Outside Jake Groves' house, The Atomic Trailer Park, Richland, Washington

"Does everything out here have some reference to atoms in its title?" Blair questioned the world in general.

"They're very proud of their heritage out here. And Dilly's didn't have any atom references to it." Trying to discern if there was anything unusual about Jake's home, Jim studied the small, worn, but well-kept trailer in front of them, as he answered the question.

"Obviously you didn't read the menu very closely." Blair continued, just getting warmed up to his subject. "Heritage is religion and tradition. An honor or a belief that is passed down from elders to children. It has nothing to do with a job. Or in this case a death machine."

"And you don't consider the atom a religion? What about fishermen, their job is considered a religion by some." The Sentinel turned his sight up a notch, just to see if he'd missed anything on his first perusal.

"Don't confuse me with semantics. And how can something that killed hundreds of thousands of people be considered a positive thing?"

"Religions come in all forms, and they aren't always positive. You should know that by now. Besides, these people believed that they were doing good. They helped the war effort. They saved hundreds of thousands of American lives. To them, that's a positive. Hindsight is always twenty- twenty, Chief. These people believed in what they were doing and created a community around that fact amidst all this desolation. They did what they had to in order to survive. They found something they could be proud of, and they went with it."

"You sound like you believe they were right." Sandburg couldn't help the indignant tone that entered his voice.

"Not necessarily. But I know where they're coming from. They didn't know some of the things we do now. They made decisions based on the information they did have. And I won't apply my twenty-first century beliefs to a mid-twentieth century mind set." Jim's reasonable argument served to diffuse Blair's anger at the situation.

"I hear that. But knowing it and liking it are two different things."

"I hear that." Jim gently parroted his friend's words back at him, in mimic of their earlier conversation.

"Let's start with the garage." Ellison firmly changed the subject, knowing they'd come to as much of an agreement on the subject of nuclear weapons as they were going to. Sometimes you just have to live through a war to understand these things. He walked over to the small two-door garage sitting to the side of the trailer and tried to pull up the door. Not surprisingly in the small, government-organized community, the door was unlocked and opened easily.

The door opened to reveal a neatly arranged garage. A shiny battleship gray and red two-tone 1941 "Art Deco Series" Chevy pickup occupied one bay of the garage. The truck's owner had obviously taken good care of it since it showed little wear. The other bay was informally divided into two smaller areas. The area in the back held a well-appointed work space with a multitude of tools for both woodworking and auto repair. The area towards the front of the garage held a cloth-covered object that looked to Sandburg like a motorcycle.

"So, this is where you get it from." Blair waved an arm in the direction of the truck before gesturing vaguely at the cloth-covered object.

"Huh?" Jim was already focused on the cloth-covered mass, as he moved slowly towards it. "I can't believe he kept this all these years." He reverently removed the cloth cover to display a shiny black and silver Harley Davidson motorcycle, which obviously hadn't been ridden in quite a long while, though it was evident the bike had been well taken care of in the intervening years. Almost unconsciously, his hands came to rest atop the bike, his fingers gently stroking the still shiny surfaces.

Kept it? The bike is Jim's? I thought he hadn't been out here since he was a kid? "You lost me there."

Blair's comment brought no response from an already lost in thought Jim.

En Route to Hanford, Eastern Washington State, early August 1980

He could feel the wind in his face as he sped down the highway. The throttle of his brand new Harley racing, he had little care for anything outside of his limited eyesight. Soon, that would all change. Classes started in a few weeks. His first time truly away from home, away from his father's dominating influence. He only wished he'd managed to get a scholarship to a school further from home, the east coast maybe. But that didn't matter right now. Now, the only thing that mattered was him and the open road. So focused was he on his freedom he completely tuned out the bike behind him, the woman riding it, and any thoughts of what his father was going to say when he got home.

"So this is it." The young woman riding behind him shook out her long red hair when she removed her helmet, after they pulled to a stop in front of a well-kept trailer at the Atomic Trailer Park in Hanford, Washington.

"I know it doesn't look like much, but I spent some great times out here as a child." Jim looked fondly at the small trailer with its detached garage.

"I'm sure you did. What did you do? Sit around and watch the wind blow?" A slight air of superiority, driven by her age and life experience, entered her voice. If it wasn't exciting she didn't want to have any part of it. And right now Jim Ellison was exciting. So who cared he was a few years younger than she, he had an amazing way with bikes, not to mention women, and a great streak of danger running through his blood stream. He took more chances than she did. How he came out of some of the situations he found himself in, she'd never know. It was almost like he had a guardian angel looking over his shoulder. Besides, he treated her like a lady, and that in itself was worth something in the crazy world she found herself inhabiting.

"It didn't matter what we did, as long as we were away from my dad for a few weeks every summer. Mom used to bring us out here when things got to be a little much with my dad." Jim stepped off his bike and moved towards the garage, not wanting to discuss with her the memories the place evoked. Or anyone for that matter. Besides, she's not spending time with me because of my stellar family history, or connections. "I wonder where Jake is? He had to have heard us drive up."

"Maybe he's at work."

"Nah. Jake always worked the night shift. Something about being out here at night, he always said. You never quite knew what was going on." He pulled the garage door open, not surprised to find it unlocked.

"Eerie." Her attention remained focused on their conversation and not the garage.

"Actually, it was pretty cool when we were kids. Being out at night, you could hear for miles." Standing just inside the open doorway, he took in the appearance of the garage, and the noticeable lack of a vehicle parked in its usual spot. "His truck's gone. He must have gone to town for supplies."

"Well let's leave your bike and get out of here. This place gives me the creeps."

"This from a woman who's single handedly run off entire gangs of bikers?" Jim teased her.

"Yeah. But them I could see. There's something out here that's making my hair stand on end, and I can't see it."

"I know the feeling." Jim shuddered as half-remembered images from his childhood came to mind, including one of a young Steven screaming that his skin was on fire.

"Hey. You okay?" She had moved from the bike to place a hand on his shoulder.

"Huh?" He shook off the memories.

"You were gone there for a minute." Her hand moved in a circular motion, soothing now tense muscles.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a memory." He mentally shook off the images, banishing them to the place from which they came.

"Well, let's get out of here and see if we can do something about you forgetting again." She whispered suggestively, her movements turning from comforting into caressing, her method of forgetting all too clear, even to his relatively inexperienced mind.

"Just give me a minute to cover this up and leave Jake a note." He pulled a drop cloth from the saddlebags of his bike after pulling it into the open area of the garage, in front of the work area, his teenaged hormones already responding to the suggestion in her voice.

Soon, Jim's bike sat covered up in Jake's garage, a note pinned to the drop cloth, so the older man didn't question its presence in the garage.

The young man and woman sped off into the night, now riding tandem on her bike, the mysterious feeling of danger long forgotten.

Outside Jake Groves' house, The Atomic Trailer Park, Richland, Washington, present

"I remember my mom bringing us out here. And Steven. I remember Steven crying his skin was burning." Jim turned to Blair, a slight look of wonder on his face. "Well, not exactly," he clarified before Blair could voice the question forming in his eyes. "I remember telling Sharen about mom bringing us out here."

"Who's Sharen?" Blair naturally picked up on the most important revelation.

"Sharen was great. I dated her my senior year in high school. Long, red hair. Man did that woman have legs that went on forever. And she knew how to ride a bike." Jim replied, still somewhat distracted by the memory.

"So you had a thing for redheads even in high school?"

Blair's question returned Jim fully to the present. "I wouldn't say that exactly," he hedged, not wanting to delve too far into his relationship with Sharen, even with his Guide. After all, it was a long time ago, and she wasn't really a bad girl, though she played the part to the hilt.

"What do you mean Steven complained about his skin burning?" The second thing Jim said finally penetrated Blair's brain.

"Not sure. I just have this image of Steven screaming his skin was on fire. The whole thing is pretty vague. More of a memory of a memory than anything."

"Kind of like you last night, though."

"Yeah, maybe."

"So, conceivably, whatever was going on last night was going on back then too. Now all we have to do is figure out what's going on."

"Well Jake's house seems as good a place to start as any."

"Guess we should get to work then. Think there's anything else out here?" Blair indicated the garage with a great sweep of his arm.

"You mean other than further remnants of my childhood? Probably not. The only thing Jake ever did out here was work on his truck. Anything that might help is probably inside." Jim gently pulled the dust cloth back over his bike, effectively shutting out the memories.

"Remnants of your childhood are good."

Inside Jake's trailer

"Look at all this stuff! He was like a one man archive." Sandburg, with some reverence, looked at the rows and rows of boxes filling the small living room that looked more like a library than a trailer.

"Kind of like you," Ellison paused before continuing with a smile, "only neater."

"What is it with you and messy roommate cracks? Just because I keep things a little bit more spread out than you doesn't mean I'm messy." The younger man rested his hands on his hips indignantly, preparing for a confrontation.

"Actually, Chief, I meant it as a compliment. Well not the messy part, but the rest of it." Ellison actually looked sheepish at the admission, his chagrin at their miscommunication evident on his face.

"Oh." Sandburg felt himself grow warm at the compliment, backhanded as it was, and he relaxed his defensive posture.

"Yeah, oh." Jim grinned down at his friend.

"You know, depending on what's in these boxes, this is a researcher's dream come true. Got any idea what you're going to do with them?" Blair began to bounce slightly at the prospect of donating the large collection of materials to some prestigious locale.

"Blair, we just got here. Outside of trying to find an answer to who took Wendy in this morass of information, what we're going to do with Jake's stuff is not the most pressing question right now. Besides, I doubt I'll get any say in the matter anyway." Jim's body language reflected the sudden tension spawned by the question.

Blair could hear the bitterness that entered his friend's voice on the last sentence. Reaching over, he gently squeezed the other's shoulder, both in comfort and reassurance. "But we do get to keep the motorcycle, right?" He gently teased, the bounce in his body language still undiminished.

"Well, technically it's mine, so I don't see why not." Ellison relaxed slightly at Blair's teasing.

"Cool." Sandburg's excitement at the prospect of a new play toy was almost visible.

"But that doesn't mean you get to ride it."

"Aww, come on. Why not?" A whiney note entered Sandburg's voice as he got into the spirit of the banter.

"I can't drive your car, you can't ride my bike."

"Oh sure, throw that in my face," Blair responded slightly indignantly.

"Whatever works."

"A guys makes one little inviolable rule and you won't let him forget it." Blair groused. "And this from the man who's king of rule making."

"And how many of the house rules have you violated recently?" The twinkle in Ellison's eye belied his serious tone of voice.

"This is not about me."

"Uh huh." The twinkle expanded to include a slight quirk of his mouth.

Deciding whining was not going to work, Blair switched to logic. "So, basically what you're saying here is if I let you drive my car, you'll let me ride your bike."

"Nope." The slight quirk became a full-blown smile.

"What do you mean, nope?" Well there went the logical argument.

"If you let me drive your car, I'll think about letting you ride my bike."

"Jim!"

Jim patted his younger friend on the shoulder in thanks. "Well, I guess we'd better get to work. You wanna start in here, and I'll take the bedroom?"

"Oh sure, give me the hard job." Blair groused, but the twinkle in his eye contradicted his words, his excitement at the prospect of looking through the boxes of files in Jake's living room almost palatable.

After about an hour of sitting on the floor sifting through a multitude of boxes and finding nothing -- or at least not finding anything that seemed like anything -- Blair stood up to stretch his legs. Wandering through the small living room, he made his way to the bedroom to see what his partner was doing. Though the trailer was small, it was surprisingly soundproof and he hadn't heard any noise from the older man.

Stepping into the room, he was surprised to find his partner, comfortably seated on the bed, a paperback novel -- Requiem for a Redhead by Lindsay Hardy -- with an almost garishly painted cover, in his hands.

Hands on his hips, he took in the scene. "I thought we were supposed to be looking for clues?"

Jim regained awareness of his surroundings at his partner's words and looked up sheepishly. "Um, sorry. I got distracted."

"Uh huh."

"What?!" A defensive note entered the Sentinel's voice.

"You don't get distracted. Well, not usually," he amended. "So, what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Can't be nothing. About the only thing that distracts you is a good-looking redhead with a great pair of legs, and I don't see one in sight."

"Then you aren't looking very hard."

"Huh?" Jim's words threw the younger man for a loop. We are the only two people in the house, aren't we? "This isn't another memory, is it?"

"Sort of." Jim smiled at his partner's confusion, evidence of his enjoyment of the situation.

"What do you mean sort of? Come on, Ellison, this is like pulling teeth."

"Take a look around. What do you see?" Jim's grin widened at the opportunity to 'play guide.'

Confusion evident on his face, Blair walked further into the room and turned slowly around, taking stock of the decor in the room. Neatly framed artwork greeted his eyes, sharp splashes of crimson drew the eye's attention towards each picture in turn. Each painting featured a striking redhead woman, most in various states of undress. Usually a second figure provided some sort of menacing presence to the image, giving rise to terrified expressions. The image that kept drawing his eye back to it, however, displayed a obviously formidable woman, a gun pointed directly at the head of the bed, where Jim's head currently rested. He was so distracted by the images on the walls he never even noticed the wall covered with floor to ceiling bookcases, the shelves full of neatly aligned paperback books.

"Uh, Jim? Something you wanna tell me about Jake here? And uh, would you mind moving a little to the left, the image of that woman shooting you is going to give me nightmares for weeks." He shuddered for emphasis.

"It's not what you think." Ellison shifted slightly, to appease his partner's request, though he wasn't sure why the woman was causing his friend such distress.

"That's good, cause right now I'm thinking that Jake was one sick puppy."

Raising an eyebrow at Blair's words, he took a deep breath. "What you are looking at is original artwork done for book covers. Jake collected vintage paperbacks. Only when he started collecting them, they weren't vintage. The paintings sort of came later. In fact, the one right in front of you was a gift from me."

"You're actually telling me that you bought one of these things?"

"Yep. Found it in a used bookstore while I was in college. I found a few really nice paperbacks while I was there too." Blair could tell by the tone of his friend's voice that he remembered the event fondly.

"I still don't think I'm following this conversation. You don't go to used bookstores. And you certainly don't know about things like vintage paperbacks and collecting them."

"That's where you're wrong, Chief. Well, half-wrong. I don't go to used bookstores. I gave it up when I was in the Army. Never enough time for stuff like that. And it certainly didn't convey the right image..."

Blair laughed at the image Ellison's words invoked -- the stoic military officer haunting used bookstores looking for things like cover paintings. No, it really didn't convey the right image. "So he collected what exactly?" Curiosity at the bizarre situation finally got the best of him.

"Paperbacks. Mysteries, mostly. But there are a few westerns and sci-fi titles thrown in. The bulk of them he bought in the 40s, 50s, and 60s. After that, the cover art went all to hell, he always said. Oh, and there is one other commonality." Jim hesitated, not quite sure what Sandburg would make of Jake's "fetish."

Blair sensed the other man's hesitation and pressed, "And that would be?"

"All the covers had to have a redhead on them."

"Did you just say, 'all the covers had to have a redhead on them?'"

"Yeah." Because he couldn't decide between defensive and sheepish, his voice came out as sort of a squeak. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Yeah."

Several moments of laughter brought Sandburg to his knees, gasping for breath.

"You know, this really isn't funny." Jim interjected when Blair stopped for breath.

"Oh yeah, it is. You should listen to yourself. 'He only collects books with redheads on their covers.' What kind of a collection is that? It's like saying I only collect books of a certain size or age." Blair made himself comfortable on the floor, just in case he felt the need to start giggling again, moving slightly so he could see Jim's face.

"Actually, Jake's is a rather tame collection. There are people who only collect books with hypodermic needles on the cover. Then there's this woman he knew who collected bathtub covers. Those are the odd ones."

"Bathtubs? And hypodermic needles? Creepy. You know, I've heard of some odd fetishes, even experienced a few when I was living with indigenous tribes, but these have to take the cake."

"Experienced a few have you?"

"Only in a strictly anthropological sense. I was doing research." Blair grinned at the memories the conversation invoked.

"So, how many times have you gone native exactly?" Jim teased his friend.

"Only one that mattered." Sandburg's tone turned serious, the teasing nature of their conversation put on hold momentarily.

Not wanting to break the silence that ensued, Ellison nodded at his Guide's words.

Several moment of silent communication later, Sandburg returned to their earlier teasing conversation. "Now at least I know where you get your redhead fetish from."

In response, Ellison lobbed a pillow at his friend.

In retaliation, Sandburg lobbed said pillow back.

Not wanting to give the younger man any more ammunition, Jim chose to place the pillow behind his head and returned contentedly to his novel.

"Guess that's my hint to go back to work. Speaking of which, quit reading that trash and start looking for clues." Blair stood and moved towards the door.

"I am. I'm right in the middle of trying to figure out who did in the girl."

"That's all well and good, but you're supposed to be figuring out who did in the old man and kidnapped the girl."

"Details, details."

Several hours later, inside Jake's trailer

"Hey, Jim. What do you know about something called the Green Run?" Blair looked up from his spot on the floor, a stack of file folders spread somewhat haphazardly in front of him.

Receiving no response from the other man, standing across the room in front of the bookcase, he tried again, "Earth to Jim."

This time when he didn't receive a response the Guide kicked in and began to notice what the Sentinel was doing -- or rather what the Sentinel wasn't doing, things like moving or breathing very deeply.

Standing, he moved quickly to the other side of the room. Placing one hand on the other man's back and pitching his voice into what Jim always called his "guide voice," the Guide began the process of brining the Sentinel out of his zone.

"Come on, Jim. Come back to me." He rubbed slow circles on the other's back, giving the Sentinel a tactile focus to go with his voice.

After several long minutes of murmured words and tactile contact, Jim took a deep breath. As movement returned to the older man's body, his knees began to give way. Still focused entirely on his Sentinel, Blair noticed and caught him before he fell to the ground, easing them both gently to the floor. At the same time the muscles in Jim's hands relaxed, allowing an old-fashioned silver picture frame to fall to the floor. The sound of the glass breaking as it hit the ground went unnoticed by both men.

"What happened?" A bewildered Jim tried to figure out what was going on and how he ended up on the floor.

"You zoned. Have any idea what caused it this time? You know, this place is not good for your senses."

"It wasn't the place. It was..." Jim looked down at his hands, now resting in his lap. Not finding what he was looking for he turned his attentions to the floor around them. "It was that." He pointed to the picture frame, now laying face down off to the side.

"The picture frame?" Blair attempted to reach the object in question only to find his arms trapped behind Jim.

"No." Ellison easily grabbed the offending object and turned it over to show Sandburg. "The picture."

Now overlaid with spider web cracks from the broken glass, the photograph in question was taken several decades ago -- if the clothing and hairstyles were any indication. It proudly displayed two young women about eighteen or nineteen standing in front of a small nondescript building in an unidentifiable location. The two women were nearly identical in every way, right down to their matching blue and white striped dresses, the skirts of which blew gently in the wind.

"So, what's the problem." Blair didn't recognize either of the women and didn't see the reason for Jim's distress.

"That's my mom." He pointed to the woman on the right in the photo.

"Oh." Somewhat surprisingly Blair didn't know what to say to Jim's admission. "How can you tell?"

"I remember when I was a kid seeing photos of her from before she married my dad. That's her."

"So, who's the other woman?" Blair studied the photo for a minute trying to figure out the differences Jim saw between the two women. As far as he could tell, they looked exactly alike.

"Good question, Chief. But I'd be willing to bet that my mother had a twin sister that she never told anyone about."

"That sure would explain a few things." As he continued to study the photo, he began to pick up a few differences between the women. The one Jim insisted was his mother, looked more open, friendlier than the other. There was laughter in her eyes, as well a sparkle that reminded him of Jim. The other woman's smile didn't reach her eyes, and there was something almost mask-like about the expression on her face.

"Yeah, it would, wouldn't it." Jim began mulling over the new information they'd just learned. "I wonder what else we can find out while we're here?"

"Well, you knew that Jake knew your mother, and it looks like he also knew her sister, so maybe quite a bit. Does the back of the photo say anything?"

Jim carefully turned the frame over to lift off the backing. After removing the decaying cardboard behind the backing he gently removed the photograph from the frame, being careful not to drop any of the broken glass on the floor. "Faith and Grace. 1958," he read aloud.

"So her name is Faith. Why didn't your mother ever tell you she had a twin? That's a pretty important part of someone's life. And her just not mentioning it seems kind of strange." He couldn't keep his puzzlement at the situation from entering his voice.

"Your mother never told you who your father was." Jim shot back, still trying to comprehend the situation and not quite ready to talk about his childhood.

"That's different." Blair didn't rise to his partner's bait by getting angry.

"Is it?"

"No." Sandburg acknowledged Ellison's words with his response, but continued to press the issue of Grace and her twin, realizing that Jim needed to talk about his childhood if they were ever going to figure the new mystery of Grace and Faith out. "But it still seems kind of strange."

"After my mom left, we sort of distanced ourselves from her family. My grandparents died when I was really little, so I don't really remember them. Whenever Steven or I asked, my dad always said she was an only child, so we didn't have any aunts, uncles, and cousins on her side of the family. I never thought much about it."

"So, there's something about Faith that no one wanted you to know. To the point that no one even wanted to tell you she existed. Interesting." The scientist and dreamer in Blair took over, and he started to puzzle over the deep, dark secret of who Faith was.

"Apparently." The detective in Jim finally took over and he began to look at the situation in a more clinical manner.

"You know, she could still be alive." Blair blurted out the question before he'd thought it all the way through.

"Yeah. I know." His tone of voice indicated that Jim had already considered this possibility.

"Thinking of running her name through a few databases when we get home?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe you should run your mom through while you're at it." Blair hated himself for making the suggestion, but he knew someone had to think of the possibility that Jim's mother might not have left of her own violation.

"Already planned on it." The note of sadness in Jim's voice was probably only detectible by someone who was as tuned into him as Blair was.


Skip Commercial