deck. "Your Spirit Guide did 
what?"

"The panther was definitely displeased with your absence. He 
made that quite clear."

"Nice to know I was missed." An awkward attempt at levity 
that fell flat and toneless.

The Sentinel reached forward, touching his Guide lightly on the 
sleeve, needing the physical connection. "Blair...talk to me. 
Tell me what happened. Tell me what's still troubling you."

A hard swallow. A resigned sigh. 

"I forgot who I was."

The simple answer's myriad implications took Jim's breath 
away. Blair's hand reached up to grasp Jim's in reassurance.

"It's okay. I found myself again. Most of me, anyway."

The genuine smile that creased the younger man's face was a 
light to rival even that of the awakening city or the stars. 

Still, the sadness remained, damping the radiance.

"Then what's the problem?" Jim pressed.

Silence, underlaid with the whisper of Blair's fingers sliding 
through his hair in a familiar gesture of uncertainty. The 
Sentinel caught the rasp of another deep breath and its slow 
exhalation. He could almost hear the spinning wheels of his 
Guide's mind slow their frentetic pace as the younger man 
came to a decision...

And gave his answer. 

"I always thought that I would do anything for you. For our 
partnership. I realized during this case, that there's something I 
*can't* do. Not if I want to remain true to who *I* am. What I 
am. That limitation scares me, because it could endanger you."

"Chief, you're risked your own life to save mine. More times 
than I want to remember," Jim murmured. "What more could 
you do?"

"I could do whatever it took to protect my partner...even if 
that meant taking a life..."

"No, you couldn't," Jim objected. "Not and be who you are."

"Exactly. That's the problem."

The Sentinel prodded the investigation in a slightly different 
direction with another question. "When we were trapped...you 
said something. You said 'one trip through the fire wasn't 
enough.' What did that mean?"

"The night I met Jankowski, I had a vision. Of a wall of fire. 
That's what kept me from chasing after him."

"You never told me." 

"I didn't know what it meant...and then we were caught up in 
all the subterfuge. I didn't know if it was connected with the 
case. I didn't want to distract you. I didn't dare. It was my 
problem. I needed to deal with it."

The random pieces of the puzzle that Jim had been holding--
that had, up until that point, failed to form any recognizable 
pattern--suddenly locked together--Simon's reluctance to 
discuss just what had led them to the apartment building after 
having lost him at the factory; Blair's reaction to the Internal 
Affairs officer's questions on the same topic; his Spirit Guide's 
appearance; the sense of danger that he'd been unable to 
pinpoint...

"A premonition. That's how you knew where I was," the 
Sentinel murmured, his voice tinged with wonder.

"Partly," his Guide admitted. "I should have realized what it 
was earlier. Maybe if I had...but I didn't. I didn't let myself." A 
disparaging laugh. "I think I broke the Shaman's code of 
ethics."

"Because you forgot who you were."

"Yeah. A Shaman seeks truth, Jim. He's supposed to see 
beyond the illusions. I didn't. I let myself get sucked into 
believing all the crap that we were broadcasting  
for Jenson. I gave life to the lies. That almost cost me. And 
you."

Blair took a deep breath and plowed on.

"The vision took on a life of its own. Scared the shit out of me. 
I couldn't face it. Not until you were missing and confronting it 
was the only thing I could think of to find you."

"That was the battle..." 

"What?"

"When you showed up out of the blue to rescue Andrew and 
me...I could tell something had happened. I remember thinking 
that you looked like you'd fought some kind of battle."

"Hey, you're the one that was bleeding all over the floor, man," 
Blair responded. "I stage my fights on the metaphysical plane. 
Less blood loss that way."

"But not appreciably less pain," Jim countered.

"No...probably not," Blair admitted. He paused, turned to stare 
out into the night, and then lowered his gaze. He picked at the 
label on the bottle nervously. "I did finally manage to confront 
the damn thing. Screwed up my courage and walked through 
it. Burned off a layer or two of filth in the process. When I 
came out the other side, I knew where you were. Then it was 
just a matter of convincing Simon that I wasn't a candidate for 
the funny farm."

Jim raised an eyebrow at that. He knew Blair couldn't see his 
expression in the darkness, but the younger man chuckled 
anyway as if he'd been expecting the reaction.

"He was ready to bring in the guys in the white coats, Jim. 
Trust me. Ultimately, Simon did--trust me, I mean." The 
Shaman's voice grew pensive again. "Passing the barrier of the 
vision not only told me where to find you, but it also revealed a 
hell of a lot about me. If I'm going to honor Incacha's legacy, 
then I need to be true to his teachings. And my own 
conscience. That's why I couldn't...I couldn't light that fire. I 
couldn't take those lives, even though I knew that they meant 
to kill us." 

"And you think I'd hold that against you? Well I don't. You're 
supposed to be an observer, Chief. Not an active participant." 
Blair shook his head and looked away, but Jim didn't give up. 
"I still don't understand what the problem is, Blair. By your 
own admission you walked through fire to save my life. Why 
would think I would want you to leave?"

"Because I risked your life, man." There was stark terror in the 
gaze that the Guide turned toward his Sentinel. "First by not 
facing who I am, and then by accepting it. And I can't promise 
you that it won't happen again--that at some point in the future 
I'll won't have to make a choice and you'll end up dying just to 
save my principles. Even if you don't *want* me to leave, I'm 
not sure I can stay, knowing that."

"Chief, what you call principles are what men like Andrew and 
Incacha would call honor and duty. There's no disgrace or 
weakness in following that code. It's what separates you and 
them from men like Jenson or those that joined him."

Jim could see that the younger man was unconvinced, so he 
shifted his attack. 

"You didn't fail me, Blair. You've never failed me. And you 
never will."

"But..."

"You never will. Not as long as you remain true to yourself. 
That's what I value, Chief. That's who I trust. You. I knew 
what this insanity that we were playing at was doing to you. I 
could see how much you were hurting. I'm sorry that it 
happened. And that you had to go through...what you went 
through, alone. Believe me. I wouldn't ask you to be something 
or someone that you're not. Being who you are is challenge 
enough."

"I'm not sure I know how to take that, Jim," his Guide 
responded, one eyebrow raised in query. "Is that an insult or a 
compliment?"

"You decide. You're the academic in this partnership." 

Jim softened his tone and dropped the teasing banter. 

"You're a bundle of raw energy, combined with a 
compassionate heart. You have ways of turning the world 
around you upside down and inside out--and you still land on 
your feet. You invite everyone within your reach along on that 
magic carpet ride that is your life, and we're all better for it. 
You're a Guide to a Sentinel. Shaman of the Great City. 
Teacher. Partner. Friend. Many hats; one unique person. Some 
people live their whole lives never knowing who they are, 
Blair. Accept the fact that you do as a blessing, not a failing or 
a limitation. I do." 

His Guide was silent, but the Sentinel could hear the even 
beating of his heart. It thrummed with life and peace. When 
Blair finally spoke, Jim didn't need enhanced senses to see the 
light shining in his eyes. 

"So, does this mean you're going to help me unpack?"

"As soon as you go rescue dinner," Jim replied with a smirk. 
He rose to his feet and headed inside, still talking. "And wash 
the dishes, and clean up the mess you left on the coffee table, 
and..."

"Hey, I thought you just acknowledged me as Shaman of the 
Great City. Don't I deserve some respect?" Blair shot back, 
rising from his chair as well.

Another list of housekeeping duties answered that question as 
the Guide followed his Sentinel inside.

"How about if I just wash the dishes on the astral plane? Will 
you buy that?"

The sounds of their combined laughter echoed through the loft.

-end-
*************************

Author's final note:

I would be remiss if I did not offer attribution for the quotes or 
phrases that prefaced each section of the preceeding story. 
Therefore, to authors and poets living on the earth or on the 
spirit plane, thank you. Credits follow:

*******************************

My days are crackled and gone up in smoke.

Francis Thompson, The Hound of Heaven.

*******************************

When a lovely flame dies, Smoke gets in your eyes.

Otto Harbach

*******************************

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth 

Arthur Hugh Clough

*****************************

There is no fire without smoke. 
(There can no great smoke arise, but there must be some fire.--
Lily, Euphues)

******************************

Only thin smoke without flame... 

Thomas Hardy

******************************

Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror cracked from side  to side. 

Tennyson

*******************************

The face is the mirror of the mind, 
and eyes without speaking 
confess the secrets of the heart.

Saint Jerome

*******************************

To hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; 
to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, 
and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.

William Shakespeare

********************************

I bid him look into the lives of men as though into a mirror, 
and from others to take an example for himself.
 
Terence

*********************************

Speech is a mirror of the soul; 
as a man speaks, so is he.

Publilius Syrus

*********************************

Hither and thither spins
The windbourne, mirroring soul;
A thousands glimpses wins,
And never sees a whole. 

Matthew Arnold

***********************************

About, about, in reel and rout
The death fires danced at night. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

***********************************
You who dirty the mirror, cry that it isn't clean. 

Juana Ines de la Cruz