BAYOU

by

D.L. Witherspoon

(Posted 08-15-98)

Chapter One

The ramshackle hut was dark but the inhabitants didn't care. In fact the dark made it easier to face their fears and hide the evidence of what had gone on before... in the light.

"It's nearly time for you to go," she said, her high-pitched voice revealing her age but the words full of maturity. She felt the arms close around her tighter in defiance of her statement but she didn't protest. The safety she felt in his embrace weakened her will and she struggled to find the strength to let him go.

"Why do you always send me away?" he asked the small figure, wondering if this was what it would feel like to have a child of his own. To feel so much, so quickly for someone else.

"Because you don't belong here. I should be strong enough to handle this on my own. I shouldn't call to you."

"You shouldn't ask for help?" His finger brushed lightly across the bruise that mottled her cheek. "As if I am providing any," he added bitterly.

"Tell that to your shirt which has dried my tears and your heart which had absorbed my pain. You have helped me survive this with dignity. Remember that when you need to."

His heart skipped a beat. "Why will I need to remember that?"

She closed her eyes, knowing that he wouldn't understand but it wouldn't be fair not to warn him. "Tomorrow night will be our last time together... like this anyway."

"You're going to send me away for good?" He didn't like the sound of that. Not that he believed he was helping her, but at least he could pretend... at least he knew she wasn't alone.

"Tomorrow, they will kill me."

"No!" He crushed her so tightly she could barely breathe, but she didn't say anything, merely reveling in the comfort his presence provided. "Please," he pleaded. "Let me help you."

She placed a hand on his chest and felt the heartbeat she would continue to sense as she spent her final day on earth. Then she gently reached up and waved her hand across his eyes. "Forget," she said softly and sent him on his way.

Then blinking back tears, she faced her new companions-- the shadows.

*****

Detective Jim Ellison woke with a start. Not again, he thought as he pulled the damp sheets from his body. For the past four days he had awakened drenched in his own sweat, his body full of tension, and sporting a headache that refused to respond to the standard over-the-counter stuff. Worse than the headache was the feeling of helplessness that seemed to have taken up residence in his chest.

Helpless was not a word generally associated with Jim Ellison. He was over six feet tall and kept his body in perfectly fit condition. He was a former Army Ranger captain, had worked covert ops a time or two and was now a fairly successful Major Crimes detective for the Cascade, Washington Police Department. All the training, from Army to cop, had made him one lethal man who excelled in rescuing fair damsels, saving the day for various Cascade residents, and yes, on one occasion, he had even gotten a cat down from a tree. Some people wanted to call him a hero, but Jim figured he was just doing his job; after all, wasn't he the Sentinel of the Great City?

He smiled sadly as he remembered the day he had been given that title. On that day a cherished friend had died trying to mete out justice in the only way he knew. He had felt helpless on that day too, but he'd had a reason for the feeling and with the help of an even dearer friend, he had put the impotence aside and completed the task of dispensing justice. It was the least he could do for the man who had nurtured his Sentinel talents even before he was aware of them.

A Sentinel, according to his limited knowledge, was a person with genetically enhanced senses. In olden, more tribal days, these individuals had used the senses to watch out for their people, to make sure the bad guys were caught and put away. Just like modern-day cops, except there wasn't a rule book they had to follow and death was usually more immediate than a ten-year wait on death row, Jim thought with a dry chuckle, as he padded downstairs to the bathroom. Oh, to have been born a century earlier.

He stripped out of the T-shirt and boxers that smelled of sweat and fear, then stood beneath the shower and let the hot water sluice away the stains of another bad night. What's the matter with me, he thought, unused to the lack of control he was exhibiting. He knew he wasn't experiencing ordinary night terrors. Because of his work, he had suffered them before, knew the symptoms-- the covers clawed from the bed as if they were strangling vines, the eyes gummed shut from shed tears, the throat raw from screams that the unconscious couldn't hold back. But that wasn't the case this time. If not for the sweat stains, his bed would appear unslept in. His eyes were bloodshot but dry. And if he had emitted screams or mere groans, his roommate would have been at his side when he awakened.

Blair Sandburg was zealous when it came to the care of his friend, partner, and roommate. He believed Jim's welfare was his personal responsibility. Jim tolerated the attitude because it was one he shared in reverse. Blair was an anthropology grad student at Cascade's Rainier University. He was doing his dissertation on Sentinels and was the resident expert-- literally. Jim had asked him to move in because of that knowledge, but he'd made him feel welcome, let him know the loft was his home because now they were friends... No, more than that. They were brothers, connected at a level Jim hadn't realized was even possible to reach.

Blair had become his Guide, a companion to the Sentinel whose job was to watch the Sentinel's back and take care of him. The Guide was a necessary accessory for the Sentinel because he was prone to zoning, which meant if he focused too hard on one of his senses he could find himself losing contact with reality. The Guide then became either his anchor or his lifeline back to the real world. Because he needed his Guide especially when he was on the job, Jim had confessed his special talents to his captain, Simon Banks. It had helped that Simon was also a friend and together, they had gotten Blair the credentials to be a police observer and had integrated him so well into the department that now Jim and Blair were more likely to get puzzled stares when apart than together.

Just thinking about Blair caused Jim to focus his senses on his partner and he could tell he was nearing waking. He quickly finished his morning routine and left the bathroom, wanting to make it up to his room before Blair could begin with the questions his friend always seemed to have. However, he didn't make it.

"Morning, Jim," Blair called from the doorway of his downstairs bedroom. He'd heard the shower stop and knew his roommate would be passing by.

"Morning, Chief," Jim said obligingly as he checked the towel around his waist to keep from meeting Blair's searching eyes.

"It happened again, didn't it?" Blair accused softly and Jim reluctantly raised his head.

"Yeah."

"We need to find out what causing this," Blair replied, tousling his long dark curls in frustration. "Whether it's physical or mental, we have to make it stop. Although you appear to be sleeping soundly, you're not. You're exhausted and tense. That's not good, Jim."

"I know." As a former medic, Jim was aware there could be an underlying physical condition responsible for what he was going through, but he suspected the answer wasn't that simple. But before he got into that with Blair, there was something else he needed to ask. "What did you mean by 'you appear to be sleeping soundly'?"

Blair's eyes were the ones to break contact. "I watched you for a few minutes last night."

"You what?" Jim was uncomfortable with the thought, even though they had watched each other sleep before-- usually during and immediately following a hospital stay.

"You didn't even know I was there, did you?" Blair asked before Jim could tell him he was being overprotective.

A ridge formed along Jim's jawline, signaling tension as he realized what his partner was saying. As a Sentinel, he should have known Blair was there. "I didn't react?"

Blair shook his head. "You were so still, I almost woke you up just to make sure you were okay. But your breathing seemed even and I convinced myself you were just sleeping soundly because of the lack of sleep the nights before. But that wasn't it, was it?" His roommate was silent. "You still have a headache?"

Jim grimaced. "I've had it so long, I'm hardly aware of it."

Blair forced Jim's blue eyes to look into his. "How long are we going to dance around this, Jim?" In the past year or so, Jim's heightened five senses had increased by one. This particular sense allowed the dead to contact him. So far, the ghosts had all been brutally murdered as children and the Sentinel had been the conduit they used to deal with their killers. Whenever the ghosts made contact with Jim, he experienced severe headaches. The last time it had happened, he hadn't even been able to keep food on his stomach.

Jim shrugged, not wanting to consider the possibility that a ghost was contacting him in his sleep. He had sort of resigned himself to being a Sentinel; he had the gifts and they helped him with his job as a Major Crimes detective. Anyway, every time he tried to reject his destiny, something awful came up and he would need the enhancements. So he gave up trying to be normal. But this ghost shit was something else. Blair made the hypersenses seem like a mere genetic fluke. However, talking to ghosts couldn't be blamed on an aberrant allele. No. This was up there (or was it down there) with psychic hotlines and the yearly predictions in the National Enquirer. "If I am having spooky conversations while I sleep, I don't remember them, Chief."

"Yet, they haunt you all day." He had deliberately chosen the word and was prepared to see the walls his roommate quickly slammed into place.

"I have a job to go to. If you're coming in with me today, you better get a move on." With that, Jim stalked to his room.

The silence continued between them as they entered the Major Crimes bullpen at the downtown police headquarters. Captain Simon Banks watched them as they settled at Jim's desk and knew that whatever situation the two had been involved in most of the week, had not resolved itself. He hated prying into their business; he had been uncomfortable learning about Jim's status as a Sentinel and this latest psychic activity hadn't endeared itself to him either.

Before, when things like this happened, he would mumble something that was supposed to be understanding and send them away-- camping, fishing, someplace away from him while they figured out what was wrong and how to fix it. But now he was their Watcher. He looked out for the Sentinel and Guide, protecting them from minor enemies like bureaucracy with creative paperwork and from major ones with prompt backup. All in all, he considered his role minor in the Sentinel realm but it was a responsibility he never ignored.

With a sigh, he went to his door and called them into his office. "Same ol' crappy night?" he asked as they plopped into the chairs in front of his desk.

"Yes, sir," his detective replied sullenly.

"And you're sure a visit to the department shrink wouldn't help?" He trusted Jim and Blair to make that decision. They had visited the psychologist before when circumstances had bordered on the extreme and had found her helpful.

Blair shook his head. "Jim can't remember anything. I've even tried hypnosis and you know he's goes under better for me than anyone else."

"Well, something has to be done. You don't look like you can handle much more, Jim," Simon said with the honesty of a real friend.

"I won't screw up on the job, Simon."

"Hell, I know that, Jim. I'm not worrying about you and the job. I'm just worried about you. The last time something like this happened, I had to scoop both of you up at the airport and pour you into my car. I don't want that to happen again. You two got a plan?"

"I want to monitor his sleep tonight," Blair said.

"I thought you did that last night," Jim replied edgily.

Blair rolled his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. Jim deserved to be crabby. "I want to get an idea of the timeframe. Does whatever it is occur as soon as you fall asleep or maybe at a particular hour during the night, that sort of thing."

Jim shook his head. "Not tonight. You have that date with Tiffany, remember?"

"I'll just have to cancel."

"No, Chief," Jim argued. He put up his hand for silence when Blair would have protested. "Listen to me, Blair, please. When we find out what all this is about, I'm pretty certain things are going to get... intense. There won't be time for Tiffanies, or smiles, or laughter. Enjoy yourself tonight. And remember it over the next few days, okay?"

"Jim, are you sure?" Blair asked as he stood at the door of the loft much later, his keys jangling nervously in one hand.

"Sandburg, if you don't leave now, Tiffany is going to think you're standing her up and from what you've told me, I don't think she's the type you want mad at you," Jim pointed out from his position on the sofa.

Blair grimaced. That Tiffany had one hell of a temper was commonly known around Rainier University. But there was something about her that had guys vying for a date with her. After several unsuccessful tries, he'd finally made it on the "good enough" list. Still... "Jim, this feels really, really, wrong."

"I've never had such a long warning or anticipation before, Chief. We can't be sure of what's going on. But it's been going on for several days now. Whatever it is, it probably won't come to a head tonight."

Blair nodded and reluctantly left, only later discovering how wrong his partner had been.

Chapter Two

He went to her side as he had every night, brushing his hand gently across her cheek which was mottled with even more bruises. The sight made him angry, but he knew how much she disliked the emotion so he calmed himself and pasted on a smile as her brown eyes opened.

She smiled and struggled to sit up, hampered by the chains that bound her wrists. He reached out and helped her, sitting down beside her on the rickety cot and allowing her to rest against him. To her, he was solid. He could touch her, hold her, and she could take his hand when the fear ran though her body. But that was the extent of his contact with her world. If he reached for the cold metal that kept her captive, his hands went through them. If he grabbed the necks of her tormentors, they felt nothing...

"This is a good night to die," she said softly.

"No," he objected, although he vaguely remembered her warning him. "No night is a good one to die. Not when one is so young." He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the shivering that was evident only to one as skilled as he. "Why won't you let me help you?" he asked again.

"You *are* helping. Don't you know why I am so calm, so at peace even when my death approaches? It's because you are here. You absorb my fear. You give me comfort. They touch me and leave me dirty. You wash me clean with your tears. Tonight..." She paused, the words difficult to say. She had lived with the thoughts, knew what was to happen, but now what had been imagined was about to become reality. "Tonight, one of them will violate me, spill my virginal blood upon the evil altar they have devised. But you will be there to make me whole again. Remember that, please?"

He nodded his head, not because he understood but because she seemed to need his acceptance. "I will remember," he lied.

"Then those who taste of my blood will kill me, expecting to receive my power... But the power will be yours alone. You will use it to make sure this never happens again, that no more human sacrifices occur, that these fiends will receive the justice they deserve."

His eyes filled with tears. "But I could do so much more. I could contact the authorities. I could save you myself."

She reached out for his hand and he placed it in hers. She inspected it closely, mesmerized by the long fingers, the sworls on each tip that in a language known only to a few, told of his purpose, of what he was and what he would be. "The word has been written. Who am I to change it? You were born for a reason, as was I. This is mine... But it is not written that you have to be at my side. You may go and the power will still be yours."

"I am not here because of the power."

"I know."

"I will stay."

And he did. He marched by her side as they came for her. He shielded her naked body as they exposed her to the crowd. He sang softly to her as they reveled around the rock altar and took her pain upon himself as one of the evil ones plunged into her, tearing flesh she should have had the chance to give willingly. Even though she felt no pain, she sobbed for what she was losing, for the degradation she was suffering. And he sobbed with her and told her it was okay to cry, even as the watchers cheered her tears.

When the first ritual was finished, while they celebrated the shedding of her blood with song and dance, he did what he could to soothe her. Using his shirt, he wiped their filth from her, nearly blinded by the tears that refused to stop falling from his eyes. He had hoped to be stronger, but when he looked inside himself he could find no more strength.

"This hurts you," she said softly and he nodded. "Then go. You have suffered enough. My pain plus yours may be too much to bear."

"No." His voice cracked and he had to pause, to check his emotions, before he continued. "I will not break. They," he swept his arms out to indicate the robed figures swirling around them, "will not break me nor you." He took a deep breath and searched his soul, finding one little spark of energy that he hadn't expended, the final reserve. He plucked it from its resting place and offered it to her. "Whatever strength I have is yours. Take it as the final ritual approaches. Use it and it will come back to me ten-fold with your power."

"Je t'aime."

"I love you too."

He kneeled at her head as the killers neared. He leaned over and kissed her forehead as the stone dagger was raised high in the air. As it made contact with the skin above her heart, she gasped out one final word, "Remember."

Then her world exploded and flung him back to his own.

*****

Blair tried but he couldn't enjoy himself.

He had barely missed being late picking Tiffany up at her apartment. Thankfully, Jim had prompted him to make reservations at the expensive restaurant he'd chosen so when they arrived, they were escorted directly to their table-- definitely a plus in Tiffany's book. So that's how Jim gets all the women, he thought, as he listened to Tiffany talk mainly about herself. Class. His partner had class. He was going to have to remember that.

Perhaps that had been his first mistake; to think about Jim. After that, his thoughts never left the man. The evening dragged on and Tiffany had gotten angrier and angrier as he fixated on Jim and what was troubling him. Even when she'd picked up her purse and stormed out of the restaurant, telling him to call her when hell froze over or he finished his dissertation (whichever came last), he hadn't been upset because something was telling him to get home to Jim. He looked at his watch and cursed as he saw how late it was. Good old Tiffany had waited until after dessert to throw her tantrum. Swell girl.

As he drove home, he prepared a cover story in case Jim called him on coming back early. Actually, the story wasn't far from the truth. Tiffany had turned out to be a self-centered bitch and although he could do worse, he could also do much better. Feeling more at ease than he had all evening, he was humming as he slipped his key into the lock. He stopped the sound when he noticed the lights were all on as well as the television. That was odd, not because he expected Jim to be in bed already but because Jim was always quick to turn out the lights when his roommate wasn't home. His Sentinel sight made them unnecessary and with the headache, the artificial lights probably caused him pain. Why hadn't Jim made himself comfortable?

He thought he knew the answer as he peeked over the back of the sofa and saw his roommate sprawled along its length. Jim had fallen asleep so quickly he hadn't managed to make the loft more "Sentinel friendly". He started to smile, then realized he was seeing what he had the night before. Jim was too still. Whatever plagued him was doing it again. He reached out to shake his partner awake. At first Jim didn't respond and then he saw a sight that sent his blood pressure skyrocketing; tears were leaking from Jim's closed eyes.

Knowing that whatever was going on he couldn't handle by himself, he ran to the phone.

*****

Simon hung up the receiver and reached for the clothes he always kept nearby. Thanks to his job, he was always prepared to go out at any time of the night. Briefly, he wished that it had been the job calling this time. But even as the phone was ringing, he knew who would be on the other end. Sandburg would say it was his Watcher alert kicking in, picking up some residual vibes from the Sentinel and Guide. But Simon liked to believe his precognition came from having worked with them for so long. Denial was an awesome river.

He shivered as he drove through the dark streets of Cascade. He had been with Jim the first time the detective had gone through one of the spectral episodes. They had been helping Narcotics with a drug bust and he had stayed with Jim as he used his senses to make sure all the drugs had been confiscated. That had been the moment forty-two ghosts had cried out for the Sentinel's help-- forty-two children who had been abused and killed by a serial murderer. The FBI had been real interested in the case and had sent a profiler, Dr. Tony Bozeman, to help out. By the end of the case, Bozeman had been convinced that Jim was some kind of extraordinary psychic.

Which had led to Jim's second ghostly visitation. Bozeman wanted his help after the discovery of skeletal remains of children in Baltimore. The captain had been reluctant to let his detective go on that one and his reservations had been right on the money; Jim had suffered horribly during that investigation and he had nearly damn well been a ghost himself when he got off the plane safe at home in Cascade. And now there was this.

Simon found a parking space and took the familiar elevator ride up to the loft. He used the key they had given him some time ago to let himself in. Blair stood across the room, hugging himself as he stared down at the sofa. "Sandburg?"

"Thank God, you're here, man!" he said with undisguised relief. "You have to wake him up. I don't think he's doing too good where he is."

Simon hurried over to the sofa and saw what Sandburg meant. Jim looked to be in deep pain and anguish. Using his considerably booming voice, he ordered his detective to wake up. When that didn't work, he took his massive hands and shook him. That had no effect either. "Have you tried smelling salts?" he asked, refusing to panic.

"On Jim?" Blair looked at him as if he were the unconscious one. "Way too big a risk, captain. One whiff could send him into a coma with those senses of his."

"And how would that be any different from this?" Simon questioned gruffly. "I think this is beyond our capabilities, Sandburg. We need professional help. Call 911."

Blair froze. "I don't think we want to do that, Simon. They're liable to run all sorts of neurological tests on him and that could just make things worse."

"So what do you suggest? We leave him here on the sofa and let him dehydrate or starve to death?" Simon asked dryly, although he knew the kid was doing his best to serve his Sentinel's interests.

Blair knew the captain was right; if Jim didn't come out of it soon, he would have to be hospitalized. "Let me try one more time, Simon, please?" Simon nodded and Blair leaned over Jim, carefully modulating his voice to what Jim liked to call "Guide mode." That was when he noticed Jim's chest was no longer rising and falling. Not the time to panic yet. The Sentinel had zoned like this before; he at times concentrated so much on one sense that he forgot to breathe. "Okay, Jim, you need to listen to me and come back. Follow the sound of my voice, man." No reaction. Blair placed his hand on the familiar broad chest in frustration and that was when he realized things had gone from bad to worse.

"We have to do something, Simon!" Blair yelled frantically. "I can't feel a heartbeat, damn it!"

"Goddamnit! I told you we should have called 911!" Simon was reaching for the phone in the kitchen when suddenly Jim sat up, flinging Blair nearly across the room. The phone was forgotten as he scrambled over to check on his young friend. "Blair, you better be okay," he threatened breathlessly.

"I'm fine, Simon," Blair mumbled, briefly confused as to the reason he was lying in the floor. Then he remembered. "Jim!" he yelled, allowing the captain to pull him to his feet.

The object of their concern sat slumped on the sofa but straightened partially as he heard the concern in their voices. "I need a piece of paper and a pencil, Chief."

Blair hurried to do what he'd been asked, then stood silently waiting for more orders. When none was forthcoming, he went into the kitchen and collapsed into one of the chairs at the table. He wasn't surprised to see his hands trembling since he'd barely made it to the chair before his legs gave out. He'd never been so frightened in all his life.

"You okay, Sandburg?" Simon asked, laying his hand on the younger man's shoulder. The observer had grown on him in the years he'd worked at the department. He was extremely intelligent and seemed to have unlimited energy which he shared with those around him. He willingly helped out all the officers in the Major Crimes Unit, but they, as well as the captain, knew that when the chips were down, Sandburg would be at Jim's side. They were a pair and everyone accepted that that was how it was to be.

"What's going on, captain?" he asked , lacking the energy to raise his head. "These encounters have left him in pain before, but never dead. What if..."

"Stop it, Blair," Simon said sharply, then his voice gentled. "That doesn't look like a dead man over there sketching away."

Blair's head turned quickly. "Sketching? Jim doesn't sketch, Simon. Anything beyond the basic outline of a crime scene is out of his league. He swears he flunked arts and crafts three years in a row at summer camp."

"But he's doing it," Simon said in a hushed voice and they walked over to their friend. Half a second later, Jim handed them the paper.

It was a sketch, no, a detailed drawing, of a young African-American girl. She was maybe twelve or thirteen with long braids, a nice smile, and very sad eyes. Knowing how things operated when Jim was in this mode, Blair knew past tense verbs were to be used in connection with the sweet, innocent child staring up at him from the paper. "Who was she, Jim?" he asked softly.

"Alicia Delacroix. Age twelve," Jim said, his voice emotionless.

"What... what happened to her?" Blair sat down beside him.

"She was grabbed on her way home from school. She was taken to a cabin where for four days, she was sexually molested and beaten. On the fifth day, she was raped and killed."

Oh shit. Blair was grateful when Simon took the picture out of his trembling hand. He had known it was going to be bad, but that did nothing to lessen the shock.

"When did this happen, Jim? When did she die?" Simon asked in preparation of making some calls. Before, Jim's "visitors" were all old cases. Someone was probably going to be sent to the archives.

Jim looked at his watch. "Less than an hour ago."

This time it was Simon's hand that trembled. "Jim, are you saying this murder just occurred? Why the hell hadn't we been notified this child was missing?" he yelled. The entire department was supposed to be on alert when a child disappeared.

"She wasn't from Cascade."

Blair opened his mouth to say that wasn't right. Previously, the ghosts had attached themselves to the Sentinel when he accidently wandered upon their burial ground. But he was saying Alicia wasn't even from Cascade, yet they hadn't left town for a while. How the hell had she found his partner? "Where was she from, Jim?"

"New Orleans."

"Louisiana?" Blair and Simon shared a glance. That was a hell of a long way from Washington. And that was something else too. "Jim, how did she contact you so quickly? You say she died only an hour ago, but you were out of it when I got home and that's been longer than an hour. She was in your head before she died?" Not a spectral contact then, but a psychic one.

Jim looked at them sadly. "I have been with her every night since she was abducted. I watched what they did to her. I dried her tears. I rocked her to sleep."

"Who are 'they'?" Simon asked.

"I... I don't know. They were always masked with long robes." He shook his head, trying to unjumble all the images. "I was there, but I wasn't there. I could see and feel what Lici was experiencing, but she was the only one I could touch. She was the only one I was real to." He dropped his head into his hands. "I wanted to help her so badly. But she wouldn't let me."

"What do you mean?" Blair inquired.

"Toward morning, as she would fall asleep in my arms, she would tell me to forget. I would wake up here, with no knowledge of her. There was just this vague feeling that something was wrong, somewhere. If I could have remembered, I could have contacted the NOPD, maybe given them some clue to her location. But she didn't want to be saved. She said it was her destiny that this happened to her... She was just twelve years old, Chief. How could those people, how could that man, do that to her? What kind of sickness has to live inside someone to be able..." He stumbled to his feet and made his way to the bathroom.

Blair grabbed one of the pillows on the sofa and threw it against the wall. "Why, Simon? Why the hell does he have to go through this? For God's sake, he's accepted the responsibility of being a Sentinel. He puts his life on the line for people each and every day. He tracks killers and lunatics and dealers, not just because he's a cop or because he's a Sentinel, but because he truly cares what happens to those around him."

"I know, Blair," Simon agreed.

"Do you, Simon?" Blair questioned. "You send us out on these cases, you tell us to get the bad guys, and we do. But do you know how we do it? Do you know the risks he takes by using his senses even a little? He opens up his ears and he could be assaulted by an airplane thundering overhead or maybe a child has a whistle nearby. He focuses his sight and some reporter takes a flash photo or the sun hits a pane of glass the wrong way. He sniffs the wrong thing and he passes out. He eats the wrong thing and suddenly he doesn't know which way is up. His hand brushes what appears to be dust and he's flying higher than a kite. The senses make him a better detective and a greater target, Simon. But that doesn't matter to him. The only time he gets angry about being a Sentinel is when it interferes with his work. Like when he shot the security guard by mistake or went blind with the Golden."

"You accusing me of using him?" the captain asked, wondering if it was true. He'd gotten quite used to having a Sentinel on the payroll. Who would have thought he would get so comfortable with Jim's gifts. But he would find himself looking to his detective for all the hard answers. What did you hear, Jim? What can you see? What's written on the back of this? What can you tell me that forensics can't?

"You use him as much as he wants to be used, Simon." Blair shook his head. "He is what he is and we both love him for that, captain. But I don't think this is something he bargained for. The headaches, the ghosties snuggling up in his brain, their constant cries for vengeance... It eats away at him. I know it does. And now we have this new wrinkle... Man, can you imagine what he's been through? To stand around and watch a child being raped..."

"Jim hates being helpless," Simon murmured. "If someone wanted to find the greatest way to torture him, I would think that would be it."

"So two people have been tortured this week. One is dead, the other is alive with survivor's guilt, not to mention a big helping of plain ol' Jim guilt," Blair pointed out. He looked around solicitously as Jim wandered back into the room. "You gonna be okay, big guy?"

"I'm just really tired," Jim croaked. "Thankfully, I have an understanding captain who won't be too pissed if I report in late tomorrow," he added, looking at Simon.

"You have a captain that doesn't want to see you downtown at all," Simon clarified. "I'll call New Orleans, see what I can find out about the case, okay? If you remember any details after your nap, just let me know."

"Okay, Simon." Jim started on the first stair to his bedroom and wobbled precariously. In a flash, the other two were on either side of him, supporting him until he was safely in his bed and fast asleep. Really asleep this time, for when Blair smoothed the covers over him, he smiled. Then they tiptoed back down the stairs.

"You know," Simon began, "I was always taught God didn't give you more than you could bear. But I'm starting to wonder about that. Jim has strong shoulders, but..." He looked up at the bed next to the loft railing. "Anyway, let me get home and try to get a few hours of sleep in before heading to my office. You going to need anything? When do you have to be at the university?"

Blair shook his head. "I'm not going in today. I don't want him alone, not with the memories he has."

"If you need a break, give me a call. You know I'll come."

Blair smiled. "I know, Simon. And hey, about God screwing up with the payload? Maybe that's why He gives us friends... to help with it, you know?"

Simon patted his shoulder. "Jim's always the first one to admit who has the brains in the partnership. I'm starting to see why. Goodnight, Blair."

"Night.

Chapter Three

He couldn't believe his eyes. In front of him three goons in long robes and feathered masks were attacking a little girl. Immediately he surged forward and grabbed the first one he came to. But something was wrong. Instead of feeling something solid beneath his hands, flesh he could pummel and necks he could break, he felt nothing. In fact, his hands just sliced through them as if they weren't there.

That was when he realized he must be dreaming. The images weren't real. They were just there to torture him. He went limp, ceasing to struggle with the imagined demons. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to it. Hell, for a period of his life nightmares were more common than dreams. The things he'd done in the name of his country, the situations he had seen, the actions others had taken and forced him to watch... He thought he was beyond that now but apparently, that was never meant to be. With a groan of despair, he crouched down in a corner and dropped his head into his hands. The one good thing about nightmares was that morning had to come eventually.

The soft brush of lips on his forehead made him look up. The child stood before him, her tattered clothes held together with one hand while the other traced the tracks of tears on his face. "I'm sorry," she said gently.

He smiled wryly. "Now my dreams are apologizing. I must be in bad shape."

She smiled too. "Mais non. You have it backward. You are the dream."

He stared up at her, then reached out and gently held her wrist. "I can touch you," he said in amazement.

"Because you are my dream and I will it to be. But to the others, you do not exist."

"Why am I here? Why did you create me?"

She turned away and if it wasn't for his special senses, he would not have heard her. "I did not want to be alone."

*****

"Hi, captain. Running a little late this morning, huh?" Detective Henri Brown said as Simon made his way through the bullpen.

"Ellison got sick in the middle of the night."

No more explanation was needed. Everyone knew if something happened to Jim, Blair would call the captain and the captain would come running. There was great comfort in knowing how things operated. "It finally caught him, huh?"

Simon stopped in his tracks. No one in the office knew about Jim being a Sentinel or his being able to talk to ghosts. Well, at least no one admitted to knowing. "What are you talking about, Brown?"

The detective shrugged. "He's looked like something was coming down on him all week. What is it? The flu? Some nasty virus?"

"Some combination no doubt," Simon said, hiding his relief.

"He's not in the hospital, is he?"

Simon shook his head. "There was a time last night when we thought..."

"But you and Hair Boy got him through the crisis, huh?" Brown said with a smile. Ellison's partner never minded the nickname.

"Through this one," Simon said meaningfully and Brown realized Jim wasn't out of the woods.

"Hey, if they need something, captain, just let one of us know, okay? I'll pass on the word to the others."

Simon nodded and continued into his office. He picked up the phone and asked his secretary to get the New Orleans Police Department on the line. Five minutes later, she was transferring the call to him. "This is Captain Simon Banks of the Cascade, Washington Police Department. I'd like to talk to someone in charge of the disappearance of Alicia Delacroix. Thank you," he said politely as he heard the switchboard shuffle begin.

"Detective Joey Allen."

"Det. Allen, I'm Captain Banks, Cascade, Washington, P.D. Could you tell me a little about the Delacroix kidnaping?"

Joey choked on the chocolate milk he'd been drinking and looked around wildly for his partner. Mike Rankin was the primary on the case, not only because it was a high profile one but because he was the senior member of the partnership since Joey had been promoted to detective just two months ago. But Mike was nowhere to be found. Great. What a way to start the day. Joey caught the attention of Shelly Thomas, another detective and motioned for her to have his call traced. "Uh, we're not really calling it a kidnaping at this time, sir. Unless you have additional information you'd like to give us? By the way, could you give me your name again?"

Simon sighed and obeyed. Then he answered several questions about his interest in the case. He took it all in stride until he realized everything he had to say to the cop, the man made him repeat. Enough benefit of doubt. He voiced his suspicions. "You tracing this call, Allen?"

"Uh, what makes you think that, sir?" Joey replied, wondering what was taking the trace so long.

"Because I'm a cop and I know the sounds of a trace when I hear one," Simon replied testily. "If you wanted the phone number all you had to do was ask!"

"Please calm down, sir," Joey said soothingly. "This is just standard operating procedure."

"Not where I come from!" Simon said and angrily slammed the phone down. Well, hell, he swore to himself. Looked like they were going to have to do this the hard way.

*****

"Hi, Jim," Blair called as his roommate came groggily down the stairs just before noon.

Jim yawned. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you in class?"

"Someone's covering for me," Blair replied as he worked on a paper that was due in two weeks. He'd learned that he had to take advantage of every free moment he had in order to get his schoolwork done. Being a Guide didn't lend itself well to scheduling.

"Stuck at home, babysitting me again, huh?"

"You had some heavy shit laid on you, man. I thought you shouldn't wake up alone," Blair admitted, knowing Jim would have done the same if their situations had been reversed. "You wanna talk or anything?"

"Maybe after a shower, okay?"

Blair nodded and didn't say anything. At least Jim had hinted at the possibility that he might actually discuss what had happened. The first time he had awakened, at about seven o'clock, he hadn't said a word to his roommate. He had merely gone into the bathroom, showered, then returned to bed. Now he was heading for shower number two, but talking. Definitely an improvement.

"The rape is doing a number on you, isn't it?" he asked as Jim padded by him on his return to his room.

Jim started to deny it, but knew holding it in was doing him no good. "The rape, the murder, the abuse... The images just keep swirling around in my head, Chief," he admitted as he got dressed. "You heard from Simon yet?"

"No. But you know he'll let us know when he has some information. Jim, I don't understand this connection you had to Alicia," he said, not letting him change the subject.

"She controlled it, Chief. I think she was an actual psychic or something like that."

"Why did she contact you?"

Jim came partially down the stairs, then sat. "I seem to have a ... reputation among the dead."

Blair ignored the ball forming in the pit of his stomach. "What kind of reputation?"

"As a champion of children's causes. Alicia spoke to the dead easily. They told her to contact me if she needed help."

"But you said she wouldn't let you help."

"She wouldn't let me remember so I could get help to her," he clarified. "But she swore to me I was helping her by just being there. I... I did what I could, Chief."

Blair came over to him. "Believe me, Jim, I know just how much your being there comforted her. I've been where she was, man, or at least close to it. Your presence is the second best thing to the cavalry charging over the hill."

Jim shook his head like he didn't understand. "She was so peaceful about the whole thing, especially in front of the others. They would undress her and fondle her and she would just lay there as if nothing they could do would really touch her. They would beat her and she wouldn't make a sound, just stare at them defiantly. When they would finally leave, she would crawl into my arms, and most of the time she wouldn't even cry... God help me, that first night I felt such a murderous rage, she shrank away from me. I never let her feel that again."

"No wonder you would be so tense in the mornings," Blair sympathized. "By the way, how is the headache this morning?"

"The same."

Blair didn't like that answer. "So you're still in contact with Alicia?"

"No. She pushed me away last night because she knew I would have died with her if she hadn't."

"How?"

"Because I physically took her pain, Chief. I don't know how, but I could absorb it into me and away from her. If she hadn't pushed me away, I would have felt the knife slice into my heart and the shock probably would have killed me."

"Then I thank Alicia wherever she is. Other people need you too, big guy," Blair asserted, almost angry at his friend for taking such a chance. "So why is it that you still have a headache?"

Jim closed his eyes and searched inside himself. "There are others."

"What do you mean there are others?" Blair squeaked.

Jim shrugged. "Anything around here to eat?" he asked, rising from the stair and heading toward the kitchen.

Blair wanted to reach out, grab him, and demand to know what the hell he meant by "others". But he'd been fortunate to get out of him what he had. Patience, Sandburg, he chided himself. The man's been through an ordeal. If he needs to tell you stuff in bite-sized pieces, let him. "Have a seat, Jim, and I'll fix something for you," he offered, somehow finding a smile to add to it.

Two hours later, someone knocked on the door and he hurried to open it.

"If I had a penny for every asshole in the world, I'm be a fucking millionaire," Simon griped as Blair let him into the loft.

"Bad day?" Blair hazarded with a grin. It was late afternoon, plenty of time for someone to have ticked the captain off.

Simon started to reply, then angled his head toward Jim's room. "Is he sleeping?"

"Nah. He's taking a shower-- his third today," he said meaningfully. "So who stepped on your tail?"

"The sons of bitches down in the New Orleans department. I call, I identify myself, and then I ask to speak to someone about the Alicia Delacroix disappearance. They wanted to know my connection to the case and why was I trying to get involved and didn't we have enough crime in Cascade to take care of... I understood that. Hell, I'm a cop too, right? But the next thing I know the idiots are trying to get a trace on the call. I told them all they had to do was ask... Well, at least I get a new phone out of it," Simon ended in a huff.

"How's that?"

"I cracked the one I had when I hung up on them." He smiled in satisfaction.

"So what happens now?" Jim said as he stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and apparently having overheard the entire conversation.

"We go to New Orleans."

Jim nodded in complete agreement and padded on to his room. "We?" Blair asked with a curious smile.

"You prepared to kick NOPD butt, Sandburg?" Blair shook his head. "Then I guess I'm going. A messenger should be by with the tickets soon. I'm going home to pack a bag and I'll swing by here to pick you up."

"Thanks, Simon. I have a feeling this isn't going to be a walk in the park."

"Don't worry about it, Sandburg. Your only concern on this trip is to take care of Jim. I'll handle the rest," Simon vowed. He angled his voice up toward the loft. "I'm going to need something to give to the NOPD. Got anything solid, Jim?" he asked.

"I can tell them what Alicia was wearing when she was taken. When they retrieve the... body... the medical examiner can confirm what was done to her."

"Can you locate the remains?"

"Yes."

"And where they were holding her?"

"When I see it."

Simon nodded, pleased with the answers. "Back in a couple of hours. Be ready."

"We will be, Simon," Blair said as he walked the captain to the door. He wondered if he should tell him about the "others", but he had no idea what Jim meant. Therefore, maybe he should keep his mouth shut for a while longer.

"Don't look so solemn, Sandburg. Jim's going to tell the NOPD what he knows. They'll find the girl's body and hopefully they can take it from there."

"From what you've said, are you sure the detective you talked to can find his ass with his hand?" Blair teased, trying to lighten the mood as well.

"Well, maybe if he uses both of them." His laughter rumbled down the hallway.

Chapter Four

"Who are you?" he asked the petite figure who had turned away from him.

"My name is Alicia Delacroix, Lici to my friends. I am twelve years old and I have been kidnaped."

He searched his pockets for his usual pad and pen... then remembered this was just a dream-- and it wasn't even his. "Why?"

"Because of who I am... or maybe it should be what I am."

"Your family has money?"

"Oui. My father comes from old money as does my mother. Theirs is a marriage of bloodlines and wealth."

"Has there been a ransom demand?"

"They already have what they want."

"Which is?"

"Me."

"Why?"

She shrugged and plopped down on the rusty cot that appeared to be her bed. "Because I have a power within me that they want."

He moved from the corner and sat on the cot as well, but far from her because he had seen what they had done to her and he didn't want her frightened of him. "They want you to use your power for them?"

"They want to take my power from me."

"How?" he asked as if he didn't have some idea.

She stretched out and laid her head in his lap. "Do not force me to say it yet."

His fingers traveled gently along one her braids. "I will not force you to do anything," he promised.

*****

Mike Rankin took in the hangdog expression his partner currently wore and wondered what the rookie had gotten into this time. They had been working together for a couple of months and while he could see glimmers of greatness ready to be brought out of him, more often he saw a gangly young man who tripped over his own two feet. Maybe that's why they had given Joey to him for safe handling. Mike was part of New Orleans the way Joey never could be. The dark detective had grown up in the French Quarter, had played trumpet on the street corner for coins as a kid, and had watched the goings on of Bourbon Street from its doorways.

"So I'm gone one day and you look like your girl ran off with the bartender from that honky tonk you so fond of. What's rattlin' y'cage, Joey?"

Joey Allen looked up into the warm brown face of his partner and blanched an even lighter shade of pale. "I think I managed to make an enemy for life and screw up our biggest case at the same time," he said miserably.

"The Delacroix case?" Mike asked anxiously and Joey nodded. Shit. The Delacroix case was a red ball because Edouard Delacroix was not only some high-falutin' mathematician at Loyola University in the Garden District of the city, but he was also a resident of that expensive area as well, living in a mansion which had been in his family for a century. His ancestor had been one of the free men of color inhabiting the city long before slavery was an issue in the new country. So New Orleans Society was watching the case very closely, which made the current administration edgy. And Loyola's faculty and staff were just waiting for the NOPD to fuck the case up so that there would be proof of how ineffectual the department was. Then the foreigners (most were from up North-- Chicago, New York, wherever) would vote in their candidates to the city offices and New Orleans would cease to be as it was. "Straighten up, Joey, and tell me what you've done," he ordered.

"There was this call transferred to me from a guy claiming to be from Washington--"

"D.C.?" Mike interrupted, dreading having the feds come into this.

"No, man. The state." Mike relaxed. "He wanted to know what information we had on the Delacroix kidnaping. That's the first thing that made me suspicious. We've been careful not to call it a kidnaping because we really don't know and we don't want the FBI in it right now."

"You get a name on this guy?"

"That was the second suspicious thing. He said he was a police captain and that he had some information for us."

"Why was that suspicious, Joey? Maybe he had a prisoner that knew something and was trying to make a deal," Mike pointed out in frustration. One personal leave day in six years and this had to happen.

"Then why didn't he just say so? He just danced around the subject until..."

Mike rubbed his temple. "Until what, Joey?"

"Until he figured out I was tracing the call. That's when he got pissed and hung up on me."

"Did you get it?" Mike asked quickly.

"Get what?"

"The fuckin' trace!"

"The trace to the Cascade, Washington Police Department where yes, there is a Captain Simon Banks, and no, he isn't known for his sense of humor? Yeah, I got the trace." Joey knew his partner was angry from the amount of profanity he used. He did his best to remove the street from his voice when he was in the office, saving the language for when he met with an informant or hung out with his friends.

"You try calling and apologizing?"

Joey nodded. "They said he wasn't in, but I'm thinking he won't talk to me."

"Gimme the number and let me try." He dialed the phone and waited. "I don't know what trailer park you grew up in, Joey. But you're going have to learn some manners if you're gonna work with me," Mike warned. "Yes, I would like to speak to Captain Simon Banks, please... Detective Michael Rankin from the New Orleans department... Thank you." He looked at his partner. "I'm being transferred to his office... Captain Banks isn't in? Well, could you... Thanks for shit," he said into the dead receiver.

"What happened?"

"His secretary said he wasn't in. Then she started laughing and said he'd be in touch. Some crazy folk up there in Washington." Mike sighed and moved around to his desk. "Well, the ball's in Banks' court now. We'll just have to see how it plays, Joey," he said wearily.

Joey nodded and accepted that he'd been forgiven. That was the nice thing about Mike; he always forgave him his mistakes, unless he dared to repeat them again. Now only if one Captain Simon Banks was just as forgiving...

*****

"You know, the next time I'm bitching about how cold it is in Cascade, I want you to remind me of this," Simon said as he and Blair followed Jim down the narrow streets of the French Quarter. It was a typical Southern summer day which meant hot and muggy. Simon had already shed his usual jacket and vest and now he rolled up his shirtsleeves. He was seriously debating the idea of dashing into one the numerous souvenir shops and picking up a T-shirt to slip into.

"Despite the temperature, it is a beautiful city, isn't it?" Blair asked as he stared at the lacy ironwork adorning most of the buildings.

"Yeah, but no one told me we were going to be touring the whole thing on foot," Simon continued to gripe. "Want to tell me one more time why we aren't at the air-conditioned police station making our report?"

Blair shook his head. Simon knew as much as he did. They had arrived in New Orleans last night. They had checked into the hotel and Jim's headache had been so bad, he had been forced to take one of the pills Tony Bozeman had prescribed the last time he'd had such an episode. Thankfully, the pill allowed him to sleep the whole night and he had awakened pain-free for the first time in a week. The three of them had had breakfast and Blair assumed, as Simon had, that the next stop would be the police station. But Jim had driven the rental car to the Quarter and for the past forty-five minutes, they had been in and out of dark, tiny stores that boasted of love potions and assorted voodoo paraphernalia. Simon had laughed in the first store and Blair had been mildly curious at the stuff that tourists would buy, driving the clerk crazy with questions.

The second store Jim had made them both promise to behave or he was going to leave them baking in the sun outside. Both men had complied. But it was the third store that was responsible for Simon's attitude. In the third store, a large, obviously bored woman was standing by the cash register that said Yes, We Take MasterCard, Visa, and Novus. I.D. Required. Jim looked at her and without a word, she took a key from her ample bosom and opened a back room. Before Blair and Simon could react, she and Jim were locked behind that door. Ten minutes later, he was out with a shopping bag and the woman was anxiously fingering what looked to be rosary beads and muttering in some language even the anthropologist couldn't identify.

Simon had demanded answers and Jim had given him none. Just when he was about to pull rank on him, Blair had pulled the captain aside and asked him gently to back off. He had had to explain that it wasn't just Alicia in contact with Jim, but others whom Jim wouldn't, or more than likely couldn't, identify and that their presence could be affecting the Sentinel's behavior. Hence, the Watcher's really bad mood.

"Why is he doing that?" Simon muttered, bringing Blair's thoughts back to the present.

"Doing what?" He looked at the man striding ahead of them, on some personal agenda that didn't include consulting his companions.

"Watch him. As we pass certain places, he cocks his head to one side like he's listening to something. But most of these buildings are boarded up."

"Then he's probably just greeting a ghost or two. You know, this city must be full of them. Everywhere you look around, you can just imagine the spirits, can't you? No wonder there are five or six ghost and supernatural tours offered. Wonder if the ghosts get a cut?" Blair asked excitedly. "Oh, and the vampires too. I guess with above ground burial, you don't have to worry about your comings and goings, huh?"

"Sandburg, shut up," Simon said, knowing the anthropologist was trying to get him to react. "I've read Anne Rice, you know."

Blair was mildly astonished. "I had no idea, Simon. You just don't seem like the type to fool with stuff like that."

"Oh, I don't?" Simon replied, then turned to glare at his shorter friend. "Then why the hell do you and Ellison come to me with your wild tales of Sentinels, spirit guides, and ghostly chats?"

"But that's different. That's real."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's why I need the fiction," Simon admitted gruffly. He focused on their troop leader for the day. "Jim doesn't have a drop of sweat on him."

"He automatically adjusts to temperatures," Blair said, glad to finally have an answer for the captain.

Simon tugged at his tie. "You certainly know enough about him."

"Yeah, enough to fill a book," Blair said teasingly.

"Or at least a dissertation," Simon pointed out. "Why haven't you finished it yet, Sandburg? Surely by now you know having the paper done won't affect the relationship you have with Jim. So get the degree. I'm sure Rainier can find a place for you."

"Yeah, but when you start paying people full-time money, they expect you to put in full-time hours, captain. That's something I can't promise. As Jim's Guide, I have to be able to drop everything when he needs me."

"What about a job at the department then?" Simon stuck his tie in the jacket draped over his arm.

"Seriously, Simon?" The captain nodded. "That would be ideal but..."

"But?"

"I honestly can't see it happening. Look how easily Finkelman pulled my observer status."

Simon frowned. He hadn't liked that one bit and if it hadn't been resolved while he was still in the hospital from being shot, he would have raised holy hell when he was discharged. "Have faith, Sandburg. Have faith."

"Sure, Simon. It's gotten me this far, hasn't it?"

"Even farther than you know, Sandburg. It's gotten you back to the car," Simon said with a grin as the man striding ahead of them turned into the parking lot where they had left the rental. The captain grimaced at the sweat stains beneath both pits and resisted the urge to sniff them. "Hey, Jim! Can we stop back by the hotel? I think I need to freshen up a bit."

*****

"So did I read the report right? You have something on the Delacroix case?"

Mike Rankin looked up to see Stanley Arcenaux, Chief of Police, standing over him. Behind him was Police Commissioner Lawrence Tizzoner. Both were looking at him expectantly. Shit. "Uh, we're working on having something, Chief. We're waiting on someone to get back to us on some information."

"The cop your partner had traced yesterday?"

Well, this just gets better and better. He glanced around the commissioner to see why his partner was being so quiet. Had Joey passed out? Seeing the empty desk, he remembered he had sent the younger detective down to the evidence room to clear up another case. "Det. Allen was just trying to be thorough, sir. Captain Banks, being a cop himself, understood and I'm sure he'll contact us the moment he's free."

"You know how important this case is, don't you, Mike?" The chief subtlely angled his head toward the commissioner.

"Yes, sir. I assure you we're doing everything possible to see that Miss Delacroix is returned safely to her family."

"Good, Det. Rankin. We'll check in with you later then."

Mike nodded and gave a tight smile as they left. Fifteen years on the force, five years from being able to retire with full benefits and he gets handed this red ball. Apparently he had stepped on someone's grave and now they were pissing mad.

"Dare I assume from the look I got from the Chief and the Commissioner that they've been asking our case?" Joey asked as he laid down the file Mike had requested.

"Getting psychic on me, Joe?" Mike asked dryly. "They heard about the cop and the trace. We really need to get in contact with this Captain Banks. Maybe I can get somebody other than that crazy secretary..."

"Umm, I don't think we have to worry about her, Mike. And I think I know why she was laughing."

Mike followed his partner' panicked gaze and saw coming toward their desks a huge African-American man, followed by a slightly less huge White man, with a smaller man bouncing along after them. Definitely non-natives. "You think that's Banks?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

Joey nodded. "If I had to put a face to the voice, that's the face I would give it." He straightened the files on his desk nervously as the tall White guy said something and all three broke into smiles.

"Detective Allen?" Simon boomed, enjoying the look of terror that crossed the pale features. "I'm Captain Banks. We spoke on the phone yesterday?"

Before Joey could soil himself, Mike stepped forward. "Good afternoon, Captain Banks. I'm Det. Allen's partner, Mike Rankin. I'm the primary on the Delacroix case. I was out yesterday."

"I see. Well, it seemed we were just confusing each other on the phone, so I thought it was wise to do this face-to-face," Simon explained, thinking that this may not go as badly as he thought. "Detectives Rankin and Allen, these are my men, Det. Jim Ellison and his partner Blair Sandburg."

Everyone shook hands. "Det. Allen said you had information on the disappearance of Alicia Delacroix? We're eager to hear what you have for us, sir," Mike said, showing Joey the way to handle those of greater rank and bulk.

Simon looked around the busy bullpen. "Is there somewhere we could talk more privately?"

Mike shrugged. "If you don't mind one of the interrogation rooms..."

"That will be fine."

Joey brought in extra chairs and everyone gathered around the table. Simon took out a card and scribbled two numbers on the back before sliding it to Mike. "One number is to Lt. Al Giardello of the Baltimore Homicide Division. The other is to the F.B.I. Both can confirm what we are about to tell you." He looked at Jim and the man nodded. "Ellison here has an affinity for child murders. In Cascade, he solved a case of one man killing forty-two children over a period of twelve years. In Baltimore, it was ten kids."

"That's impressive," Mike said. "Wanna share your secret?"

Jim shrugged. "The dead talk to me."

Chapter Five

"Who are they?" His mind flashed back to the feathered masks and the faces they covered.

"A cult, a coven, whatever you wish to call their evil little group. They worship a dark altar which requires human sacrifice."

"Do you know who they are individually?" he asked, a cop in this world as he was in his.

"Only that they are wealthy and powerful. That's how they have survived for over fifty years without notice."

"Fifty years?" He frowned. "And how often are these human sacrifices?"

"Once a year. I am to be number fifty. It is an honor in a strange way, I suppose."

"And who do they sacrifice?"

"Always young girls who have certain talents."

"Psychic gifts?"

She smiled. "I should have known you would understand."

"But I don't. How could a child go missing each year and no one notice?"

"They have money and the power they take from each girl feeds their own."

"This needs to stop!" She flinched and immediately he calmed down. "I'm sorry."

She inched back toward him. "That is why you are here. You will stop them."

He looked at his useless hands. "I can do nothing."

"For now. But there will be a later... and a reckoning."

*****

"We got a problem." The voice on the phone sounded frantic.

"What do you mean?" was the calm, assured reply.

"There are three men down at the station saying they have information about the Delacroix case."

"Local men?"

"Nah. Washington."

"D.C. or the state?"

"There's a state? Oh, right. Probably the state. They didn't flash any federal I.D. or anything, but they do have badges."

"It's probably nothing. What could they possibly know?"

"I was hoping you would have the answer to that. You were the one who said you thought she may have been talking to someone during the rituals. Maybe it was one of them. She was extremely talented."

"Which is why she was chosen. If she was in contact with one of the visitors, that would mean he's the one who has her power. Excellent. I thought it was lost to us. Now we have a chance to get it back."

"But that means..."

"Exactly."

"But they're cops!"

"Cops can't die? By accident, of course. Or maybe if they stumble into a bad situation? How utterly tragic."

Cold. "But we don't know which one it is."

"Then get rid of all three." The transmission was disconnected.

*****

Jim was surprised that he hadn't choked on the words. He had actually admitted he held conversations with the dead. Remarkable. These ghosts were definitely getting the better of him this time around. He looked to his companions to get their reactions. A light in Blair's eyes revealed how proud he was of his partner. And Simon just sat back as if the confession was nothing out of the ordinary.

Mike exchanged glances with Joey, wondering if the visitors were playing with them. He waited for one of them to smile, laugh, or say, "Gotcha". But none of that happened. "Uh, by this you mean you hold seances or something?"

"I mean the dead talk to me." Jim tapped the side of his head for emphasis. "They come in, look around, and sit for a spell. Then we talk."

Joey cleared his throat. "So, uh, what do you talk about?"

"Mainly death. Who did what when."

"I see," Mike said slowly. "And you've talked to Alicia Delacroix? You're telling us she's dead?"

Jim nodded. "She was murdered two nights ago."

"By who?"

"People in robes and masks with feathers."

"That's rather convenient, isn't it?" Mike asked tightly. "You come in here, declare you've talked to a missing girl who has been killed but you have no details?"

Jim saw Simon start to reply and raised his hand to halt him. "I have details. You just haven't asked the right questions."

"Listen, mister! I don't know who the hell you think you are or how stupid you think we are--"

"Can I answer that one?" Blair interjected.

"Just a minute, you--" Joey said in automatic defense of his partner.

"You want to stop right there, mister," Simon declared. "Do you think these men have nothing better to do than come down here and solve your case? They have a stack of files of their own that they're working on and I should know, because I'm the one who assigned them. But even knowing how many cases he has in Cascade, and how many more he'll have when he gets back, Det. Ellison volunteered to come down here and give you the information he has. If you don't want it, fine. We can be on the next plane to Cascade and you can add one more to your list of unsolved cases."

Jim fought a smirk coming to his face. Blair always talked about him being in protect mode, but Simon in the same "condition" was formidable as well. He'd known from the minute Simon said he was coming with them he had slipped into his Watcher routine, making sure his team had the room they needed to operate in their own weird way. Without the captain as a firewall, the secret of the Sentinel would have gone down in flames long ago.

"Look, sir, you have to understand--" Mike began, sorry for losing his temper. Growing up in the Quarter, he had seen a lot of unexplainable things and maybe Ellison fell into that realm. It was just that they were so desperate for "real" information.

"No. We don't have to understand anything," Simon interrupted. "We are here out of the goodness of our hearts. Unlike you, we aren't getting paid for working this case. Unlike you, we don't have anything riding on solving it. Our reputations will not suffer. We do not have distraught parents asking us questions, begging for information. A lost little girl is not on our consciences." So that part was a lie but they didn't have to know that, Simon reasoned.

"Does this look like a fabrication?" Blair asked as he reached into his backpack and pulled out the sketch Jim had drawn.

Joey paled and Mike shrugged. "So you've seen a picture of Alicia Delacroix and made a copy. So what?"

"So none of us has ever seen a picture of Alicia," Blair informed him. "I didn't know until I saw your reactions that this even remotely resembled her."

"But that's impossible," Joey said. "Who drew this?"

"I did," Jim said.

Joey opened the file Mike had brought into the interrogation room and pulled out a photo. "This is Alicia Delacroix."

Jim, who had "seen" Alicia didn't need to look at the photo, but Blair and Simon eagerly studied it. Jim's sketch was unbelievably too perfect, although she looked a bit older. "When was this picture taken?" Blair asked.

"Two years ago. She missed taking her school pictures this year," Joey explained.

"She was having her appendix out," Jim further clarified.

Mike looked at Joey and signaled defeat. "What can you tell us about the death of Alicia Delacroix, Det. Ellison?"

Jim sat there with a blank look in his eyes, his head slightly tilted. "What are you hearing, Jim?" Blair asked, recognizing the signs.

Suddenly Jim's eyes focused. "Get down, Chief!"

Blair dropped to the floor and Simon reached for his gun.

Chapter Six

"With you here, I do not worry for myself. But my poor papa... You will help him through this, yes?"

"How will I be able to help him?"

"Make him understand that this was necessary, that I am at peace with what happened, that it was my destiny to become the final sacrifice."

"How can I make him understand what I don't?" he questioned.

Her liquid brown eyes looked into, no, through him. "You understand," she said gently. "You know the meaning of duty, destiny, and sacrifice. You have lived it. You would have died for it if necessary."

"But you are a child," he protested.

"And children cannot understand and accept what is to be? Perhaps we understand best of all. We endure years of not being in control of our lives or having any say in what happens to us. We are picked up, buckled in, and driven to wherever our parents wish. We can be taken away from family and friends at the whim of whatever adult is given custody. Is that not the essence of destiny?"

He sighed and remembered his own childhood. She had a good point; children had no control over what became of them whatsoever. "And you are certain that this is where you are to be and where you are to end?"

"Yes. Some of us receive our destiny early in life. Others..." She looked at him with amusement in her eyes, "not so early."

He responded to her teasing tone with the like. "Is someone trying to say I'm old?" He reached out to tickle her, then remembered that she had been abused and stopped.

"It's okay," she said, reading his intention. "Your touch doesn't upset me. It heals me. I am whole thanks to these hands." She measured them against her own. "Yours are even bigger than my papa's. Make sure he knows how much I love him, how much I wish I could turn away from this simply because the desire to be with him is so great."

"What about your mother?" he asked softly, wondering if she had one. Or maybe hers had gone away like his.

She shrugged. "I love mama too, but in a different way. She gave me life, but Papa lives for me. I am his. Everyone knew from the day I was born that to mess with Alicia Delacroix was to make an enemy for life of Edouard Delacroix." She started to cry. "Poor Papa. He will be hurt by this. You must be gentle with him and understand. Promise me?"

He looked at the tiny hands in his and nodded. "I will."

*****

Edouard Delacroix was furious. Someone had called his house and told him that the cops had three suspects in his daughter's disappearance. He hadn't believed them because he knew the police would immediately contact him if it were true. That had been the deal; that if he finally left the station, they would inform him of every incident concerning Alicia's case. He knew he was getting in the way so he had conceded, trusting them to keep their word.

He called Det. Rankin to let him know he was getting strange phone calls at home. He had been informed that Rankin was in the interrogation room and couldn't be disturbed. Suddenly, his trust vanished. Rankin and Allen were holding out him, keeping him away from the men who had taken his daughter, perhaps hurt her. Non! They couldn't do that!

It took him ten minutes to get to the French Quarter station. They were the officers in charge of the case because Alicia had been taken in the Quarter as she headed to the streetcar that she rode home from her private school. He was beginning to agree with his colleagues that all New Orleans cops were incompetent. Although he had lived in the city all his life, he'd never had reason to know anything about the police. The Delacrois weren't troublemakers and if trouble came their way, they had their own way of dealing with it. Except that when Alicia disappeared and no ransom was requested, Helaire, his wife, had insisted the police be consulted and because his little girl meant the world to him, he had agreed. Maybe he had been wrong.

"I want to see Detectives Rankin and Allen, please," he said politely as he entered the familiar bullpen. His eyes rested briefly on the bench in the far corner where he had sat for days, helplessly waiting on his daughter's safe return.

Shelly Thomas looked around, then saw the notation on the board. "They're in interrogation at the moment, Mr. Delacroix," she said gently, seeing the anguish in the man's eyes. "You can wait over there for them if you want to." She pointed to the bench.

"Are they interrogating someone about my daughter?" he demanded to know.

Shelly had no idea. She had just come on shift, but then she remembered the trace Joey had requested yesterday. Maybe something had come from it. "I'm sure if the detectives have any definitive information on your daughter, sir, you will hear from them," she said diplomatically.

"Damn it! What are you people hiding?" Edouard yelled. "You got the bastards who took my daughter and you're keeping me away from them! Why? What did they do? Did they hurt my little girl?"

"Please, calm down, sir," Shelly said quickly, hearing something desperate in his voice. "I assure you the detectives will be out shortly and they will tell you all that they've learned."

"Like those three perverts put their hands on my daughter! That they hurt her? Maybe killed her?" A haze of red dropped before Edouard's eyes, a crimson curtain that blocked all rational thought. "Where are they! I want to see them! I want--" He suddenly remembered seeing other detectives come and go with their suspects during his long vigil. He knew where the interrogation room was... and he knew what had to be done!

Everyone had turned and stopped doing whatever it was they were doing as his voice grew louder. Taking advantage of one of the passing officer's brief shock, he whipped the man's pistol from his holster and raced toward the door of the interrogation room. Not even trying the doorknob, he kicked open the door and aimed the gun.

As Blair dropped to the floor and Simon drew his weapon, Jim stood and faced the door, effectively blocking the others from sight. While this was happening, Mike and Joey tried to figure out what the hell was going on with the visitors. Was Ellison having some kind of vision now? And why were Banks and Sandburg acting as if they saw it too?

Before they could form the words to the questions, the door was kicked open and Edouard Delacroix stood in the doorway with a gun, which he pointed directly at Ellison. "You took my daughter, ma 'tite fille!" he accused. "Die, fils de putain!" He pulled back on the trigger and waited for the satisfying explosion. But it never came. He clicked the trigger again and again, but the gun never fired.

"Arrete!" Jim said firmly, making sure he was between the enraged father and Simon. "Stop it, Edouard! What would Lici say of your behavior! This is not the kind of man you are."

"How would you know what kind of man I am, you son of a bitch! You... you... you..." He stuttered to a halt as he looked into Jim's eyes. "You're him, aren't you?" His hand shook as he lowered the gun.

Jim signaled for the officers behind Edouard not to approach. "Who am I, Edouard?"

"Ma 'tite bebe, she say when I see the blue-eyed man, she would be at peace." Jim stepped closer and took the gun. Edouard placed his hand on Jim's arm. "Ma bebe? She is at rest now, at peace in heaven?"

Jim nodded and Edouard collapsed into his arms. He handed Mike Rankin the gun as Simon came around the table to help him settle the man into a chair while Blair calmly shut the door in the faces of the rest of the department. Grief such as Edouard's should be private, he thought as he watched Jim soothed Alicia's father with various not-quite-French phrases. Where in the world had Jim picked up the Cajun/Creole dialect? Then again, maybe it wasn't Jim speaking...

When Edouard seemed to have pulled it together, Mike addressed a sneaking suspicion of his. Ellison supposedly had just flown into town but maybe... "You said your daughter spoke of the blue-eyed man. Is it possible she had contact with him before?"

"Just a damn minute!" Simon began.

"He is not her killer," Edouard said before the captain could continue. "She called him l'ange, her special angel. Is that what you are, sir? An angel?"

Jim smiled. "No, sir. I'm just a man who was blessed to know your daughter."

"You know who killed her?"

The smile faded. "Not yet. But soon."

Edouard accepted it for the promise it was. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Can you find my little girl and bring her home? Her ancestors await her."

"I was just about to do that, as soon as I convinced the detectives here that I am not crazy."

"You're like Lici, aren't you?"

"Not quite," Jim said, then shrugged. "Not always."

"Excuse me, Mr. Delacroix," Joey said, trying to figure out what was happening. "What do you mean, 'like Lici'? You never said anything about Alicia being special."

"Everything about Lici was special!" Edouard said defiantly. "She was gifted, however, able to see the future with frightening clarity. I should have known... I should have guessed when she foretold of your coming..." He sighed deeply, then looked at Jim with a pleading glance. "Can we go get her now?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Delacroix, but you won't be going anywhere for a while," Mike pointed out. "You pulled a firearm in a police station. For some reason, we have laws against that."

"I need to be with my daughter!"

"Edouard," Jim said softly. "Stay here. I'll get Lici."

"But my bebe needs me," the man said brokenly.

Jim's eyes mirrored Edouard Delacroix's sadness. "Not anymore, mon ami. Not anymore."

Chapter Seven

As a figment of a little girl's imagination, he thought his senses were a little too keen, especially as the wind changed direction and sent very strong odors flowing through the broken boards of the shack. "What is that smell?" he asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

She grinned. "You are smelling the rich diversity of the bayou. Full of life, full of death, and all that falls between the two. The bayou follows the cycle that we all do, but in a more concentrated form. Breathe deeply and you will understand."

He began what was almost second nature to him now. Carefully he separated each odor from the whole and discovered she spoke the truth. He smelled birth and life and death, intermingled as if no time passed between each interval. Piggybacking his hearing onto the smells, he found variety there too. The clicking, buzzing, and humming of insects too numerous to decipher individually, screeches and chattering of birds, eclectic movements of other animals, even the gentle plopping of the fish in the bayou which was sometimes masked by the deep roar of the ecosystem's greatest predator-- the alligator.

"I have been in the jungle and I love the mountains, but I have never sensed so much, so close together," he admitted, smiling at the noises and smells that now he could comprehend and enjoy.

"And the city? Tell me about your life there."

He shrugged. "Boring. I get up. I go to work. I come home and go to bed."

"Tell me about your family. Make me know those you love, so I may love them too."

"My life is very different from yours. You adore your father. I barely tolerate mine."

"But you love him as you do your brother." She lay her head back against his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he breathed. It was these little, barely noticeable sensations that she would miss the most.

He snorted and she felt his breath upon her head. "Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?"

"Because I like hearing your voice and I don't think you know any bedtime stories," she teased.

"Wrong, Little Miss Know-It-All," he said and wrapped his arms tighter around her. "Let's see. I think they all begin with 'Once upon a time', don't they? Okay. Once upon a time in the land of Cascade there was a man who was very sad and didn't know why..."

*****

"It didn't work."

"What happened?"

"I don't know the details but Delacroix was primed to kill them. He took a gun from an officer and burst into the interrogation room. But one of the men confronted him and he fell apart."

"Useless, pathetic fool." A sigh of disgust came through the phone. "Well, did you figure out which one it is?"

"One of the White men. Delacroix said something about Lici telling him about a blue-eyed man. But both of them have blue eyes."

"Then our plans do not change. Kill all three. We do not know what the others have been told."

"They have left to retrieve the body."

"Can we stop them?"

"Too risky. They are traveling with a full forensics team and a number of officers in case a large area needs to be searched."

"Damn. Then take care of it as soon as possible... And don't worry about being subtle."

****

"What do you make of this?" Joey asked his partner as they followed the three Cascade cops out of the parking lot and supposedly to Alicia Delacroix's burial place. Since they were heading across the Mississippi River, he assumed the body was in one of the bayous. How original.

"Make of this or make of him?" Mike inquired, leaning against the passenger's door.

"You taught me that if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's probably a duck," Joey replied. "Ellison should be our number one suspect. Apparently the little girl knew him before. He claims to know how and when she died. If he leads us to her body..."

Mike scratched distractedly over his ear, pleased to hear Joey had actually been listening to him as he dispensed advice but uncertain as to his own belief of that advice in this instance. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," he quoted softly.

Joey laughed uneasily. "I was expecting to hear you spout some old Cajun or Creole saying and instead you quote Shakespeare. You surprise me, both with the quote and your acceptance of Ellison."

"First, Joey, the truth is the truth, whether it's a cute little saying uttered by that Cajun cook on television or the immortal words of the bard himself. Second, I wouldn't exactly call it acceptance. Let's just say I'm keeping an open mind. Strange things can happen in N'awlins."

"You mean voodoo?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "I mean 'strange things'. Why is it that when something odd occurs in Vodou, people think black magic but when it happens in other religions, it's call a miracle?"

"Other religions don't use dolls, Mike."

"What is the crucifix or a statue of Mary?"

Joey turned on his turn signal to let the others know what the car ahead was doing. They were being trailed by the coroner's van and three Suburbans of officers, several of which would man the pirogues being towed behind. The flat-bottomed boats were the best vehicles for navigating the often shallow bayous. The commissioner had authorized the use of whatever was necessary, funds included. "You know if I learned one thing in that trailer park you're so fond of saying I grew up in, Mike, was that it's useless to argue religion or politics."

Mike laughed good-naturedly. "Okay, we'll drop it, Joey. And in regards to Ellison, I'm going to let you be the designated skeptic, okay? When you see me believing too much, take my keys and cut me off."

Joey reached out his hand. "You got a deal, partner."

"You know I can't think of a religion that has been more maligned than voodoo or more properly Vodou. Hollywood, man, has taken the practice which is a mixture of a West African belief and get this, good ol' acceptable Roman Catholicism and turned it into a zombie-making, blood-drinking, human-eating cartoon," Blair was saying as he steered the rental car toward Louisiana's swamp and bayou country in the southeastern part of the state.

Simon sat in the backseat of the rental and watched the byplay of the two men seated up front. It wasn't often that he got the chance to just sit back and observe the dynamics of his best, and yes --he would admit it in his own mind-- favorite detective team. He knew Sandburg talked a lot; anyone in the same room with the kid for even just a few minutes knew that. But he hadn't realized until now that Jim actually listened to every word he said. Every time Blair paused, Jim would have a question ready that related to whatever Blair had been running on about. Simon wondered if Jim did it deliberately, giving the kid adequate time to breathe before he started up again.

"So, are you saying there is no basis for Hollywood's version? That no one in the religion has ever messed around in the black arts?" Jim asked at the appropriate time.

"Of course not. In every religion, sect, whatever, there will be members who pervert rituals. Bokors often perform acts of evil sorcery which is sometimes called 'left-handed Vodou.' But the real priests, the houngans who are males and the mambos, the females, use magic only for healing and good fortune."

"You actually believe in this stuff, Sandburg?" Simon asked with a frown, not content to just listen anymore.

"It's not whether you or I believe, captain. It's whether those who practice it do. That's where the power lies."

"Is this whole discussion based on you believing that what's going here is related to voodoo?" Simon asked, not ashamed to admit he hadn't been listening to the grad student's every word.

"Well, there was an altar with blood-shedding and human sacrifice."

"Which you just said wasn't part of voodoo."

"Not the actual religion, no. But it could be some kind of cult based on it." Jim sort of grunted and Blair made a right turn onto a dirt road which eventually dead-ended. He looked to Jim for further direction.

"From here we walk." Simon sighed and got out to tell the others.

The captain was pleased to find the bayou was only a hundred yards further. According to the county map one of the officers had, the small stream was called Bayou Rien-- River of Nothing. "Your guy got somewhere in particular we should start looking," the head of the Recovery team asked Simon, "or should we just spread out in a standard pattern?"

Simon walked over to ask Jim but noticed the Sentinel seemed to be in a near-zoned state so he turned to his partner (and interpreter) instead. "Does Jim know where the body is?"

"He's searching for it now."

Simon looked back at the detective. "His eyes are closed."

Blair shrugged. "I guess he's not using his sight then."

The captain sighed and walked back to the team. "Give him a moment and I think we'll have your coordinates."

A minute later one of the officers shouted, "Hey! Someone stop him! There's gators in there!"

Simon swiveled and saw Jim heading for the bank of the bayou. "Sandburg!"

"It's okay, captain," Blair said hurriedly, then dropped his voice to a whisper as Simon joined him. "He has permission. Seems the alligators aren't too happy with all the recent disturbances. They want us to get what we came for and leave."

"They told him this?"

Blair shrugged. "Something told him."

"Well, shit on me and call me a sundae," Officer Alex Favre called. Seeing that crazy fellow just march out into that river, he'd snatched up his rifle and headed for the bank himself. He had expected to see the alligators crawling toward the water and had hoped to pick them off before they could get at the man. But that wasn't what he saw. "Them gators ain't moving a'tall," he said in awe as he watched the animals on the other side of the bayou stare sleepily at the water. "Gator hear sumthin' in the water, he s'posed to move." He looked at the others in confusion.

Simon just took off his glasses and pinched his nose. "I just want to know if the two of you are going to pay for my therapy when all this is over."

"Sure, Simon. Maybe the doctor will even have group rates," Blair teased. He watched his partner wade out into the bayou until it was nearly up to his chin, then he lowered himself below the surface. Seconds later, he stood with a dripping mud-covered bundle and everyone knew the search for Alicia Delacroix was over.

Chapter Eight

"Children like you," she said.

He laughed derisively. "Children fear me. I'm big. I'm mean. I'm a cop."

She shook her head. "It is respect they show, not fear. When they have caused trouble, they may run from you. But when there is danger, they run *to* you."

He looked at her in puzzlement. "Where are you getting this stuff from? Definitely not from my head. Except for less than a handful maybe, I don't even know any children."

"But yet you protect them."

"I try to protect everyone."

"Do you cry for everyone?"

He wanted to walk away but it was her dream and he was under her control. "Where are you getting this information from?" he asked again.

"From the other side, from children you have helped."

He nodded as he started to understand. "You're talking about the Forty-Two and maybe the kids in Baltimore. I didn't cry for them. I was crying because their presence caused me pain, physical pain."

"What about the little boy in Turkey?"

He blanched and shut his eyes. Damn. That was a memory he had completely blocked. The drug bust had gone all wrong, the local authorities they had been working with going into the town with guns blazing without regard to the innocents. The boy had walked up to him with his arms raised as if he wanted to be picked up. Then he had crumpled to the unpaved street, his blood mingling with the dirt. "I felt him die in that miserable street, probably where he'd just been playing ball with his friends. He deserved better. I thought we were there to make it better." A sob caught in his throat.

Her hand fell on his arm. "He remembers it differently. He doesn't remember dying in the street. He only remembers being in your arms and knowing that despite his mother being a junkie and his father long dead over a drug deal, someone actually cared that he was dying, that someone would actually miss him."

He jerked away from her, his emotions too raw for her to witness. "Why are you doing this? Why are you making me remember?"

"Because you have denied your own worth too long." She tugged on his hand until he turned to face her. "You are important. Your survival matters."

"I cannot save the world."

"No one has asked you to. You save the lives you can. You protect those you can. That is your duty. That is your essence. And who knows? Perhaps one of those you save, one of those you protect, may be in the position to actually save the world one day. One drop of rain cannot fill an ocean. But without that first drop the ocean would not be."

He looked into the wise brown eyes. "The children like me?"

"The children love you."

*****

"Oh, man, she was beautiful," Blair whispered as the coroner pulled back the sheet wrapped around Alicia Delacroix. For some reason, being in the water hadn't affected the body yet. Instead of a water-swollen, mottled, perhaps insect-infested face, Alicia was as natural-looking as the drawing Jim had made.

Speaking of... Blair glanced around for his partner and saw him back at the bank of the bayou, kneeling with his head in his hands. Pushing past the men who encircled Alicia's body, he hurried to Jim's side. "Jim?" he asked softly, not wanting to intrude on his friend's grief but not wanting him to suffer alone either. He noted the wet clothes and wondered if he should get him a blanket or something. The sun was hot but with the Sentinel's sensitivity, a chill was possible.

"It hurts, Chief."

Blair strained to hear the scratchy voice. "What hurts, Jim?" Had he injured himself in the murky waters? Or maybe he was getting a chill.

"My head."

Shit. "Do you know why it hurts? Is someone trying to contact you?"

Before Jim could answer, Simon joined them, followed closely by another man. "Jim, this is Dr. Lazare. He's with the Recovery team and he wants to examine you."

"Not now, Simon," Blair responded, frustrated with the interruption.

"Your friend needs several inoculations," Lazare said. "The waters of the bayou are often contaminated."

"He has all his shots," Blair said, wanting them all to go away. Well... maybe not Simon. "Whatever you can be inoculated against, he has been. Does it every year."

"Why?" the doctor asked in confusion.

"He's a cautious man. Now, could you give us some space?"

Lazare refused to budge. "He looks like he's in pain."

"What's going on, Sandburg?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, Simon. Please..." Simon nodded and dragged the doctor back a few yards. "What is it, Jim? Do you know why your head hurts?"

"The others."

"What about the others?"

"They want to go home too."

Blair motioned Simon forward. "The others are in the river?" A nod. "Who are the others, Jim?"

"Other... young... girls. Sacrificed. Like Lici."

"What is he talking about?" Mike asked, he and Joey having joined them.

Blair shot him a look that made him shut up. "The same people who killed Alicia, killed the others?"

"The same but not the same."

"How many others are there, Jim?" Simon asked, kneeling down to join his men.

"Forty-nine."

There was the sound of a variety of gasps. "Joey," Mike whispered. "Go tell the coroner we have forty-nine more bodies to recover. See if he has the materials he's going to need."

"When were they killed, Jim?" Simon asked carefully.

"One a year."

"You're saying this has been going on for fifty years? And no one has stopped it?" Simon glared at Mike as if he was personally responsible.

"Who, damn it?" Mike shouted. "Who the hell is doing this, Ellison!"

Jim flinched at the loud sound. The movement had Blair on his feet and in Mike's face. "You will keep your voice down or I will bodily toss you the hell out of here," he whispered harshly. "In fact, why don't you just keep your mouth closed, period."

"Sandburg, Jim's trying to say something." Simon stood and moved aside, letting Blair next to Jim and putting himself next to Mike. "Listen to me, Rankin, and listen good. That guy you were just talking to is a pacifist to his heart. Won't even carry a gun. But nobody messes with his partner. I know you probably wanted to laugh when he said he'd toss you out of here, but the truth of the matter is, that he would and could if he thinks you're a danger to Jim. When it comes to one protecting the other, it's best if you stay out of their way."

"But I'm not a danger to Ellison," Mike protested.

"The man is in a delicate state right now. He can't take any extremes which also means raised voices. So I suggest if you have something you want to say, you whisper it to me, and I'll pass it along. Understand?"

"Yeah, but..." He paused as Joey jogged to his side. "Whisper whatever you got to say, Joey," Mike warned.

"The coroner says he's prepared and Hobbs wants to know if the Recovery team is needed this time."

Simon kneeled between his men and told them what information was needed. Jim said something back, part of which Simon understood and part of which he looked to Blair to clarify. Then he went back to the detectives.

"Put the men and boats in the water. Then you will understand."

It only took a few minutes for the experienced team to get in position. Then Jim slowly extended his hands over the sluggish stream. "Yemanja, Baron Samedi!"

"He calls to the spirit of waters and the guardian of the grave," Mike translated.

"Christ Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, God!"

"He's going for the big guns now," Joey added as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

"Let the evil ones' sins be revealed!"

A mist began to rise from the rivulet and as the cloud rose so did the bodies that had been hidden deep within the bayou. First, there were pieces of cloth stained dark with the mud and muck of the bottom of the waters. Then came the skeletal remains, some still tenuously connected, others mere bones littering the surface of the murky flow. Oddly white, considering the time spent submerged, the osseous scraps which signified human life had once been present, bobbed gently into view.

Blair stumbled backward as he watched the display, jumping slightly when he backed into a solid mass which turned out to be Simon. The captain automatically put his hands out to brace Blair but his entire focus was on what was happening. It was both horrifying and awe-inspiring, repulsive and captivating, unbelievable yet undeniably true. Those who witnessed it found it difficult to describe although the event would be forever etched into their memories. For several brief, yet protracted moments the only movement in the entire area was that of the bodies coming to the surface. No one breathed. No one twitched. No one said a word as the watery graveyard was exposed.

The silence was at long last broken as Jim turned to Blair, oblivious to the tears coursing down his face. "Take them home," he said. Then his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed and he collapsed.

Chapter Nine

"Evil exists in many forms."

"I know."

"But it is at its worst when it takes the form of a human. We give it a cunning it did not have when it was a mere void, an intelligence it could not achieve in an animal."

He nodded in agreement. He had seen this to be true. An animal may viciously attack, claw, and devour. But it did not stand gloating over its victim, prolonging death as much as possible, throwing salt into wounds, or bleeding it slowly so that the prey would know it was dying and see its death deliberately reflected in the predator's eyes. No, that kind of toying, that kind of torture was reserved for those who were supposed to be greater, higher.

"This kind of evil often attracts the like and therefore multiplies until it infects a group, a group which must be fed. So I and others like me are sacrificed and the evil is appeased for another year. But each year, it is hungrier than the year before and there will come a time when it will devour itself."

"So I should be patient. That's not exactly my area of expertise," he admitted with a slight smile of deprecation.

"Then you should know the time approaches. It will not feed on me for you shall have my power. It will be weakened and angry. It will come for you. You must be ready. You must protect yourself. Carry with you at all times your shield and staff."

"My what? My badge and gun?"

"Non! Your shield and staff are written upon your heart. You know who they are. Keep them near. For their sakes and yours."

*****

"I don't think you want to hear this."

"I don't have time for games. What is happening?"

"Someone reported in from the site."

"They have the child's body?"

"Yes, but..." The hesitation lasted a long time.

"You can be replaced," came the calm warning.

"I think I want to be."

"Tell me!"

"They are recovering the others as well."

"What! What others?"

"Oh, just every body our people have dumped in that bayou since 1948."

"No! That is impossible!"

"I told you you didn't want to hear this."

"Shut up and let me think. Who is this man? What kind of power does he have? Or did she have this kind of power and we were unaware?"

"I think he must have his own and it is being amplified by hers."

"I have heard of such things but have never seen it done directly. Could you imagine what we could do if we managed to harness it ourselves? Find out which one it is, for he shall not die. Not until he has been prepared for our use."

*****

"La Societe de Sang."

"Jim?" Blair looked down at the man lying limply on the stretcher from the back of the coroner's van. "You waking up, partner?"

Jim jerked to full consciousness, his eyes opening, then closing quickly to block the strong light. "Where am I?"

"Still at the bayou. They wanted to transport you to the hospital, but since the doctor said you had merely passed out from exhaustion, I figured you wanted to stay here."

"Good call, Chief. How is it coming?"

"They are almost through. Only a few bones remain." He held up a towel to mute the light. "Open your eyes slowly. Now, dial down the intensity. Better?"

"Better." Always at my side. Protecting me. Defending me. My shield. He moved to sit up and Blair helped him balance.

"How's the headache?"

"Still there, but tolerable. Where's Simon?" Jim asked quickly.

"Supervising, of course," Blair answered, pointing toward the bayou.

Extending my reach. Removing obstacles from my path. Holding me up if necessary. My staff. "Call him, please."

"Sure. Captain Banks!" he yelled formally, his back to Jim so the Sentinel wouldn't get the full volume of his voice.

Simon grinned when he saw Jim sitting up. "So Sleeping Beauty awakens. Nice swan dive, Jim."

"Thanks, Simon. I try my best to be entertaining." He shook his head when Blair offered him a bottle of water.

"You want heatstroke on top of that headache, big guy?" He held out the bottle stubbornly until his partner took it.

"How are you feeling, Jim?" Simon asked, all teasing aside.

"I'm doing okay."

"Think you could handle identifying the remains?" Simon had watched him do it with uncanny accuracy before.

Jim closed his eyes, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, captain, but I can't tell you who they are because they themselves don't know."

"I know some of them have been in there a long time," Simon began.

"It's not that. They weren't just killed by these people. They had their essences sucked right out of them at the time of death. Instead of their souls floating around in my head, I only have the shell of who they were. They want to go home, but they can't remember where that is or who they were. Shells, captain, just empty shells," he said sadly.

Simon looked at him sympathetically. "It's okay, Jim. Cops have been identifying bodies for years without your kind of 'help'. They'll get home eventually."

"Well, tell them when they're going through the missing persons files to look for females, age twelve or so, may have a history of some kind of psychic behavior, and are virgins."

"That's rather personal, isn't it," Simon said, laughing uneasily.

Jim looked away. "Their virginal blood is part of the ritual."

Simon silently cursed himself for forgetting what Jim had experienced during his dreams. "I'm sorry, Jim. I forgot."

"I wish I could," his detective replied softly.

Simon figured he'd put his foot in his mouth enough. "You ready to head back to the city?"

"For more questioning, huh?" Jim remarked dryly. "Sure, unless you have something better I could do. A root canal, maybe? Or a rectal exam, perhaps?"

"Gee, and here I was about to suggest a stop by Mardi Gras World," Blair teased, laughing because that suggestion was almost as repulsive to Jim as the others. "But before we get to the fun, do you remember what you said when you woke up, Jim? You said something in French."

Jim frowned, then the memory returned. "La Societe de Sang."

"Yes, that was it. Who or what is the Society of Blood, Jim?"

"The ones responsible."

"For the killings?" the captain asked quickly. "I thought you... I mean, Alicia, didn't know who was behind this?" Simon was trying to figure out how all this worked. Apparently Jim's ability to be contacted wasn't a fluke that would just go away. Therefore, as his friend, captain, and Watcher, he was going to have to learn to cope with another one of the man's 'talents'.

"One of the others remembered it."

"Remembered what?" Mike Rankin asked as he ambled toward them. "We think we've retrieved all the evidence. As soon as we get loaded up, we'll be heading back."

"Jim knows who did this," Blair said eagerly.

"Who?"

"La Societe de Sang."

Mike laughed. "Yeah, right. Everything but the Second Coming have been blamed on them for as long as I can remember. No one ever listens."

"Maybe someone should," Jim said quietly.

Chapter Ten

He touched the bruise on her cheek and felt her stiffen. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said quickly, pulling his offending hand away. Perhaps it was merely empathetic pain, but now he felt an ache in his jaw as well.

Her brown eyes opened wide with wonder. "Where you touched doesn't hurt anymore." She sat up and put herself beneath his hand. Her lips brushed his palm and she felt the bleeding stop and the pain dissolve. "What is happening?"

"I am removing your pain," he said as if he had done it before, as if it wasn't just as a big a shock to him. "Lie down and let me help you." He carefully unzipped the tattered dress and peeled back the fabric that had been shredded by the whip. The flesh below was an angry red against the cafe au lait of her skin. Some of the lash marks were mere welts, while others were open and lightly bleeding. He never hesitated as he placed one palm and then the other against the wounds. Immediately new skin closed over the open lacerations and red marks faded as swellings turned to smooth, even flesh. He sensed the edemas transferred to his back, felt a trail of fire sear through his body as the pain exchanged one host for the other, but he never flinched, never gave any indication that he was in discomfort and the child relaxed in blissful ignorance.

As his touch healed, he began to hum. It wasn't a child's song or a lullaby; he knew none. It was a tune he thought he had forgotten, one he had deliberately shut out of his mind... He and a group of guys at the base has gone to see the matinee showing of "Good Morning Vietnam". They often did that with a movie they actually wanted to see; that way when they took their lady friends to a nighttime showing, they could concentrate on other things. Robin Williams' performance had been riveting as a deejay who thought of the war as one big joke until he actually got caught up in the violence and devastation. He knew what that moment felt like, when the realization hit that war was about more than strategies and weapontry but also about destruction and death. Even the small wars, the policing actions and peacekeeping maneuvers were never as simple as the people back home thought.

Anyway, he had bought the soundtrack and played it often enough to memorize several of the songs. One of them was really simple. It was brief and hell, Louis Armstrong was better known for his horn-blowing than he was for his singing. But the words painted a picture, one that was chock full of hope. Maybe that was why, less than a year later, he had sung it that night in the jungle as his last man lay dying in his arms.

I see trees of green, red roses too,

I see them bloom for me and you,

And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue and clouds of white,

The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night,

And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky,

Are also on the faces of people going by,

I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do,

They're really saying, "I love you."

I hear babies cry, I watch them grow

They'll learn much more than I'll ever know

And I think to myself what a wonderful world

Yeah, I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

That had been the last time he had even thought about the song, much less sung it. That particular night, Jim Ellison had given up on hope and had remained a stranger to it until a certain young anthropologist had bounced his way into his life. Still, the song had not returned to his memory. He wondered if the tape was somewhere in the jumbled remains of his military life that he had stored away or had he loaned it to one of his buddies before boarding the helicopter that day...

He found himself singing the words to her, but they sounded as false to him now as they had in the jungle. Lies, he thought to himself. No one witnessing what he had, who felt the suffering of this child, could ever think of this as a wonderful world. It was a miserable joke, a perversion of whatever its creator had intended... for surely no god, no supreme being could have designed such a place and the travesties that had gone on in this room. Not, at least, the same being who had created little girls with bright smiles and innocent trust in their eyes.

She shifted restlessly and he knew she was sensing his anger. With effort, he reined in his emotions and sang a little louder, trying to convince himself that this was only an aberration, that Louis Armstrong's version of the world was the norm, was what ninety-nine point nine percent of the children on the planet experienced. True, he had seen many in dire conditions, but he had seen through the eyes of a man who knew it could be better. Maybe they knew it could be worse.

*****

"We know which one it is. He revealed himself at the bayou."

"I assume you have a plan in mind?"

Gee, it's not like I don't have other things to do. "I'm working on it."

"You will bring him to me?"

That could be interesting... Nah. Unfortunately, my existence is completely wrapped in yours. "He will probably come to you. Which might be a bad thing. If he is as powerful as we think and he meets you before we can tether him, you may be exposed... or worse." And then I will be exposed.

"In my condition I cannot fight him alone. If we meet I will make sure we are all together. You and the others must come to me. See to it immediately."

"You still want me to kill his companions?"

"Mais oui. If they are bonded, their deaths will weaken him, and then his defeat will be imminent."

*****

"Mike?"

"Yeah, Joey?" he replied tiredly as his partner drove back into the city.

"About my being the designated skeptic... After what I've seen, I think I'm going to have to resign."

Mike sighed. "I can't blame you. I'm thinking about heading to church on Sunday myself. Suddenly, I can't remember the last time I went to mass."

"You're Catholic?" Joey asked in surprise.

"Apparently it has been too long," Mike replied with a crooked smile. "Most of us natives are. What did you think I was? No, don't answer that."

"What's this thing you and Ellison were getting into? Something about a society of blood?"

"It's nothing, man." Mike stared out the window, remembering. "The children around here have had nightmares about La Societe de Sang for as long as I can remember. We would tease each other about it when we were kids, tell stories out on the streets at night when we didn't feel like amusing the tourists. And parents still use it to keep the little ones in line, like the boogeyman or something. 'The Society is going to get you if you don't behave.' Or 'keep acting up and I'm going to give you to the Society.' What's the term for stuff like that today? Urban legend, that's it. Nonsense stuff that's been around a long time."

"Since 1948 perhaps?" Joey asked judiciously, knowing Mike wasn't going to appreciate the probing. But so far Ellison seemed to know what he was talking about. And he had caused those bodies to rise.

"All I know, partner, is that if the Society does exist, I have some apologies to make to my mama and others, not to mention a shitload of cases to put down. Take a right up here at the next intersection."

"Where are we headed?"

"Sandburg said Ellison needed to eat or he might take another header, so I thought I'd take them to T'Dette's."

"That's your aunt's restaurant in the Quarter, right?"

"Aunt, cousin, something like that," Mike said with a shrug. "In these parts, we just call 'em kinfolk. Anyway, Ellison doesn't need any loud noises and I know she'll let us have a room in the back. Take a left and find a couple of parking spaces."

"It's going to be loud up front," Mike warned the Cascade trio. "That's where T'Dette puts all the tourists. But the locals section is pretty tame and then there's a private room above the kitchen. It'll be fine, you'll see."

Blair made sure Jim had all his senses turned to their lowest point as they entered the restaurant where jazz blasted from a corner jukebox and tourists lined the walls. Mike led them through that area and into another where the music was more muted and he seemed to know everyone sitting at the tables.

A huge woman approached, grinning down at her nephew/cousin although he was a respectable six feet himself. "Michael Thomas, 'bout time you showed up here. I got the room upstairs all ready for you and your friends. Deenie's gonna wait on you. If she be dawdling', you just give me a yell." She turned to his companions. "Hey, y'all. I'm Odette Fourtier, but my friends and relatives call me T'Dette. That's short for petite Odette, by the way. They ain't much for havin' a sense of humor, you understand? Since I'm declaring' you friends and maybe some of you relatives," she added, eyeing the tall, dark form of Simon, "y'all just call me T'Dette. We don't go into formalities 'round here. Ain't got no menus or nothin'. I cook and everybody seem to eat it. You don' like it, I cook somethin' else. Git on upstairs and stop wastin' my time."

Mike led them up a narrow stairway and to a room that had a table set for five. "You called ahead?" Blair asked.

"Nah," Mike said with a shake of his head. "T'Dette just always seems to know when I'm coming."

"Strange things happen in N'awlins," Joey said wisely, winking at his partner.

"And they get stranger all the time," Mike agreed, tilting his head toward Jim. "How you doing, detective? It's not too loud for you, is it?"

"I'm fine. This your neighborhood?"

"My old hangout. Guess you can say I haven't strayed too far from home over the years. What about yourself? You an actual Washington native?"

Jim nodded. "I had some straying years, saw some sights I guess every man should see--"

"Yeah, that's what's Bourbon Street is for," Mike said with a grin. "You don't see it there, it ain't worth seeing."

Simon laughed. "I've heard that. I'm going to have to check out that rumor before we leave," he said.

"Guess we'll have to lock the kid in his room that night," Jim replied, earning a dirty look from Blair.

"I'm sure I've seen worse, Jim. I haven't exactly been a homebody myself."

"If you think you've seen worse, maybe they better lock you in your room, man," Mike said knowingly. "I don't allow Joey down there without a guard." He also received a dirty look.

"Well, since I'm being insulted anyway, I think now is the best time for me to go see T'Dette about Jim's food."

Mike looked at him in amazement. "If you're up to questioning T'Dette about her cooking, maybe you are Bourbon Street material."

"It's just that Jim has allergies and--"

"And you can ask me anything you want, baby," T'Dette said as she sailed into the room. For a large woman, she moved as easily as a ballerina. "You and your friend just come with me."

"Uh, I don't think Jim should be in a kitchen around all those spices. We'd never get him to stop sneezing," Blair warned.

"Oh, he ain't comin' to the kitchen with us. Grandmere wants to see him. She live the next house over."

"Your grandmother wants to see me?" Jim asked, nonplused.

"Well, she ain't exactly my grandma. That's just what everyone calls her 'cause she so old."

"Somewhere around the century mark," Mike said. "But she say a woman's got a right to lie about her age so she stopped counting at a young ninety-two. Why she wanna see Ellison?"

T'Dette regarded her relative with a frown. "Grandmere's business is her own, Michael Thomas. You know better than to question your elders."

"I didn't mean anything by it, T'Dette. I just wanted to make sure the ol' girl wasn't confused."

"Her eyesight may be fading and she got hearin' aids in both ears, but she still got her mind. You come 'round here more often, you might know that. Come on, my friends. We got better things to do than satisfy Michael Thomas' curiosities." She shooed Blair and Jim out ahead of her and led them to the alley behind the restaurant. "Philip Marie!"

A little girl scooted around the corner. "You call me, Mama?"

"Is there another Philip Marie 'round here I don't know about?" The child shook her head. "Then I guess it was you I was callin'. Take Mr. Jim here across the street to Grandmere's. And you," she said, grabbing Blair's arm, "come with me and tell me what our boy cain't git into."

Jim was still smiling at Blair's expression as T'Dette yanked him back into the restaurant when he felt a small hand rest in his. He looked down at the little girl. "Your name is Philip Marie?"

"Yessir. Most folk call me Flip, but Mama say she and all the other mamas give their babies two name and it's a shame nobody uses them, so she does." Flip stopped at the edge of the street and cautiously looked both ways. Then she nodded solemnly and led Jim across the narrow lane.

"How old are you, Flip?"

"Seven. Not quite old 'nough for the Society to git me, but I hear tell they ain't gonna be doin' that no more 'cause of you."

Jim stopped and kneeled before the child. "You heard what?"

"That you done brought back all the kids the Society took and they ain't gonna be able to take no more. We all thank you for that, Mr. Jim. I didn't cotton to bein' Society food," little Flip said, her eyes wide and serious.

"You're welcome, Flip," Jim replied and slowly got back to his feet.

He was led into a small wooden house. One woman sat sewing, two others were saying something about cooking dinner, and still another was on the phone. However, Jim's eyes quickly found Grandmere. The old lady sat in a yellow chair similar to the one he had back at the loft and in her hands was the remote control to the 27-inch color television that dominated the room. There was no doubt who ruled this roost.

"Hey, Grandmere!" Flip yelled. "Mr. Jim is here to see you!"

Bright, dark eyes looked up at him. "Thank you, baby. You wait on the outside for him, 'kay? Me and him needs to talk. And the rest of y'all can go too," she said, waving her hands which were bent with rheumatism at her "ladies-in-waiting".

Jim noted that no one spoke back or complained. The phone conversation was ended and the sewing was carefully bundled up and carried away. "What can I do for you, ma'am?" he asked politely but loudly as she stared at him when they were alone. For some reason her eyes made him nervous. She was old; if she stopped counting at ninety-two, that had to be decades ago. Yet, her eyes showed no cloudiness or yellowing. Her light brown skin was thin and clung to the bones beneath. Her hair was snowy white, plaited into a long braid that hung down her back.

"Gimme your hand," Grandmere demanded. Jim did as she asked. The old lady traced his fingertips, then smiled as if she was satisfied with what she had seen or felt. "I'm old. I don't remember names so I'm gonna call you boy or son 'cause mostly everybody on this planet is a newborn compared to me. You can call me Grandmere. I 'spect right now you wonderin' why you is here so I'll save you a question or two. In 1948, my grandchild went missin'. Today, she done come home. I been waitin' a long time for that."

"If you think one of the..." he searched for the right euphemism.

"Bodies, bones, pieces," Grandmere said for him. "Call 'em what they are, son. Just 'cause I'm old don't mean talkin' 'bout death is goin' to gimme ideas. I know she was dead from the beginnin'. Y'see, if the Society had been operatin' when I was a chile, they would've took me too."

"You mean...?"

Grandmere nodded. "They is a lot of us here. Inbreedin' keeps it in the family, y'know."

Jim cleared his throat uncomfortably. "If you think one of the remains that were recovered is your granddaughter, I think you should contact the local police and let them know."

"The family's down there right now makin' a report," she informed him. "Givin' them a list of the other girls as well."

"You know the others too?" Jim asked in amazement.

Grandmere smiled, then adjusted her teeth when they started to slip. "Knew you'd be 'round 'ventually and would want them girls home quick like before they started to get on your nerves."

"I appreciate the thought, Grandmere."

"But they already on your nerves, ain't they? You carry a heavy burden, boy. But you'll handle it. Just remember, you ain't alone. Even when you think you is, there's somebody lookin' out for you. Come closer." She tugged on him until she could plant a kiss in the center of his forehead. She gasped and sat back in the seat.

He heard her heart racing. "Are you alright, ma'am?" he asked in concern.

She patted his hand and passed on a warning. "They're after you, son. Not 'cause you can stop them but 'cause you got somethin' they want."

"Lici's power," he said knowingly.

"Not just hers, but yours too. I gave you my blessin'. Let that help you, but you gots to be careful. They all 'round you."

"I'll watch my back, Grandmere," Jim promised.

Her bony fingers dug into his arm. "It ain't your back they're aimin' for, baby. It's your heart."

Chapter Eleven

"I don't understand."

She looked down to where he was touching the area where the leg irons cut into her ankles. "Understand what?" She gave a hiss of relief as the pain faded.

"How you are 'dreaming' me."

"I'm not." He turned his head sharply, confusion in the deep blue of his eyes. "In the beginning, I thought that was what was happening. But you are more than a dream. Surely you know that."

"I know much less than anyone thinks," he said ruefully. "All I know is that I am here and although I can see and hear, only you are real to me."

"You know who you are. You know your memories."

"So do you."

She shook her head. "No, not all of them. Just some of the stronger ones. Like your relationship with your family and the men who died in Peru... Dark feelings... painful ones." She placed her hand on his head. "But in the past few years there has come a light."

He wished that particular "light" was around now. Maybe he could make sense of what was going on. "But you summon me and I come. You dismiss me and I go. You are in co