Notes: This is an AU,
however only in the sense that Jim and Blair *meet* under vastly different
circumstances. But they end up in the same place. This takes place several weeks
before The Switchman, hence, Jim is driving the same Jeep he had in that
episode.
My thanks to Greenwoman, who did her usual stellar job of
betaing and also to Virginia and Frost, who did the beautiful illos. And thanks
to Virginia for hosting this online novel and doing all the formatting and
designing!
In addition, my thanks go out to everyone on TSLurkers, especially to Dolimir and Autumn who came up with the gifts that Blair purchased for Jim, and the wonderful idea for the book. You guys are what this fandom is all about - sharing, kindness, honesty and--friendship. Thank you.
Two Faces
by Alyjude
Chicago,
Illinois
The
man stepped out of his hotel room and hitched his bag higher up on his shoulder.
He bent down and picked up the free USA Today, rolled it up, stuck it under his
arm and started down the hall. At the elevator he waited patiently while a small
boy, belonging to the family of four standing not so patiently in front of the
door, punched the up and down buttons relentlessly. Fortunately the elevator had
a mind of its own and the down light came on. Seconds later, a bright, cheery
ping signaled the arrival of the elevator.
The tall, rangy,
brown-haired, blue-eyed man let the family precede him, then he got on, punched
the *L* and they were on their way down.
At the lobby, the family
hustled their way out, the father picking up the rambunctious button -punching
boy. As the four moved away, the tall man moved to the counter to check out. The
clerk took his key card, murmured the usual platitudes about hoping he'd enjoyed
his stay, then presented him with his receipt. Pocketing it, he moved away and
headed for the exit to the underground
garage.
"JIM!"
Turning at the sound of his name, the
man spotted a tall redhead rushing toward him. He stopped and smiled as he
waited for the redhead.
"Man, I'm glad I caught you. Mardoni forgot
to give this to you the other night."
Jim took the offered package,
turned it in his fingers, then glanced up, a frown marring his handsome
features.
"What is it, Buck?"
"Damned if I know. He
just said give it to your boss. He also said to thank him for loaning you out.
Maybe it's a thank you gift?"
Looking skeptical, Jim said, "Oh,
sure." Then he held it up to his ear and grinned. "Well, it ain't ticking so it
must be safe."
The man called Buck slapped Jim on the back and
chuckled. "Come on, you know Mardoni worships your boss. You take care and
hopefully we'll see each other again. Have a good flight."
"Thanks
Buck. Watch your back."
"Always, always."
The two men
shook, then Jim took his leave after stuffing the small package in the pocket of
his bag. Once in the garage he headed for the rental, a Ford Taurus. After
stowing his luggage in the backseat he slid in behind the wheel, started up and
carefully backed out. He made a left onto the street and headed for the
airport.
Traffic on the expressway was light and he made
surprisingly good time. At this rate, he'd have better than two hours
before his flight would be called. Time to make a call to Rainier. Ahead
of him and one lane to his right, an SUV bounced merrily along, completely
unaware of both loose and missing lug nuts. As the SUV hit 70mph, the last of
the lug nuts spun away and the tire flew off. At the same moment, the Volkswagen
in front of the Taurus moved over one lane to the left, leaving the Taurus
vulnerable to the flying missile that the tire had become.
Jim
spotted the black object far too late. It smashed into the driver's side of the
windshield. There was an explosion of safety glass, incredible pain--and Jim
knew nothing else.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seattle,
Washington
Carl Levy stared at the fax in his hand. This was
fucking unbelievable. Talk about breaks. Rushing out of the communications
room, he went first to his office, rifled through his files, spotted the one he
needed, grabbed it, then nearly ran to the Director's
office.
"Janet, I need to see him. *Now*."
The woman
frowned, then picked up the phone. "Sir, Agent Levy is here and says he
must--"
"Tell him it's about Morrison."
"He says it's
about Morrison." She nodded and put down the phone. "Go on in,
Carl."
"Thanks."
FBI Agent Carl Levy moved into
Director Phillips' office, a huge smile on his face.
"Well, you
look pretty happy, Carl. Some magical informant pop up that will help us put
Morrison behind bars for the rest of the century?"
"Better sir,
better. His number one man was just killed in a freak accident in Illinois. My
counterpart in the Chicago office was on it right away and has put the kibosh on
any information leaking out. We have the opportunity of a
lifetime."
Director Robert Phillips, twenty-nine years with the
Federal Bureau of Investigation, frowned as he regarded one his best agents.
"How does the death of James O'Keefe deliver the opportunity of a lifetime to
us, Carl?"
Opening the manila folder in his hand, Carl took out an
eight by ten glossy and set it down in front of his boss. "This is how,
sir."
Phillips stared at the picture before him. His frown
deepened.
"Explain."
"That
is a photograph of Detective James Joseph Ellison. Major Crime detective out of
Cascade. He made quite a stir in law enforcement a couple of weeks ago when he
shut down the Sunrise Patriots."
"Yes, I remember. Kincaid got away
though."
"Thanks to some bumbling by our own field office in
Cascade, sir."
"Always the blunt one, Levy?"
Carl
shrugged. "The truth is the truth, sir. And with Morrison opening up his
operation in Cascade, well, you have to admit, we truly have a golden
opportunity here."
"Are you suggesting we put Detective Ellison in
Morrison's operation as Jim O'Keefe?"
"Yes, sir, that's *exactly*
what I'm suggesting. Here's the man's file and he's perfect. Ex-Army Ranger,
Covert Operations, and a record with Major Crime that more than speaks for
itself. We can get him ready, sir, I'm certain of it."
"And how do
we buy the necessary time?"
"Well, nature has already supplied us
with some of it. A storm just moved in and all flights out of O'Hare are
grounded. The estimates stand at forty-eight hours, maybe more. If we move
now--"
"Go. You're in charge, Carl. Make it
happen."
Carl Levy smiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cascade,
Washington
"Simon, there are two FBI agents here to see
you."
Captain Simon Banks glanced up from his paperwork in
surprise. Two FBI agents and no phone call?
"All right, Rhonda,
show them in."
The tall blonde nodded, then stepped aside, allowing
two men to enter Simon's office. Before she could say a word, the taller of the
two stepped forward, hand extended. "Captain Banks, Carl Levy and
this is Agent Sheffield from the local office."
Simon stood and as
he shook with both men, he said, "And to what do I owe this
visit?"
Shooting a glance at Rhonda, who still stood by the door,
Levy said, "If we could have some priv--"
"Rhonda, thank you. Hold
my calls."
"Yes, sir."
The moment the door shut, Carl
Levy started right in.
"Captain Banks, I'm from the Seattle office
and one of my cases involves the Morrison Family."
One eyebrow
arched as Simon whistled. "Morrison, eh? We've been getting a few rumors around
town about the man."
"The rumors are true. He's moving his
operation into Cascade. And we have been given the ace of spades, sir. The
method to bring him down. But we need your help."
"I'm
listening."
"Morrison's number one man was killed earlier today in
Chicago. A traffic accident. His name was James O'Keefe."
Simon
frowned. The name was completely unfamiliar and he prided himself on his ability
to stay current with any possible threats to his city. Levy, seeing the
frown and correctly interpreting it, said, "Don't worry about not knowing who
O'Keefe was. He was a master of keeping to the shadows and until a several weeks
ago, was in South America. Morrison pulled him out to put him in charge of
Cascade. And this is where you come in."
Levy set his briefcase on the
edge of Simon's desk, popped it open and removed two pictures which he promptly
laid in front of Banks. Pointing at the one on the right, he said, "O'Keefe."
Then he pointed at the one on the left and said, "Ellison."
Simon
sucked in a breath. The resemblance was astonishing.
"Holy
shit."
"Yes, sir," Carl Levy said with a
grin.
Jim Ellison stood on the
sidewalk rubbing his ungloved hands together, trying to get warm. Beside him,
Henri Brown moved from foot to foot, his impatience obvious.
"The
men's room is just inside, Brown."
"Yuk-yuk,
Ellison."
In front of them, two cars sat nicely wrapped around each
other, smoke drifting up, colored by the whirling red and white lights of squad
cars that now surrounded the collision site. Glass crunched under foot as
firemen worked to pry the bodies out and crime scene investigators walked about
snapping pictures from all angles.
"Banks is gonna have our asses,
Ellison."
"Why? We stopped them, didn't we? And isn't your car
intact?" At Brown's nod, Jim went on. "Yeah, and so is mine. We managed to keep
the city safe while ensuring that the only people those guys took out--were each
other. I'd say a job well done."
Brown couldn't argue with the
logic. He'd leave that to their captain.
A chirp from Ellison's
pocket alerted both men to the fact that maybe their boss had already been
informed of the high speed chase that had resulted in the crash they were
staring at now. Jim took out the cell phone, flipped it open and said tersely,
"Ellison."
<<I need you back here, pronto. Wrap it up,
Detective.>>
"Already have, sir. Mendoza, Rawlings, and Hernandez
won't be giving us any more problems."
A sigh on the other end told
Jim that Simon had figured out that he wasn't gonna want hear about the hows and
whys.
<<Get back here, now.>>
"On my way,
sir."
Smiling, pocketed the phone. "Looks like I'm leaving this in
your capable hands, Brown. See you back at the
station."
"Asshole."
"Yep."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As Jim drove back to the
station, he tried to ignore the signs of Christmas that already adorned the
streets and buildings, even though it wasn't even December. God, he hated the
holidays. At least Major Crime had so far managed to escape. No one had set up
so much as a reindeer--yet.
He pulled into the garage, then his
parking space. As he climbed out of his Jeep, he tossed the keys into the air,
then caught them neatly. It had been a good day. A day when the bad guys had
lost. And even though he'd had to work with Brown, well, still, not bad at
all.
Whistling, he stepped into the elevator and as the door closed
with its characteristic chime, he winced. His senses again. Damn. Just when he
believed he hand a handle on them--they spiked. Fuck. If only he could make them
disappear--
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"There are a few things you
need to know about Ellison. He's a loner, rarely works with a partner and is
barely controllable. He's a good man, one of the best detectives I've ever
worked with, but he likes to do things his way."
"Captain Banks, he's
going to be deeply undercover. The person you just described is the person
we need."
Giving Levy a skeptical look, Simon simply said,
"Huh-uh."
A knock on the door forestalled any response. A second
later, Jim stuck his head in and said, "Sir, you wanted me?"
Simon
stood and motioned the man inside. "Jim, this is Agent Levy from the Seattle
office of the FBI and this is Agent Sheffield from our local
office."
Jim stepped in, and immediately scowled, his customary
expression when dealing with the Feds. Simon motioned Jim to sit but he shook
his head and stepped to the edge of his boss's desk, where he folded his arms
across his chest and waited.
Simon coughed a bit, then said, "It
seems these gentlemen have a possible way of bringing down Morrison. It also
appears that those rumors about the man moving into Cascade are true,
Jim."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"So what you're saying is
that I go in as O'Keefe?"
Levy nodded. "Basically, that's it. You
know what we need to bring the man down. You're our ace in the hole, Detective.
And O'Keefe has absolutely *no* relatives. Up until about three months ago, he
was in Bolivia running the drug pipeline into the States. He has no friends
here, no one that can trip you up. Only five people here even know the man.
Morrison himself, Morrison's lawyer, Able Donovan, Morrison's bodyguard, Tony
Cohan, his chauffer, Joe Wiley, and Morrison's second in command, Jeff Leahy. We
have time to bring you up to speed, Captain Banks has agreed, Detective. All we
need is you."
Jim fingered the picture of his look-alike. The only
real difference between the two was the hair. O'Keefe wore it short, in a
military brush cut. Jim had worn his hair the same way in the Army. According to
the paperwork, O'Keefe had no scars to speak of, nothing that would tip anyone
off. And he *was* a dead ringer for Ellison. And the opportunity
to bring
down Morrison? Oh, yeah.
"You got me,
gentlemen."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For two days the storm
raged and for two days, O'Hare was shut down. For two days, Jim Ellison was
penned up in a motel room near the Cascade Airport with Levy, Sheffield and at
Simon's insistence, Simon himself. If this was going to happen, if Jim
Ellison was going under cover, it would be with Major Crime in
charge.
The Feds were so eager for this to happen that they readily
agreed. And of course, thanks to the fiasco with Garett Kincaid and the Sunrise
Patriots, they were in a position to owe Major Crime.
Now Jim was
learning everything there was to know about James O'Keefe. And it wasn't
much.
O'Keefe was close in age to Jim and had been born in Los
Angeles, California, the only child of Melinda O'Malley and Sean O'Keefe, a
small numbers runner. O'Keefe went to Lakewood High School, graduated top of his
class, then went on to UCLA where he mastered in economics and minored in
chemistry. Like Jim, he'd served time with the military, in his case; the
Navy.
It was while in the Navy that he received word that his
parents were dead; victims of a fire that swept through their home. Arson was
suspected, but never proved. In 1985, O'Keefe left the Navy and ended up in
South America. It was common knowledge that it was in Bolivia that he'd met up
with Tommy Morrison.
In '85, Morrison was second to Brian
Fitzsimmons, the leader of a weakening Irish crime family. It was Morrison's
idea to move the family's drug business into the Pacific Northwest and the idea
proved to be a boon to the family's coffers. When Fitzsimmons was killed in an
ambush supposedly organized by the Corona family, Morrison took over. And a
bloodbath followed. Seattle took months to recover.
O'Keefe, for
the most part, remained in South America and the Morrison drug operation ran
smoother than many believed possible. And now, they were getting ready to move
into Cascade.
Jim learned and memorized.
When O'Hare
Airport was reopened, Jim Ellison was ready. He now wore his hair in same brush
cut, had an entire new wardrobe and with some clever FBI intervention, a man by
the name of James O'Keefe supposedly boarded flight 238 out of O'Hare for
Cascade on Tuesday, at 10:30 in the morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"When is he due
in?"
"Six thirty, Tommy."
"You'll have a car waiting
for him?"
"Of course."
"Call Rainier. Let's have his
*fun* here and waiting for him. He's been gone awhile and he deserves
it."
Jeff Leahy, a short, thick, black Irishman, nodded. "Will
do."
Tommy Morrison grinned and downed his glass of single malt
liquor. "You know, O'Keefe would be a perfect Irishman otherwise. You know that,
don'cha Jeffy?"
"Nearly perfect otherwise. Although, his toy is
something special, you gotta admit."
"Do I have to start worrying
about you now, Jeff?"
"I think I'll go make that
call."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair Sandburg hurried
across campus, but not so fast that he couldn't enjoy the fall air, the changing
colors of the trees, or the decorations that had begun to spring up around the
university. Ahead of him, adorning the brick walls of Hargrove Hall, were two
huge green wreaths and bordering the double doors, a garland of greenery. Yep,
the holidays were here.
He breathed in deeply and smiled. He'd had
three whole weeks of peace. Three weeks of being able to pretend his life
was normal. Three weeks of uninterrupted school, studying and--nights. He prayed
they'd continue.
Maybe--indefinitely.
Blair charged up
the steps, burst through the doors, turned left and headed to his office. Or
should he say, the store room that served as his office? As he walked down the
hall, students passed him, some nodding, some mumbling a quick, "Howdy,
professor" or "Hey, there, teach!" and some just smiling.
Blair
wasn't a professor--yet, but he was a teaching fellow and his students loved
teasing him by calling him *Professor*. Although he was well aware that they
called him the little professor behind his back. It was said with affection and
it didn't bother him. He *was* short. At five foot seven and one hundred and
forty-five pounds, well, hey, he was happy with who he was--most of the
time.
As he approached his door, he grinned. His makeshift
nameplate welcomed him. A piece of cardboard that proclaimed in his broad
scrawl: Blair Sandburg.
He let himself in just as his phone started
to ring. Throwing down his books, he reached, snagged the receiver and said,
"Sandburg."
<<A car will pick you up tonight at five thirty.
Be ready.>>
A few words, a voice he hated and Blair's happy
mood was gone. A click told him the man on the other end had hung up. Slowly
Blair put the phone down. He noted absently that his hand was
shaking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We've
hit a snag, Captain Banks."
Simon turned to stare at Levy. They
were minutes away from opening the gate on the operation and those were not the
words Banks wanted to hear. Jim was dressed and ready and in less than ten
he'd be leaving for the airport. Simon glanced away from Levy to Jim, who rolled
his eyes.
Levy moved toward Simon, his hand holding out a sheet of
paper just taken from the fax machine. Simon stared at it as if it were a
snake.
"Something was found in O'Keefe's wallet. Something we can't
explain."
Jim stepped to Simon's side and peered down at the paper.
His icy blue eyes widened. He and Simon were looking at a picture of a young
man. An incredibly beautiful young man.
"Where in the wallet--"
"In the rear slot,
Captain Banks. Tucked in tight. Nothing on the back, no name, nothing to give us
a clue. We don't know who he is. This could be a problem."
For a
reason he'd never be able to explain, Jim couldn't stop looking at the photo.
The face was young, the eyes light. Jim would guess blue, maybe slightly darker
than his own. The young man smiled up at Jim, capturing him completely. Long
hair curled wildly, its length just below the young man's square jaw. Thick full
lips grinned, and in one ear, two hoops beckoned.
"What do we do,
Levy?" Simon asked, clearly worried.
"We're doing what we can to
find out who he is, but so far, we've got zip. And as you can see, there's
nothing in that picture to tell us where it was taken. Just
trees."
"I noticed. I'm betting they're green trees too. The world
is full of them." Simon glanced down at the photo again and said, "Could it be a
fluke? A nothing? Insignificant?"
"Doubtful, Captain. O'Keefe
wasn't into insignificant."
"Maybe a target?"
"That's
possible, but O'Keefe wasn't an
enforcer."
Simon glanced to his
right. "Jim? It's up to you now. Do we pull the plug?"
Eyes still
fixed on the picture, Jim shook his head. "No."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim waited. His *flight*
was due to land in minutes and when it did, he would join the crowd streaming
down to the baggage claim area. O'Keefe's luggage had been removed from the
wrecked car and checked in by an agent who, from a distance, looked enough like
O'Keefe to pass. That same agent had boarded the flight and upon arrival in
Cascade, would turn left as the deplaning crowd turned right. Said agent would
then board another flight back to Chicago and Jim Ellison would become Jim
O'Keefe.
All of O'Keefe's personal effects were in the luggage and
Jim would take a few minutes before meeting the limo to pull out the wallet--and
check a certain picture that had been returned to its spot in the wallet. A
picture that continued to haunt him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair ran down the hall of
the warehouse, knowing what being late could cost him. He skidded to a stop in
front of the freight elevator, stepped inside, pulled down the barrier and
punched the button. Two minutes later, he rolled the barrier back up and stepped
out, then walked to the side door and unlatched it.
The car was
waiting for him. Without thought, he automatically slowed down. A man got out of
the driver's side and opened the back door of the limo. It was empty. Blair
sighed in relief. His bag was taken from him as he got in. The driver slid in
behind the wheel, the divider was raised and Blair was alone.
He
rested his head back against the soft leather and closed his eyes. It never
ceased to amaze him, all the things he could get himself into. Blair felt
the usual knot of fear and anxiety in the pit of his stomach and started
meditating. At times like these, he hated himself. It never occurred to him that
he should hate someone else.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim stepped onto the
escalator with the rest of the passengers from the O'Hare flight. So far, all
had gone according to plan. At the bottom, he turned right with everyone else,
then walked the few steps to the American Airlines carousel. He had a
description of the bag and as the various pieces of luggage tumbled out the
chute, he was grateful for his enhanced vision. He spotted the tag immediately.
As the black bag came within reach, he snagged it and slipped the strap over his
shoulder, then headed for the
men's room.
He moved to an empty
stall, stepped in and locked it. Then he unzipped a side compartment and pulled
out the wallet. Before putting it in his pocket, he searched--and found--the
picture. It was in color.
Blue eyes. He'd been right. Incredible
blue eyes. His vision picked up at least fifty different shades of red, black
and brown in the curly hair. And it was only a photograph. One dimensional.
Flat. And yet, the young man staring up at him was anything but flat or one
dimensional. Slowly Jim replaced the photo, stuck the wallet in his rear pocket
and headed out to a waiting limo and his temporary new
life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair was surprised when
they didn't take the Price Street off-ramp--which meant that he wasn't being
delivered to Jim's apartment. And that
meant--Morrison's.
Fuck.
He reached forward and opened
the bar. A decanter of amber liquid sat in its cubbyhole, two glasses on either
side. He poured himself a stiff one and downed it in one gulp. Then he poured
another one.
Twenty minutes later the limo turned left, drove up a
short driveway and stopped at a large electronic gate--which opened almost
immediately. The car drove through, then up and around a circular driveway to
stop in front of a wide porch.
Tommy Morrison's home was a
two-story Georgian mansion on three acres of pricey land on the outskirts of
Cascade. Blair hated the house. Even now, staring up at it, his stomach
threatened to revolt. It had been here that he'd innocently come to visit his
mother and her newest boyfriend and it had been here where he'd first been
introduced to Jim O'Keefe.
A face from a dream. A handsome,
chiseled face with pale blue eyes. The dream that had been a part of Blair's
life from his first anthropological expedition to South America, Peru to be
exact.
He'd been working in the Chopec Valley and the dream came on
his first night. He'd been running in the jungle, his skin tingling with the
warm tropical air. He wore no clothes, his hair wild and free. And along side
him ran a coal black jaguar. Eventually they came to a stop and ahead of them--a
temple. The jaguar shifted shape and slowly became a man. A man whose face now
haunted Blair's waking life. But back then, the beauty of the man had taken
Blair's breath away. Eyes so sky blue that he'd believed he could see the earth
below in them and a smile so special, so warm and loving that Blair had
immediately moved into open arms.
The man in his dreams never left him
from that first night and Blair held the hope in his heart that the dream was a
harbinger of his future.
Little did he know.
When the
*face* had been introduced to him, well, Jim O'Keefe had turned out to be
Blair's worse nightmare. The face was there, but so far there'd been no loving
and warm smile. Only pain and humiliation.
Blair squared his
shoulders and followed the chauffer inside.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Hey, toy, good to see you
again. You know where to go. Best get yourself ready, he'll be here in about two
hours."
At that moment, Blair Sandburg would have liked nothing
better than to smash his fist through Jeff Leahy's face. But that would simply
have bought him more trouble than he already had. Ignoring the man, Blair moved
up the stairs, walked down the hall to the first bedroom and walked inside,
shutting the door behind him.
He wasn't surprised to find his duffel on
the bed--open. Wiley had undoubtedly searched it thoroughly.
Slowly
Blair sank down on the edge of the king size bed and dropped his head in his
hands.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was strange. The entire
drive to Morrison's home had not been spent planning or rehearsing. Jim had
spent the entire ride wondering about the face. The photo. Who the hell was he?
And if he showed up, what would Jim do? And why would a man like O'Keefe have
such a picture in his wallet?
But Jim thought he knew the answer to
that. Because--*he* would have that man's picture in *his* wallet. In fact, he
intended to keep the picture when this assignment was over.
Jim
snapped his fingers. That was the answer. Apparently Jim O'Keefe and Jim Ellison
had more in common than their faces.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim followed Wiley into the house, grateful now for all the
floor plans and pictures he'd been forced to devour. He felt as if he knew the
house inside out. He watched Wiley head upstairs and knew that he would drop his
luggage off in the first bedroom; the room where O'Keefe stayed whenever he
remained overnight.
"Jimmy, you're looking good."
Jim
turned to find himself facing--Tommy Morrison. The man was walking toward him, a
smile gracing his handsome Irish features.
Morrison was tall,
almost as tall as Simon Banks. He had a thatch of hair the color of burnished
copper and green eyes that were now twinkling at Jim. The sprinkling of freckles
across the pug nose had fooled many a man into believing Morrison to be
harmless. Most men found out the hard way just how harmless he
wasn't.
Jim allowed himself to taken into a bear hug, then the two broke
apart.
"It's good to see you, to have you back,
Jimmy."
"Good
to be back, Tommy."
"The windy city too much for you, Jimmy?"
Morrison said with a grin.
One of the few things that *was* known
about O'Keefe was his hatred of the cold. Jim gave a mock shiver and said, "I
could have used more sunshine."
"Aw, poor boy. At least now you're
back in good old Cascade. Much warmer, eh?" Morrison joked.
"Oh,
yeah. Much," Jim said sarcastically.
"At least no wind chill in the
double minus numbers, Jimmy boy."
The new voice came from behind
Jim and he turned. Jeff Leahy was walking toward him, his expression one of
superiority. As he got closer, he said, one eyebrow arched, "Your toy is
upstairs--ready and waiting, Jimmy, me boyo."
Jim didn't have a
clue to what Leahy might be talking about, but fortunately, Morrison
interrupted.
"Jeff, make yourself scarce. Jimmy and I have things
to discuss."
The command was friendly, but a command nevertheless.
Jeff shrugged and walked out of the living room. When he disappeared, Morrison
took Jim's arm and led him to one of the couches that flanked the large and lit
fireplace. Sitting him down, he said, "I believe you have something for me,
Jimmy boy?"
Eternally grateful to the curious Feds who'd found a
small package in O'Keefe's luggage and had opened it, then deciphered that it
was a gift for Morrison, Jim reached into his jacket pocket and took the item
from where he'd put it while still in the men's room of the airport. He held it
out to his *boss*.
Morrison took it and to Jim's disappointment,
dropped it into the pocket of the cream colored cable knit sweater he wore. The
Feds might have correctly deduced the package to be a gift, but its significance
was unknown and apparently--for awhile longer--would remain
so.
"I'm very glad to have you back, Jimmy. Now why don't you go
upstairs and--rest."
Jim didn't miss the emphasis on the word *rest* and
again found himself wondering. But then Morrison went on.
"I have a
special dinner menu planned for your return and we'll be sitting down at nine.
That should give you enough time. Go. Enjoy. We'll talk later."
As
close as Morrison and O'Keefe were purported to be, Jim understood that he'd
just been dismissed. He rose, smiled, was taken back into another bear hug, then
when released, he headed up to--his--room.
He was half-way up the
stairs when he stopped dead.
Breathing.
In his
room.
Someone was--in his room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim walked the rest of the way up cautiously as he tried to
concentrate on the heartbeat--
Fast.
Too
fast.
And--fear. As Jim drew closer he could actually smell
it--pungent and acrid--and that surprised the hell out of him. He knew that no
one could be in his room that didn't belong. Morrison's house was guarded better
than Fort Knox. So--
The toy.
Jim turned the door
handle, pushed open the door and came face-to-face with--the picture. The
same square jaw, the electric blue eyes, the curly hair framing the beautiful
face--
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair stood on the balcony waiting. He'd spotted the arrival
of the limo and had watched as Jim climbed out and walked indoors. It wouldn't
be long now. He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods that had, up to now,
ignored him. But even as he prayed, he knew that freedom could only be purchased
with a death. And the only death he'd accept would be his own.
He
heard the door open and knowing his place in this house, he turned and stepped
back inside. The moment Jim walked in, Blair started for the bed, fingers
already working at the buttons of his shirt--
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim watched in amazement as the young man walked to the bed,
fingers busy with buttons.
What the hell?
Moments later the
man was naked and pulling back the bedspread. When the bed was ready, he walked
over to Jim and started undoing his belt buckle.
Jim was paralyzed.
This was not what--
No, that was a lie. All the clues had been
there and Jim had been right. He and O'Keefe *did* have more in common
that their first names and faces. But he couldn't let this happen--and yet--if
he didn't, he could very well give himself away. This was obviously expected and
the norm.
As the young man stood close, fingers working at his
zipper, Jim could smell everything about him. He inhaled deeply and even the
fear couldn't keep out the inherent scent of the man.
Wait.
Fear.
This was not a man who was
doing what he--wanted--to be doing. Or was fear a part of the game? The man
moved with assurance, but there'd been no sign of pleasure or welcome in the
depths of those blue eyes. What the fuck was going on?
The answer
became evident as the slender man dropped down, bringing Jim's slacks and boxers
with him. Shit, he was going to--
Jim had to stop him. But how? How
could he without tipping his hand? Without giving the game
away?
His dick was not of the same opinion that anything had to
stop. It was eagerly bouncing free and Jim felt himself flush red. Fortunately
the young man, now on his knees in front of him, was too busy to
notice.
Breathing so loud it filled his ears, Jim felt himself
drowning in sensations. He tried to focus elsewhere, *anywhere*, but when those
lips closed around the head of his dick and he felt the man's thumbs rubbing
gently on his the soft skin of his inner thigh--he was
lost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair realized almost immediately that something was wrong.
Where one moment Jim was responding--electrically so--now
nothing.
Blair let the suddenly unresponsive cock slip from his
mouth and glanced up. Shocked by what he saw, he immediately
rose.
Jim was staring vacantly ahead, mouth slightly open. His
breathing seemed normal, but when Blair waved a hand in front of his
face--nothing happened. Not even a blink.
Jesus. What the
hell?
Blair stepped back and thought. Epilepsy? No, he'd have
known. Jim took no medications on a regular basis.
This was
ridiculous.
Blair moved back and without thinking, took Jim's hand
and placed it over his heart. Blair held the hand to his chest and
waited.
Slowly, color started to return to Jim's face; he blinked,
closed his mouth, then opened it and said, "What the hell?"
Blair
let go of Jim's hand and waited. Blue eyes blinked in confusion and Blair
frowned. The face--so different at the moment. Almost vulnerable and--and--soft.
Then Jim looked at him and the eyes went to ice. This was more like it. This was
the Jim O'Keefe he knew.
"What happened?"
"I don't
know, Jim. You seemed to just--faze out. Has this ever happened
before?"
Jim closed his eyes. The voice. Like--honey. Thick, warm,
rich, dark honey. He shook his head but knew it was a lie. This *had*
happened--several times. But fortunately some loud noise always brought him out
of it. And so far, he'd always been alone.
Footsteps approached out
in the hall and Jim quickly brought up a finger and rested it against the man's
lips, then cocked his head to listen. Somehow, the young man knew to keep
quiet.
The steps stopped in front of the door and Jim recognized
the aftershave belonging to Leahy.
Blair watched the intent manner
in which Jim seemed to be--listening? He turned his head toward the door and
cocked his own head. But he heard nothing. Blair looked back at Jim and
waited.
Leahy moved away from the door and continued down the hall.
Jim waited until the footsteps faded, then returned his attention to the young
man.
"He's
gone."
"Who?"
"Leahy."
"You know he's a
pervert. He likes to listen. Gets off on it. But how did you
know--"
"I heard his footsteps. Couldn't you smell his aftershave?
He must load it on with shovels."
Blair couldn't help the smile
that tugged at the corners of his mouth. The fact that Jim and Leahy
weren't friends was no secret, but Jim had never talked about the man like that
before. "Yeah, well. So I take it he's gone now?"
"His own
room."
"Well, then, shall I go back to where we left
off?"
The question was not asked erotically, it was simply asked.
Jim checked his watch. It was a little after eight. Dinner was at
nine.
"No. Tommy has dinner planned for nine. I'm grungy and could
use a shower. I figure we have enough time to get ready and that's
it."
Blair hid his shock at Jim's answer. A break for him, but
definitely unusual. Maybe--his prayers had finally been answered? Maybe O'Keefe
was finally tiring of him?
"All right. What do you want to
wear?"
Jim stared down at the man, flummoxed by the question. The
man was already moving toward the closet.
"You pick it out. I'm
going into the bathroom."
It was apparently the right thing to say
as the kid nodded and started rifling through the clothes. Jim stepped into the
bathroom and shut the door, then leaned against it and closed his eyes. This was
not going well.
After a moment, he pushed himself away and started
the water. He really did need a shower, if for no other reason than to give
himself time to collect his thoughts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair laid out the dinner jacket, the shirt and slacks, then
the picked up the boxers and carried them into the bathroom. Jim was already in
the shower so he set the clean underwear down on the closed toilet seat, opened
the stall door and stepped in. He didn't look at Jim, just picked up the soap
and washcloth and started to bathe the man.
For Jim, it took all
his will power and strength *not* to jump several feet into the air when the
door opened and the kid stepped in and started to wash him. What the hell was he
supposed to do *now*?
Competent hands moved over his body,
soothing, working out the tenseness as the soft cloth worked over his skin. He
was going crazy. He had to stop this and yet he couldn't. Dared
not.
"Bend down."
Jim couldn't have refused that voice
even if he tried. He bent at his waist and the young man began to wash his hair.
Fingers and thumbs massaging his scalp, his temple, behind his
ears--
Bliss.
"Turn around."
Jim did as
instructed and the nozzle was removed as the man began the process of rinsing
Jim off, from head to toe.
"Bend down again."
He did
and this time a conditioner was added to his hair and rubbed in--luxuriously
rubbed in. Then the kid took the washcloth again and adding a bit more soap,
began to wash Jim's genitals. Softly, gently, knowingly. This was so wrong--and
so fucking right.
No one's hands had ever felt this good. No one.
When the kid was done, he rinsed Jim off again, then began to wash himself. When
he was soaped up, he handed the shampoo to Jim and like a lamb being led to the
slaughter, Jim took it. He squeezed some out onto
his palm and without so
much as a blink, began to do what he'd wanted from the moment the kid stepped
into the shower: he shampooed the younger man's hair.
Blair turned
at one point so that his back was to Jim and almost on auto pilot, Jim brought
the pliant body into his own and continued to massage the thick curly hair. The
silky strands teased him and played hide and seek with his fingers, sometimes
wrapping themselves around him and he relished the feel and texture of the
hair.
Gradually, his hands, almost of their own volition, moved
down to the man's chest and Jim began to shampoo the curling hair that spread
out across the surprisingly broad expanse of skin. Eventually, he moved lower
still, to the arrow of hair that led to the younger man's groin. Then his
fingers were in curling pubic hair and his sudsy hand was stroking the cock that
sprang to life under his ministrations.
Blair's eyes popped open as he realized what was happening.
He was--responding. Without thought, without his usual fantasy. The man behind
him was gentle and sensual and it had never been like this. By now, Jim would
have taken him roughly, with pain and force, biting and thrusting so hard that
Blair would be certain the man's dick would force its way through Blair's
stomach. But this--this was--different.
Warm water sluiced over him
and his body was turned and suddenly Jim's lips were over his and a warm tongue
was pushing its way inside his mouth and Blair knew that this *was* his fantasy.
Jim *was* pounding into him, but with his tongue and Blair's fantasy had become
so good, so real, that it was all he knew--
The kiss went on and
fingers delved into his crevice, teasing, and he found himself moaning into
Jim's mouth, his own hands now exploring, running up the back of Jim's neck,
pulling the head down, intensifying the kiss.
Steam swirled around
them, the scent of soft pine and mild sage enveloping the two men as the water
continued down--
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim needed more. He wound his arm around the slick waist
and hitched the man up. He was grateful when one leg wrapped around him and
lifted higher until the other leg joined the first. He maneuvered them so that
the younger man's back was now against the rear of the stall and their cocks
were in perfect alignment to bounce and rub and Jim began to thrust--hard, even
as he attacked the beautiful mouth.
Soon, his tongue was matching
the rhythm of their bodies and he could feel it coming, for both of them. He
moved faster, harder, and the man took his tongue, sucked relentlessly and
moaned. The sound of that moan traveled from one mouth to the other, down
through Jim's body to end up at his dick and he came hard.
As his
body shuddered, he dropped his head down and latched onto the man's shoulder and
he bit. The response was immediate as Jim felt the hot come hitting his chest
and the man's head dropped back, a low moan ripped from his
throat.
Slowly, they sank down with Jim turning them so that he now
had his back to the wall, the man between his legs. He dropped his head on top
of the wet mass of curls and closed his eyes.
"Who are
you?"
The question forced his eyes to snap back open just in time
for the question to be repeated.
"Who *are*
you?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"That's a strange thing to say. Who do you think I
am?"
Neither man had moved and Jim hoped his response was enough.
He was wrong.
"I know you're not Jim O'Keefe. O'Keefe doesn't
kiss--ever. And he never makes love--he fucks. Ruthlessly. Now who the hell are
you?"
The words shocked Jim to his very core. So much said in
everything that hadn't been said. But this was no time to give in because he'd
just had the best sex of his life.
"So I've learned a few things.
Chicago was very educational. And if you want me to go back to plain old every
day fucking, well, I'd be happy to oblige."
The wet, slick body
turned in his arms and he found himself being observed by laser smart eyes. And
there was nothing he could do about it.
"You're a cop. Jesus,
you're a cop."
Busted by an unknown. A nobody. The one
uncontrollable factor in the whole deal.
The man stood, turned off
the now tepid water, then moved as far away as the large stall would
allow.
"You don't have to worry about me. I won't
tell."
The words were spoken softly and simply and Jim glanced
up.
"There's nothing to tell."
"Right. Nothing to
tell. My name is Blair Sandburg, by the way. You never use my first name though,
you hate it. You always call me Sandburg. Just that. Nothing
else."
Jim's jaw dropped open.
Blair opened the stall
door and grabbed two big towels. He tossed one to Jim, who caught it, then
wrapped the other around his waist. "I'm an anthropologist and a graduate
student working on my doctorate. I attend Rainier. You might call me O'Keefe's
beck and call man. I heard that once--in a movie. Thought it was pretty funny
actually. Beck and call--whatever.
"You have his luggage so he must
be what? In jail?"
Jim was an excellent judge of character and
while he didn't usually base his judgments on sex, well, there was always a
first time.
"No, he's dead."
Slowly Blair Sandburg
sank down to the floor of the shower. "Dead? As in--*dead*?"
"As in
killed in a traffic accident. A tire smashed into the windshield, killing him
instantly. There was nothing left of his face."
Blair rested his
forehead on his hand. "Well, I'll be damned. I'm--this is--he's
dead."
"I think we've established that."
Blair looked
over at him, studied his face again. "Are you for real, or is that the product
of plastic surgery?"
"He died two days ago. Hardly
time--"
"So your face is
yours?"
"Mine."
"And O'Keefe's."
"Not any
more."
"Right, not any more."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They were both shivering, so
Jim took the lead. He stood, wrapped the towel around his middle, then held out
a hand. Blair stared at it a moment, then took it and Jim hoisted him up. They
got out, took more towels and quickly dried themselves off. As Jim slipped into
his boxers, the ones left on the toilet seat by Blair, Sandburg moved into the
bedroom and began to dress.
Jim listened to the movements in the
other room as he brushed his teeth with another man's toothbrush and shaved with
another man's razor. And as he shaved, he thought of the sex in the shower with
another man's--beck and call--man.
A prostitute. The man of Jim's
dreams was a prostitute. Okay, a highly educated prostitute. A hooker who also
happened to be an anthropologist, but a hooker just the same.
Jim
ran a warm cloth over his face, then searched for the aftershave. He found it
and immediately discarded it. It would send his sensitive skin into overdrive.
He walked out into the bedroom to find his *roomie* dressed in jeans and a
flannel shirt. A blue on blue flannel shirt that deepened the color of his eyes.
He was running a pick through his hair and Jim found himself unable to stop
watching or to say anything. Finally Blair himself broke the spell by
turning and walking past him to return to the bathroom.
Jim shook
himself and noticed the clothes laid out on the bed. He gave a fleeting thought
to the idea that maybe Sandburg would dress him too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blair stood before the
mirror staring at his reflection but picturing the face of his dreams. Not
O'Keefe, but the man in the other room?
Suddenly feeling those
hands on his body again, remembering the kisses--Blair closed his eyes. Oh,
yeah. He was the one.
Only--it was too late.
Blair
opened his eyes and pulled his hair dryer out from under the sink. He
attached the diffuser and lost himself in the sound and motions of drying his
hair.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jim checked his watch.
Eight forty-five. And the bathroom door was still closed. The dryer had been
shut off several minutes earlier but still no Sandburg. Jim smiled wryly. He'd
already begun to call the young man, 'Sandburg'. O'Keefe all the
way.
Jim walked over to the French doors, opened the right one and
stepped out into the cold night air. The grounds were decorated, lit up and
looked festive. It was hard to reconcile the house, the grounds and the
neighborhood with a major crime family. A crime family that decorated for
Christmas.
Geesh, what was the world coming to
anyway?
"Pretty terrific, isn't it?"
Jim glanced down,
surprised to find Sandburg by his side. He'd never heard him coming. Not
good.
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Hey, even *I* appreciate
the place. And you'd better get downstairs. *You're* never
late."
Jim was about to turn away when something caught his
eye--
"Do you see that, Sandburg?"
"What? See
what?"
Blair moved to the railing and peered out but could see
nothing.
Jim focused and by the far gate he spotted two men, one of
whom was Leahy.
"Jim, I'm serious,
you--"
"Ssh."
Jim leaned over the railing and once
again, Blair watched him cock his head as if listening to something only he
could hear--
Only he could hear.
Blair held his
breath.
Jim listened, shocked at what he was
hearing--
<<You're taking a big risk,
Jeff.>>
<<Like I don't know that? But it's worth it. I
should be running this operation, *not*
O'Keefe.>>
<<You're playing with fire. I'm not
sure-->>
Leahy's voice took on a decidedly sharp
edge. <<You're already in this thing, Wiley. Don't even think about
backing out now.>>
At that moment, a horn blaring out on the
street sent pain shooting through Jim's brain and he grabbed his head with both
hands as he tried not to yell out in frustration. But then there hands on his
arms and he was being moved while a soft voice in his ear told him it was okay.
Warm breath caressed his cheek as he was seated on a chair. He felt the hand on
his forehead and fingers rubbed small circles on his temples--
The
pain receded and all he could hear was Sandburg's voice.
"It's
okay, concentrate on just this sound, nothing else. That's it, just one sound,
one sound only."
Jim closed his eyes and leaned into the magical
hands and the sweet voice. After what seemed to be a wonderful eternity, Jim
opened his eyes and looked up into Sandburg's concerned gaze. As he searched
that face, he could see every laugh line around Blair's eyes, the long lashes,
the creased brow, even the small scar just below Sandburg's lower lip. As he it
all in, he decided that he didn't care if the man was a prostitute or not. It
was that simple. And considering that nothing in Jim Ellison's life had ever
been simple, this was truly astonishing.
And
somehow--freeing.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"You're
welcome. What were you listening to?"
"Leahy and Wiley. Seems
they're working against Morrison."
Blair frowned at that. "That
almost makes sense. Leahy hates you, or should I say,
O'Keefe. He's
been a very angry man since your return from South America. I got the distinct
impression that he felt *he* should have been given Cascade."
Jim's
hand shot out and he wrapped his fingers tightly around Sandburg's arm. "How
much do you know? How involved are you exactly?"
Blair paled as the
fingers dug in, and suddenly there wasn't such a big difference between O'Keefe
and this man.
"I'm not. But I *am* an anthropologist and my job is
to observe. I do it pretty damn well."
The smell of fear hit Jim
again and suddenly Blair's skin seemed to be on fire. Jim quickly removed his
hand and stood.
"Look, if O'Keefe can buy you then what should make
me think Morrison can't? Or anyone else who waves a few dollars under your
nose?"
Sandburg stepped back and the grin that spread across his
face made Jim want to vomit. It was not a pleasant smile.
"Well,
I'll tell you what, man. If someone offers me anything, I'll come to you first
so you can counter. How's that for a deal?"
The honey-coated voice
was gone and in its place was ice with coldly controlled anger floating
underneath. Jim felt as though he'd just made a serious tactical error but was
in the dark as to what it had been. And it was nine o'clock.
"Look,
we're due downstairs-now. We can talk about this later. Let's
go."
"*You're* expected downstairs. Not me. I'm never included in
*family* meals. They'll send up a tray. Go. Get out of here."
So
far the day had delivered one shock after another, but Sandburg's words about
not being invited downstairs seemed to be the highlight of shocks. Although Jim
shouldn't have been surprised. Hookers weren't usually invited to *family*
meals, were they?
"I see. Well, then. I guess I'd better get down
there."
Blair simply crossed his arms over his chest and Jim,
feeling like a naughty child, left.