Disclaimer: Don't own, not making money, etc., etc.,

Notes: This is an AU fic. The basic premise of cryogenics is based on 
Forever Young the Mel Gibson flick, but in no way follows that plotline.  No 
infringement of copyright is intended. The story is AU and does not follow 
canon in that certain characters are included/excluded before they turned 
up on the TV series. Please note that I am a Brit and have no knowledge of 
Federal procedures so have no idea if what I describe could actually occur, 
but hey, that's why it's called "poetic licence". My spelling and grammar 
are English, but I've to Americanise where I can. I DO NOT agree with or 
subscribe to the pernicious idiocy that is "Political Correctness". You 
have been warned.

NB: All descriptions of the Loft & Cascade Major Crime Unit are from 
Chaomoth's Fannish Pursuits website – well worth a look. "Extra" 
descriptions are from me. In the TV show, Blair and Jim work from Cascade 
Precinct, but no way would a large city have only one, which is why I've 
renamed it Cascade Central Precinct. This story was BETA'D by Shallan as of 
February 2004.

DESTINED

PROLOGUE

31st March 1969, Warehouse 17, Lot 22, Warehouse District, Cascade, 
Washington State USA:

"Blair, this is your birthday!" But Roddy's protest was weakening, 
excitement and curiosity leaching into his tone.

Blair Sandburg grinned at his best friend, characteristically bouncing up and 
down in the manner that had led Roddy to nickname him Tigger. "Roddy, I 
want to do this! You're been dithering for months, but you've said yourself 
the process is perfected. You need a human guinea pig, and your IQ," he 
reached out and tapped his finger against his friend's forehead, "is far too 
valuable to risk. The world needs your genius too much, whereas hippie 
anthro students –"

"Don't!" Implored Roddy, becoming genuinely distressed at the notion that 
Blair might not survive, even though he had checked his latest invention a 
dozen times. Turning his head this way and that like a startled chicken, 
Roddy began fumbling with the massive, reinforced double doors he had had 
put on when he bought Lot 22 and decided on Warehouse 17.

"Did you extend general invitations?" Blair asked in surprise at his antics.

"No," Roddy rolled his eyes, "but Arthur Stubbins was throwing his weight 
about, warning me away from the entire Warehouse District. I may be a 
nerd, but thank god I'm not like him!"

Blair also rolled his eyes; Stubbins, a rich preppy white boy from one of the 
"Boston Mayflower" families, was one of Rainier University's many resident 
marijuana and cannabis suppliers. He suffered from delusions of grandeur 
only increased by the fact he was studying medicine, acting if supplying the 
odd bit of pot made him the Godfather! More like King of the Dweebs, most 
were heard to mutter.

Then they were inside the warehouse. Roddy had bricked up all the windows 
except those highest up along the same wall as the doors, a single narrow 
band of light stretching across the width of the huge place. Even though not 
even the winos came down to the Warehouse District, since it's position 
directly on Dolphin Quayside let chill sea winds sweep unchecked from the 
ocean, Roddy nevertheless closed the doors, straining with the weight, 
before going and checking the oblong silver box that looked like nothing so 
much as a large, chrome coffin.

They were a study in contrasts as they prepared. Although thirty years old, 
Dr Roderick Douglas PhD looked like a geeky adolescent: exceptionally tall, 
beanpole skinny, with a prominent Adam's apple, narrow, pale oval face 
under thin mouse brown hair and too big glasses that were always sliding 
down his nose; he was so much the stereotypical science nerd he was almost 
caricature. Tonight he was wearing a pale grey suit that did nothing for his 
already white complexion and a pink shirt complete with dickie bow. He 
looked like a Compere on a bad TV gameshow. His attempt at trendiness – 
roach stomper shoes – only succeeded in making him mince oddly when he 
walked. 

Exactly twenty-one years, three hours and fourteen minutes old, Blair Jacob 
Sandburg was only medium height, possessing a much more buff frame, long 
amber-gold-chestnut curls reaching to skim his shoulder blades. His golden 
skin proclaimed his less than Anglo-Saxon heritage, though he did not obtain 
it from his Jewess mother, Naomi Sandburg, who was auburn haired and 
lighter skinned. His slightly broad – but cute, so girlfriends assured him - 
nose and full lips hinted at Negro, American Indian or Polynesian ancestry; 
not that he knew; Naomi had never named his father, and he'd never felt 
any need to know.

The one thing the pair had in common was intelligence. Roddy Douglas was 
reckoned by those in a position to know to be easily the equivalent, if not 
superior, to Einstein in intellect. He'd been at Rainier since his tenth 
birthday, growing from a gawky, King-Klutz child into a gawky, King-Klutz 
adult, mentally brilliant, socially hopeless, shunned by other students. Blair 
Sandburg, another precocious student at Rainier from the age of thirteen, 
had been assigned as his roommate in the college's off-campus apartment 
blocks for the simple reason he was the only student who could follow 
Roddy's mental processes almost to that final leap of "genius" without 
getting hopelessly lost. It was in Blair's nature to take care of things, and 
Roddy was simply co-opted into his life. Thanks to Blair, Roddy ate three 
squares meals a day, had a, albeit limited, social life, including no less than 
three dates with actual girls, and was gradually acquiring a fashion sense, 
though there were unfortunate lapses, such as tonight's grey and pink with 
dickie bow tie disaster.

Roddy blushed and looked away as Blair casually stripped himself naked; 
growing up in communes and amongst primitive cultures on every continent 
on the planet had left Blair with no "hang-ups" about nudity. Much more 
carefully, Blair climbed into the "cryo-casket". "Let's do it."

Moving forward, Roddy neatly folded Blair's clothes, ignoring his friend's 
muttered, "anal-retentive neatness freak" comment, placing them with his 
shoes in the metal cabinet on top of which the casket rested. Also in the 
cabinet he placed Blair's backpack and two bottles of expensive beer, which 
would be consumed by the pair of them when he "thawed" Blair out. "Lay 
down," he instructed, and as Blair did so, Roddy pulled over him the special 
rubber massage blanket he had designed, which would ensure Blair's 
muscles did not stiffen and cramp and would help blood circulation. "Right, 
it's 10:03pm. I'll wake you up six days from now exactly at 10:03pm on 
Sunday. Okay?"

Blair nodded. "No problemo, amigo! Hey, wait, no radar while I'm out!" He 
ordered.

Roddy nodded obediently. Blair was majoring in Anthropology and minoring 
in Psychology, but his area of interest was an extremely obscure monograph 
by the Victorian explorer Richard Burton, about pre-civilised Sentinels who 
protected their tribe from danger by being equipped with hyperactive or 
heightened senses. It had taken Blair all of about three days to realise that 
Roddy had three – sight, hearing and smell – but in order to be a Sentinel, it 
was required to have all five. Under Blair's careful tutelage, Roddy's 
migraines, constant wearing of ear and nose plugs and inability to go within 
ten feet of anything perfumed without going into a sneezing frenzy had 
disappeared.

"Are you sure-" Roddy began.

Laughing, Blair saluted rigidly. "It is a far, far better thing –"

"Oh, please, don't massacre Dickens!" Roddy begged, grinning down at him 
as he closed the lid and activated the freezing controls that would put Blair 
into suspended animation for the next six days, like a frozen turkey, as Blair 
inelegantly put it. He waited, constantly monitoring in case of problems, as 
the process went off without a hitch. Before he left, as a precaution, he 
threw a large canvass cover over it, to protect it from being used as a 
latrine by the warehouse's population of rats.

CHAPTER I
                            
March 31st 1997, Major Crimes Unit, Cascade PD Central Precinct, 
Washington State USA:

"Simon!"

Captain Simon Banks bit back a smile as Jim Ellison actually pouted, an act 
of affection he showed no-one else. Which was exactly the problem. Lone 
Wolf Ellison hadn't integrated. Most of the time, Simon could live with it, 
but there were times when it irritated him enough to dole out a little 
punishment, like now: "Ellison!" he barked in his best I-am-Captain-but-you-
can-call-me-God voice. "Detective Foster in Narcotics will be out for a least 
six weeks until his knee heals, and since I owe the Captain of Narcotics a 
large favour, you are going to work in Narcotics for the duration of his 
absence. Am I clear on this?"

"Sir, yes sir," Ellison said, sullenly.

Once his detective had gone back to the bullpen with a scowl that had 
strong men drawing back, Simon allowed a wistful smile to surface. James 
Joseph Ellison was one of those Ellisons through his father and those van 
Zants through his mother; in fact he had been the firstborn son and heir 
apparent to William Ellison, CEO of Ellison Industries, but the pair had been 
estranged for years, so now Jim's equally estranged younger brother 
Stephen was CEO of the thriving Fortune 500 International firm. 

Simon sighed. Cascade was littered with illustrious Ellison and van Zant clan 
members, both alive and dead, most of whom were obviously embarrassed 
about their relative's lack of luxurious living as a police officer. Since Jim 
simply cut them dead when he met them in public, the situation was 
strained to say the least. Simon sighed again, sadly this time. Jim had the 
best arrest record and case solved rate of the entire Cascade PD, but 
nobody wanted him. He was morally rigid, uncompassionate, closed off. Or, 
as the more vicious but accurate put it, "emotionally repressed, anal 
retentive control-freak". Simon had reluctantly taken him from Vice four 
years before, and had wisely partnered him with Jack Prendergast. 

When Jack and a whole slew of ransom money disappeared into the wide 
blue yonder, Simon had actually seen Jim begin to 'disconnect' himself from 
humanity and had acted quickly to fill the gap. The result was that he was 
Jim's genuine friend, the only one to whom Jim showed the slightest spark 
of emotional warmth and humour. Personally, Simon found that a 
profoundly sad thing, and the burden of such a responsibility as being the 
only friend was heavy for one man to carry alone. But… "You don't have to 
like it, Banks, you just have to do it," he muttered, quoting one of those 
Rogue Warrior books Darryl was so fond of. 

05:35am, 1st April 1997, Warehouse 17, Lot 22, Warehouse District, 
Cascade:

The late spring storm battered Cascade's entire coastline, pounding the 
dockside warehouses in its fury. Over the years, a rat run across the top 
shelf of some old metal shelves, bracketed to the outside wall opposite the 
two great metal doors, had gradually eased a long-forgotten tin of paint to 
balance precariously on the edge of the shelf. Tonight, the faint tremors of 
the battering wind through the old brickwork sent the tin's centre of gravity 
inexorably in one direction. Tilting over, the tin plunged down to smash 
brutally into one corner of a long object covered in old sacking before 
falling to the floor and cracking open.

Utterly destroyed, the control panel cremated itself into slag in a shower of 
hissing sparks, a whole host of commands activated simultaneously by the 
harsh impact. The sacking was flung away as the box lid opened with such 
force that it shuddered, poised in mid-air, before too submitting to gravity 
and falling to echo with a booming crash against the metal cabinet the box 
rested on. A cloud of icy vapour billowed out of the casket itself as, by some 
miracle, the abrupt cessation of all activity did not kill the occupant from 
shock. Only the head could be seen above some sort of rubber blanket, the 
face encrusted in a fine film of ice.

Abruptly the figure arched up in a bow, ice cracking as the eyes shot open 
and a deep, gulping gasp of air was drawn into the lungs before the figure 
collapsed again, wheezing rhythmically. 

Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, before Blair was finally able to get 
himself co-ordinated enough to sit up. His entire body was wracked with 
painful pins and needles and stiff muscles lodged some serious objections. 
He winced – thank goodness Roddy had over-ruled him and insisted on that 
massage blanket – he was flopping about with all the grace of a landed 
herring now! Placing his hands against the small of his back, he rotated his 
head and popped some bones as he cautiously stretched, shivering with cold 
and trembling muscles. He tried, "Roddy!" but all that came out was a 
throttled croak.

Snacking his lips together to try to work up some saliva, he tried until he 
was able to call out in a hoarse but normal tone, "Roddy!"

The word echoed around the still room. Blair looked around once his blurry 
eyes had focussed again, but he was alone. No Roddy with the bottle opener 
and two beers on standby. Then his eyes fell on the smashed corner of the 
cryogenic unit and the battered, fractured paint tin, even as he registered 
that it was still daylight. From the way he felt, Blair calculated he'd been in 
stasis for at least three or four days. Grinning, he decided to go find – and 
scare the living daylights – out of Roddy. After all that was what best friends 
were for! 

Very gingerly, he inched his way to the side of the casket, and eased himself 
over the side in a sort of ungainly flopping motion. His caution was 
rewarded as he promptly crumpled into a heap like a puppet with the 
strings snipped, but not with any injury or in the sticky paint. Wobbling like 
a newborn foal, he used the casket to lever himself upright, nearly coming 
a-cropper again when the wheels of the metal cabinet squeakily began to 
trundle away from him. "Damn!"

Standing on his own two feet, he wobbled, then began a careful shuffle 
about to work some feeling back into his legs, doing a series of gentle 
stretching exercises to get the blood flowing and remove the last of the fog 
from his brain. Goosebumps appeared on his arms and he decided to get 
some clothing on himself. Carefully stepping over the sprawling canvass, 
which appeared as if it had been used as a latrine by an entire family of 
chronically incontinent rats, Blair pulled open the cabinet door, reached in 
and put on his socks, jeans, plain black T-shirt, "lumberjack" over shirt and 
long raincoat. Deciding against waste, he popped the two bottles of beer 
into his backpack. His sneakers were a little more difficult to put on, as he 
was still stiff and sore; eventually he had to sit down and put them on like a 
child, his fingers fumbling with the laces as his brain was still working on the 
concept of "motor skills".

Finally pushing himself back up, Blair smiled as he managed to walk in a 
reasonably unwavering line to the doors. Pushing with all his might, he 
groaned when they did not budge and realised the one thing he and Roddy 
had forgotten about. The warehouse did not face the ocean – the short wall 
did, but the back and front long walls did not. This meant that sea spray 
and salt-laden wind whipped up the natural wind tunnel created by the 
roadways between each warehouse, settling eagerly onto and rusting metal.  
Obviously there had been several violent storms over the past few days – 
perfectly normal for a Cascade Spring – as the door seemed clogged. 

By the time he managed to open one of the massive doors, Blair was shaking 
and sweating as if he'd run a marathon. He stopped for a few minutes to 
rest and let his eyes adjust to the brightness of full daylight before stepping 
out, surprised by his own hesitation. His next psychology paper could be on 
the emotional and mental effects of prolonged sensory deprivation…  

Again to Blair's surprise, there were no boats or ships at the docks. In fact, 
though the warehouses surrounding #17 seemed somehow to be newer and 
cleaner looking than his, they were still quite grimy and had that deserted 
air about them that said "nobody is about". Hearing a loud, constant rumble 
close by, he set off towards town, peering curiously around him as he did 
so. The docks were usually bustling at this time of d-

Blair came to an abrupt halt as he cleared the warehouses and found the 
source of the muted roar. Six lanes of hellish din were in front of him, right 
where Highway 32 used to be. Blinking in astonishment, Blair looked to the 
left, where warehouse lots 27-33 used to be along with the Dairy Queen and 
Little Italy Diner. They should have been situated smack bang in the middle 
of the second lane in farthest from him. The nape of Blair's neck began to 
itch.

Automatically stumbling forward, he exhaled softly at the sight of Cascade 
towering to his right, even though it looked much…bigger than before. 
Stumbling along in the rough grass, he flinched every time one of the 
bizarrely shaped cars shot past him in a zip…zip…zipzipzip that was 
dangerously hypnotic. So hypnotic that he walked right into the metal pole 
and rebounded before focussing blearily on it: I631.

Interstate? Since when had sedate, serene, Highway 32 turned into this 
ghastly homage to General Motors? The itching on Blair's neck was joined by 
a distinct feeling of nausea as his stomach began to churn. Trying to speed 
his pace, he shuffled and stumbled along the grass verge until he hit 
sidewalk, but before he'd gone yards, sensory input simply overloaded him 
and he walked along on autopilot, his eyes widened to the greatest extent 
physically possible, his lower jaw scraping on the ground.

People were everywhere, crammed like sardines on the sidewalks, many of 
whom were talking into tiny rectangular boxes crammed against one ear in a 
very silly-looking way. People were queuing to put what appeared to be 
baseball cards into a sort of metal alcove on the outside wall of a bank. 
Stores advertised bizarre clothes at extortionate prices that everyone 
seemed oblivious to. Blair reeled as a two black-clad people walked past in 
Army boots with purple hair, panda-like eye make-up and ragged clothes. 
Another youth – this time with huge, spiky orange hair stalked along with 
what appeared to be a nappy pin pierced through his nose and a T-shirt with 
SEX PISTOLS on it. Whaaaat?

Suddenly overcome by the assault on his eyes, ears and nose, Blair turned 
blindly into the nearest store, slumping with relief when he found it to be a 
good, proper diner. Slumping into a booth, he jumped as a bored, gum-
chewing waitress appeared. "Whatchawant?"

"Coffee and a turkey club sandwich."

"Flat white, latte, cappuccino, mocha –"  

"Black coffee," Blair cut off the meaningless list in bafflement, lowering his 
head to stare at his soothing dark T-shirt while his neurons gibbered and ran 
around in panicked circles. What the hell was going on? Was he even here? 
Blair paused as he considered this – was he actually hallucinating this in 
some weird dream, still safely cocooned in stasis? Had something gone 
wrong and these were actually the last bizarre images of his oxygen-starved 
brain as he died?

"That'll be $1.90." She set the sandwich and coffee down unceremoniously 
on the scarred Formica table top.

"What?" Blair's head jerked up.

Mistakenly assuming he was deaf, she repeated loudly and slowly, "One. 
Dollar. Ninety. Cents."

In disbelief, Blair fumbled in his backpack for his billfold and handed her a 
five-dollar bill, staring in amazement at a lunch that should have cost him 
50 cents. Looking up again as she came and deposited his change on the 
table, his eyes went past her retreating figure to light on the board behind 
the counter, across which was displayed the menu. The cheapest item – 
black coffee – was 60c.

Blair's fingers began to tremble as he felt a Sandburg Special Panic Attack 
beginning to rev it's engine and inch up from his gut towards his 
cerebellum, then his mind finally registered the large calendar pinned to 
the wall to the left of the menu boards, and the panic was cut off as he 
went into shock for the fifth time in fifteen minutes. 1st April 1997.

Closing his eyes, Blair could, vaguely, appreciate the bitter irony of the 
date, but when he opened them again hopefully he already knew that this 
was not a weird dream or the hallucination of a dying brain. The date was 
still there, in large, black italic letters. Twenty years and one day exactly, 
since he'd gone into the cryogenic casket. Eight years longer than Rip Van 
Winkle, he thought hysterically. The hysteria bubbled up past his lips in a 
choked half-laugh half-sob, as Blair suddenly realised that yesterday had 
been his forty-ninth birthday.

CHAPTER TWO

Jim overheard the muttered comments of Vasquez and Martin, but ignored 
them, not with stoicism, but genuine indifference. He really did not care. 
Charles Goodwin, Captain of Narcotics, was a tall, lugubrious man who had 
viewed Jim's arrival with weary resignation and zero enthusiasm. Jim 
flinched as the conversation between two narcotics detectives down the 
hallway suddenly became crystal clear before cancelling out again. 
Tightening his lips, Jim ruthlessly ignored the incident. Incacha had been a 
genuine friend; the eighteen months he'd spent with the Chopec tribe in 
Peru, after his unit's copter had crashed, had been amongst the happiest of 
his life, but he was back in the real world now, and that nonsense with his 
senses was not going to happen here!

Jim frowned at the calendar opposite him on the wall; April Fools Day had 
been a highly appropriate date for Simon to assign him to Narcotics for the 
foreseeable future, until their injured detective was back on the job. He'd 
been here two weeks, but it felt like years. Not that his two-week stint had 
proved unfruitful. They'd made several important busts, and got several 
confessions, mainly due to Jim's approach. He walked around with the same 
friendly attitude of a constipated wolverine, and even hardened perps took 
one look at him and realised that this was a man with lots of unvented 
frustration and no patience.

Jim glanced again at Goodwin's office, wondering if he ought to make 
another attempt to introduce Goodwin to common sense. He'd objected to 
Detective Hollis' plan for another drug raid on Rainier University's campus, 
not because he objected to shaking down the kids. Most of them were either 
spoilt rich kids, or left-wing middle-class liberals with no clue as to harsh 
reality, degrading cops as fascist thugs right up to the point where they 
were robbed/mugged when they then started screaming for more cops, 
expecting the police to drop everything like murder and rape investigations 
to find their purse, mobile phone or car. It was mainly due to politics

If the bust went ahead as scheduled, three weeks from now, it would be the 
third time this year that Rainier had been targeted and the year was only 
four months old! Jim knew the connections that joined the Powers That Be: 
the Dean was the sorority sister of the Mayor, whose brother was the 
country club golfing buddy of Commissioner Warren, whose sister-in-law was 
on the city council appropriations committee whose cousin was the DA, etc., 
etc. Jim had no doubts that the enraged Dean Edwards would be on the 
phone calling her fellow Rainier alumni, Mayor Elizabeth Conrad, within 
minutes of the raid going down – and who would get it in the neck? Step 
forward Narcotics and the detective leading the raid, who was to be one 
James Ellison, over his vehement objections. The fact that Jim was the 
Mayor's cousin would actually count against him; William Ellison and his 
sister Vivienne Ellison-Conrad hadn't spoken to each for fifteen years over 
some ridiculous spat. Jim's lips tightened; the only relative on the Ellison 
side he had any affection for was cousin Rucker, actually the son of his 
father's cousin Magdalen Ellison-Rucker, a lighthouse keeper who was 
always good to go fishing with. Cousin Magdalen somehow blamed Jim for 
Rucker's decision to do something constructive with his life rather than 
joining his siblings in becoming sleek, plastic corporate sharks in the 
traditional Ellison manner, and yes, Jim recalled, she too was a Rainier 
alumni, a member of the same sorority as Dean Edwards and the mayor.

I should just shoot myself now, he thought, dolefully. Once Hollis had come 
up with his "let's raid Rainier again" plan, only because it was an easy bust 
as opposed to putting in all the work to try to catch real drug dealers, he'd 
conveniently faded into the woodwork, and since Jim had the fewest cases, 
guess who got to lead up the task force? He remained at his desk, not 
bothering with Captain Goodwin – he had too much work to do to waste 
valuable oxygen.

* * *

Blair walked slowly along the corridor, his steps hesitant with trepidation. 
He had no idea whether this was a good idea, but could see no other 
recourse. He'd stumbled back to the warehouse, shutting the door and 
shutting out the nightmare, but finding no refuge. His wild notion of simply 
climbing back in the casket and returning to oblivion was a no go since the 
control mechanisms were smashed beyond repair. After two days of 
huddling in the building, Blair had finally begun to recover from the trauma 
and evaluated his situation.

He had only his clothing and his backpack, which contained, besides the two 
bottles of beer, his passport, driving licence, notebooks, pen, spectacles 
and $150 in his wallet, a healthy sum of money in 1969, but it wouldn't last 
him three days in 1997. His passport and driver's licence were still in 
excellent condition, but their use was dependent on nobody noticing that 
the birth date read: March 31st 1948. He needed to acquire money to buy 
himself an identity, but in the classic chicken and egg problem, he needed 
identity to obtain money. Coming to Rainier had been a spur of the moment 
thing; if the university still hoarded junk in the same way as it had, 
hopefully a lot of his and Roddy's belongings were in a storage basement 
somewhere, and since campus security had holes big enough to drive a fleet 
of trucks through, access should not be a problem. He veered away from 
thoughts of Roddy, for they brought into focus a knowledge he was not yet 
prepared to face.

There were few students about at this hour, but Blair surreptitiously glanced 
at them in wonderment. There were dozens of Negroes, Orientals, female 
and disabled students – even a disabled lecturer in a wheelchair, John – no, 
Jack – Kelso. He'd stopped to ask directions from a pretty oriental girl, only 
to find that Miss Tamaki was Head of Campus Security – a non-white female 
in charge of campus security!   He had been on dozens of anti-segregation 
marches with Naomi and her friends; he'd known Dr King, Malcolm X, 
Medgar Evers and Abernathy. Shutting down that train of thought also, since 
his mother was another thing he didn't want to think about, he continued 
along the corridor, noting the boxes on tables – "PCs" – and other changes, 
like the little round things in the ceiling that weren't light bulbs and the 
"auto-matic-doors" that slid back as he walked through, just like Star Trek!

"BLAIR!"

The cry was ripped from the throat of a tall, distinguished man whose grey, 
shocked face changed to alarm as he teetered on the brink of falling down 
the flight of steps. Quickly bounding up them, Blair grabbed him and 
manoeuvred them both away down the corridor. A mane of white hair was 
swept back from a plump, rosy cheeked face decorated with twinkling grey 
eyes.  The man was vaguely familiar to Blair, but he couldn't place him.

"I-I-I do apologise young man," the other stammered, obviously pulling 
himself together with an effort. "But you are the mirror image of a college 
friend of mine from many years ago, Blair Sandburg. He died rather 
suddenly, you see, and –"

"Elijah Stoddard." The name came from Blair's lips as it popped into his 
head and his own face went pale; this man, this was Eli, brown haired, 
hippie-flower-child Eli Stoddard, who'd thrashed him at pool, been thrashed 
by him at squash, who could belch the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandee after 
six glasses of Brewski. 

Eli was looking at him as if he'd sprouted horns and a tail, and Blair 
obfuscated desperately, "Blair Sandburg was my…father." 

Eli's eyes widened and then he smiled, a genuine, happy smile. "My 
goodness me! You could be his twin! I don't believe it!" He pumped Blair's 
hand vigorously. "I had no idea that Blair had a child….your mother must 
have been….very young," he finished tactfully.

The inspiration had been born of desperation, but once given the idea, his 
imagination eagerly began adding all sorts of fancy scrollwork, ribbons and 
other embellishments to his fictional epic: "Erm, I was…posthumous, very 
posthumous…Na- my mom was only about three weeks along when…" Blair 
allowed his voice to trail off, since he had in truth no idea what had 
happened after Roddy had sealed the casket.

Eli's face lost its sparkle. "Your father was a dear friend of mine; I still miss 
him."

Yes, you were Eli, a very good friend. "So do I. It's…um…part of the reason 
why I came here today, to see where he used to study. Blair Jacob Sandburg 
returning –" Seeing Eli's expression, he invented hastily, "my mother named 
me for him."

"Well, I –"

"Eli, I really must speak to you about -" A tall, sharp-featured, artificially 
blonde woman in elegant clothes came out of a doorway, her voice stopping 
and her eyes widening as she laid eyes on the man standing next to Eli 
Stoddard.

Before Blair could speak, Eli was stepping towards her, telling her Blair's 
name and that he was Blair Sandburg's posthumous son. Mentally, Blair tried 
to remove three decades from her age and again, her identity popped into 
his head – "Mardy" Marcia Greaveson. She'd belonged to Rainier's most 
exclusive sorority, being a member of one of Cascade's "first families", the 
sobriquet given to those clans with money, power, or centuries old links 
with the city; back in 1969 she'd been a snobbish high society debutante 
with a fiercely ambitious nature that a blind man could have spotted, 
swanning around campus in the latest sports car with her girlfriends, like 
the van Zant girls, or changing her current Harvard clone country club 
boyfriend for another identical one…William Ellison, Wyatt Richmond IV, et 
al. "Marcia."

She raised her eyebrows autocratically, and he realised he'd spoken aloud. 
Hastily he prevaricated, "Um…my mom always felt bad about me never 
knowing dad, so she used to tell me the same stories about dad's time at 
Rainier, over and over again – the twins Elijah and Ellen Stoddard, Marcia 
Greaveson, Orville Wallace…"

To his astonishment, Marcia graced him with a smile. "Your father spoke of 
me? I'm flattered, we didn't really move in the same circles. I'm Ms 
Edwards now, however…What are you studying at college, Mr Sandburg?"

Figures you'd drop hubby like a hot brick. I wonder how rich he was, and 
how much you got out of him? "Anthropology major, psychology minor," 
Blair answered automatically, seeing Eli's eyes widen, but they were the 
only two subjects he knew enough about to be able to converse 
knowledgeably on without raising suspicion.

Marcia smiled with more than a patronising hint of "adult indulgence". "And 
you've decided to apply to Rainier to finish your studies at your father's 
alumni."

"No!"

Her eyes narrowed at the too quick response, and suddenly Blair's 
imagination, having obviously been beavering frantically away in his 
subconscious, seized her opportunity and presented him with The Idea. 
Having no other option, Blair's mouth opened almost of it's own accord and 
words came out: "I mean…yes, actually…but, I can't now."

Right on cue, good old Eli, whose timing had always been impeccable, asked 
the right question, "What's the problem?"

Giving them his best, little-boy-lost grin, Blair ad libbed, "I was in Australia, 
doing an anthropological study of the Aborigines. I rented a small apartment 
just outside Sydney." Shaking his head in a facsimile of rueful self-rebuke, 
he admitted, "They tell you to keep your ID and other documents on your 
person at all times, but I guess I got complacent and thought it couldn't 
happen to me." 

Don't babble Sandburg, remember, keep it simple. "Anyway, there was a 
large bush fire that turned nearly half an outlying suburb into toast, and my 
apartment was one of those than ended up a big heap of ash. I lost 
everything – passport, driver's licence, money, everything bar the clothes I 
stood up in." Hoisting his backpack, he polished the tale, "The only thing I 
had left was my father's backpack here and the stuff in it - his ID and stuff – 
my mom gave it to me as a good luck charm. I had just enough cash to fly 
back to the States. I had to use my father's passport and hope like hell that 
they just looked at the photograph and didn't notice the birth date was 
1948! It worked, but I can't apply to Rainier, or for a job, or for social 
security, because I can't prove who I am…" He spread his hands helplessly.

Eli looked anxiously perplexed, but Marcia suddenly smiled. "Mr Sandburg – 
Blair – Rainier has a part-time Teaching Assistant in Anthropology position 
open, which we have no yet advertised. I am now formally offering it to 
you. Under the circumstances, I am also willing to advance you half your 
first month's wages in cash, and I'm sure Dr Stoddard will join me in writing 
a letter of recommendation and an affidavit supporting your claim to be 
Blair Jacob Sandburg. What do you say?"

Blair swallowed, then smiled. "When do I start?"

* * *

Jim threw the keys on the table where they skittered, clinking discordantly, 
as he slammed the loft door of apartment 307 firmly shut and locked it. 
Opening the fridge, he discovered his full complement of nourishment 
consisted of three bottles of beer and a large apple. Removing the apple 
and all three bottles of beer, he glumly sat down and ensconced himself in 
front of the TV just as the Cascade Jaguars basketball team were about to 
play. Nationally famous basketball star and Rainier alumni Orville Wallace 
had returned as a player/coach for the Jags, citing his advancing years as 
the return to his hometown.

Jim sighed and slumped further down in his chair, ignoring the disapproving 
echo of Grandmother Ellison as her memory lectured him on correct 
posture. Today had been a fraught one in Narcotics as Jim had had to be 
blunt in forbidding the use of lights and sirens during the raid on Rainier. 
The whole thing was already going to be a PR disaster, so if they kept it as 
quiet as possible, maybe the local press wouldn't get wind of it, thus 
lessening the ire of Dean Edwards. As he had wearily pointed out to the 
gung-ho members of Narcotics, "The lion doesn't suddenly start yelling 
'Here I come! Ready or not!' before he goes after a zebra, so we go in 
quietly, in plain clothes, with no noise, and they won't even know what's 
happening until it's all over." I very much hope.       

Things had deteriorated from there on, and he now had a pounding 
headache and stress pains in his jaw from rigidly clenching it all day. 
Eschewing the beer and the apple, Jim yawned and let his eyes drift close 
as the Jags fumbled another pass and looked to be well on their way to 
continuing their losing streak…

* * *
In Warehouse #17, Blair curled up on the floor, regardless of the dirt, in 
front of the hot brazier he had managed to scrounge from one of the other 
warehouses. Burying his face in his hands, he cried.

His best friend was dead.

He had known, from the instant he revived to find himself alone, that Roddy 
was gone, but had shoved the knowledge aside as his mind grasped at any 
explanation, however fantastic, for his current situation. Eli and Marcia, 
who was now Dean of Rainier and "Miz" – what was that, anyway? - Marcia 
Edwards, had taken him on a whistle stop tour of Rainier, which he had 
managed to fudge his way through, though much of it made very little 
sense. They told him things about his "father", but whenever Roddy's name 
came up their smiles became cheerfully plastic, their voices artificially 
bright, and changed the subject as quickly as possible. Crushed by the 
knowledge, Blair had made his excuses, claiming to be bedding down in a 
motel, returning to the sanctuary of the warehouse, where he now huddled, 
shivering uncontrollably. He wanted to put on a pair of ruby slippers, click 
his heels together three times, say, "There's no place like home!" and wake 
up in 1969 with Roddy's thin face peering enthusiastically down at him.

Wiping tears from his face, he staggered to his feet like an old man and 
clambered into the cryo-casket that he used as a bed, closing his eyes and 
shutting out what his life now held…

* * *      

Dawn was barely breaking when the forest floor heaved as he thrust up 
from his den. The deep hiding hole, covered by a netting of interwoven 
vines covered by leaves and twigs, had remained completely undetected by 
predators walking over it, even the most dangerous of all, man. He stood 
tall, working the kinks out of his bones, stretching his limbs. Forest 
creatures stirred around him, uncaring, for the thick, greasy salve he kept 
smeared over himself obliterated all of the dreaded man scent. He had his 
bow and arrows, his knives and his short spear, his sling shot and snare, but 
the other accoutrements of his successful warrior status – his fur cloak, 
feather headdress, gold and jewels, even his war stallion – were safely back 
under the guard of the elders. 

He raised his head, sniffing the air…the scent was there, distant and faint, 
but there. He grinned. Soon the little one would be his. His Guide was 
cunning and fast…what he lacked in stature he made up for in wit. His little 
one had outwitted three other Sentinels seeking the bond, roaming the 
jungle as if it were his own private domain. The Sentinel began to gather 
his belongings. He had travelled a good distance from his own people on the 
stories of the Uncatchable Guide, but he was known amongst his tribe as a 
Sentinel not just strong and powerful, but wise and keen of mind. He had 
listened to every snippet, studied the terrain, the habits of his quarry, and 
realised that he would have to approach slowly, silently, before snaring the 
Guide. He smiled as he drew air into his lungs confidently, breathing out 
heavily, the little one would be his Guide, his very own……

Jim jerked awake, flailing as his arms got tangled up in the sheets. Blearily 
he made out 06:05 on the bedside clock, so he staggered downstairs into the 
bathroom, relieving himself, showering and shaving on autopilot, before 
heading for the kitchen and coffee feeling marginally more awake. He 
remembered that he had no food, but there was a bagel place en route to 
the precinct. Pausing as he sipped the bitter brew he'd made…the dream 
had been vivid, too vivid – just like his own nightmare in Peru when his 
copter had gone down, making him the only survivor of his unit, but now it 
was slipping away from him like water dribbling through his fingers, leaving 
just glimpses, like faded paintings on cave walls.

CHAPTER THREE

Blair stared without seeing through the window as the Greyhound bus sped 
towards Seattle. The Dean – he'd have to get out of the habit of thinking of 
her as Marcia – had given him a week's grace. The following morning he'd 
been at the university for seven o'clock, ensconced in Artefact Storage 
Room 3, a.k.a. his office. Never, ever had Blair been so grateful for the fact 
that he was a "quick study" and possessed a nearly photographic memory.

Going down to the library, his first order of business had been to read up 
everything about computers, electronic mail and mobile phones. By that 
night, with a little discreet experimentation, he had learned enough about 
the wonders of modern technology to be able to use them reasonably 
competently and was also conversant with the wonders of ATM machines, 
bar codes and other mysterious things.

The day after that had been spent bringing himself up to date on 28 years 
worth of advances in the fields of anthropology and psychology, though 
some of the current "theories" were so ludicrous they made his eyebrows 
hit his hairline. Some of the things, albeit in related fields like archaeology, 
made his eyes widen also. Fascinated, he read how, in 1993, every history 
book in the world was proven wrong when Oetzi, a 5,300-year-old mummy, 
was discovered in the European Alps. Oetzi possessed a well-crafted copper 
axe, which was problematical in that humans were not supposed to have 
been clever enough to smelt copper until a thousand years after Oetzi had 
died. Copper smelting was hardly the most inconspicuous of industries, but 
the "experts" had missed it, not by decades or a century, but by an entire 
millennium! The anthropological implications for the development rate of 
"higher intelligence" amongst human beings were obvious.        

Again by evening and with another splitting headache, he was familiar 
enough with both anthropology and psychology to feel competent to lecture 
a class of  "modern day" students on the subject. Day Three had been spent 
on researching the general world history of the last three decades, Blair 
avoiding local history as too painful for the time being. It had been a task 
that had brought into focus his urgent need to acquire a new identity. 
Again, the library had provided a beneficial tome in the large Chronicle of 
the Twentieth Century, which told the history of the century from 1900, 
each year being covered month by month, in newspaper articles, with 
photographs and quick-list captions. Again blessing his excellent memory, 
Blair had started on April 1st 1969 and simply gone forwards, soaking up 
world affairs. 

Richard Nixon, colloquially known as "Tricky Dicky", had served two terms 
before ousted by the Watergate Scandal, about which Blair had read with 
fascination. There had followed Ford, Carter, Reagan and Bush, whose 
names, families and dates of presidency Blair had memorised. The current 
President was the – apparently - popular Bill Clinton, wife Hilary, daughter 
Chelsea. The British Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, had likewise also long 
gone, followed by four more, including Britain's first female Prime Minister, 
one Margaret Thatcher, who served for an incredible eleven years. Cascade 
TV had mentioned that Britain had just elected its first "Labour Prime 
Minister", Anthony Blair, in sixteen years. But Elizabeth II was still Queen; 
Pope Paul VI had been succeeded by Popes John Paul I and II; the current 
Archbishop of Canterbury was Dr Carey. 

The Second Republic of Spain, which had dethroned King Alfonso XIII, had 
been done away with in 1975, the current monarch being King Juan Carlos I. 
King of Sweden from 1991 was Carl Gustaf XVI, King of Norway from the 
same year was Harald V. Queen of Denmark was Margrethe II. Blair 
continued on, memorising Prime Ministers, Premiers, prominent senators 
and public figures from royalty, through politics, to popular entertainers 
like Hollywood stars Arnold Schwarznegger and Will Smith. He memorized 
Olympic champions, prominent sports figures, Pulitzer prize winners and 
Nobel winners. 

There were other things, too, that made Blair shake his head in wonder or 
horror. Neil Armstrong had landed on the moon a few months after he had 
entered stasis. The CD, precursor to DVD, had been invented in 1979. The 
world's first test-tube baby had been an English girl named Louise Brown. 
IVF was now a standard fertility treatment, smallpox had been eradicated in 
the Western world. Dolly the sheep was a clone! Vaccines against meningitis 
and TB were also developed.  

But there was also AIDS, which had begun it's deadly spread about 1981, 
just in time to snare the newly-adult children born to parents of the 1960s 
free-love-without-consequences generation who had mistakenly believed 
that improved condoms and the contraceptive pill would allow them to be 
freed from the shackles of "outdated morals". Blair shuddered as he 
realised he had been part of that generation, and had his life not been 
frozen, he too could have produced and raised his children with the guilt-
free-sex-put-your-own-needs-first selfishness that had obviously gotten 
millions of young adults infected with HIV before anyone truly understood 
the dangers. AIDS was now the world's fastest growing venereal disease, for 
which there was no cure and which had an incubation period of a decade, 
during which time the infected person was walking death, except that they 
didn't know they were a killer. Complacency amongst heterosexuals, who 
persisted in believing that the disease still only affected the homosexuals it 
had first displayed itself in, was leading to a worldwide epidemic of horrific 
proportions since heterosexual infection was now outstripping same-sex 
infection.

The end of Vietnam and the US Government's disgraceful treatment of 
physically and mentally traumatised veterans was another scar on society. 
Desert Storm, The Falklands War, the Gulf War: Blair went home with his 
head spinning, feeling drained.

Days four, five and six had been spent cautiously searching records and 
surfing the Internet, seeking an identity to steal. His own birth certificate, 
passport and other ID was useless. Finally, more by chance than design, 
Blair struck lucky. On August 15th 1969, Jacob Sandburg had been born on 
Queen Anne Avenue, Seattle, Washington State, to Jacob and Rachel 
Sandburg. A diligent search through the records paid off eight months later 
when Jacob Sandburg had died of meningitis.

Blair stepped off the bus in front of the Federal building and took a deep 
breath. If he was caught, he could look forward to spending the rest of his 
life in prison, assuming they did not believe his story, or a mental hospital, 
or as a government lab rat if they did believe.

As a Master of Obfuscation, Blair knew the best approach was simplicity. 
Entering the Federal building, he used his best "cute but shy" attitude and a 
brief explanation about family history research before asking if he could 
note down the details from the birth certificate itself while he was here. To 
his own amazement, the woman readily agreed and led him back to the 
archives, the whole thing having taken only five minutes. As they entered 
the temperature-controlled area, Blair surreptitiously glanced around and 
realised with relief that there were no security cameras actually in the 
archive itself, only in the corridor and the entrance hall. Walking down the 
rows of metal filing cabinets, the receptionist pulled open the appropriate 
drawer, and handed Blair the birth certificate of Jacob Sandburg. Keep up 
the conversation and the charm, Blair pulled out a large notepad, then put 
his hand in his jacket pocket and allowed an artful expression of puzzlement 
to cross his face as he patted his pockets. With sheepishly sweet 
embarrassment, he asked if she had a pen, knowing full well she'd left it 
back at the reception desk. Smiling, she hurried off, leaving Blair standing 
there obediently holding the certificate.

Another check showed there were no security cameras. Calmly and casually, 
Blair folded up the certificate and placed it in his jacket's inside pocket, 
then reached into the drawer and removed the empty sleeve it had been in, 
putting that also in his pocket. Plucking the next birth certificate in line 
from the drawer, he resumed his attitude of waiting as he heard her heels 
clicking on the floor tiles. Careful not to let her see what was written on the 
certificate, Blair jotted down details from memory while keeping up a 
flirtatious – and distracting - patter of comments that made her preen and 
smile coquettishly. She didn't even glance at the paper as he deposited the 
certificate in its sleeve and closed the drawer. Blair left her smiling as he 
left, with nobody any the wiser as to the fact that the archive had one less 
certificate than before. 

As he got back on the bus for Cascade, Blair stroked his hand across his 
breast pocket, feeling the certificate and sleeve crinkle inside. His throat 
was dry and his head pounding but he felt, for the first time, a sense of 
hope that he could forge a life for himself in this new era. Finding Jacob 
Sandburg had just seemed so "cosmically right" for his situation. Nor did he 
fear discovery from the real family. 

Jacob Sandburg's parents had had no more children, since they themselves 
had died only a year later. Along with 5 other people in Seattle and 5 in 
Portland, Oregon, they had fallen victim to a gas engineer's greed. Paid to 
service gas fires, the man had simply pocketed the cash and done nothing. 
The police sergeant daughter-in-law of victim 10 had stumbled across the 
fact that the previous 9 victims had also died of carbon monoxide poisoning 
and had the same engineer contracted to service their appliances as her 
father-in-law. Her investigation promptly revealed that the gas fires had not 
been serviced in the last two years despite the engineer being paid at least 
once for supposedly doing so, but in the meantime, Jacob Sandburg Sr and 
Rachel Sandburg became victims 11 & 12. Blair had gone and laid flowers at 
the trio of graves in Cascade Bayside Cemetery, a sort of Karmic apology for 
stealing their son's identity, but had had no choice. He needed a new 
identity, fast.

Returning to Rainier, Blair opened up the certificate on his desk. There was 
plenty of space left on the certificate to write in, and carefully using a 
black pen, Blair inserted his first name over the top of Jacob Sandburg the 
son and Jacob Sandburg the father to make both read Blair Jacob. Taking 
out his Driver's Ed pass certificate, Blair carefully changed the "6" of 1969 
to an "8" making it read 23rd February 1989.  Photocopying his birth 
certificate and the pass certificate, he placed the copies with Eli and 
Marcia's letters in an envelope with a covering letter explaining the 
situation and requesting re-issue of his driver's licence, social security 
number, passport and so forth. Posting the envelope, he made his way back 
to his office, taking up his usual sleeping place in the far corner behind the 
door where he would be unseen by campus security, trying control the 
anxious roiling of his stomach and the fear that it wouldn't work. 

* * *

"I'll buy you all the hazelnut vanilla coffee in the world," Jim offered.

Simon grinned as he rolled his cigar around his lips. "You sweet-talker you."

"I'm not joking."

Simon paused at the other man's flat tone and really looked at Ellison, 
noting the grim face, tense stance and puffy weariness about the eyes. 
Dropping his jocularity he asked, "Is it that bad?"

"Yes and it's going to get worse." Jim explained about the upcoming drug 
raid on Rainier University. "It's going to be a disaster on all levels, not just 
in public relations. Charles Goodwin won't back me up because he's lost his 
fire. He might have been a street cop once, but now he's a pen-pusher 
determined not to rock the boat until he can retire and turn his stock 
market portfolio into a fashionable condo and life of leisure. The instant 
Dean Edwards, the Mayor and every other high ranking Rainier sorority sister 
descend on Vice like the Harpies of Hercules, Charles Goodwin is going to 
point the finger straight at me." He virtually pouted. "I want to come back 
to Major Crimes and play with nicer people – psychopaths, mad bombers, 
white slavers."

"I'll work on it," Simon vowed with complete sincerity. For all his insistence 
on his subordinates undertaking unpleasant assignments if he felt the 
situation warranted it, he backed up his orders with 100% loyalty to his 
people. Simon's uncle, Horatio Evers, had been a member of the SEALs in 
Vietnam, a black man in a time of segregation, and had often told his 
nephew that the right way to command could be summed up in the words: 
"Follow me". Simon was proud of his uncle, proud to be able to claim blood 
relation to the great, murdered, black civil rights campaigner, Medgar 
Evers, and tried as much as possible to follow that advice.

"Thanks, Simon." Jim rose and left, knowing that Simon, his only real friend 
in the department, hell, Cascade PD entire, would do his best to get him 
back to Major Crimes. Maybe once he was home, the headaches and sensory 
spikes would leave him in peace once more.

* * *

Blair had braced himself for the ponderous slowness of Federal bureaucracy 
and so was stunned when, barely ten days after his mailing, several heavy 
envelopes arrived at the university within days of each other, containing his 
passport, driver's licence and social security number. A fortunate 
occurrence, since he was well on the way to giving himself ulcers with 
nightmares of Federal agents dragging him away to a government lab or 
throwing him in prison for being an impostor, and he had used up about a 
century's quota of panic attacks.

Unfortunately, the arrivals only threw up a new set of problems for Blair to 
deal with, foremost amongst which was his dissertation. On a hunch, Blair 
had spent the large part of Saturday ferreting around in Rainier's 
labyrinthine sub-basements and came across his and Roddy's notebooks and 
other bric-á-brac. Using his old essays and a copy of the current 
Anthropology syllabus, Blair had quickly updated his work and sent the lot in 
to Rainier's awarding committee, asking permission to retake his Bachelor 
and Master degree examinations/course work again as because of the 
"Australian fire" he now had "no proof" of passing the two exams. 

Blair had no proof, because he had never taken the exams. The letter was 
the riskiest thing Blair had done to date; because he was only 21, he had 
been working towards the first of the "big three": Bachelor of Arts in 
Anthropology, which he would have got when he was about 22. The BA 
would have been followed by his Master of Arts in Anthropology when he 
was about 25, then he would have then worked towards his PhD, becoming a 
Doctor of Philosophy when he was about 28 or 29. However, according to his 
phoney birth certificate, he was already 28, which meant that in order for 
that to be believable, he had to already possess both his Bachelor and 
Master's Degrees. 

However, only a few days later, he received a letter from the committee, 
stating that they were highly impressed with the excellence and 
insightfulness of his work and because of this, they felt confident in taking 
the "extraordinary measure" of awarding Blair Jacob Sandburg his Bachelor 
and Master's Degrees immediately. The next day, Blair received the two 
certificates that pronounced him an under-graduate of Rainier University.

His guilt over obtaining two fraudulent awards faded when both Eli Stoddard 
and Marcia Edwards came to congratulate him, and Marcia instantly began 
dropping heavy hints that he should submit his Doctoral dissertation post 
haste. After she left, Blair sat at his desk and slowly pulled out the books 
and diaries he had been studiously ignoring, leafing through them with 
sadness. There was no way he could submit his dissertation. For a start, the 
"fact" of both him and his "father" deciding to write their dissertation on 
the obscure British explorer Sir Richard Burton's stories of Sentinels was just 
too far-fetched to be credible. It would raise suspicions and cause questions 
to be asked, the last thing Blair, as an impostor, needed. 

He also no longer had a Sentinel.

Blair blinked back tears. Roddy had not been a Sentinel as such; a Sentinel 
possessed all five heightened senses, whereas Roddy had only had three. 
The number of heightened senses in an individual decreased rapidly the 
higher the population, and Blair had been working on his "Sentinel" theory 
for a long time before meeting Roddy. 

Always liking to play with numbers, Roddy had decided to calculate the 
total number of Sentinels that would be living at one time. According to 
Roddy's extrapolated statistics, over 80% of the entire human population of 
Earth had one enhanced sense – over four fifths. But for two enhanced 
senses, that population dropped to 40%. For three, like Roddy, it was only 
20%. Four enhanced senses it was less than 10%, and less than 5% of the 
population were "Sentinel Sensitives"; they had five borderline heightened 
senses, but were not powerful enough to be Sentinels. LESS than 1% of the 
total number of people alive on Earth at any one time were Sentinels, 
though admittedly the number of Sentinels in ancient, less technologically 
advanced eras were much greater; taken in isolation, that number would 
seem considerable, but not when they were scattered like confetti in every 
nook and cranny of the globe. Therefore, Blair acknowledged bleakly, since 
the population of the planet was just under six billion, his own chances of 
meeting up with one were extremely remote. He would have to find another 
subject, fast.

His other problems were far more immediate and practical. Using his new 
ID, he had gone to Cascade First Trust Bank where, in 1969, he had opened 
an account. Claiming that his "father" had opened the account for him but 
perished before he could complete the paperwork actually worked, since 
the Assistant Manager was yet another contemporary of Blair from Rainier 
and admitted to the Manager that Blair Sandburg had been "killed in a 
warehouse fire" only four days after opening the account. Twenty-eight 
years of compound interest had turned Blair's $50 in $17,863.29. He 
assuaged suspicions by asking to have his wages from Rainier transferred 
into his account instead of trying to draw any money out and left, but a few 
hours of working things out in his office destroyed any notions of financial 
comfort.

As an anthropologist, Blair could expect to go on expeditions to all sorts of 
hazardous places like South America, Africa and so forth, and Rainier 
provided only basic medical insurance. Thus, the wise anthropologist took 
out the best medical insurance they could afford. After talking to his 
anthropology colleagues and shopping around, Blair managed to secure a 
policy that was beneficial for him while giving the insurance company 
minimum loopholes to wiggle out of, but it took a painful chunk out of his 
wages. Further days of scouting around brought his attention to a battered 
looking but enduring Volvo Amazon, which he got for $2500. On top of that 
there was tax and automobile insurance. Then he had to register with a 
dentist and a doctor, which cost more money. After sounding out some of 
the information technology techno-wizards, Blair also invested in a laptop, 
but again, he had to spend on non-standard software.

Admittedly some of the items like the car, laptop and registration fees were 
one off payments, while the insurance premiums were only once a year, but 
Blair's cash was dissolving in front of his eyes. He required textbooks for his 
dissertation, whatever it might be, and comparing prices for anthropology 
generally he could expect to pay at least $30 per book. He had only three 
lots of clothing including what he'd come out of cryo-stasis with. Once he'd 
gone to a few thrift shops and priced up some clothes and shoes, a garage 
and checked out gas prices, a cheap supermarket for food, toothpaste, 
toothbrush, soap, shampoo and so forth, he was at the bottom of the well. 
His TA wages at Rainier would allow him to live in reasonable security only 
with a very narrow margin of error. There was no way he could afford to 
rent or buy an apartment, so he had no choice but to split his time between 
his office at Rainier and Warehouse #17.

Finally though Blair began his TA role properly, problems were solved until 
only one loomed: the question of his dissertation, giving rise to an 
increasingly irritated Dean. Remembering her vituperative temper when she 
was student, Marcia was the last person that Blair wanted to annoy. 
However, that too went on the back burner, for with his identity crisis 
solved, Blair had no more things to occupy his mind, and the grief over 
Roddy and his mother, Naomi, flooded back full force, along with the 
nagging need to know what had happened, and why.

Eventually, unable to stand the constant churning in his stomach and the 
vague, barely formed nightmares that denied him real rest, Blair plucked up 
the courage to go to Rainier library and consult the newspapers. The 
confirmation from the bank's Assistant Manager gave him a date to work on, 
and he quickly found the articles, which had been in most major Washington 
State newspapers. He had opened his account at the bank on 30th March 
1969, and gone into stasis the following night, 31st March 1969. Sometime 
after 6:00pm on 3rd May 1969, a large, mysterious fire had suddenly broken 
out at the warehouses of – then – Cascade's main industrial docks. (In an 
editorial aside in the last, tiny article, three months later, the journalist 
reported a verdict of "arson by person or persons unknown" and that the 
case remained open.) 

Fire trucks had immediately dashed to the scene, to find several warehouses 
blazingly fiercely. Witnesses immediately informed them that Dr Roderick 
Douglas had fought them off to run into the warehouses in search of his best 
friend, Anthropology student Blair Jacob Sandburg, who for some reason Dr 
Douglas insisted was inside the warehouses. Firefighters had discovered Dr 
Douglas' body in the entrance of Warehouse #22. All attempts to revive him 
failed; he had died from inhaling a mixture of smoke and toxic fumes. 
Firemen fought the blaze for ten hours, and the damage was massive. The 
fire exposed the fact that storage of illegal substances, and illegal storage 
of improperly contained toxic substances was rife throughout the entire 
warehouse complex as firemen were repeatedly driven back by clouds of 
burning marijuana, heroin, acids and other poisons. The body of Blair 
Sandburg was never found, but experts stated that in the areas of some 
toxic chemicals, temperatures would have reached double that needed to 
totally destroy a human body.  

Savagely biting his lip and blinking back tears, Blair studied the grainy 
photographs and the sketch done in one newspaper, immediately seeing why 
he had not been found. Roddy had been unable to go directly to Warehouse 
#17 due to the fires burning in several places, and had obviously tried to 
circle around to approach at an angle – which had meant he had to go away 
from #17 before he could back towards it. Succumbing at warehouse #22, 
Roddy had thus left no indication of the direction he was trying to go in. The 
fires had been limited to warehouses to the West of #17, destroying 22-34. 
Firemen and rescue workers had no way of knowing where Roddy had been 
heading, and so had, understandably, assumed Blair to be in one of the 
burning warehouses, especially when witnesses confirmed that Roddy had 
run away from Lot 22, containing #17, towards Lot 23, containing 
warehouses #21 - #28. 

The bad press and the cost of rebuilding had persuaded Cascade's Mayor and 
councilmen to finally rubber stamp the plans for larger, newer, better 
designed docks further along the coast at Heather Bay.  In an unusual 
display of initiative, they had started building before the ashes had cooled, 
and within two years half the warehouses had been abandoned as companies 
transferred to the new ones. Nobody had been interested in the old docks as 
nothing could be done with them. Apart from the dirty bay, grimed with the 
rancid pollution of cargo ships and scows for decades, the contaminated 
land would be unfit to build houses on for over twenty years, and, because 
the fire was arson, full disclosure laws meant realtors would have had to 
admit to potential homebuyers about the fire, the chemical spillages and 
the death of Dr Douglas, greatly reducing chances of selling any houses at 
all, never mind for a profit. Thus, Blair had remained unseen and 
undiscovered like a modern Snow White sleeping in ice instead of a glass 
coffin, the years drifting past until an ill-balanced paint tin and a Cascade 
storm woke him in place of a princess's kiss.  

Bone-weary, Blair shut down the computer, feeling battered. Of Naomi's 
obituary there was no sign, but that meant nothing. His mother was the 
original rolling stone and Blair would be completely unsurprised that his 
mother had expired on the Serengeti Plains, Darkest Peru, in the depths of a 
Tibetan monastery or some other equally inaccessible and obscure place. 
The immense weight of the decades he had lost weighed on him, dragging 
him down, and there was nobody in whom he could confide. His best friend, 
Roddy, was gone. Assuming his other friends even believed him, he had 
nothing in common with them. Eli Stoddard, his closest friend after Roddy, 
was now a venerable man in his mid-fifties, while Blair was, biologically and 
mentally, still 21 – only chronologically was he 49 – and there was no way he 
could "relate" to Eli. Coldly, emptily aware of how alone he truly was, Blair 
trudged back to his warehouse and fell in a deep, exhausted sleep.

* * *

Like a condor gliding silent and serene over a stormy ocean, Cascade City's 
Narcotics team moved in on the campus without sirens or marked police 
cars, in inconspicuous SUVs and plainclothes, as per the raid leader's 
explicit instructions. James Ellison had been as friendly as a constipated 
grizzly bear with an infected wisdom tooth all week and the narcs were 
silently but unanimously singing the Hallelujah chorus, having received word 
their sick detective, Foster, would be back within days, and Ellison would be 
back with Major Crimes, who were more than welcome to him. Even the 
most uncharitable among them, however, had to admit that he had cause to 
be irascible; everyone knew this sop to Narcotics ego was a bad idea, and as 
the man in charge, Ellison would undeservedly get the flak for it.

The sidewalks and lawns were thronged with students of every size, shape 
and colour. Rainier was over 150 years old and had always prided itself on 
it's "progressive" attitude, one of the few universities to admit women in 
the 1880s, long before any other, and supporting an end to segregation back 
in the 1950s. Unlike other universities, who did not seem to realise that 
there was intelligent life outside the United States of America, Rainier had 
deliberately appealed to an international student body, thus widening it's 
financial support base. Now, in 1997, Rainier was one of the most 
prestigious and richest universities in the United States, unique in that over 
85% of its funds were derived from extra-American sources.

The cops drifted casually up to the dignified stone edifices before them, 
ignoring the venerable stonework and statues of once-VIPs as they picked 
off prey from the herds. Kids were stopped and searched and within 
minutes, the chatter of a myriad young people changed to strident cries of 
anger and resistance. Jim watched from a distance with resigned approval 
as the narcs at least didn't go totally stupid and target only black males, or 
rich white kids, or Goth females. Anyone with the slightest amount of illegal 
narcotics on them was arrested and taken to the van –

Jim turned at a flicker out of the corner of his eye; turning, he saw a kid 
with long curly brown hair about to exit Hargrove Hall, take one look at the 
furious scenes being played in front of him, and discreetly about face and 
head off back into the building. Oh no you don't. Jim set off, heading 
towards a side door, realising he could cut the kid off before he got 
somewhere he could flush his stash down the john.

Blair dashed along the corridor on winged feet, aware that he was on the 
verge of hyperventilating. Cops! What were they doing? How could they be 
stupid enough to be still pulling that all-college-students-are-druggie-
commies in 1997? Marcia had been accidentally caught up in one such mass 
raid in 1968. Despite her being released as soon as they realised she was the 
Marcia Greveson, the incident had left her with a loathing of the way the 
"authorities" persecuted college students and teenagers/twenty-somethings 
in general because they were "soft targets" who could be used to fool the 
American public into thinking some politician's ineffectual "tough on crime" 
platform was actually working instead of the crock it really was. That 
attitude was one of Marcia's few good points, and she was a Rottweiler 
when it came to protecting Rainier University. 

Despite his absolute funk, Blair couldn't hold back a faint grin; half the kids 
he'd seen being arrested would have to be released without charge, and 
Marcia would eat the police alive –

He shrieked as he was suddenly grabbed and swung around. Instinctively he 
lashed out with his backpack, catching a large, military looking type with 
piercing blue eyes on the arm, and he staggered back as the other let go.

"HOLD IT, kid!" Jim barked. "This is a narcotics search and seizure." His 
uncertain temper began to rise as his arm started to hurt and he gave the 
Ellison Death Glare, guaranteed to have psychopaths blubbering for their 
mommies.

Except Blair was glaring right back. "I'm not a student, you neo-Nazi thug. 
I'm a TA here and your jackbooted thugs are in a world of trouble!"

"Yeah, right," Jim snapped, in no mood for a smart-ass. "Fine, kid. Cascade 
PD, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent-"

"Go to hell!" Blair whirled and began to stalk off, only for the cop's heavy 
hand to descended and crush his shoulder. "Get the hell off me, man! I'm 
gonna sue your ass six ways from Sunday –"

Jim lost it. Suddenly furious for a whole host of reasons, he grabbed the 
hippie and slammed him into the wall, perversely pleased when the 
backpack hit the floor with an ominous thud. The youth's hands came up to 
Jim's shoulders, pushing vainly, no match for Jim. "You neo-hippie punk! 
You have the right to remain SILENT –" he increased the pressure as if trying 
to push the kid into the wall, and proceeded to bellow his Miranda Rights 
into the punk's face before abruptly letting go and spinning the kid around, 
cuffing his hands behind him before he realised what was happening, picking 
up the backpack to be searched. 

As he marched the now totally silent kid through the halls back outside, 
however, Jim became aware of nagging disquiet. The kid's heartbeat was 
understandably fast, but not the blind panic of someone who'd just been 
caught with a major stash of illegal narcotics on him, nor, despite trying not 
to use his heightened senses, could Jim detect illegal narcotics. Most 
disquieting though was the kid's total lack of fear when faced with an 
Ellison that had sent hardened cops twice his height and double his weight 
looking for cover. Instead he kept tossing back his shoulder length mane of 
curls and glaring furiously at Jim as if the big detective was something nasty 
that he had just trodden in. Jim ignored the nagging at the back of his mind 
– the kid was guilty of something, that Jim knew. Innocent people did not 
run like rabbits at the sight of police officers in front of them. Once the 
punk was in a cold, bleak cell, he'd change his tune and Jim would find out 
what the hell he was into.

* * *

Jim pressed his hands briefly against his eyes as he waited for the aspirin to 
take effect. Once back at the station, the kids had been put through 
processing, and Jim had given discreet orders that he would interrogate 
curly-mop. The kid had come to life and insisted on his one phone call, 
which had been made to a woman at Rainier. Once he'd replaced the 
receiver, "Blair", as one of the other kids had whispered to him, had glared 
at the entire collective of police officers and loudly assured the students 
that everyone would be "okay". The way the aforementioned students 
instantly relaxed and visibly became more confident at this blasé assurance, 
from a kid surely younger than many of them, sent a bolt of profound 
unease right to the core of Jim's being, and his "spider-sense" started 
tingling to the extent that he had the kid put into Interrogation Room 4 
immediately.

His instincts were proved right. The kid's confiscated backpack and 
belongings held his ID, which confirmed that Blair Jacob Sandburg was 
indeed an undergraduate in Anthropology & Psychology and a Teaching 
Fellow at Rainier. The nagging familiarity of the woman's voice on the 
phone was solved when Jim heard Dean Edwards' enraged and very loud 
entrance into the precinct and recognised her furious tones instantly.

He stepped back into the Interrogation Room, knowing that Edwards would 
be tied up with reaming Capt. Goodwin and the entire Cascade PD new 
sphincters for several minutes. Blair Sandburg sat in the same position, 
clutching his returned backpack on his lap, a curious mixture of anxiety and 
anger. Apparently wise to the old trick of filling the suspect full of coffee or 
water and then denying them a lavatory, Sandburg had refused all offers of 
a drink. Jim sat down in the chair opposite him, deliberately dragging it 
across the floor, which elicited a silent sneer, and leaning back comfortably 
in it, folding his arms. 

Jim was legendary for his ability to sit and stare unblinkingly at a suspect 
for literally hours without moving or showing any sign he was alive. It 
unnerved even hardened thugs. Sandburg was clean as far as illegal 
narcotics went, but every "cop-ometer" Jim had was shrieking that 
something was up with the kid, he was too nervous. Jim was still adjusting 
that Sandburg was 28; he looked about 14.

"Teaching Fellow of Anthropology at Rainier," he commented at last, 
making a note on his pad with the pen. "How long have you been teaching 
there?" Let the kid think this was official, instead of a pure fishing 
expedition.

"This year, two months." The words were sullen and harsh.

"Previously?"

"Abroad."

For ten minutes Jim asked questions, some of them blunt, surrounding the 
use of narcotics at Rainier, but the kid was unshakeable and showed no 
fear. "I can't believe you're still pulling this crap in the 1990s," the youth 
snapped at him finally. "Half the kids out there were victims of illegal 
searches, man! Cascade PD is gonna get it's ass sued off when you could 
have spent that money catching real criminals, you know – murderers, 
rapists, paedophiles – instead of hassling people who use microscopic 
amounts of narcotics for their personal recreation!"

"Is that how you spend your personal recreation?" Jim pounced.

Blair rolled his eyes. "Oh man, I forgot that talking to cops is like trying to 
explain computers to Neanderthal Man – completely hopeless!"

Jim ignored the comments and continued, but nothing got through the kid's 
armour. Finally, hearing that Edwards had nearly finished chewing up and 
spitting out his "colleagues" outside, he admitted defeat. He wasn't going 
to have time to break the kid. Not wanting to give the kid the satisfaction of 
the last word, he sniped, "You look way too young to be a teacher."

Bingo! Jim blinked, completely flummoxed as the kid's heartbeat went into 
orbit at his throwaway comment. With inspiration, he deliberately reached 
out and opened up the kid's passport and studied it closely; he had no idea 
what he was looking for, since his eyes told him the thing was completely 
genuine, but now Sandburg was reacting as if Jim had just found two kilos of 
crack in his backpack. The kid's heart was thudding, his breathing rapid and 
shallow and he began to perspire heavily. Jim, aware that he was onto 
something big time, but utterly clueless as to what it was, closed the 
passport and slid it back across the table, aware of how Blair calmed down 
once the cop was no longer studying it. Okay, what just happened here, 
Ellison?

He wasn't given time to answer himself as Interrogation Room 4's door was 
yanked open and Dean Edwards swept into the room like a Valkyrie, rigid 
with outrage. You could almost see the wisps of smoke from her rage 
coming out of her nostrils and ears. "Mr Sandburg, are you all right?" Her 
voice was searing as she glared at Ellison.

"I'm fine, thank you, Dean Edwards." Blair rose gracefully, though he still 
clutched the backpack. "I think it would be best if we got the students back 
to Rainier."

With a deep breath, clearly wishing to unleash, but obviously considering 
the now silent students hanging on her every word, the Dean decided to 
exercise restraint. Within ten minutes, every student was released in the 
custody of the Dean and Mr Sandburg, and the precinct was empty. Feeling 
utterly drained, Ellison turned and looked at Captain Goodwin, who now 
looked like Deputy Dawg with toothache; the Captain glowered at Ellison's 
blatant "I told you so" glare.

* * *

Blair had always been an intuitive person, sensitive to the emotions of 
others from the cradle, according to Naomi. Roddy's hypothesis had been 
that the common denominator of Guides was that they were all to some 
extent empaths, able to literally feel the emotions of others, especially his 
or her Sentinel, in the classic science-fiction meaning of the word. Roddy 
had believed that the paucity of Sentinels was not because the gene for 
heightened senses was recessive (85% of the global population with at least 
1 enhanced sense showed exactly the opposite) but because the gene for 
being an empath was. During the summer of 1967, Roddy and Blair went on 
a road-trip across America, from Cascade down to Santa Fe, along the 
Southern States to Orlando, up diagonally to the Midwest, then across to 
New York and back to Cascade via Detroit and Seattle, for the sole purpose 
of allowing Roddy to test his prototype device that detected empathy, 
working on a principle similar to the lie detector. 

Working in tandem, Roddy checked empathy, Blair for heightened senses. In 
fourteen weeks they tested 3,000 people, two thirds of whom had at least 1 
heightened sense. In contrast, Roddy found only 150 that had even a hint of 
empathy, of which only 73 possessed measurable "fellow feeling" for other 
people, and only two were classified as empaths of any reasonable degree, 
even then neither was "strong enough" to be a Guide, that was, had the 
mental "oomph" to bring a Sentinel back out of the void of a zone-out. 

He and Roddy had dissected and argued the findings with each other for 
weeks, but their theory had to remain just that. Sir Richard Burton had been 
enraptured with his Sentinels to the exclusion of all else, including their 
Guides, who were given a brief mention only twice in his entire collected 
works. As a point of fact, back in 1969, Blair had increasingly found his 
former hero Burton highly irritating for the fact that he put in tantalising 
notes about some aspect of the Sentinel/Guide bond, but then went off on a 
tangent and never followed it up. The book and the rest of Burton's papers 
were filled with hints and ephemeral throw-away asides that were 
consequently ignored, like clues to a killer in a murder-mystery novel but 
you never got to find out whodunit. 

Burton had quoted extensively from the far more illuminating most (pre-
Burton) "authoritative work on the subject of Sentinels and their Guides", 
namely "Champions & Their Guardians" by the Greco-Roman scholar Iphicles 
Lucius Maximus. However, after waxing enthusiastically about this 'brilliant' 
authority on all things Sentinel throughout his entire book, Burton had 
waited to the last chapter before telling the reader that the entire volume, 
from which he had copied only excerpts, was believed to have been lost 
"somewhere in the Library of Warsaw" in 1849 when a drunken party of 
Russian sailors stormed the building and had great fun shoving uncatalogued 
books in every nook, cranny and random shelf they could find.

Due to all this possible empathy, Blair's spider-sense began to tingle when 
he received a personal summons to Dean Edwards office only three days 
after the drug-bust debacle had set her on the war-path. Entering her lair 
and taking a seat in front of her imposing, and genuine, 18th Century 
mahogany desk, he pasted an enquiringly polite expression on his face, 
realising how the wooden legs of his chair must have been meticulously 
shaved to make it infinitesimally lower down than hers, and how her 
offering him tea from obvious antique and extremely valuable bone china 
was supposed to make him nervous and on edge for fear of breaking 
something. It did, but he clamped down on his nerve endings.

Her repeated praise for his astute handling of the police raid debacle flowed 
over him as he waited for her to show her teeth. Finally, "The Mayor and I 
have decided that such an embarrassing fracas must never happen again."

Blair's heart slowly slithered down his boots and stayed there. The Mayor 
was Elizabeth Conrad, or Beastly Beth, as Blair had known her. In the same 
sorority as "Mardy Marcia" Greveson, she had been two years older than 
Blair and his fellow student, William Ellison, in fact her nephew. The mutual 
loathing of the pair was legendary and well reported on, as Blair knew from 
personal experience of accidentally getting caught in a couple of their 
battles. That unmitigated swine, the spiteful, vindictive, arrogant and 
stinking-rich Old Man Ellison had married twice. His blue-blooded first wife 
gave him only three daughters, the eldest of whom, Vivienne, was his equal 
and true heir in every way – but he would not accept a female as his heir, 
despite her being as harsh and conceited as himself.

When the first Mrs Ellison swanned off after Cascade's bitterest divorce 
battle, the three Misses Ellison found themselves living in splendour, but 
shunted aside when their father married for money, to Isabel Monterry, who 
gave him three sons in succession, the first two being twins, James and 
William himself, though James had died of some illness aged only ten. The 
animosity between the three elder girls and their half-sibling usurpers had 
reached irreparable proportions in Vivienne and her much younger sibling, 
William - no détente was possible. Ironically, Isabel Monterry proved to be 
just as bright and well-prepared as the Mrs Ellison she supplanted. While her 
chauvinistic father and misogynistic husband were arranging matters to suit 
themselves, Isobel undertook to ensure that her healthy inheritance stayed 
as her healthy inheritance. Old Man Ellison's fury was volcanic when he 
finally decided to dip into his wife's capital to buy his latest mistress a 
Ferrari only to find that Isabel had, in secret from him and her father, 
placed her entire fortune in unbreakable trusts  - but which also gave her a 
healthy annual income – for her children three weeks prior to the marriage 
and he had never had a hope of touching a cent of it. The deadly duo 
maintained separate households from then on; the damage had already been 
done, however. After the death of his twin, James, when they were both 
ten, William Ellison had been a harsh, emotionally crippled clone of the Old 
Man locked in perpetual battle with his cousin Elizabeth, raised on her 
mother Vivienne's poison since the cradle.

"…special liaison to the Cascade PD."

Blair tuned back in. "Ah, I'm not sure I follow…" he hedged.

Patiently, the Dean reiterated, "The Mayor and I have decided that to 
appoint a consultant to the Cascade PD, someone who can bring in a civilian 
perspective, and force reason to prevail. Congratulations, Blair."

Blair was vaguely aware of the huge tidal wave of panic that he was holding 
back by sheer force of will and managed an interrogative sound.

"We're aware of the inconvenience, therefore, the Mayor has released 
funds to employ you as a part-time Consultant to the Cascade PD for the 
next five years. I am pleased to inform you that the position will pay you a 
third again what your Teaching Fellow salary is. You will continue to teach 
Anthropology 101 and your other classes as part of your doctoral course. 
Maybe working for the PD will help you formulate your own dissertation 
submission." Her smile was edged now. 

"I don't….I-I-I can't…"

Mistaking his stumbling for awkward gratitude, Dean Edwards escorted him 
from her office. "All the details should be on your desk now if I know my 
secretary. I'm sure you'll do splendidly."

In a fog, Blair found himself at his desk in his 'office'. On the desk in front 
him were details of his new position. He picked them up, looked at them, 
dropped them and slowly lowered his head to bang it ritualistically on the 
desktop.

Wearily, he raised his head and looked at the paperwork. Officially, he was 
a "Special Consultant" without a specific portfolio to Cascade PD. Since, 
according to his fake Degree, he had minored in Psychology, he would be 
expected to undertake a profiler role generally speaking (thus saving the PD 
the cost of hiring an expensive FBI profiler). Blair's mother had taught him 
the ins and outs of psychology by the time he was six due to being 
constantly hassled by Social Services wherever she settled; she and Blair 
used to have bets before they entered each new town as to how long it 
would be some welfare agent turned up on the doorstep. One frustrated 
child therapist that the Social Services in one town insisted Blair visit during 
Naomi's residence had declared him "therapy proof" because the child had 
read – and understood – all the textbooks he had.  Peculiarly, none of those 
people had cared about the fact that Blair could read and write at 2, do 
statistics and calculus at 3, was fluent in 7 languages at 5, able to quote 
Shakespeare verbatim at 7, understand psychology textbooks at 9, argue 
philosophy at 11 and speak 15 languages at 12. All they cared about was 
that he was not part of a traditional middle-class middle-American "family".

Blair groaned anew. So he could handle the psychology part? Big deal! He, 
the biggest impostor in Cascade, hell, the state, was about to be taken into 
the bosom of the Cascade PD, where no doubt some industrious flunky's 
background check would blow his ID out of the water! Weariness seeped into 
his soul – he had no choice, he would have to skip town. Move somewhere 
far away where his fake ID could be changed for an even faker one, Mexico, 
or further South, and then try to eke out a living as a cook or caretaker…

"Blair?" 

He jumped as Eli Stoddard's nervous tones broke into his reverie. Pasting on 
a sickly smile, he said, "Sorry, E- Dr Stoddard. What can I do for you?"

The older man's face was pale and he shuffled. "Um, well, please don't 
think I was being devious, but I didn't tell you originally because you were 
under so much stress with the fire…"

Blair grabbed hold of his patience, knowing from experience that Eli would 
waffle on forever if he was anxious or upset.

"…your erroneous belief that Naomi is dead."

Blair abruptly tuned back in, little chills dancing across his skin as he 
registered what Eli had said. Erroneous. To err. To be in error. Mistake, 
incorrect. To be wrong about. "Naomi….?"

"Is alive, yes," burbled Eli. "I thought you had the right to know as she is 
your grandmother, and if I've understood you correctly, your only living 
relative –"

Mama? "Eli!" Blair consciously moderated his voice as the loud tone made 
himself jump as well as Eli. "Naomi was 46 when I – when my father – died 
in 1969, and that was 28 years ago. She would have died by now…"

Eli laughed. "Goodness Blair, of course she wouldn't! This is the 1990s. 
Nowadays it's common for people to live into their 90s or early 100s! I 
remember that your grandmother was as healthy as a horse and she took 
care of her body! She's only 74 now, and will probably live another twenty 
years! Your mother sold her apartment and voluntarily moved to 
Beechwoods Retirement Village eight years ago. I haven't seen her in a 
while, true, but as far as I know, she's still living there!"