Caveat lector
Betad by Linda of Sentry Post fame, thank you kindly.
Thought for the day: life sucks and then you die
THREE BLIND MICE
By
Sealie
Prologue:
Blair knew that he was
pacing, and that it was irritating the watching detectives, but he simply could
not stop. He told himself it was the pain of his broken right collar bone that
kept him moving, he didn’t believe his own excuse.
Waiting and pacing…
waiting for the results from Jim’s cat-scan.
A passing nurse had
informed him that the last thing any doctor wanted to do was unnecessary
surgery but it did look like a subdural haematoma.
She hadn’t wanted to tell him anything but the student had hauled her into a
secluded corner and questioned her like Jim with one of his suspects. The sheaf
of forms that another nurse had handed him as Next-of-Kin mocked him. It would
be his decision—Jim was deeply and profoundly unconscious.
‘It must of happened when he banged his head on the window.’
“Mr. Sandburg?” a
compassionate voice spoke softly. The doctor was a small man, rotund and
busy-harried like most medical workers.
“Yeah,” Blair glanced at
the name tag, “Dr. Roget?”
“I understand that you’re
Detective Ellison’s Next-of-Kin?”
“Yes—what’s happening?”
Blair clamped down on the strident tone threading through his words.
“Surgery,” Dr. Roget said
succinctly. “The clot is typically subdural, that’s
something of a catch-all term, there is a large clot
under the membrane enveloping the brain. The clot is pressing on the optic
region and the medulla oblongata.”
“Is there any other
treatment?” Surgery seemed too invasive. “Jim’s really sensitive, allergies, I
don’t know how he’ll respond to anaesthetics or even painkillers.”
“Allergies?”
Doctor Roget inquired.
“Yeah,” Blair said, and
winced as his sling moved. It was as a neat sling designed to minimize the
newly broken bone by tucking his hand up by the base of his throat. “I told the doctor who treated me—he said
that he would go and speak to the doctor who was treating Jim—you, I suppose.”
“Tell me the details.”
Roget shepherded the exhausted student to a quiet corner.
“I’ve never managed to get
him to go to his doctors for sensitivity tests or even allergen testing, but…
like ibuprofen, ibuprofen gives him an upset stomach. He said that when he was
in the army one of his inoculations gave him hives, he wouldn’t tell me which
one.”
Roget sucked absently on
his knuckles, evidently deep in thought. “What’s the name of his local doctor?”
“It won’t help you,” Blair
said decisively. “He’s never reported his allergies,
he just grins and bears it.”
“Ideally I’d like to see
his army records but I don’t think we have time for that luxury.” With a
brusque motion he tapped the clipboard which Blair held, “I require your
signature before I can perform surgery.”
“What about his
allergies?” Blair asked hollowly.
“I’ll inform the
anaesthetist that we may have problems, some anesthetics
are tolerated better than others in these cases.”
“Surgery.” Blair swallowed. “Is there anything else you
could do?”
“We could treat him with
anticoagulants,” Roget said neutrally.
“But you don’t recommend
it?”
“Both treatments have
their risks.”
“Which one is less risky?”
Roget shrugged.
“Personally, I would go with the surgery. If the bleeding restarts the damage
could be irreparable. Anticoagulants increase the risk of bleeding.”
Blair chewed furtively on
a hang nail. “Surgery,” he decided.
Roget retrieved the
consent form and held it so the student could scribble his signature left
handed on the form. As Doctor Roget beetled away Blair wondered if he should
have asked another doctor for a second opinion.
Thoughts and fears
spiralled out of control. Blair braced his head against one hand and
concentrated on not breaking down. A hand on his shoulder broke the
nightmarish, terrifying thoughts assailing him. Blair lifted his head and
stared into the compassionate eyes of Simon. The captain’s cigar was bobbing in
his mouth, unlit but chewed down to an ugly stub.
“You okay?” Simon shook his
head at the stupid question. “Come on, Blair, please, sit down.”
Slowly, Blair realized
that he had been standing in the corridor like a zombie for some time. The
images of the firemen and paramedics gently extricating Jim from the ruin of
the Ford blurred before his eyes. Shaking his head, he made his way to the
Emergency waiting room.
“Blair,” Simon tried
again, “can you tell me what happened? I need a statement.”
Joel was burrowed in the
far corner of the waiting room nursing a cup of vending machine coffee. He was
so lost in thought that he was drinking the unpalatable goop.
Shocky and grey, it was obvious that he hadn’t driven
from the precinct. Henri, no doubt his chauffeur, was watching him very
carefully. His friends were here, Blair realized, and felt just slightly
better. As soon as Henri saw Blair enter the waiting room he rose to his feet.
“Blair! How’s...”
A clatter and light
sensitive doors swishing open wrenched Blair’s attention from his friends and
colleagues. Blair looked down the long corridor. A gurney containing a deathly
still form, surrounded by attendants wearing green scrubs, was rushed out of
sight. Oblivious to Henri’s irritating and necessary, questions, Blair sat down,
hard, on the waiting room chair.
U U U U U
Three Blind Mice
By Sealie
Heavily sedated and
swathed in bandages, Jim was a pale reflection of his normal self. All the
brown hair had been shaved and replaced by an enveloping turban of bandages.
What was most disconcerting was the draining, fluid filled tube that was pushed
beneath the bandages spiralling up and inserted God knew where.
The doctor had been
cautiously optimistic when Jim had been finally wheeled out of surgery. The
swelling was extensive but the clot had been removed and there appeared to be
no evidence of serious postoperative bleeding nor had the detective reacted
adversely to the anaesthetic. It was just a case of waiting for Jim to wake up.
Every nurse who had come
in had implored the student to leave, stating that the patient would not wake
for another twenty four hours at the very least. Blair couldn’t bring himself
to leave, not when it was all his fault. Memories
assailed him...
U U U U U
“Jim, I think you’re
driving a bit too fast,” Blair said tightly.
“You want I should let him
get away?” Jim snapped.
Blair made no answer as he
braced himself against the dashboard. The criminal, in the black sedan, was executing
every illegal manoeuvre in the book and Jim seemed determined to play
one-upmanship. The truck swung around a hairpin bend and impossibly kept all
four wheels on the tarmac.
‘I think we just defied
the laws of physics,’ Blair thought nervously.
The suspect’s car slued to
the side narrowly avoiding a stationary bus and crossed three lanes of traffic
before coming back to the correct lane. Jim made sure that the truck crossed
all four lanes of traffic. Blair resisted the temptation to cover his eyes with
his hands. The black car paralleled them for a heartbeat and then crossed into
the oncoming traffic. A rickety old car continued happily down the road
apparently oblivious to the imminent head on collision. Blair held his breath
on seeing the decrepit old man at the wheel. At the last moment the black car
moved over missing the old car. Grinning
widely, Jim forced the truck over the carefully tended green grass separating
the traffic lanes to cut off the criminal’s car. The man inside had time to flash
a raised finger at them before he spun the wheel and disappeared down an alley.
“He’s good,” Jim said
begrudgingly as he shifted down through the gears and cannoned after him.
“Perhaps we better call
for back-up?”
“You do it!”
Breathing a contained sigh
of relief, Blair made the call. Then kept up a running
commentary of the pursuit as Jim enjoyed himself to the hilt.
The truck barrelled down
the alley, knocking away the debris kicked up by the sedan. A police car
narrowly missed them at an intersection as they bounced over the two lanes. The
police car continued down the road in the completely opposite direction.
“Idiot!”
Jim hurled at the disappearing vehicle.
If Blair had been Catholic
he would have made the sign of the cross. He could have sworn that he heard Jim
laugh. Leaving tire tread coating the tarmac, the black sedan executed a right
turn and joined the main traffic.
Jim wrenched down on the
wheel and screamed onto the road. It was a nice long stretch of road; the
detective’s foot hit the gas until the pedal touched the floor. Blair turned in his seat to implore Jim to
slow down when an immense vehicle suddenly loomed over them and then blindsided
the truck. The world went askew as the momentum swung the truck around—there
was a squeal of brakes as both the truck driver and Jim fought for control.
U U U U U
“Ow.”
Blair shook his head gingerly. Pain that was both numbing and agonizing ran
across his chest. He had no intention of moving for as long as he lived or at
least until the pain ebbed away. Miraculously, the truck was still upright.
Opening his eyes, Blair breathed a sigh of relief that the Ford’s body work had
held—they were sandwiched between a truck and the side of a building. They were
lucky to be alive.
“Hey, Jim, are...”
Jim was sprawled face down
across the gear stick, half lying in the foot well and half lying on his seat.
The seat belt was wrapped around his waist.
“Jim?”
At the last moment, Blair
managed to stop himself shaking his friend. Oblivious, now, to his own injuries
he bent over to... he wasn’t too sure what he was trying to do.
“Youz
guys al’ right?” a voice yelled.
“Get an ambulance!”
The heavyset man nodded
once and then ran.
‘Don’t move him—God, is he
breathing?’ Over the clamour of people yelling and vehicles he couldn’t hear a
thing. ‘A.B.C—something to do with the alphabet. Yes,
airway has to be clear—how do you do that if you’re face down? It’ll be clear
if he’s face down. Breathing’
Blair released his seat
belt, which—judging from the pain—had broken his collarbone, and pressed his
ear against Jim’s back. The air whistled
in Jim’s cramped lungs. Circulation, that’s bleeding—pulse? Blood was welling
up from the large gash in the back of Jim’s head. A small blood tinged fractured
zone in the centre of the driver’s window was mute testimony to Ellison’s head
impacting against the glass. A hollow clunk disturbed him as the heavy man
clambered onto the Ford’s hood and wielding a crowbar pried out the windshield.
“Ambulance is on its way,”
he informed the pair. “Is he al’ right?”
“I don’t know,” Blair
wailed.
Paramedics and fire
fighters boiled over the car, yelling orders and instructions. He could hear
the familiar barking orders of police officers directing traffic and demanding
answers. Every emergency service in the city seemed to have arrived on the
scene together. The heavyset man relinquished his position to a trio of
paramedics. The youngest man came into view over the student huddled in the
passenger’s seat.
“Can you move, sir?”
“Yes, but you have to see
to Jim first.”
“No,” the paramedic said
patiently, “if I can get you out of the truck, my colleagues can get in and
help your friend.”
Blair considered the logic
of this as another paramedic reached into the car and felt for Jim’s pulse.
‘Yes, it would be easier
if they can get into the truck’.
His arm refused to help
him squirm out of his seat. Simply thinking about it made the bones grate
together. Gritting his teeth, Blair held his arm to his chest and twisted to
stand on the seat. The paramedic realized instantly that he was injured and
moved into help him.
U U U U U
The respirator was
mesmerizing, the black bag inflated—deflated—inflated—deflated. Was Jim
breathing or was the ventilator breathing for him? Blair didn’t know. The intubating tube inserted in Jim’s mouth, secured by tape,
terrified the student on a deep, visceral level. He could handle the
intravenous drips and their dripping plastic bags, the catheters hidden beneath
the intensive care blankets. The tube, however, seemed such a base invasion of
Jim’s body. A nurse passed the room and Blair tried to make himself
as small as possible on the chair beside the bed. The nurses kept insisting
that he leave, get some rest. Another nurse came into the room and modified
an intravenous drip. She nearly covered her scrutinising of the student by
reading the chart at the base of Jim’s bed. Blair smiled tiredly up at the woman.
“You’re not helping yourself.”
Blair shifted his sling
and covered a wince. “I read somewhere once that people who are unconscious can
be aware of... friends near them. That it can help...”
The nurse’s sympathetic
smile cut him to the quick. She crouched next to the student. “It would be
better if you headed home for a while.”
“I can’t. I have to stay.”
It was not negotiable.
“Your ten minutes are up.
You have to leave.”
“No! You don’t understand.
I have to be here. I mean… what if…?”
She leaned in close, and
Blair felt that she was reading his very soul. Her eyes were not a simple
uniform dark brown, but the irises were flecked with amber.
“There is a cot in the
staff room, if you promise me you’ll get your head down, I’ll let you sleep
there.””
“Thank you,” Blair said simply.
U U U U U
“Jim?”
Blair was curled up on a
chair in the far corner of the room out of the way of the medical equipment He
kept up a running, one sided, conversation with Jim as he watched the shadows
and light moving on the ceiling. Every time another ambulance screamed into the
hospital, colours played along the white plasterboard. .
“Looks
nice. Kinda crappy, though, to put intensive care so near the emergency room.
It’s noisy, I hope you’ve got senses turned down.”
The soft swish of a nurse,
on night duty, walking along the darkened corridor interrupted him. Blair held
his breath until the nurse had moved out of earshot. His ten minutes in every
hour, could be stretched to fifteen if he kept quiet.
“It’s that weird time of night, isn’t it? You know what I mean, Jim. The world’s
stopped dead and... this is usually where you say
something snarky. I remember when I was studying as
an undergrad—I always did my best thinking at this time of night. Well, I still
do. Everybody else would be asleep (unless they were out clubbing) and I’d
wander around making up essays and stuff and there’d be no interruptions. I guess you do your thinking in the morning
when everybody’s just about to get up. I do my thinking when everybody’s just
gone to sleep.”
Blair shifted his aching
shoulder, trying to find some relief.
“I remember the first time
I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my bed just like this looking up at the ceiling. But
the shadows were frightening, I tried burrowing under the covers but I knew
that they were coming, so I kept completely still so that the monsters wouldn’t
know I was there. Naomi found me in the morning curled up in a ball at the
bottom of the bed. She had to strip the covers off before she could get me out
to go to school—I’d wound myself up in the blankets so much. She was surprised
that I could breathe.”
“Mr. Sandburg. Blair?”
‘Shit!’
Blair struggled out of his
slouch as the matronly nurse entered the intensive care unit. She stood over
him, tapping her foot with a decidedly maternal expression on her face.
“I thought our deal was
that you could stay if you got some sleep.”
“Don’t they let you go
home?” Blair deliberately changed the subject.
“No rest for the wicked.”
Blair actually laughed. The
nurse made a rapid scan of the various monitors surrounding Jim and then turned
her attention back to the student.
“Mr. Sandburg...”
“Blair.” He smiled a
lopsided smile.
“Blair,” she corrected
herself, “I know with that collarbone you’ll have a prescription for
painkillers, have you taken any?”
She was as perceptive as
Jim, reading the scurrilous evasion on his eyes, as he searched for a
believable lie. “Uhm.” He
shook his head.
“Why do you people do
that? We don’t give medication for fun, you know.”
Bowing to her authority,
Blair rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the vial of pain killers. He rolled
the container in his hand and then dissolved into giggles, albeit hysterical
giggles.
“They put a child-proof
cap on the bottle.” He hadn’t a hope in hell of getting it opened one
handed.
The nurse popped the cap
off with practised ease and dropped two of the large tablets into his
outstretched hand.
“Quit making excuses and
take your medicine like a good boy. And then go back to the staff room and get
some sleep.”
U U U U U
The agonizing ache in his
shoulder and neck had eased to a dull hypnotic throbbing. M’benga,
the nurse, had also supplied milky hot chocolate. Sleep was prowling around the
edges of his waking world. Twice he’d caught himself nodding, almost asleep. He
thought that he could hear Jim’s pulse monitor from across the corridor. The
rhythm, slow and repetitive, soothed him with its steady music. The door of the staff room opened and M’benga’s presence filled the room.
“He’s doing fine, Blair,”
she whispered.
Blair managed a grunt
before he fell asleep.
U U U U U
Blair sipped on his café
latte. Twenty hours since coming out of surgery and Jim showed no signs of regaining
consciousness. There was a sense of nothingness in the region where Jim’s body
was lying which was horribly disconcerting. Maybe it was the complete lack of
movement, movement that was even present in sleep, which was missing, that made
Blair feel that it was not Jim lying in the hospital bed.
‘Yeah, and if it’s not Jim
who is it?’ he thought acerbically.
Blair edged around the
bed. The technology intimidated him, too many monitors and devices that seemed
to tie his friend’s body to the bed. In retrospect, Blair realized that that
was probably a good thing.
“Ah, come on, Jim, wake
up. M’benga, that nice nurse who keeps checking on
you, said the sedative was only for twenty hours or so.” Blair glanced
theatrically at his watch. “It’s time for you to wake up—Now!”
Jim’s face remained still,
no flicker of consciousness moved across his features.
“Damn,” he swore and
turned to the window.
“Blair,” there was a light
tap on wood.
Blair was surprised to see
that the Simon had come, since he had stayed late the night before. Judging by
his rumpled clothes, the captain hadn’t slept. Blair wondered distantly what
had kept Simon chained to the desk overnight.
The captain waved the student out of the intensive care room. Blair cast one glance over at Jim as he left
the room for the first time in over twenty hours.
“How is he?” Simon nodded
over Blair’s shoulder at the patient.
“His blood pressure’s gone
down a little which is a good thing. The doctor’s been in and out this morning.
M’benga, his ICU nurse, says he’s doing okay.”
“Good.”
“I’ll believe it when he
wakes up,” Blair said under his breath as he allowed Simon to steer him to a
waiting room. With the utmost gentleness the big man settled him on the sofa
and then sat next to him.
“Blair, son, can you tell
me what happened, now?”
U U U U U
“So you think that this
Jacob Tree is the burglar who has been targeting the penthouses on the
“Yes.” Ellison pushed open
the door of the
The detective made a slow
turn looking around the opulent foyer. Blair thought it was decked out very
tacky. He leaned over towards Jim. “It’s a bit… gold.”
The sentinel’s eyes were
wide; he seemed to be storing the sight for future use. Blair wasn’t entirely
sure what he was going to do with the memory but the whole foyer was in such
bad taste that it deserved an award.
“It’s just an advert,” Jim
said icily, dismissing the grandeur, “saying: ‘I’ve got money.’”
Blair raised an eyebrow, a
bit surprised at Jim’s reaction. The detective flashed his badge at the doorman
who was decked out in a black uniform edged in gold braid.
“What makes you think Tree
is the criminal?” Blair asked as they entered the gold lamé
lift.
“Whoever is doing the
burglaries has to be familiar with the layout of the buildings,” Jim began.
“Seems like a good
inference.”
Jim pursed his lips.
“Henri, Rafe and I watched all the security videos
for the buildings on the entire
“What did you see?” Blair
asked obediently.
“A
delivery man, a mail man, a pizza delivery boy, a florist and a tarot reader
all who had a cough.”
“A
cough?”
“Yes, a cough.” Jim demonstrated
a hacking cough.
Blair contained a laugh
behind a well-placed hand at the unexpected mimicry.
“They all would spit into
a handkerchief. Then I saw a video of Mr. Jacob Tree, new resident at
“So we go talk to this guy
and see if we can get him to...”
“Slip up?” Blair
interjected.
“Got
it in one, Chief.”
U U U U U
“Jim was going to pretend
that we’d had a report of an intruder at Tree’s penthouse,” Blair continued his
story, “but it wasn’t necessary; he wasn’t in.”
“So how did you get in?”
Simon asked knowing full well that the detective would have found some legally
stretched way of getting into his suspect’s apartment.
“His housekeeper was
putting the garbage on the landing for the apartment’s super’. Once I explained
the situation to her she was more than ready to let us look around.”
U U U U U
“That wasn’t very nice,
Jim,” Blair chastised. “I think you frightened that poor woman.”
“Whatever,” Jim said
offhandedly as he scanned the sitting room.
“When you showed her your
badge she actually blanched; I thought she was going to faint.”
“She was just experiencing
déja vu.” With his pen, Jim opened a drawer on the
telephone table and rifled through the contents.
“Why
déja vu?” Blair inquired. As far as
he knew, they had never met the woman, who had been last seen running down the
corridor, in any of Jim’s cases or their nights out.
“She didn’t want to go
home.”
“Oh?” Blair mulled over
Jim’s comment, it didn’t make much sense. “Where do you suppose that she has
gone then?”
“Home as in
“Ah,” Blair said, finally
understanding.
The apartment was well
appointed and ultimately sterile. No personal knickknacks were spread around, no magazines were strewn on the coffee table and no
sense of home.
“Doesn’t look as if anyone
lives here, does it?” Jim noted.
“Well, we do know that
Tree has just moved in; maybe he hasn’t had time to unpack his personal
possessions.”
“He’s the sick puppy who’s
been breaking into the people’s apartments. I can feel it in my bones.”
“You’re taking this very
personally,” Blair pointed out, realizing for the first time, that there was
more here than met the eye.
Jim chewed absently on the
inside of his cheek as he mooched through the wooden unit’s drawers. The
question hung in the air but the detective was deliberately not answering.
Straightening his backpack on his shoulder with deliberation, Blair interposed
himself between his sentinel and the bureau. Resignation showed in Jim’s eyes
as he came up against the immovable student.
“You have told me that a
person, unspecified, has been breaking into apartments. And —” Blair raised a
Spock-like eyebrow, “—what haven’t you been telling me?”
Jim neatly sidestepped the
student, leaving his personal space. Antsy, the detective moved across the room
scanning the area. As he moved, he spoke,
“When I was just out of
uniform; I followed this investigation where this weirdo was taking one thing from
each bedroom he broke into. The items got deliberately more ‘personal’—” Jim
did not elaborate on the euphemism, “—until he found a victim who he decided to
kidnap. We managed to get the kid back. The creep did it for fun, though, just
to pull one over on the police. He didn’t care that he frightened this little
boy half to death and hospitalized his mother with a nervous breakdown—he just
liked running us through rings.”
“A
strange sort of fetish.”
“Fetish?”
“Yeah, you know, he does
it for ‘kicks’.” Blair mimed the speech
marks. “So you think that this is a reoccurrence?”
“Yes....” Jim moved into
the open plan bedroom. “I wasn’t really involved with the case, just pulled in
during the legwork looking for the kid. I heard all about it from this old FBI
agent who was pensioned off after the whole fiasco. He called me the other
night and told me that he’d been reading through the local papers and he
thought the creep was back in town. I clicked that our Penthouse Burglar and
that creep might be one and the same.”
“You must have made
friends with this FBI agent.”
“Well, it happens.” Jim
shrugged, deprecatingly—even FBI agents were human. “We got to talking one
night while on stakeout....”
“And?”
Blair prompted.
Jim eyed the student. “We
spent a lot of time together; we shared a few stories. He’d been in the
FBI—forever.”
“He must have been a font
of knowledge,” Blair supplied. He was very fond of fonts of knowledge.
“He was an interesting old
guy,” Jim finally seemed to admit.
“You don’t have to defend
yourself, Jim,” Blair said picking up on his friend’s tone, “some of my best
friends are old aged pensioners.”
“Yeah,” Jim responded as
he began to rifle through another drawer, “that explains a lot.”
U U U U U
“So you didn’t find anything?”
Simon interrupted.
“A
whole selection of cough medicines and tissues with balm and moisturizers.”
“So that was your
evidence?” Simon asked.
“Well, it was typically
Jim. Tree had some cough syrup with Ipecacuanha—I’ve
no idea what that is—Jim sniffed it. Any rate, we were going to the apartment
complex over the street to investigate another break in and we were walking
through the foyer and Jim suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and lifted his
head up...”
U U U U U
Blair looked up from his
conversation with an obstreperous doorman—who didn’t think the ragtag student
matched the wallpaper in the foyer or something,
therefore they couldn’t come into the building. Jim seemed to be enjoying the
tête-à-tête—mainly for its entertainment and blackmail value—but Blair fully
expected the sentinel to stop them very soon. Canvassing the high-class
apartment complexes in the area on the off chance that they would find Tree was
driving the student to new depths of boredom.
“Ah.” Jim inhaled deeply.
He edged past them and catfooted over the plush
carpet towards a side corridor. He angled around some large, vibrant green
rubber plants and hanging vines. As Blair watched his friend, he wasn’t even
consciously aware of the fact that he was automatically holding his breath. Jim
had rocked onto the balls of his feet poised to act. Bushes obscured his view;
Blair couldn’t see, or smell, what had triggered the sentinel’s interest.
Brushing off the doorman with a hissed ‘call the cops,’ Blair attempted to move
smoothly after the hunting sentinel.
“You’ve got an obstruction
in the ground floor heating vent.” Blair heard Jim say and then point up to the
grating in the ceiling.
“Thanks.” The man’s voice
was harsh and guttural covering a rasping cough.
“Nasty cough, have you
taken anything for it?”
“Yeah, I can’t get rid of
it, though.”
Jim edged closer as the
man bent down to rummage through his tool box.
Blair wondered at Jim’s
circumspect behaviour, he was normally a lot more in-your-face. Jim was hunting
for more evidence.
“I’ve heard that Ipecacuanha is a good old fashioned remedy for coughs,” Jim
said neutrally. “I was just looking at a bottle a few moments ago.”
The man stepped out from behind
the bush. The nondescript brown haired man, wearing engineering overalls, shot
a harried glance up at the detective and immediately saw Blair creeping towards
them. The engineer swung the heavy metal toolbox at the detective who neatly
jumped back, straight into Blair. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs in a
potted fern.
“Blair!” Jim struggled to
free himself from under the flailing student. The engineer, Blair was fairly
sure that he was Tree, was as fast as a jackrabbit and halfway out of the door
before Jim got to his feet. The sentinel hovered for a heartbeat to make sure
that he had not hurt his partner by falling on him. And then he was out the
door after Tree. Blair chased after the pair. As he broke through the swinging
doors, he saw Jim on the sidewalk and Tree was diving into a black sedan.
Swearing loudly, Jim reversed his direction and ran to his beloved truck.
U U U U U
Simon shook his head.
“What happened next?”
“Can I tell you later?”
Blair pursed his lips. “‘Jim should be waking up soon, I should be there.”
The vigil would not be
over until Jim rejoined them; awake and aware. Fuzzy with lack of sleep and
pain, Blair staggered out of the psychologically comforting beige waiting room
and back to Jim in ICU.
“Blair.” Simon caught the
student mid-stride before he could enter the room. “That Tree saw you was an accident. You’re not at fault.”
Blair dropped his head
against the wooden doorframe. “I was responsible for letting him get away. I
alerted him to our presence. It was my fault.”
Simon was at his side,
supporting him without touching. Blair looked up at the figure lying on the bed
surrounded by the happily beeping equipment. Then Jim’s long limbs shifted,
just a fraction, but he was no longer unconscious and sedated. Blair was across
the room and clinging to the metal rails surrounding the patient’s bed before
Simon could react.
Clouded blue eyes opened
and closed.
“Come on, Jim, all the
way,” Blair encouraged. “Turn the dials down. Hearing first…”
Behind him, Simon was
calmly informing the duty nurse that their patient was awaking. The heart
monitor picked up. Jim’s throat worked against the oxygenating tube supplying
his lungs. Blair caught Jim’s hand as he reached to tug at the intubating tube.
“It’s
okay, Jim. Simon has gone for a doctor. Don’t play with it—you’ll hurt
yourself.”
Jim couldn’t speak around
the tube but he was making a whole hearted attempt. Feebly, he twisted in
Blair’s grasp.
“You’re in a hospital. We crashed
the truck and you got hurt,” Blair said candidly as he attempted to soothe his
friend.
“Sssssh,”
M’benga was suddenly at their side, offering her own
brand of comfort. “Doctor’s here.” She made way for Dr. Roget.
Jim continued to fight
against the tube despite Blair’s attempts to calm him. Roget, with terse
instructions to his nurse, beckoned her closer. Blair withheld a gag as they
extracted the incredibly long tube. Jim followed their instructions with an
almost eager intensity, coughing on demand as they drew the plastic tube past
his throat. M’benga dribbled ice chips between his
parched lips as Roget placed a smaller less obtrusive oxygenating tube beneath
Jim’s nose. One of the units by the bed
began beeping frantically.
“His heart rate is up,” M’benga reported, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Detective Ellison, you
are at the
The figures on the monitor
soared higher.
“Get me 15 mg of
Diazepam,” Roget ordered.
M’benga
nodded and left.
“What are you doing?”
Blair demanded—he was aware of Simon trying to draw him aside. Jim was still
twisting on the bed almost as if he didn’t know where he was.
“It’s a light sedative—we
don’t want him hurting himself,” Roget said ungraciously, as M’benga returned with a filled syringe. The drug was
quickly inserted in an IV line.
“Speak to your friend,” M’benga said, “try to calm him.”
The valium
hit the sentinel like a ton of bricks, he sagged into
the pillow, almost unconscious. The monitors linked to the detective
immediately calmed. M’benga nodded at Blair impelling
him to speak.
“Jim, it’s
Blair.” Blair watched as Jim’s head turned on the pillow, unerringly honing in
on the sound of his voice.
Roget snorted. “Detective
Ellison can you tell me where you are?” He caught the detective’s face between
his nimble hands. “Tell me where you are....”
“Hosp’l,”
Jim slurred, half asleep.
“Good,” Roget murmured,
“you can relax now, detective. Go to sleep.”
Jim’s expression was
confused as he slipped back into sedated sleep.
“Is he all right?” Blair
demanded.
Roget waited, studying the
pulse monitor, before speaking. “He’s coherent, that is usually a good sign.
Undeniably, he is suffering the effects of a severe concussion accounting for
his distress.” Roget finally looked away from his patient. “I think it is time
for you to go home, Mr. Sandburg.”
Blair shot a glare at the
doctor, hackles raised. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Blair,” Simon
interrupted, “I think it is a good idea for you to go home for a while. Jim
isn’t going to wake up for....”
“Hours,” Roget supplied.
“Come on, Blair,” Simon
ordered. “Henri’s here with Rafe —he’ll keep an eye
on Jim for you. I’ll drop you off at the loft for a change of clothes and a nap
and Joel can pick you up at visiting time.”
The captain’s tone was
reasonable but the hint of steel was there beneath his quiet words. Blair
debated a moment whether to fight to stay or leave—leaving won. He had seen Jim
awake—albeit unsatisfactorily—and his body was crying out for a warm bath and a
couple more hours of sleep. If he kept rattling Roget’s cage, the doctor might
bar him from intensive care all together.
“I’ll be back at seven.”
Blair allowed Simon to catch him by the elbow and help him from the room.
U U U U U
“Naomi!” Blair sagged
against the doorjamb. Frantically, he wracked his brain, had his mother said
that she was visiting? Surely he would remember? How had she got into the loft?
He had stopped hiding the key over the lintel.
Concerned and upset, his
mother was flapping around him. Blair tried to figure out why Naomi was
annoyed, to say the right words to calm her down, but his brain had turned to
mush and words escaped him.
“Come on, sweetie.” A soft
hand brushed his hair. Obediently, Blair followed the voice, obeyed the
instruction to sit and find his centre.
Unbelievably a cup of tea
was suddenly pushed in his face. Tired, Blair decided not to argue and drink
the lukewarm, sugary brew. After the first sip, he set it down. Closing his
eyes, he let his head sag forwards.
‘Oh, shock,’ he realized,
‘Mom thinks I’m in shock.’
“How did you get hurt?”
Naomi demanded. “Where’s Jim? Why did you come home alone?”
“He didn’t come alone,”
Simon’s bass voice echoed through the loft.
‘Oh, yeah, I came ahead
while Simon unloaded the groceries.’
Blair grayed
out and let them rehash the events of the last two days without his input. Eyes
closed, he had another mouthful of the tea.
“They operated on his
head?” Naomi said, shocked, breaking through his reverie.
Blair lifted his head and
focused on his mother.
“Yes. He woke up, though.
He knew where he was.”
Surprisingly, the cup was
empty. When had he drunk it? Blair looked at it like he had never seen a cup
before, trying vaguely to decide what to do with it. Gentle hands enfolded his
cold fingers and his mother lifted the cup away. Dazed with exhaustion, Blair
watched her rinse out the cup. He was debating the merits of sleeping on the
kitchen table when Naomi levered him to his feet.
“Well, that’s a good sign
isn’t it, sweetie?”
“Uh?”
Blair asked.
His mother seemed smaller
than usual as she slipped an arm around his waist. Supporting
him, in more ways than one.
“That he knew where he
was,” she reiterated.
“Yeah, I think so.” The
confusion on Jim’s face haunted him.
“You are going to bed.”
Eyes almost crossed with
concentration, he managed to keep one foot in front of the other, as his mother
shepherded him to his cubby hole of a bedroom. It was warm and dark and cozy. He slumped,
aiming on burrowing in the blankets, but somehow his mom kept him upright and
skilfully pulled back the quilts. Blair squinted. How had she managed that? Was
Simon in the room? But there was a sheet before him and he was allowed to fall
head first into the warm nest that had been created. He didn’t remember
anything else.
U U U
Rubbing the last shreds of
embarrassment from his face, Blair settled onto the couch as he waited for
Joel. Needing Naomi’s help in the bath had been a humiliating experience,
especially when she had started to reminisce. The pain in his shoulder and
collarbone was easing as the painkillers kicked in. The mild euphoria from the
drugs mingled with the herbal tea his mother had foisted on him. He loathed
camomile tea at the best of times and with boneknit
added it was unbelievably vile.
“Are you sure that I could
take that tea with ibuprofen? I’m feeling really dopey.”
“Yes, I checked with my
herbalist before mixing it.”
“Ms. Syre-el-fadis?”
She was a herbalist with years of experience. Nice
lady, he’d learned a lot from her over the years.
“Blair?”
Keeping his eyes firmly
closed, Blair debated whether or not to acknowledge his mother. Footsteps came
closer and a gentle hand was laid upon his knee. Deliberately smoothing out his
breathing, Blair pretended to be asleep. He just needed ten minutes to himself,
before he went to the hospital.
“Oh,
Blair.” Naomi’s voice was soft.
The scent of perfume
lessened; she was moving away.
Then the scent was back.
Blair almost relented and opened his eyes but suddenly he was wrapped in
softness. His mother was tucking a blanket around him. The unexpected
tenderness nearly broke him. A soft rap on the door sent his mother across the
loft. Blair heard the door click open.
“Hello, Joel. Shush—he’s
asleep.”
“Oh,” Joel’s voice
lowered. “I was going to take him to see Jim in the hospital?”
“Have you heard anything?”
“Simon keeps giving us
updates, every hour on the hour; he’s stable. Reynolds and Lorne are hangin’ around the ICU waiting room.”
A theatrical yawn escaped
from Blair and he let his eyes open sleepily. “Hi, Joel.”
“Blair,” Joel returned
fondly. “Any chance of a cup of coffee, Ms. Sandburg, while
your son wakes up?”
“I was only resting my
eyes,” Blair said in an appropriately honest tone, his eyes wide open and
innocent.
Naomi smiled. “Yes, right,
that’s why your mouth was wide open and you were snoring. I’ll go get the
coffee.”
“I wasn’t!” Blair
protested. “Was I?”
Joel made himself
comfortable opposite Blair as Naomi left to make coffee and give the boys time to talk.
“Did they catch Tree?”
Blair couldn’t help but ask. It would be the first thing that Jim would ask him
when he woke up.
“There was no sign of him
anywhere,” Joel reported.
“What about at the
apartments? There must be some records. Clues?”
“No—paid with a checking
account. He had documents in his name but there is no Jacob Tree further back
in the DMV and Tax database than eighteen months.”
“He’s been using the name
quite a while.”
“Long
enough for the bank to be happy with his credentials.”
“So the guy’s a pro,”
Blair said introspectively and wondered if Jim had told Simon of his
suspicions.
Joel leaned forwards.
“Likely, he certainly is an accomplished burglar. He chose only the most
expensive items from the penthouse apartments.”
“A bit like Raffles?”
Joel looked confused for a
heartbeat. “The gentleman thief from the novels?”
“Yeah,” Blair confirmed
absently. He wasn’t up on Jim’s case. He needed to read the reports – to see if
there was a correlation with the Penthouse Burglar and the old FBI case.
Mulling on his thoughts,
he missed Joel’s weighing expression.
“Blair?” Joel said quietly
and then louder. “Blair!”
“Huh?”
“Your mother…”
Naomi was standing over
him holding a tray. Judging by the small smile on her face, she had been
enjoying simply watching him lost in thought. She’d made a good host’s effort,
and had supplied dense chocolate brownies and frothy cappuccinos. Blair wondered
when she’d made them and what the ingredients were – carob and soothing herbs
probably.
Joel visibly perked up.
“Thanks Ms. Sandburg,” he snarfed down a home-baked
brownie.
Blair fingered the treats, everything was designed to entice him to eat. Reluctantly,
he took the chocolate brownie. Naomi beamed in response.
U U U U U
The sterile, futuristic
technology of the intensive care was over powering. Blair noted a young woman
sitting in the waiting area slowly shredding a tissue into a mass of white
fragments. Yet, despite the inherent seriousness of the department there was a
feeling of hope pervading the staff as they bustled from room to room intent on
their work. Light sensitive doors swung open at their approach. Joel released
Blair’s elbow at the swing doors and nodded at the waiting area.
“I’ll wait there with
Reynolds and Nick.”
“Thanks, Joel.”
Not sparing him a second
glance, Blair passed into the ICU. M’benga was still
on duty—diligently working her way through a pile of forms. She smiled sunnily at the student.
“How is he?” Blair did not
vacillate.
“He had a bad half hour
this afternoon, but he rode the crisis well and his blood pressure is much
better, now,” M’benga said candidly.
“What! What?”
“Blair, calm down—Doctor
Roget will have you thrown out.” She closed her file and rose to reassure the
student. “Shock is very insidious—it happens and we dealt with it.”
The nurse was left gasping
in Blair’s wake as he flew past her.
The room was unchanged.
Jim still lay on the metal bracketed bed surrounded by monitors and intravenous
drips. Exhaling a sigh of relief, Blair approached the bed.
“Hi,
Jim.”
His friend lay still on
the bed, his mouth slightly open as he breathed. Blair’s fingers twitched, he
wanted to touch him, to make sure that this wax dummy was real. His skin was
sallow and pale; it would probably feel cool to the touch.
A gentle hand rested on
his good shoulder. “He’s on the mend, Blair. Just have faith.”
Patting the hand, Blair
smiled sadly. “I want…”
“I can’t tell you what
happened. I will not tell you what happened,” Jim said clearly, “sir.”
“Jim?” Blair’s eyes
widened as he leaned over the bed.
“Of course when Murray
Blight entered the room I knew he was guilty because of the odour of
chrysanthemums,” Jim said obliquely.
Confused, Blair reached
forwards to lay his hand on Jim’s arm. M’benga caught
his hand and shook her head. Jim’s eyes switched open and he gazed at them,
unseeing.
“It’s the sedative—let him
wake up slowly.”
‘This could be rather
illuminating,’ Blair realized. Jim pumped full of potential truth drugs might
let a few secrets past that closed façade.
“It depends doesn’t it...” Jim said invitingly.
“Depends on what?” Blair
prompted.
Jim giggled quietly. “My
father works in an office; what does your Dad do?” He sounded very young.
“Does this normally
happen?” Blair asked fascinated.
“It’s not unusual.” M’benga occupied herself taking Jim’s pulse as the
detective carried on his one sided conversation. “We normally don’t listen.”
“Hey, Jim, what was the
name of your first girlfriend?”
M’benga’s
expression was disapproving.
Blair had the grace to
look abashed. “Just curious....”
“I had to... hold Annie’s
hand in first grade when we went....” Jim’s voice trailed off. His breathing speeded
up and a confused little furrow formed between his eyebrows.
“Hey, Jim,” Blair said
responding to the change, “you’re okay.”
“Blair? Chief?”
Jim squinted in his friend’s general direction. “My head hurts.”
“You hit it.”
Jim reached up and slowly
rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What the
fuck? Where am I? Which hospital? Was anyone else hurt?”
“No,” Blair reassured his
friend, “just you.”
“There was a black sedan,”
Jim said disjointedly.
“Detective Ellison,” M’benga joined the conversation, “My name is Dion M’benga. I’m your nurse.
You’re in ICU at
Jim ignored her, fingering
the bandages enveloping his head seemed more important to him. Blair shot a
concerned glance across Jim at the nurse who was studying his friend’s vitals
with almost manic intensity. M’benga raised her hand,
absently silencing the student. She leaned over the bed and stared directly
into her patient’s eyes. Jim sniffed and then reached out and made contact with
her shoulder.
“Who are you?” Instantly
he backed off. “Sandburg?”
Blair grabbed Jim’s hand
and gripped tightly. “Jim, that’s your nurse, she’s really nice.”
“Will someone get the
doctor in charge, please?” Jim asked, incredibly politely.
“Oh, yeah, I should have
straight away...” The fact that Jim was clenching his hand impinged. “Jim,
what’s wrong?”
“I can’t see anything,
Sandburg.”
U U U U U
On the coffee table, paper
work from university, his sentinel notes, and Jim’s case files, waited in three
distinct piles. Each pile had to be addressed. The sentinel work to see if he
could help Jim, the university to keep up with his classes and the third, to
find Jacob Tree. He had managed, with Naomi driving, to get down to Major Crime
and grab Jim’s reports. Simon had been reluctant to give him the copies. He
knew why Simon had capitulated and given him the reports – Naomi had asked
Simon very nicely to give Blair some busy work to get him out from under her
feet. Burying a smirk, Blair rifled through the mass of paper work. He had
never been under Naomi’s feet in his life. Even when Naomi had had found him a
bit hyperactive as a child, they either meditated, mock-wrestled or she simply
decamped to a friend’s house giving him space to run free.
Naomi knew that he was up
to something. He fingered the sheaf of police reports with his good hand,
unaware of the hard light in his eyes. Blair scanned the first page; he had
made a vow he was going to fulfil it. He remembered....
U U U U U
'I can’t see anything,
Sandburg'
The hospital room was
suddenly filled to capacity. Jim lay in the centre of a mass of professionals
all of whom seemed to want a piece of him. Blair was demanding answers from
everyone within reach. A bevy of medical students, who were
studying such an interesting case, huddled, embarrassed and a little scared in
a far corner. M’benga, the ICU staff nurse,
was making commiserating noises, trying to comfort both her patient and his
best friend. The neurosurgeon, Doctor Roget, looked ready to phone security.
“Did you know this might
happen?” Blair half-yelled. “This was a potential side
effect of surgery?”
Roget grimaced. “Will you
lower your voice.”
In full fettle, Blair was
just about to launch another attack when M’benga
stepped directly into his line of sight.
“Blair, consider your
friend,” M’benga said, peacemaker.
Jim had turned an
unsightly grey under his bandages; Blair reined in his vitriol.
“What happened?” Blair
finished. The student scrabbled at his hair – was this a result of Jim’s senses
or the incompetence of the doctors? How could he bring in the sentinel part of
the equation into Jim’s treatment, without revealing Jim’s secret?
Doctor Roget cast an
acerbic glance at the voluble student as he bent over Jim with a small medical light.
“Detective Ellison, can
you see anything?”
“No,” Jim grated.
Roget breathed a deep
introspective sigh and shone the light again. Moving to the other side of the
bed, Blair saw the pupils constrict; that had to be a good thing.
“How long’s
he going to be like this?” Blair asked.
“How long is a piece of
string?” Roget countered. “I’m sorry, that was very unprofessional of me,
Detective Ellison. Obviously we’ll be doing tests but it strikes me that this
is related to the swelling in the optic region. I will be able to give you a
better idea after the tests.”
“Is it okay for me to get
some sleep?” Jim asked tiredly. “I don’t actually think I can stay awake much
longer.”
“Of
course.” Roget paternally patted the detective’s shoulder.
The medical staff followed
the premier neurosurgeon like imprinted ducklings out of the ICU unit. An
autocratic nod conveyed Nurse M’benga’s instructions
and yet another injection was inserted in one of the many intravenous drips
feeding into the detective.
“Jim,” Blair said through
clenched teeth, “do you need anything?”
“No.” Jim was close to
falling asleep. “Did we get Tree?”
A gentle little sigh
escaped from the sentinel and sightless blue eyes drifted shut. Jim was asleep.
Blair released his death grip on the edge of Jim’s bed.
‘I’ll find Tree for you,
Jim. I let him get away once, I won’t let him get away
again.’
U U U U U
“Earth to, Blair; come in,
sweetie,” there was gentle amusement in the tone. Naomi smiled compassionately and
placed a black coffee on top of a dusty pile of police files.
“Thanks, Naomi.”
She slipped into Jim’s favorite chair, curled up and weighed her son with her warm
eyes. Blair began to count and refused to look away. She guessed that he was
fermenting mayhem, but he could sometimes obfuscate his mom.
“So what are you doing?”
she asked directly, no hedging in her tone.
Blair blinked and tried to
act innocent, even though he knew that he was not fooling her. “Just stuff.” To emphasize his point he blew a mountain of
dust off the ancient kidnapping case files.
“Sweetie, give me some
credit—I know you are going to go after Jacob Tree. And that’s so not a good
thing.”
“I’m not going *after*
Tree. I’m just trying to find him.”
“I just you to remember that
revenge isn’t good for your soul,” Naomi said earnestly. “Your karmic destiny
will unfurl if you act solely for revenge.”
“Well…” Blair told himself
not to whine. “It’s not about revenge. I’m trying to solve a crime for Jim. I’m
doing it for Jim.”
“Well, yes, of course.”
Naomi smiled, and moved to crouch at his side. “But, sweetie, you’re not a p…
cop. You’re a grad student. I wish you would remember that.”
“I know I’m not to cop.
But I am Jim’s partner. He’s beating himself up ‘cause
Tree got away. He knows that he’s going to do something else,” Blair said
vehemently. Jim was pretty much obsessed by Tree and Blair hoped that if he
found anything out it would put his sentinel’s mind at rest.
“You’re not centered at the moment, you’re pulled this way and that, you should concentrate on healing and helping Jim. Jim’s
colleagues should be investigating the case —“
“Simon doesn’t believe
that Tree and the kidnapper from the FBI case are one and the same. I have to
do this for Jim.”
U U U U U
Blair clung to the door
frame watching Jim. The sentinel sat quietly in an armchair by the private
room’s window. His arms rested on his thighs, his palms facing upwards. The
sightless eyes were closed. He appeared relaxed, but Blair knew better. Sitting
before him was the personification of the Ice King of ancient mythology. He appeared to be patiently waiting for his
sight to return and was seemingly unaffected by the events.
‘Still waters run deep.’
Blair hoped that he could
contain the eventual blow out. For the first week of Jim’s hospitalization, he
had slept his days away. Once, exactly, eleven days after the accident Jim had
dreamed deeply and terrifyingly. Fighting against what seemed to be an
enshrouding cloth that threatened to smother him, Blair
had had to wake him. Frozen, caught between sleep and wakefulness, for one bare
moment Blair had seen the fear in his friend’s shadowed eyes. The instant had
lasted less than a heartbeat.
“Come in, Sandburg.”
Blair sidled into the
room, “Hi. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” Jim smiled in
his direction.
“See they let you out of
bed.”
Jim smiled sweetly. “It
took a lot of badgering but after the battery of tests they’ve inflicted on me
I asked that I should be allowed to sit upright for a little in the sunlight.”
Blair withheld a groan and
rested his head in his hand, wondering how Jim had ‘asked.’ “What did the
doctor say?”
The sentinel turned
unerringly to his friend’s voice. “Time will tell.”
“I spoke to Roget. He
mentioned operating. Have they said anything to you?”
“They’re not operating.
They are releasing me.”
“What? When?”
“Doctor Roget hasn’t said
yet, hopefully in less than a week.” Jim smiled tightly and then, for once,
volunteered some personal information. “I received an all clear today.”
Blair nodded, waiting for
Jim to continue. Then he berated himself since his sentinel was not going to
respond to a visual prompt.
“For
what?”
Jim turned his head, so
the sunlight bathed his face. Naked pain showed in Blair’s expressive blue eyes
as he watched his friend. Tense and unhappy, Blair shifted onto Jim’s bed and
curled up in a ball.
“The hematoma
will not reoccur,” Jim finally said. “Enough time has passed: if another clot
was going to happen it would have by now.”
“You’re coming home soon?”
Blair suddenly latched onto that revelation.
“Maybe,” Jim ran his
fingers over his short, stubbly hair, a new nervous gesture.
There was a new level of
detachment in the sentinel’s voice that made Blair shiver. Emotions were buried
deeply but at the same time they were bubbling, curiously, at the surface. He
knew that Jim had spoken to the hospital psychologist, he also knew that Jim
would have supplied the sensible, correct answers and against the
psychologist’s better judgement he would have been deigned as ‘coping’ with his
hopefully temporary disability. Maybe they had spoken about the incidence with
the Golden? Jim had regained his sight after being drugged,
perhaps he thought that that experience promised that his sight would return.
“How’s the headache?”
Blair asked deliberately changing the subject. “Do you need some help with the
dials?”
“Fine. I
feel a little thick headed, but that’s probably because I’ve been laying down for two weeks.” Abruptly, the sentinel inhaled, then he too changed the subject. “You’ve been to the bull
pen.”
“Howcanyoutell?” Blair said defensively.
“Simon’s
cigars.”
“Yuck!” Blair sniffed at
his shirt.
“So,
Blair.” Jim’s hand snaked out and fingered the sling and
strapping still immobilizing Blair’s arm. “When were you going to tell me about
this?”
Blair disengaged his
friend’s fingers and shifted across the bed. “It’s nothing,” he said
sheepishly, “the doctor says it’s knitting—it’ll be
healed in a couple of weeks.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that
you’d been hurt in the crash?”
“Oh,” the student hedged,
“who said?”
“Joel“– he’s concerned about you.”
“Well, you know how Joel
is, he on a new diet, he gets these thoughts...”
“You’re changing the
subject, Chief.”
This was a kind of weird
conversation, Blair noted, Jim normally didn’t chop and change conversations,
nor be so personal, recounting other conversations. Opening his eyes, Jim
non-focused his blue neon gaze at the student, Blair squirmed uncomfortably.
“I dunno
it just didn’t seem important; it’s only a collarbone.”
“Ah.” Jim said.
‘Geez,
Jim, you’d had your head cracked open. It seemed a bit pathetic to whine about
a sore arm.’
“Why were you back at bull pen?”
“Simon let me get some of
your files.”
“Relating to what?”
“Oh, stuff. I wanted to
keep up on your paperwork, so you don’t fall behind….” Blair blushed. If Jim
was permanently blind, it was hardly even necessary to keep up on his
paperwork. But, Jim wasn’t blind – it was a temporary set back. Somehow even
mentioning the possibly, even obliquely, seem horribly gauche.
Jim looked at him like he
didn’t believe a word that he said—but he simply let the matter drop. The
sentinel’s eyes slid away into infinity.
Blair contained a shudder.
U U U U U
Jim lay on his squeaky
hospital bed listening to the nurses’ quiet conversation. Earlier there had
been some drama as an elderly patient suffered a terminal cardiac arrest. An
older nurse was comforting a younger nurse as they doled out the medication for
the night. He considered refusing his sedatives but he knew without the
medication he wouldn’t sleep. A man was coughing somewhere along the corridor.
Simply lying on his bed, resting, conserving energy,
left him too much time to think. And when he thought too much, he had problems
getting to sleep. He had been subjected to another battery of tests in the
morning. He preferred not to dwell on the dye inserted in the femoral artery
and then what seemed like hours spent lying in the CAT scanner as the neurologists
mapped the flow of blood in his brain. The swelling around the excised blood
clot constricted the flow of blood in the optic region. Doctor Roget was
pleased with the results—there was sufficient blood flow to oxygenate the
cells—there was no apparent brain damage. Roget’s final diagnosis was that
tissue swelling was pressing on the optic nerves. Now the time was for waiting.
He twisted his head to
face the window and opened his eyes as wide as possible.
‘Nothing.’
Jim curled up on his side
and pulled the blankets up around his neck.
U U U U U
Oblivious to the ongoing
argument in the post-grad coffee room, Blair slowly double checked all of Rafe and Henri’s results in the Jacob Tree investigation.
Much to his frustration, Jim’s colleagues’ work was sound. The police
department had pulled out all the stops as one of their own had been
injured. Blair dropped his head to the
desk and banged it lightly against his laptop computer keyboard. A long click
series of clicks and his screen filled up with ‘H’s.’ No matter how hard he
tried he couldn’t find a new angle to the investigation. The inertia of over
three weeks with no leads and worrying about Jim were almost impossible to
shift. Blair lifted his head up and stared at a brand new baby Ph.D. student
who was arguing with a stressed ABD. Gina was near tears but the younger man
seemed oblivious. Blair shook his head, you had to learn to walk softly around
those that were writing up their Ph.D.s. Wadding up a sheaf of scrap paper, he launched it left handed at Lloyd. It bounced off his
head. Surprised, the student stopped dead and glowered at Blair. Blair met his
glower with his own incandescent glare until the younger student dropped his
eyes.
“You can argue without
insulting people’s intelligence,” Blair said pithily. “Cause otherwise you’re
not arguing, you’re just being cruel – and that makes you come across as an
idiot. We’re supposed to be in the top five percent of the intellectual elite,
act like it.”
Lloyd stalked towards the
sitting grad student, his fists were clenched. Blair remained sitting, his good
hand curled around his cup of cold coffee. Hot head, was Blair’s judgement,
without an ounce of empathy in his bones.
“Yes, Lloyd?” Blair asked
calmly, his brows lowered.
“Nothing,” the younger
student grated, made an abrupt about turn and strutted out of the rec room.
Blair growled, satisfied;
he had a Jim-like moment of utter satisfaction at routing a perp.
Now he could get back into the swing of research. He knew why he was in a bad mood, he’d
visited Jim, as he had every day since he’d come out of his coma, but Simon was
in the private room...
U U U U U
Sauntering down the
corridor, Blair nodded to the nurses on the fifth floor wing. While he was happy
that Jim was out of ICU he missed M’benga’s quiet
competence. The sound of raised voices stopped him dead in his tracks. Blair
had no compunctions against eavesdropping so he stopped and listened closely.
There wasn’t voices, it was only one voice.
“Jim, you have to consider
it.”
“I’m happy with Doctor
Roget’s care,” Jim protested lightly. “He’s a capable physician and eminent
neurosurgeon.”
Blair skirted along the
thin plywood wall and paused just outside the door.
“Come on, Jim, you’re
deliberately misunderstanding me.”
“I am?” Jim asked
innocently.
The sound of grinding
teeth could be heard in the corridor.
“You know full well if
your disability is permanent, Jim, there are certain procedures to be
followed.”
“Don’t you think that this
is a bit premature, sir?” Jim said with soldier-speaking-to-superior perfect
diction. “My sight may just be off line.”
Blair, however, heard the
tense note in his best friend’s voice. Simon seemed oblivious to it.
“It’s been three weeks,”
his voice was gentle. Maybe he wasn’t as insensitive as Blair thought.
“Yes, but Doctor Roget
hasn’t given up hope and neither have I. The swelling was extensive and there
is still evidence of bruising. Bruising in the region of the
brain which processes visual information.”
Chancing it, Blair peeked
around the doorway. His posture defensive, Jim was sitting ramrod straight on
his bed. Simon Bank’s back was to the door and his arms were crossed. The dark
haired man began to pace. “What about aftercare?”
“Aftercare?”
Jim questioned defensively, implying that he was more than capable of looking
after himself.
“Blair will bend over
backwards, looking after you. But maybe some professional care, someone with knowledge
of your… condition? There are governmental agencies, even groups associated
with the P.D. who are there to help you.”
He wasn’t entirely sure,
but Blair thought that Jim blanched under his hospital pallor.
“Hi!” Blair breezed into
the room.
“Chief,” Jim greeted
soberly.
“Sandburg.” Simon nodded.
“You heard didn’t you?”
Blair shrugged one
shouldered. “I might not be a sentinel, but I’m not deaf. I’m gonna be there for Jim.”
“I know that,” Simon said
tiredly. “But, this isn’t the ‘flu, Jim has a serious condition.”
“But…” Blair began.
Simon held up his hand.
“I’m not the enemy here. I’m setting out the options,
there are support networks in place to help Jim. It’s sensible that you take
advantage of them.”
“I’m capable of looking
after myself.” Jim’s immovable expression settled on his face. Blair knew that
there was no arguing with the sentinel when he had made a decision. It would
take the equivalent of an emotional nuclear explosion to get the detective off
his moral high ground.
Simon shot a resigned
glance at Blair who shrugged and mouthed: ‘Why are you surprised?’
“I can hear you,” Jim said
softly.
“Maybe,” Blair ventured,
“Simon has a point?”
He flinched at the glare
that Jim fired in his general direction, a lump rose in Blair’s throat as he
realized the ire was misdirected over his shoulder. Abruptly, Jim’s expression
smoothed. “If you don’t want to help, Sandburg.”
“It’s not that! But there
are things, equipment that will make your life easier...”
“You all seem to assume that
this is done and dusted. Roget doesn’t know that this is permanent. You may
have given up, but I haven’t.” Jim crossed his arms over his chest.
“I haven’t given up. I just trying to…” Blair’s voice petered out. Faced by the
blind eyes and the still massive bandages around Jim’s head, hope seemed so
very distant.
U U U U U
Blair shook himself out of
his reverie. The rest of the visit had
been pretty much the same as most of his visits with the sentinel, the man had
retreated to his Ice Kingdom of Denial. Inconsequential chatting had followed
until the nurse kicked him out. Snarling, Blair double clicked on his mouse and
closed Tree’s files. He needed a break despite the fact he hadn’t achieved
anything. Working in the common room was next to impossible, why ‘works and
services’ had insisted that today was the day that they had to service his
heater he didn’t know. He could have sworn that it had been checked last month.
Blair closed his laptop and manhandled it into its case. If Jim was getting out
of the hospital tomorrow then he had to tidy the loft, pick up groceries and
cook some comfort food. In general, get things ready for Jim’s return.
U U U U U
‘A sense has been
misplaced—not lost—it hasn’t been lost.’
He ran his palms over the
thin patina of varnish on the windowsill. The wood was sun-warmed on the left
and cool on the right.
‘Only one sense, I have
others.’
The sentinel extended his
senses: delicately he inhaled, the antiseptic irritated his nasal passages;
elsewhere a child was sobbing and a soft voice attempted to console.
‘See!’ he told himself and
then laughed inwardly.
He toed the bag resting at
his feet—and waited.
‘
“Are you ready to be
discharged, Detective Ellison?”
“Yes.”
Hands caught the back of
his wheelchair and deftly turned him out of the sunlight. Before the nurse could
propel him from the room a voice interrupted.
“I’ll do that.” Blair’s voice.
Jim allowed himself a
slight smile.
U U U U U
Narrow fingers gripped his
arm just above the elbow. Blair was, unsurprisingly, clever at subtly directing
him around the simple obstacles leading to the apartment.
‘Step,’ Blair said subvocally.
Jim lifted his foot and
entered the building. A distinctive odor fresh paint,
turpentine overlay baby powder—the Petersons in the apartment below his had
been redecorating. Involved in his thoughts, Jim was surprised when his foot
brushed the metal threshold of the elevator. He stumbled and Blair caught
him—as always.
“Okay?”
“Fine.”
Blair released his hold
and then the loud angry clamour of the elevator gate assaulted his senses. The
sound of the gears straining to pull the car to the third floor was a horribly
off pitch ‘c’ note. Jim shivered and Blair grabbed his arm tightly. There was
no need for words. Only when they had reached the apartment and closed the door
did Jim realize that he was over breathing.
“Boys!”
Jim withheld a moan: when
had Naomi descended? Could his life get anymore worse? He sniffed, but there
was no smell of sage. Evidently, she had believed her son when he told her that
his roommate was allergic to sage.
“Hi,
Mom.”
“Hi,
Naomi.” Jim listened carefully as she bounced forward – her
steps had the same cadence of Blair’s steps.
“I’m going to kiss you on
the cheek, Jim,” she said, and proceeded to do so. “Oh, my poor baby. I
know though, I can feel it in my heart that you’re going to be fine.”
“Mom,” Blair whined
automatically.
“Don’t ‘mom’ me, Blair.”
Another kiss was planted on his cheek.
“It’s nice to see you,”
Jim said deliberately.
“He wouldn’t let me visit
you, you know,” she said conspiratorially. “I came down, though. But you were
always asleep.”
“I seem to sleep a lot,”
Jim replied.
“And on that topic, let’s
get you to the couch.”
With a Sandburg on both
sides, he was shepherded into his apartment and settled on his couch. Naomi
curled up against his side; she obviously had her let’s-tease-the-son hat on.
Sighing deeply, Sandburg stomped over to the kitchen.
“You look well,” Naomi
said with typical directness and brushed his newly grown hair.
Sandburg puttered angrily
at the counter.
“I hope so.”
Naomi snuggled in. What
was it about Sandburgs and their total
non-appreciation of a guy’s personal space?
“I know a great chakra massage for freeing up tension. We could go upstairs
and I’ll give you a massage.”
“Here.” Judging by the
volume, Blair was standing directly over them.
“Yes?” Jim asked coolly.
“Oh, sorry,” Blair said.
“I’ve got you a cup of herbal tea. It’s a blend good for reducing
inflammation.”
“It smells like piss.”
“Jim!” Naomi said
affronted.
“It probably tastes like
piss, but it’s good for you. It’s also a natural diuretic.” The warmth of the
cup was in his face. Concentrating on the region of heat floating before his
face, he reached up and curled his hands around the mug. He might hold it, but
he had no intention of drinking it.
“I’ve been staying here,
helping Blair while you’ve been in the hospital. But I’m going to stay at a
friend’s house, so you can have your big, comfy, warm bed back.”
“That’s not necessary,”
Jim responded on cue.
“Oh, that’s sweet.”
Somehow, Naomi snuggled in even closer.
“You’ll upset Auntie Ruth,
if you don’t visit,” Blair growled.
“Oh, he’s so easy to
tease.” Naomi tickled Jim’s side.
The world wasn’t big
enough to contain two Sandburgs in his life. Blair was
biting at each of his mother’s jibes, even though Jim knew that Blair knew that
he was being teased. Jim spared a moment to wonder if he could have had such a
relationship with his own mother. He shook his head; he would, emphatically,
not treat his mother in such a way – it was almost impossible to contemplate.
“So Blair’s been working
on your case,” Naomi dropped her bombshell with aplomb.
“What?” Jim snapped. He
thought that he could almost hear Blair rolling his eyes back.
“I was just keeping up, you
know, seeing if I could see any angles.”
“Oh?” Jim monitored his
friend’s heart rate; he was fudging with the truth. “So what did
“What?” Blair questioned.
Jim heard a soft intake of breath and the slap of a hand against a forehead. “Who? Leon Riccolo? Your FBI friend in the original case? I am such an idiot.
Naomi, stay with Jim, please.”
“What?” he was trapped on
sofa with Naomi pressed up against him.
“It’s okay, I won’t be
long. I am such an idiot.” He snatched up his backpack and before Jim could
protest further he was out of the door.
U U U U U
The brownstone apartment
complex was well appointed and obviously catered to the elderly. Blair guessed
that it was a sort of halfway house for people who did not need or desire care
in a home, but would benefit from attendants. Blair thought it very sad that
the residents either didn’t have families or had
families that couldn’t care for them.
Inside the foyer was a
care assistants’ desk – currently manned by an aged, cuddly lady who was the
epitome of a grandmother.
“Hello,” Blair said
carefully. “My name is Blair Sandburg, I would like to
talk to Leon Riccolo.”
“Oh,
why?
“It’s kinda
important that I talk to him.”
She leaned back and
crossed her arms over her ample chest. “You’re too young to have such an
agitated gleam in your eye.”
“Look, I really need to
talk to him about his work.”
Her brown eyes widened
comically. “Is this police business?”
“Sort
of. Not quite. I’d like to talk to him.”
“That’s interesting. But
if you’re a policeman aren’t you supposed to have some ID?” she said astutely.
Blair slipped his backpack
off his good shoulder to the floor and began to rifle through it. “Look I’m not
a policeman, I work with the police. I just want to talk to him about one of
his cases.”
“They… uhm…
let you out with a broken arm?” she continued.
“Here it is.” Blair handed
up the laminated card.
“Nice smile,” the
grandmotherly figure said.
“Thank you.” Blair
accepted the card back.
She smiled and Blair had
the distinct impression if he stood any closer to her, she would tweak his
cheeks and cluck fondly at him. Blair stepped back well out of reach as she
called
She put the phone down and
smiled. “
“Thank you, Mrs.?”
“Bosworth.”
She caught up his backpack and before Blair could protest, she had linked her
arm through his. “You may call me Emily.”
“Emily,” Blair grinned
toothily, feeling quite overawed, even Jim would be impressed by her
take-charge manner.
“Ciao,
Emily, mia amore?”
With a devilish gleam in his eye
“I’ve brought you a new friend.
This is Blair Sandburg.”
“Sandburg?”
“Yeah.
Does Jim talk about me?” Blair brightened.
“He got out today.” Blair
didn’t say anything about the complications due to the head injury.
“You hurt yourself at the
same time?”
Blair shrugged lopsidedly,
showing the gnarled old man that his collarbone was healing. “Just
a broken collarbone.”
“Are you going to keep us
out here all day?” Emily asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it for
the world.”
Obediently, they followed
“Come my love, sit by me.”
Emily leaned over and
whispered loudly in Blair’s ear. “I’m too good for him.”
Blair tried very hard for an
amused smile, he knew that they were simply bantering but he didn’t have time
for games—they had to catch Tree. Both the old man and Emily picked up on his
mood and abruptly sobered.
“You’re here about one of
Jim’s cases?”
Emily sat on the couch
opposite
“The Penthouse Burglar,”
Blair said succinctly, as he sat in Emily’s offered seat. “Or more accurately, the
link between your old case and the Penthouse Burglar.”
“Ah.”
“It’s more like what we
don’t know.”
“Now, Blair,”
Blair blinked at the
thought of being considered as Jim’s student, but guessed that it kind of made
sense. “I’ve been working through the old case file while Jim’s been out of
commission and I thought that you might have some theories that I missed.”
“Yes. Why do you think
Jacob Tree is the same guy from way back?”
“Tree?”
“Sorry,” Blair realized
that he was getting ahead of himself. “Jacob Tree is the guy that Jim
identified as the Penthouse Burglar. Anyway that’s the name he gave when he
registered at
“That’s a change from last
time,”
“Maybe not,” Emily piped
up, evidently
“And what do you base this
interesting theory on,”
“Gut feeling,” Emily said
with her chin high.
Half listening to their
discussion, Blair allowed his mind to wander, sipping on a cup of hot, black,
sweet coffee that he hadn’t asked for. The source of Tree’s identification had
suddenly become important. He knew from experience that forged documents were
fairly easy to obtain but he felt that Emily was correct in her assumption that
Tree had many aliases. The man’s cavalier attitude and mass of disguises lent
credence to the idea that he had many forms of identification. He wondered
distantly what a psychiatrist would make of Tree. More importantly, many
aliases and many identities required a hell of a lot of money. Tree
occasionally stole expensive items that he could fence—but they were always
personal items to be coveted rather than sold. Therefore, either Tree was
independently wealthy or he worked in a bank or the DMV. Was it possibly that
the criminal opened his own accounts—that he actually supplied himself with
aliases? It seemed perfectly simple.
“What other cities do you
think the ‘old case’ guy worked out of?” Blair interjected into
“Henri said something
about investigating Tree’s bank account?” Blair spoke to himself. He pulled out
his file from the bowels of his backpack and rifled through his file of notes.
‘It can’t be that
simple—can it’? Blair wondered. He couldn’t find the report; Henri had to have
it. “I need to know about Tree’s bank account. Henri has the details.”
“Who’s Henri?”
“Detective colleague of
Jim’s, Simon assigned him Jim’s case. I need to know about Tree’s bank
account,” Blair said feverishly.
Emily consulted her watch.
“You won’t be able to do anything until Monday morning.”
“Monday!”
Blair demanded.
“Bank’s closed ‘til
Monday, son,”
Blair sagged back into the
depths of the well used sofa. He wanted to do something—now. Blair lapsed back
into thought. First port of call was Henri and then maybe a ‘phone conversation
with the head of Tree’s bank to find out who dealt with the paperwork
concerning Tree’s account. Their next port of call,
would be the DMV.
‘This is really going to
be difficult over the weekend. I could go around to the...’’
“What’s going through that
little mind?” Emily asked teasingly.
“Son, I can read your mind
like a book. Can I point out that it is after five?”
“And it’s pointless
killing yourself getting the info’ that you’ll have in twenty minutes on Monday
morning. You have to learn to pace yourself.”
Blair looked sheepishly
into his coffee—
“You can’t run off half
cocked—we’ve got other aspects of the cases we can discuss,” the FBI agent continued.
Emily settled back
contentedly a step away from rubbing her hands in glee. Blair looked first to
“So are you staying for
dinner?”
“I’ve got steak.”
U U U U U
A cold feeling woke Jim
from a restless doze. He lay a moment getting his bearings as he opened his
eyes and saw nothing. To escape Naomi’s nattering, he had pretended to nap on
the sofa. Lie had become fact. The room
was colder than usual. Had Naomi left the balcony windows open? Jim guessed
that he’d slept for some time but he couldn’t know how long. He threw the blanket from his lap and
struggled to his feet. For a heartbeat, he swayed dizzily then the moment passed.
‘I’ve spent far too much
time lying down.’
“Naomi?”
There was no answer.
Mentally shrugging, Jim made ten easy steps and he reached the fridge. The
bottle of organic half skimmed milk from Blair’s favourite health food store
was in the door. He measured the amount by the simple expedience of sticking
his finger in the glass and pouring the milk until his finger was wet.
Carefully, Ellison returned to the fridge but somehow misjudged the door shelf
and the bottle of milk slipped through his fingers and smashed on the floor.
“Damn.”
The cloths were where he’d
left them as were the brush and dustpan. He swept the area several times and
then, gingerly, felt under the fridge door. He immediately cut himself.
“Fuck.”
Three sweeps and another cut
finger, Ellison decided that the floor was clear and that no one was in any
danger of cutting themselves accidentally. Both Naomi and Blair were fond of
wandering around barefoot. The Band-Aids were where he’d left them.
‘Blair’s going to kill
me,’ Jim noted, as he twisted the sticky Band-Aids around his fingers.
“Jim! What happened?”
Blair was at his side, their fingers entangling. Jim hadn’t even heard the door
open
– the
idea about senses heightening when you were blinded was obviously a myth.
“I dropped your fancy
bottle of milk.”
“Where’s Naomi?” Blair
demanded.
“I don’t know. She wasn’t
here when I woke up.”
Breath hissed angrily
between Blair’s lips. “I don’t believe it. That’s beyond irresponsible.”
“Hey,” Jim growled. “I’m
an adult.”
“Yeah,
an adult who happens to be blind at the moment.
She shouldn’t have left you.” Blair levered Jim to his feet. He heard Blair
kick their back up first aid kit under the sink. “There it is: she left a
note.”
“What’s it say?”
“I’ve no idea – it’s for
you.”
“Eh?” Jim managed as Blair
set him on a kitchen chair.
“Directly in front of you
is a selection of objects on the kitchen table, I guess that they’re a note.”
Gingerly, Jim let his fingers
creep forwards. His senses drifted over a tiny ivory elephant, a Tibetan gong,
two cents and one of Blair’s old walking boots, heel facing upwards. “Do you
get it?”
“Elephant,
Tibetan, two cents and sole?” Blair ventured. “Nah. Ivory gong…”
“I’ve gone?”
Blair laughed. “I’ve gone
two scents…?”
“Too boot… heel. Ah, I’ve
gone to heal?”
“She probably popped out
to see one of her gurus for a healing ritual or herbs for you.”
“At least she trusts that
I can handle myself on my own,” Jim said dryly.
“Obviously.”
Blair’s fingertips brushed Jim’s Band-Aids.
“Accidents happen.” Jim
folded his hands against his chest. “What did
Blair fussed away,
rustling a paper bag. “If you’re interested we’ve got a couple of leads we
should follow up on.”
Jim snorted. “Detective
Sandburg, is it?”
“I’ve just been following
up on a few ideas, thinking about Jacob Tree, you know.”
“You’re not a detective.”
There was an intake of
insulted breath. “Really? What am I the gopher?”
Abruptly, Blair reined in his anger. “I’ve just been putting together a few
ideas. You want Tree, don’t you?” he finished tightly.
“Oh, yes,” Jim said with
shark like intensity.
“Well, we’re in the same
ballpark then, aren’t we.”
Introspective thoughts
weren’t at the top of his agenda at the moment he was enjoying denial, but Joel
had mentioned during a few hospital visits that Sandburg was acting ‘driven.’
“What’s the problem,
Blair?” he asked deliberately.
“I don’t know what you
mean,” Blair responded and then charged the subject. “
“Oh.” Jim sniffed. “Emily
added her garlic onions.”
“Yeah, you know Emily?”
“I know Mrs. Bosworth-Riccolo very well.”
“They’re married!”
U U U U U
‘Another
day.’ Ellison noted as he woke with his customary
immediacy—one moment asleep; another moment awake. The heavy quilt was warm and
comfortable. Jim opened his eyes and experienced an unfamiliar sense of
disillusionment when once again his sight hadn’t miraculously returned
overnight. The fresh scent of the morning mocked him. He gazed blindly at the
ceiling. Naomi had returned not long after Blair had reheated the steaks effectively
derailing any attempts at finding out what was bugging the younger man. He had
no idea what was going on in the maze like knot of the grad student’s brain.
“Chief?” he tried.
Sandburg had said that he had to go to the university first thing in the
morning. Getting a decent night’s sleep on the hospital ward had been next to
impossible and Jim had guessed that he would sleep until
“Coffee,” Jim said out
loud, sniffing the percolating brew.
“Damn, I dropped the
milk—didn’t I?”
He struggled out of the
bed.
‘Shaving’s going to be
difficult.’ Jim padded across the room and one hand against the wall found the
top step with his toes. ‘Oh, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.’’
Carefully, he made his way
to the bathroom. Blair had cleaned the loft thoroughly before he had been
released from the hospital. A lot of the clutter in the loft had been hidden
away along with the rugs on the wooden floor. The student had done everything
he could think of to make the apartment four-sense friendly.
Jim rubbed his chin feeling
quite pleased with himself. He hadn’t been stupid; using a cutthroat razor was
nigh impossible, but the electric razor that Blair had supplied had been
perfect. Padding barefoot to the coffee, he suppressed a laugh; he had to
figure out where to get milk if he didn’t want black coffee. Would the shops be
open? He didn’t even know what time it was. Crossing to the window, he listened
carefully; there was a radio playing in the distance, the DJ’s caterwauling
told the sentinel that it was after
Now getting to the
seven-eleven would be a feat worthy of a sentinel.
Jim was dressed minutes
later—he knew what clothes he was wearing—his wardrobe was neat and organized.
Navigating the apartment corridors was easy as he’d walked through them nearly
every day for more than eight years. Once he’d passed over the threshold and
stepped onto the sidewalk it suddenly seemed more important to keep close to
the wall.
Perhaps this was a
mistake?
He wasn’t going to stay
inside. Senses extended, but not completely open, Jim edged forwards, fingers
trailing along the stonework. He had done this before. He could create the
sensory picture of the world around him using his hearing and other senses.
“Can I help you?”
The voice was familiar,
but Jim couldn’t place it. His ears cocked as he listened to the cadence of the
voice.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Are you sure?” Then the
voice spoke deliberately, “Detective Ellison?”
“Do I know you?” The short
hairs on the back of his neck pricked up.
“Nasty
scar.”
Air eddied behind him and
he knew that fingers were reaching. Jim
shuddered, the person was moving around him – circling. He raised his hand
ready to block any touch.
“Automobile accident,” Jim
said neutrally.
“Yes, Jimmy. Remember me
to Chief.”
Then the voice was gone.
Jim stood frozen—analyzing
the encounter—separating the meeting into its components. ‘Male. Most definitely male. Knows me and
Sandburg. Confident and arrogant. Enjoys playing games. It’s hardly rocket science.’ Teeth
gritted, he tried to listen for Tree but he hadn’t managed to form a sensory
impression of the man. Sniffing, he caught the final ebbing trace of Ipecacuanha. Ellison made an about face and laboriously
made his way back to his home.
U U U U U
Black coffee in hand, Jim
sat on the edge of the sofa—sitting because the short walk had taken far too
much out of him. Any second now the gang of Major Crime and Blair were going to
descend on the loft, he didn’t know if he really had the energy.
“Jim, are you okay?” Blair
burst through the door like a force of nature.
The squeak of high tops
scraped across wooden floor. Blair gripped his shoulders, his face was suddenly
close to Jim’s as he scrutinised his every feature.
“You look like shit,”
Blair said candidly.
“Thank you.”
“You say Tree was waiting
for you?” Blair asked worriedly.
“Looks
that way.”
Jim inhaled, composing
himself, and listened closely. Patrol car sirens were approaching, another car screeched
to a halt and Simon started yelling orders. It was impressive the way the man
could take control, Jim reflected. The captain had a positive talent cutting
through any situation. Rafe’s distinctive voice
joined the throng of people descending on the sidewalk. He could hear the thrum
of four police cruisers and at least five police officers discussing a variety
of subjects. Absently, he noted the amount of the policemen arriving on the
scene seemed a tad over the top. He was, of course, completely oblivious to the
actual reason for his fellow police officers descending on the sidewalk where
one of their own had been threatened.
“What were you doing out!”
Blair asked. “I said that I’d be right back.”
“I needed to buy some milk
for breakfast,” Jim said amiably.
“You haven’t had any
breakfast?” he demanded.
‘Obviously leaving the
house without breakfast is unthinkable,’ Jim thought amused.
“Come on.” Blair levered
Jim to his feet. “I’ll cook something.”
The student half yanked
the detective in the direction of the kitchen area.
“You’re going to have to
slow down, Chief.”
“Oh,
sorry.”
Jim shook his head as he
allowed Blair to guide him to the table. Plainly unnerved by Tree’s presence
Blair was less than deft at directing him.
“Sit,” Blair directed. Jim
sat as ordered. The detective pressed a hand over his eyes. The loft door
slammed open. The heavy tread of Banks’ footsteps entered the loft accompanied
by the swish of his woollen coat. He started to speak and then stopped dead.
‘Probably thinks I’m
zoning or something.’
“Jim, are you all right?”
he said gently. “I need a statement.”
“Statement?”
Jim propped his elbows on the table.
“Simon? How do you want
your eggs?” Blair called out. Sniffing, Jim noted that Blair had started making
a full cooked breakfast. Blair had apparently decided that he needed feeding
up. Jim didn’t feel like arguing. Half dozing, he listened to the frying of
bacon and eggs then the mixing of batter for waffles.
“Fried?”
Simon ventured.
“Fried?
Ask a man how he likes his eggs and he just says fried. Fried?
Over easy, sunny side up, scrambled but no...” Blair said to the whole room.
“Chief, just cook the damn
breakfast.”
“Ha!” Blair said
expressively. The skillet crashed
against the pan.
“What happened, Jim?”
“He was playing with me.”
The minute that he had stepped out of the apartment Tree had been waiting for
him. That implied that he had been under surveillance. And it was likely that
he and Blair had been under surveillance. “He has obviously been watching us—he
called me ‘Jimmy’ and referred to Blair as ‘Chief.’”
“Damn,” Simon growled.
“This is exactly what he
did the last time,” Blair said.
“You have no evidence that
Tree is the same perp that committed the kidnapping
five years ago.”
“
“There’s no evidence,”
Simon reiterated.
Jim listened to his best
friend kicking the kitchen cabinet. Soon he would have a nice foot shaped hole
in the wooden door.
“If Tree is that guy from the
FBI case, he stalked that woman and then he took her kid. He’s an obsessive
compulsive who likes manipulating and playing with people. He was watching and
waiting for Jim!” Blair finished.
“Blair,” Jim began,
deliberately using his given name.
“He’s fixated on you,
Jim.”
Jim turned that thought
over. “Fixated on us.”
U U U U U
The threesome sat around
the kitchen table all picking at their food. The egg, bacon, waffles and maple
syrup smelled wonderful. Blair chased his forkful around the plate and watched
Jim delicately spearing the plate, randomly picking up cut sections of
waffle.
“Jim, you can’t stay
here—you’ll have to go to a safe house,” Simon said in between sips of coffee.
The room was silent. Jim had no defence and Blair knew it. His
best friend’s face was shuttered. Blair knew what the problem was: Jim was
holding onto his independence like a handful of sand that was rapidly draining
away. If there was anyone who valued
their own space and actually enjoyed their own company it was Detective Jim
Ellison. He had had his independence thrust upon him at an early stage and he
had learned to live with it, until he figured that that was the way that the
world revolved.
“A unit outside will be
sufficient,” Jim countered.
Jim knew the boundaries of
the loft, he would be better able to defend himself in his home, Blair
realized. A strange place would be a nightmare.
“I think we should stay,”
Blair said. “But, I’ll tell Naomi to stay with Auntie Ruth and not visit.”
Jim turned his slow, wide
smile on him, and Blair was warmed.
U U U U U
Jim breathed out a deep
sigh when the door closed behind his captain and best friend who immediately
started arguing. The interval before Blair’s return would, of necessity be
short, but Blair needed to speak to Naomi. Jim snorted wondering how the
flighty woman would take the instructions.
Blair’s mom certainly was a character.
He didn’t really remember
his own mother.
He clambered up the stairs
to his bedroom and reached for the trunk that he kept under the bed. He
retrieved the padlock key from his secret place and knelt before the old carved
trunk. There were too many memories trapped in the carved wooden box. The key
turned and the lock clicked open. The faint scent of lavender wafted from the
trunk. He ran his fingers over the shoebox tied with the leather bootlace.
Scent evoked memories, memories inextricably burnt into his mind. Jim bowed his
head, he couldn’t face the contents of the box: Lila,
‘What have I broken now?’
Jim thought despondently.
Once again it had sounded
like glass. Jim set aside weapons from his Ranger days. His kay-bar
knife joined the gun balancing it on the lid. Gingerly, he ran his fingers over
the contents of the truck easily identifying a Chopec
story knife and Chilkat blanket. The rough goat hair
and cedar bark blanket was full of familiar friends. Animals raced through the
blanket singing stories. Jim breathed a
deep sigh. The trunk’s contents were precious. But none so much as the engraved
stone totem. For a moment, Jim forgot his worries as he unwrapped
the totem from its silken cloth. He didn’t need sight to look at the intricate
carving of the legend of snake and jaguar on the ancient carving. He could
remember Incacha telling him the story as he sat by
the shaman’s side during his initiation in to the tribe.
Idly stroking the coarse
blanket, Jim lost himself in memories.
U U U U U
“Jim?” Blair called out as
he entered the loft. Glancing around
revealed a Jim sized hole in the apartment. “Jim. Where the hell are you?”
“Up here,” the sentinel
finally responded.
“I’m coming up.” Blair
bounded up the stairs.
“That’s not necessary.”
The detective sat on the
hard floor, belongings strewn around him, like a child with a toy box. Jim
moved swiftly and placed something grubby and white back in the trunk. Blair
lobbed his backpack onto Jim’s bed. He joined his friend, sinking easily into a
crossed legged slouch at Jim’s side.
“Wow, I didn’t know that
you had so much… crap.”
There was a suspicious
dampness on his friend’s cheeks but Blair decided not to comment.
“What are you doing, Jim?”
“I wanted to check
something out but I broke something and then I got distracted.”
“Distracted?” Blair peered
into the box—there was still stuff neatly packed despite that the floor was littered
with a plethora of interesting things.
The white grubby thing,
which Jim had been holding, peeked out from under what looked like a sewing
box. Jim was occupied, fingering a Chilkat blanket,
his sensitive fingers mapping the pattern. There was a pile of books
individually wrapped in protective, plastic covers.
‘Children’s
books?’ Blair thought, he didn’t want to ask about the books
and tellingly Jim hadn’t touched them. ‘How can we spend so much time together
and I still don’t know you?’
Quietly, he picked up the
old brown hardback book ‘Roughing it’ by Mark Twain. A
well-thumbed copy of ‘20,000 leagues under the Sea’ lay beneath it.
“Chief,” Jim said simply
“Sorry,” Blair placed it
back in the box. “It’s just hard to resist. I am an anthropologist.”
“Try.”
“But what are you doing?”
“You know how it is when
you start going through the attic...”
“Yeah,” Blair said
thinking of his office at
“Which
one?” Jim demanded and reached into the box, then stopped
himself. “Is the photo damaged? I heard something break before but I couldn’t
find...”
Blair carefully patted his
friend’s back. “It’s okay—I think—it’s just cracked.”
“Which photo?”
Blair picked up the ornate
frame and saw whom he assumed was Jim as a very tiny baby held in a slim
woman’s arms. The woman had to be Jim’s mother—she had the same brown hair and
even in a grainy black and white photo he knew that she had piercing arctic-blue
eyes.
“Which photo?” Jim asked
tightly.
“You and your mother, I
guess. It’s not damaged, honestly.”
“Damn,” Jim swore. The
student watched as his friend’s face became pinched, but no tears fell.
“It’s
okay, Jim.”
“No, it’s not, Blair, is
it.”
The room was silent. Blair
sat facing his friend—searching for some understanding. The detective never
reacted directly to a personal situation, his thoughts and feelings were always
hidden under layer after layer after layer.
Ellison obviously steeled
himself then said, “I’m blind.”
U U U U U
The precinct bull pen
stopped dead as he conducted the detective to the seat. Then the hubbub
restarted. Blair bypassed Jim’s friends and colleagues with a shake of his
head. Simon still wasn’t convinced that Tree was the kidnapper from the old FBI
case and if he caught them he’d probably bar their access to the P.D.
databases. All he wanted was get the information
before Simon caught on to his plans. Their friend would want to keep them safe.
They needed Jacob Tree’s bank details and then the pair could escape the
precinct and continue the investigation without any interference.
He settled Jim on the hard
wooden chair on the opposite side of his desk leaving the computer free. With
an almost pantomime sneakiness he logged on to Jim’s computer with the
detective’s personal password. Blair peeked a look over the top of the computer. Rhonda was
keeping Simon occupied under a ton of paper work in need of signing. The
secretary looked over her shoulder and caught his eye before he could escape.
Her expression said quite simply: ‘you really owe me for this one’. He printed
off the details without looking at them. Ellison was waiting poised. As soon as
he touched the detective’s shoulder he stood ready to leave the precinct.
Dutifully, Jim allowed himself to be turned and directed between the
detectives’ desks. Leading a meek Jim around was an intensely weird experience.
After the Sentinel’s near breakdown the day before Jim had retreated further
into himself. Blair gritted his teeth remembering Jim’s taut, hurting face...
U U U U U
“I’m blind.”
“Aw,
Jim.” Blair pulled Jim into a hug. The usually stoic
detective protested weakly but Blair could tell that his heart wasn’t in it.
They sat for a moment, unmoving, Jim’s face pressed into his shoulder. The
Sentinel was as tense as an over tuned fiddle but the hug seemed to be helping.
Carefully, Blair began to rub tiny, comforting circles between Jim’s shoulder
blades. Blair, bottom lip clenched between his teeth, kept quiet. Any words
would spook his too independent friend.
Slowly the over wound detective relaxed. Blair shifted and then he could
see the angry red scar at the base of his friend’s skull practically glowing
under the short, spiky hair.
“Jim, give it time. You’ve
said it yourself—it’s the bruising. There’s probably some sentinel stuff going
on as well.”
There was a noise that
could have been a sob or a snort. The well-meant words had broken the fragile
link. Jim pushed away and wiped at his face.
“You’re right,” Jim said
reluctantly.
“Yeah, I know I am,” Blair
said quietly.
He had never seen such
naked emotion on his restrained friend’s face. Jim brushed at the one tear that
had managed to escape from his carefully wrought barriers. Despair was
crystallizing in the sentinel.
Jim got to his feet and
stumbled to the top of the staircase. Blair chased after him. Jim stopped and
planted his hand on the wall. Biting the inside of his cheek, Blair forced
himself not help him as, unerringly, Jim picked his way down the stairs. Blair
hovered behind him as he took each tentative step. Blair shadowed him all the
way to the kitchen sink. Water splashed and then a calmer looking Jim faced
him.
“I shouldn’t have...”
“Jim, stop it! You’re allowed to have feelings.” Blair
breathed out, hard. Now wasn’t the time to berate Jim. This shutting down of
emotion could not be healthy, some anger, yelling, throwing furniture around
would be welcomed.
Jim shuffled, deliberately
casting his head to the side and his eyes slanted away.
“Talk to me, Jim.” Blair
waited but Jim didn’t answer.
“What would you like to
talk about?”
Blair noisily hissed
through his clenched teeth. The detective rubbed again at his face, water
droplets mixed with unshed tears in his eyes and glistened.
“What are you like?”
Jim shrugged, taking the
question literally. “I am what I am.”
Blair rolled his eyes but
didn’t make any quips despite the obvious opening.
‘You could let people help,
though,’ he thought with a hint of censure.
Jim fumbled along the
draining board until he encountered a dish towel. The moment of truth had
passed.
‘What’s going through his
mind?’ Blair wondered. The measure of trust that Jim had displayed for a short
while was important, he realized. The reticent man had opened up—shown that he
was confused and scared. Belatedly, Blair noted that he had been honoured. Jim
trusted him. The walls were going up again; Blair could only hope, in vain,
that they were weaker this time.
U U U U U
Blair cast a sideways
glance at Jim as he settled himself in the Corvair.
The rest of the day had been pleasant, Blair remembered with a smile. A tad
forced initially but eventually Jim had relaxed as much as he was able. They
had swapped a few stories over the chest. The detective wasn’t very acquisitive
but the few memories living in the box were fascinating. During Jim’s
mid-afternoon nap (he had protested) Blair had whipped up an enormous bowl of pastafazool. His friend had been suitably appreciative and
had insisted on doing the dishes himself. After Jim had retired for the
evening—very early—and Blair pulled out his bluebooks and began a marathon
marking session.
Dismissing his memories of
the previous day, Blair pulled out the printout from his back pocket and
scrutinised the details. He found Henri’s notes that identified Tree’s bank and
his heart thudded in his chest. The bank was familiar—it was Jim’s branch. Tree
had an account at Jim’s bank. Was it a coincidence? Blair dropped his head onto
the steering wheel and concentrated furiously.
‘Yes,’ he decided.
Henri had said that Tree
had been using the account for eighteen months. He had never had any direct
connection with Tree before the altercation in the apartment foyer. The man
hadn’t known Jim from Adam until they had chased him out of the Greenhaugh Apartments. The assignment with
Or was it? The bank was
down the block from the precinct. Plenty of police officers at the P.D. had
accounts with the Cascade Federal Bank. The local bank was convenient; you could
leave on a shift and drop by the bank, chew the fat with your partner while
waiting for the teller. All in all, it was a good way to monitor the movements
of police officers. Furthermore, a manager would have access to their
customers’ addresses and employers.
Blair twisted himself out
of his sling—there was a jarring twinge from the
healing collarbone—and very carefully pulled out into the traffic. Jim’s knuckles were white as he clutched at
the seat.
“Don’t worry,” Blair said
tightly, “Trust me.”
Jim immediately released
his death grip and clasped his hands together on his lap. He was a study in
relaxation; Blair wasn’t fooled for one minute. However, it was as good as it
was going to get, Blair realized.
They drove with
excruciating care—three miles under the speed limit. Blair’s mind was
churning. Leon, the FBI agent, thought
that the kidnapper had operated out of
Tree had been watching
them.
They were lucky that they
were on a straight stretch of road when the implications assailed the student.
Jim was oblivious to the fact
that he had frozen for a heartbeat. Blair breathed slowly, determined not to
alarm his friend. Jim had reached a semblance of relaxation into the upright
seat. His expression was guard duty shuttered; his eyes closed.
What was going through the
detective’s mind?
“Jim, what do you think?”
“Think? Think about what?”
“About
Tree working at a bank? And that’s how he finds out about his
victims and creates his own covers.”
“Seems
reasonable.” Jim lapsed back into silence.
Blair cast an incredibly
worried glance at his best friend. He shouldn’t be dragging the detective
around the city searching after Tree—Jim obviously needed to be sitting quietly
or preferably in bed. They would check out the bank and return to the loft for
a rest.
This weird, amenable,
remote Jim was scary indeed.
U U U U U
Blair had been to Jim’s
bank a few times. He even knew Jim’s pin number for his credit cards.. Flashing his Cascade P.D. observer pass and basically
ingratiating himself to the secretary brought the mismatched pair straight to
the attention of the bank manager. Once he had Jim settled in the most comfy
chair in the office, the student focussed on the bank manger.
“So who handles the new
accounts?” Blair demanded.
The bank manager steepled his fingers together in a patently artificial
gesture which only proved to amaze Blair at the clichéd action. He marvelled
that someone actually used the gesture.
“Might I ask what this
is...?”
“It’s relating to an
important case,” Blair began.
Jim leaned over the polished
table, looming over the man. “It’s police business,” he growled. A slight squeak escaped the
office worker and with an emphatic nod he tapped open the intercom and
asked to see a Ms. Spence.
A quite obese, middle aged
woman stormed into the office wearing an exasperated expression on her face.
“I have an appointment
with a new client in five minutes.” She looked at the pair and then at her
manager—her entire demeanour one of hurry, hurry, hurry.
“Detective
Jim Ellison, Major Crime.” He opened and closed his
badge case with a sharp snap. “This is my associate, Blair Sandburg,
he has a few questions for you.”
Blair took the opening as
if trained. “You opened a checking account for Jacob Tree about eighteen months
ago—do you remember anything about him?”
“Eighteen months ago?” Ms.
Spence’s nostrils flared and she almost laughed. “Tree?”
“Yeah,
Jacob Tree.”
Her expression became
introspective. “Yes, I remember. A detective came to the bank about a month ago
and asked the same question. I average seven new accounts a day—you figure it
out.”
“You can’t remember
anything?” Blair asked, deflated
“That’s what I said.” She
made to leave the office.
Blair caught her arm.
“Please, it’s important.”
She looked down at the
fingers entangled in her sleeve and pulled her arm away.
“It was a long time ago,”
she responded to Blair’s tired, worn mien. “I’ll look in my old Daytimer—see if I wrote anything.”
“Now?”
Blair asked eagerly.
“It’s at home. I don’t
normally carry around old Daytimers,” she said with
acid precision. “What’s the date? No, don’t tell me—I’ll get it from records.
How do I contact you?”
Each statement the woman
made was like bullet points driving her thoughts home. She reminded the student
of his horribly efficient Aunt Rachel—ninety plus years and still going strong.
Slightly cowed, Blair passed over one of Jim’s cards.
Ms. Spence scrutinised the
card, checked the number, and strode from the office. The two men left standing
in her wake stood flummoxed by her efficiency.
“So... er...
what happens next?” the bank manager squeaked.
“Can you open accounts?”
Blair asked intently, turning to the little man.
U U U U U
Blair bundled the once
again too quiet sentinel back into his car. That flare of pure Jim had been a
joy to behold, but the blaze had flashed and died like a match struck in a jar
with little oxygen. Now it was time to return to the loft, and put his sentinel
to bed for a nap. Gnawing at his bottom lip, he realized that they were once
again playing the waiting game. That galled him.
“Jim, how are you
feeling?”
There was a long pause. “Fine.”
Blair shook his head
tiredly. The return trip to their apartment was spent in silence. Henri and Rafe pulled into a parking space beside them. Rafe wound down the car window and gestured for Blair to
copy his actions.
“We’ll see you into the
apartment, but then Gamble and Turner are going to take over.”
“I don’t know them.” Blair
thought that he knew all the cops at the precinct.
Rafe
shrugged. “Uniforms. Henri has to meet with the D.A.”
Blair would have preferred
Rafe and Henri to stay with them. He clambered out of
the car and
moved around to Jim’s side to open the door.
‘This is getting beyond
weird,’ Blair mused. Jim remained dull and uncommunicative as Blair directed
him back to the apartment. ‘If Jim doesn’t snap out of this soon I’m going to
go back to the hospital and talk to someone or the Cascade P.D. shrink.'
U U U U U
Jim
arrowed to the sofa, muttering something about sitting down for a few minutes. Standing, alone, in the centre of the
apartment Blair wondered at his next course of action. He decided to prepare
lunch.
Rifling through the fridge
he decided on the ubiquitous pasta. Naomi had brewed up a wagonload of home
cooked sauces in glass jars and freshly prepared salads in Tupperware
containers.
‘She’s my mom,’ Blair
thought whimsically.
The jar of Amatricana sauce looked particularly mouth-watering. He
picked the jar up and then realized that he was stymied—the lid was screwed on
tightly. Blair looked at the jar and then at the dozing detective.
“I managed driving,” Blair
said to himself and shrugged himself out of his sling. He gripped to jar in his
stiff right hand and twisted with the left. The top came off far too easily and
he over balanced catching his elbow on the counter.
“God!”
Blair blasphemed as white-hot pain rippled through his shoulder and down his
arm. There was nothing but a world of pain, even breaking the collarbone hadn’t
been this painful. Unused tendons and torn muscles protested the abuse.
Distantly, he heard the sound of smashing glass.
“Geez,
geez, oh God,” Blair gritted out through clenched
teeth.
He settled in deep, harsh,
rhythmic breathing waiting for the pain to ease. Aeons seemed to pass then
feather light fingertips touched his face.
“Blair, what’s the
matter?” Jim’s voice broke through the mind numbing agony.
“I jarred my arm,” Blair
said tersely.
Jim’s hands patted
downwards—gently touching the healing collarbone beneath the flannel shirt.
“Why aren’t you wearing
your sling?” Jim asked, as he encountered the sling hanging free from Blair’s
neck.
“I was trying to open a
jar of sauce.”
“I think I stood in the
remnants,” Jim said lightly. His hands started to investigate the sling,
untangling the mess of straps and material. Slowly, he manoeuvred the canvas
material under Blair’s elbow. The student finally opened his eyes’– Jim’s
expression was intent as he worked through the fittings of the sling.
“Chief?”
“Huh huh?”
he asked, knowing what was going to happen next.
“You’ll be more
comfortable if I can set the sling in position.”
Jim’s hand rested lightly
on Blair’s left hand that was clenching his arm against his chest—minimizing
any agonizing movement. Trustingly, Blair released his grip. Efficient as
always, Jim immobilized the arm—firmly strapping it against the student’s
chest.
“Better?” Jim asked
quietly, supporting Blair’s arm in his large hands.
“Yes.” The sling was tight
and alleviated the pain.
“Come on,” Jim said and
caught him under his good elbow and pulled him into a kitchen chair.
Shaking in reaction to the
fading pain, Blair watched his best friend putter around the kitchen making
camomile tea.
‘He’s getting damn good at
feeling his way around,’ Blair noted.
He couldn’t refuse the
camomile tea but he was surprised when Jim also placed two
ibuprofen on the saucer.
“Would you like a snack?”
Jim didn’t wait for an answer but began to root through the refrigerator. Various
items of food were fondled, identified and discarded. He set the cheese and
crackers on the kitchen counter and reached towards the table. Blair swallowed
the painkillers and washed them down with a mouthful of tea.
Blair withheld a
pain-filled sigh as he shifted slightly; his friend could hear a pin drop in a
rock concert. If Jim was permanently blinded maybe he would be able to cope. He
had managed after the Golden episode but this time he was fighting with what
Blair guessed was depression. Blair watched as his friend deftly made up a
cheese board with crackers, and for show grabbed a bunch of grapes from the
fruit bowl. Then he moved onto the smashed jar on the floor with a dustpan and
brush. Indecision wrote across Blair’s face—he wanted to stop the detective
before he cut himself but the change in his friend after a simple little act of
first-aid was unbelievable. He was motivated and involved—no longer depressed
and introspective.
The ring of a cell phone
stopped the sentinel mid-stride, turned and moved into the main room.
Unerringly, he headed to the couch. Blair listened to the bell ring again—it
sounded strangely muffled.
“Jim, where is the cell
phone?”
“Oh, it probably fell down
the back of the couch again.” Jim rooted between the cushions. He clicked it
open. “Ellison,” and listened with a bird like twitch of his head. Muted sounds
of satisfaction rumbled in the back of the detective’s throat. He finished with
a nearly happy ‘thanks.’ By now, Blair was jumping up and down in his seat.
“What,
what, what?” Blair demanded.
“That was Ms. Spence.” Jim
smiled. “She went home to for an early lunch so she could check her diary....”
“And!”
Blair snapped, the sentinel was actually baiting him.
“She doesn’t remember
opening Jacob Tree’s account, despite the fact that her name is on the
paperwork—” Ellison took a deep breath drawing it out, “—because she was on
vacation in the
“Yesss!” Blair breathed
sibilantly—pleasure rife in his voice.
“You were right, Chief,”
Jim said sounding proud, “it is somebody affiliated with the bank.”
“You were listening!”
“Well, yes, of course,”
Jim hedged.
Blair rocked himself with glee, it was all going to come together. Jim placed the cell
phone on the arm of the sofa, where no doubt it would disappear into the far
recesses of the pillows joining the dust bunnies and forgotten quarters in an
alternate universe.
“So what’s our next step?”
Blair let out a cackle, if he could have—he would have rubbed his hands
together.
The mess of Amatricana sauce apparently forgotten, Jim joined Blair at
the kitchen table. Idly, he stole a piece of cheese and considered Blair’s
words.
“Tree possibly worked out
of
Blair nodded, then said, “Yes.”
“We have to find out if: a)
a member of the staff at the bank here in Cascade travels extensively and his
dates correlate with the incidents; b) an employee at a bank in
‘Jim’s back,’ Blair
chuckled to himself.
The detective picked up
the dust pan and returned to the mess on the floor. Blair kicked back the
kitchen chair and wandered over to the fridge.
“Do we have any milk?”
Jim stopped mid scrape.
“There is a bottle of milk on the bottom shelf.”
“Bottle?”
Blair gave the glass bottle a shake. Pale, pale, yellow cream mixed with the
whiteness beneath.
“It’s that organically
produced milk you like. I asked Rafe to pick some up
on the way here this morning.”
“It’s not the normal
brand,” Blair said, wondering where Rafe had found
it.
The milk smelled
different—more creamy and thick. That was probably because it was full milk fat
instead of half-skimmed milk.
“Have I got everything?”
Jim asked, gesturing at the floor.
“No.” Blair started to
make himself a cup of coffee. “There’s a bit about a foot away from your right
knee.”
The last of the glass
disappeared under Jim’s ravenous brush—a damp cloth followed wiping away the
sauce.
Blair eyed the coffee can
pull tab with distaste. ‘Another lid.’
He clamped the jar between
this knees and twisted off the lid. Engrossed in
coffee making he considered their next step. He needed the police facilities to
request bank details and examine staff records. Even if Simon wasn’t convinced
that Tree and the kidnapper were one and the same, this was worth following up
on.
‘I’m going to find you
Tree.’
Jim had finished and was
fumbling around in the cupboard under the sink. Blair slurped at his strange
coffee—the fat of the milk floated on the top of the hot liquid.
‘I prefer half-skim. This
is full of calories.’
U U U U U
Jim picked yet another
fragment of glass out of his finger and surreptitiously dropped it in the waste
bin under the sink. He mentally tweaked the dial down another notch. Slowly, he
was forming a sensory impression of the world around him which had nothing to
do with sight. It seemed to be formed of sound and heat. As he further dialled
down his sense of touch, the warmth that was Blair disappeared from his field
of sense.
‘If I am permanently
blinded I will have to give up my job, but somehow, I don’t think that I’m
going to be blind.’ Jim admitted to himself with ghoulish humour. ‘Just call me Daredevil.’
Jim sat back on his heels.
He had tried to shun all thoughts of blindness by pure force of will but he had
been blindsided—appropriately enough—by a miserable well of depression. As he
admitted to Blair that he was blind the full force of depression had descended.
He’d had almost broken down in his friend’s arms, but he was determined that he
wouldn’t lower himself to that level. Every time that Blair opened his mouth or
helped with a simple little thing he would be reminded of what he had lost and
depression would claw at his soul.
Dishes clattered in the
sink; breaking his train of thought. Despite his best attempts to remain
miserable, Jim smiled a tiny smile. Blair wouldn’t wash the dirty dishes. The
student had a psychological aversion to soapy water.
‘I suppose it is hard to
wash them with one hand. I had kinda forgotten that Blair had been injured too.’ Jim shook
his head.
“Jim?”
“Yeah,
Chief?”
“I’m gonna
lie down for a bit. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
His friend’s voice sounded
slurred; he was probably tired. A heavy tread crossed the room and then the
wooden frame of the futon squeaked. Deep rhythmic breathing immediately
followed.
‘Blair must have been
tired. After reaction to the muscle spasm? Shock?’
A bit concerned, Jim hovered
indecisively and then catfooted to Blair’s side.
Judging from the sounds of the light snores, Blair was fast asleep. Gingerly,
Jim reached forwards until he encountered Blair shoulder. Mapping out Blair’s
position in his mind, he estimated where Blair’s head was and felt his
forehead. The student’s temperature was within acceptable levels.
‘He must be exhausted.’
He hadn’t even pulled up
the blanket before falling asleep. Carefully, Jim pulled the quilted blanket
out from beneath Blair’s feet and cast it over the sleeping form. Then he left
him to his nap.
‘What now?’ Jim wondered.
‘Call Simon about Tree and the bank.‘
He counted his paces back
to the cell phone. Next to the couch, Jim stopped dead. He could hear footsteps
creeping up the fire escape outside the building. The Sentinel canted his head
to the side and listened to rubber soled treads and the whisper of cotton
material.
“Chief,” he called.
There was no response.
“Blair?” he said sharply.
Metal creaked,
someone was standing on the landing outside his the student’s room. The door
handle rattled. Jim launched himself at the cell phone lying on the couch.
Caught between rushing back to Blair’s room and calling reinforcement, training
won and he felt on the cushions for the phone.
“Blair, wake the fuck up!”
Where was the phone? He knew that he had left it on the sofa.
A slim boned hand caught
his wrist.
“Naughty, naughty,” an
unconscionably happy voice scolded.
“Blair!” Jim yelled.
A sharp backhand caught
his jaw and he fell backwards onto the floor.
“Blair isn’t going to wake
up any time soon.”
The darkness was
spinning—it was very disorientating. The blow had taken him completely by
surprise, unable to see he had not been able to anticipate and roll with the
blow. Slowly, the implications in Tree’s words penetrated.
“Why?” Jim pulled himself
up into a sitting position.
“It’s quite simple; I
drugged your milk. You’re a creature of habit, Detective, or more accurately
your live-in dietician is. You always buy your milk and organic vegetables from
that under used health food store on Bingham. The shop assistant was very
helpful when I spoke to her: ‘Oh, the sexy detective and his partner,’” Tree
said in a high falsetto. “‘Yes, he’s very particular—always buys the Gold
Dairies Brand’. And Rafe, moron, when I asked for his
help at the dairy counter he was sooo polite and
helpful. He’s not very observant, though.”
“And you still got the
brand wrong.” Jim snorted. He felt rather than heard Tree bristle.
“The cop didn’t notice the
swap,” Tree retorted, the derision that he felt for policemen came through
clearly.
“What have you done with
the uniforms outside?” Jim asked.
“Nothing,” Tree sounded
surprised, “I’m not interested in them—where’s the challenge? Ah, consider,
though, the intriguing mix of a student and detective. A
strangely matched pair who almost caught me—now that could be fun.”
Jim lurched to his feet.
This was so difficult, trying to determine Tree’s actions from just his voice.
The psychotic sounded supremely happy and self congratulatory. A seminar on
communication had told him once that eighty percent of communication was based
on visual cues. He had thought the figure a tad high. Now he believed it. He
estimated from Tree’s voice that he was standing approximately three feet from
his left shoulder. Close enough to jump the self-important Tree.
“This is what is going to
happen.” The grin was evident in Tree’s voice. “You are going to sit on the
robust looking kitchen chair and I am going to tie you to it.”
“And if I say no?”
“I shoot your friend, who
makes such a convenient, stationary target.”
The detective considered
his options. There was no scent of gun oil in the air. Idly, he stroked his
cheek and then licked his thumb. The slap across his face had left no trace of
cordite.
‘He’s bluffing,’ Jim
decided, ‘there is no gun.’
Jim leaped, hammering into
the man. Tree went down beneath him like a ton of bricks. Flailing his fists,
Jim failed to connect with any force. Desperately, he tried to hold onto Tree.
The slighter man squirmed like an eel expertly tossing the detective on to his
back. Disorientated by the sudden charge of position, Jim hesitated for a
moment and lost the fight. A whisper of a razor sharp knife caressed his
throat.
“I don’t want to play this
game,” Tree said and pushed the knife in. Skin parted. Jim felt warm blood
trickling down his neck. Razor sharp—there was no pain. The cut didn’t feel
serious merely a slip of the knife to tell him that he had misbehaved.
“It seemed like a good
idea,” Jim offered, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
“It wasn’t. I’m going to
stand up now and you are going to sit on that chair I told you about like a
good little blind detective. If you try that again—I’ll gut your friend.”
The pressure of the knife
eased and then the weight of Tree on his chest. Jim hauled himself on to his
knees using the coffee table and then dragged himself to his feet. He followed
the terse instruction and sat down.
“I want you to let your
arms drop down the back of the chair.”
Jim complied and was
surprised when Tree wrapped his arms in what he could only assume were dish
towels. The distinctive rasp of unfurling tape echoed in his ears. Then Tree
wound the tape around his arms firmly securing his arms to the slats of wood.
The precise procedure was repeated around his ankles binding them to the legs
of the chair. The final piece of tape was pressed firmly across his mouth over
a wad of what tasted like a sock.
“I think the pressure is
all right. Your fingers look a bit pink but not dangerously so. Nod if it is
painful.”
Jim kept still, then nodded furiously.
“Tough. Okay, this is what
is going to happen... It occurred to me that you losing your sight was terribly interesting—especially after seeing how you coped
with the dreadfully horrible situation. You seem, well, fairly adept at using
your other senses. Hmmm, I wonder why that is?”
Cold sweat beaded on Jim’s
forehead at the deliberately mocking voice.
“Blair’s notes are
suitably vague when it comes to the identity of his subjects. But his thesis
and his published papers are a matter of public record and, really, he spends
most of his time with you. And then when you look at your cases. You testified
to the D.A. under oath that you saw hundred of yards. For all your flaws,
you’re a scrupulously honest man; you weren’t lying.”
Jim could only glare.
Tree continued, “So I
thought it might be fun to see what happens if you lost another sense or maybe
all five. I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the sixth sense.”
Jim shied backwards
imagining any kind of damage that the psycho could do with the knife.
“No, no, no.” Tree patted
his knee fondly and Jim’s skin crawled. “I won’t do anything permanent. Well, I don’t think that it will be
permanent. Okay, that will part of the experiment.”
Tree caught his head and
twisted it to the side. Jim winced as Tree inserted something soft and pliable
in his ear.
“Oh, I’ll explain. Oh dear.” Tree giggled in a strangely artificial manner, “I
feel very Machiavellian. Sensory deprivation, my dear
Detective Ellison. It would be better if you had a bath but the shower
in the little cubby hole you call a bathroom won’t
do—so I’ve tied you very comfortably to a chair. I’ll stop up your ears and
then I’ll introduce you to the joys of white noise.”
The other ear plug was
inserted. Muted sounds reached his ears. The last thing he heard was a demonic
giggle. Something unidentifiable cupped
his ears and then the nothingness started.
U U U U U
At first it would have
been pleasurable and relaxing if he wasn’t so worried about Blair. Tree hadn’t
cut off all sensory input; he still had the sense of smell and he could feel
vibrations. He had felt Tree walking around the apartment and spending an
inordinate amount of time in Blair’s room. Tree had eventually left, the
floorboards bowing under a heavier weight; he had carried Blair from the
apartment.
Jim felt sick—which wasn’t
a good idea when he was gagged. There was no sensation of the passage of time, he could have been here for hours or over a day. The
sentinel inhaled desperately, there was a smell of
pastrami, tomatoes and mozzarella cheese. He breathed a sigh of relief—it was
evening; the pizza parlour across was preparing for the night’s customers. He
had been trapped here for over six hours. And his bladder was full.
U U U U U
His entire body was numb.
He didn’t know if he had slept or lost himself in hallucinations. Had a spider
touched his hip at one point? He was so
thirsty.
‘Surely someone will come and
check on us. Simon, Joel, Rafe?’ His eyes were open
but he couldn’t see anything; his ears were intact but he couldn’t hear. Tree
was cruel beyond belief. ‘Please will somebody bang a door and make my floor
vibrate so that I know that I’m alive.’
The earphones were lifted
away and he cried with relief. Through the muffling of the plugs he could hear
voices speaking. He couldn’t make out who they were. Unprofessional hands
fumbled with the tape at his wrists. The lilt of a woman’s voice assailed him.
‘Who?’
Fingers touched his cheek
crawling for purchase on the tape across his mouth. Jim braced himself as his
rescuer whipped away the sticky gag—pulling off skin and hair. Spitting out the
wad of material almost made him vomit.
“Ears—blocked,” he croaked.
Hands caught his face
stilling him and then delicate fingers probed and then pulled the plugs from
his ears. Blessed noise assailed him.
“Jim, are you all right?”
‘‘Naomi?’ Jim thought
flabbergasted. Sandburg’s mother hugged him tightly, crooning endearments.
“Naomi,
is Blair here?” he croaked.
“I don’t know where Blair
is. He was supposed to call last night,” her voice was worried. “When he
didn’t, I came over. I don’t care if you boys thought that I shouldn’t visit
until your bad guy had been caught. Those silly pigs in the car just let me
walk straight in.”
He heard the snick of a
sharp knife and froze as Naomi sawed at the bonds at his wrists.
Numb fingers came back to
blood tingling life. Then Naomi released his feet. He wanted the bathroom more
than he ever had in his entire life but his legs felt like they had been
immersed in ice and then thawed in molten iron. Briskly, Naomi was rubbing his stockinged feet promoting blood flow. It was torture.
“Move your fingers and
toes it will help.”
Jim obeyed.
“Can you call Simon?” Jim
asked through gritted teeth.
While she was engrossed in
the phone call, Jim rolled himself of the chair and crawled to the bathroom.
Relief was only a few feet away.
U U U U U
His apartment was bedlam.
A thousand police officers had descended on it. He sat on the couch sandwiched
between Naomi and the arm. Blair’s mom held his hand and he didn’t have the
heart to pull it away. A paramedic had pronounced him as fit as could be
expected and after taping the minor laceration on his neck she had left. Simon
appeared first on the scene after the mobile units in the area and had taken
over. That he wasn’t very happy was something of an understatement.
“I don’t believe that Gamble and Turner didn’t
even come up and check on you.”
“They hadn’t been taken
out? They were just sitting there?”
Simon’s growl was
unmistakable. Evidently, the captain would be reaming them new asses in the
near future. Jim would also have a few words with them.
“We’ll deal with them
later, sir. We’ve got to get Tree.”
“Tree? Any clues?”
Jim could imagine his
cigar travelling from east to west across his mouth as he questioned. He could tell them to get forensics to
carefully go over Blair’s room. Tree had searched it thoroughly and had likely
left physical evidence behind. Jim had made his own quick and dirty search, to
try and figure out what was missing before Simon had arrived. It had been
difficult given the clutter, but the beside table was
empty. Tree had taken Blair’s journals.
The sentinel mused on any
sensory clues, nothing sprung immediately to mind. “Tree works at the Cascade
Federal Bank in some capacity. We figured that out yesterday. But there’s some inconsistencies. Tree’s been watching us and he
drugged our milk at the first opportunity after discovering that Blair’s got a
preference for organic products from a specific shop. But judging from his
conversation with me he’s unaware that we have any leads on his identity.”
“Or he’s just assuming
that you’ve linked the crimes together,” Simon mused. “Every police officer in
Major Crime has a stake in this one and the FBI have
been informed.”
“We don’t need….”
“Ellison,” Simon said quellingly. Footsteps told the sentinel that the captain was
pacing. “You and I both know that as soon as Blair was kidnapped that the FBI
had to be involved.”
Blair’s mother clutched
Jim’s hand. “What can we do?”
Simon’s thrum was
introspective, “Judging from what Jim’s told me about this Tree character I think
there is a good chance that he will ring the ‘mother of his victim’ to turn the
screws.“
“And?”
Naomi asked quietly.
“We’ll set up an incident
room here.”
He could hear the swish of
Naomi’s hair as she shook her head. “Speaking with that man will result in
seriously bad karma.”
“Naomi?” Jim began.
“For
him.” And her hand clasped possessively over his thigh.
U U U U U
Naomi was mothering him—it
was understandable she had to have some outlet for her emotions. He didn’t really know the lady, but he did
know that Blair loved her wholeheartedly. And in her caring Jim wanted see
something of his own mother.
“Jim, are you all right?”
Jim smiled in her
direction and forced another mouthful of vegetable casserole between his lips.
Vegetables were a bit same-oh-same-oh, you could hide it under a superlative
sauce but at the end of the day you wanted a steak maybe with a baked potato
now and again.
“Jim?”
‘Ooops,
yes, she asked a question.’’
“I was thinking about
Blair,” his voice was candid.
“Ah,
sweetie.”
Jim started as Naomi
clasped him to her ample bosom, he was even more
disconcerted when she stroked his hair just above the pulsating scar. A long
shudder echoed through his equally long frame.
“Blair, will be fine,” she
said tautly. “I know he will.”
Jim wondered whom she was
trying to convince.
“Yes,“
Jim said into her chest, “we got Tree’s last kidnap victim back safe and
sound.”
The sentinel
remained stock-still as his best friend’s mother continued to—for lack of a
better word—mother him. He knew a
number of semi-lethal ways of freeing himself from her grip, but he remained
still.
‘I’m triggering every
maternal instinct that she has at the moment,’ he noted tiredly.
“What would you really
like to eat, sweetie? I can tell that you don’t like the casserole. Would you
like some… meat?”
‘Sacrilege—indeed.’
Jim thought with the tiniest of smiles.
“Ah, I’m sorry, Naomi; I
don’t have much appetite.”
“You have to eat,” Naomi
implored. If Blair had been here he would have said that his mother was
sublimating her fear into cookery or some such nonsense. She released the
sentinel from the hug but enfolded his larger hand in her two soft hands.
“I have eaten some. I just
can’t eat a pound of vegetables drowned in cream sauce,” Jim pointed out. He
gently withdrew his hand.
Simon’s heavy footsteps
walked across the room. He joined them at the table. Jim could smell the coffee
that he held. Naomi had batches brewing for the FBI and police officers who had
taken up camp throughout his home.’
“What happens now?” Naomi
asked.
“We wait.”
U U U U U
‘Evening
and still no contact.’
Jim allowed his fingers to
trail over the smooth surface of the kitchen table. There was a tacky ring; a
FBI agent must not used a coaster. He would have to
dig out the cleansers from under the sink and polish the stainless steel. The drone of an unfamiliar twanging accent
disrupted his thoughts. Two people had entered the warm, safe haven of the
kitchen area. Jim identified them as FBI officers seconded from
“Are you a member of the
family?” A southern accented voice—Jim decided—asked.
Jim bared his teeth in
their direction. “Detective Jim Ellison” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” the voice said
thickly, “well, we’ll get Mr. Sandburg back.”
“I’ll sure we will,” Jim
said neutrally. He decided that they were very new baby FBI agents as they
scurried away.
“That was very naughty,”
Naomi reprimanded.
“In
what way?” Jim asked incuriously.
Naomi tutt-tutted, and the chair
on his left creaked as she sat. Jim shook his head as she once again played
hostess: shelling peas for the next cooking extravaganza. The FBI agents had to
be enjoying the investigation—they were being fed four-star food. The vaguest
of figures flared across his eyes. Jim blinked furiously but the image was
gone.
‘I saw something. I know I
saw something. I think it was Naomi—but wasn’t she on my left a moment ago.’
Jim fumbled across the
table, found his tea cup and gulped down a mouthful of lukewarm watery brew.
‘I saw blue...’
“Jim, are you okay?”
Naomi gripped his shoulder
and squeezed.
“Naomi, what are you
wearing?”
“Erm, my blue caftan.” Then her voice
became excited. “Jim, did you see something?”
“I think I did.” Jim
smiled. “For a moment. I saw your dress.”
“Yes! Yes!” Naomi danced
around him and then hugged him delightedly. Abruptly, she released him.
“Sorry.” Then she just had to hug him again. A high pitched feminine squeal
pierced his eardrums and he was hugged on what felt was all sides.
“Can you see anything now,
sweetie?” Naomi asked.
“No—it’s dark again.”
Now he had hope. He had
for a moment seen something.
“Do you need to go to the
doctor, Jim?”
“No,” Jim said slowly.
Roget only wanted to see him, outside his appointments, if he was in severe
pain.
“What’s going on here?” A
very familiar voice demanded.
‘Oh, damn,’ Jim thought,
‘Agent Ford.’’
Jim resisted the
temptation to wring the man’s neck. Ford was no more capable of retrieving Blair
than the tooth fairy and he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.
“I didn’t know that you
were involved, Agent Ford.”
“I was assigned because
I’m familiar with Major Crime.”
“Yeah,” Jim said, it was
the only thing he could think to say. Ford had passed through the department
once on the way to a meeting with the commissioner.
The cigar smell heralding
his captain’s approach filled the kitchen.
“I see you’ve met Agent
Ford,” Simon began.
“Not really,” Naomi said
candidly.
Jim let Simon handle the
introductions. Ford hummed and harhed but couldn’t be
sarcastic in the face of the ethereal Ms. Sandburg. A chair back creaked as
Simon joined them at the table excluding the FBI agent from the rest of the
conversation. With a snort Ford sauntered back to the main living area.
“We haven’t found out if
Tree works at a bank—yet. We’re having to be
circumspect we don’t want Tree to be alerted that we’re onto him. We’ve
canvassed the neighbours in the neighbourhood and we have a lead on the car
Tree used—it was a Chevy. One of your… er... Sandburg’s friends gave us a partial number plate but
we haven’t managed to cross reference it.”
“Who was it?”
Paper rustled. “A
transient called Binnie Barnes.”
“Binnie? Binnie’s
dyslexic; transpose the numbers and run them through the database again.”
Simon exhaled sharply,
treating the family around the table to second-hand Dominican cigars. Ms.
Sandburg coughed lightly and Captain Banks apologized profusely. The pair
traded apologies back and forth until the cigar had been drowned in the sink.
Naomi finished with a pithy comment about the dangers of smoking.
“Yes—smoking!” Jim said
into the debate.
He knew that his
companions stopped mid-sentence and turned to face him.
“Why didn’t I think of that?
Shit, man....” Jim let his voice trail off—this was usually when Blair would
interrupt and bring him back on track.
Blair wasn’t here. His foil was missing
“Yes, Jim?”
Jim shook himself out of
his entangling thoughts. “A cough. Tree had a bad cough.
He didn’t cough when he kidnapped Blair. We’re looking for someone affiliated
with the bank who recently shook off a very nasty
cough. Ask the astute Ms. Spence if she has noticed anyone in the bank with a
persistent cough.”
The chair clattered as
Simon left the table muttering about how he could find Ms. Spence so late at
night.
Naomi patted his hand and
dipped a peck on his cheek. “Clever boy.”
“I wish I had thought of
it earlier,” Jim said irritably. He had been blind in more ways than one.
“You’ve had a lot on your
mind. You’re looking tired—you’ve had a long day. I think it is time for you to
go to bed, don’t you?”
“No.”
“James, whether you like
it or not, you are ill. You are not going to get better if you run yourself
ragged...”
“But...” Jim raised his
finger to emphasize his point.
“No, you only got out of
hospital a couple of days ago and you spent last night tied to a chair.” She
pulled Jim to his feet. “You need to rest. Blair will understand. If you were
in his shoes you would say the same thing.”
Naomi stopped with a
heartrending sob.
And it was Jim’s turn to
give comfort.
U U U U U
Jim woke early the next
morning, which he thought was a good thing. Since the accident he had spent more
time asleep than awake. Naomi had carted him off to bed, despite his protests,
and with a pinch on his ass pushed him head first into bed. He had been allowed
to get under the covers unmolested. With a peck on his forehead, Naomi had let
him be. He had had a disturbed night awakening from dreams in which Blair
figured prominently.
Jim dragged himself into a
sitting position. He rubbed his face tiredly as he dropped his hands he noticed
a change in the quality of the darkness surrounding him. Breathing harshly, he
covered his eyes with the palms of hands again waited several seconds and then
abruptly pulled his hands away.
It’s grey! Jim realized.
If he turned his head from the direct sunlight streaming through the window
above his head, his darkness became impenetrable. Jim rested his hands on knees
and
looked
with
all his heart and soul. The vaguest of shapes were visible.
The temptation to sit and
identify the different patterns of grey was almost irresistible but that would
achieve nothing. Binnie Barnes had spoken to the
police, but maybe he would tell the companion of the friendly neighbourhood
grad-student more if he was questioned personally? Carefully, he swung his legs
out of bed.
Jim fumbled his way down
the stairs. His home was filled to capacity. He thought that he could hear
Henri’s distinctive snore from the vicinity of the sofa. Determined not to
wander through his own home half dressed, he ran through his ablutions quickly.
Away from the sunlight he was once again encased in blackness.
Deliberately not moving
with a hand outstretched, he walked down the hall.
“Good sleep?” Ford said
his tone flat and censorious.
“As good as could be
expected given the circumstances,” Jim countered. “And you?”
Ford stepped aside as he
brushed past him on the way to the coffee pot. Jim helped himself to the
brewing coffee and tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf in the breadbox. As
he ate his crude breakfast he moved to the window, attempting once again to
differentiate the pieces of grey. There
were distinct shades of grey. A kaleidoscope of fractured shades shifted as he
moved his head. The shapes bore no relationship to the landscape that lay
before him. Blair would say that he could learn to interpret the patterns. A
muffled ringing interrupted his melancholy.
‘What?’
It sounded like Blair’s
cell phone.
‘I left it on the couch.’
The ringing stopped. There
were no sounds of FBI agents responding to the call. Where were they? Carefully,
Jim felt across the sofa trying not to disturb the sleeping detective. When it
rang again, he would feel for the source of the muffled phone. The phone rang
again, startling him. Jim hunted after the sound, his hand diving down the back
of the cushions. The ringing vibrated up his fingertips as he touched it.
“Simon,” Jim called and
then clicked open the phone. “Blair Sandburg’s phone.”
“Finally,” Tree’s mocking
voice was almost good to hear.
“How’s Blair?” Jim said
without preamble.
“Blair’s resting
comfortably.”
“What do you want?”
“Ooooh,
that’s an intriguing question.”
“Why are you acting like
this?” Jim demanded. “This playfulness—if you’re attempting to pull the wool
over my eyes—bad metaphor—this isn’t the true you. Let me speak to the real
person—the man who coldly and calmly executed the kidnapping of a small boy,
then a student…. The man who systematically burgled every
expensive apartment in
“What small boy?” Tree
asked.
‘Could have worked,’ Jim
thought with a fatalistic shrug. He could hear Simon talking to someone on his
own cellphone and Agent Ford asking what was
happening.
“This is what I want you
to do, Detective Ellison. I want you and you alone to bring me something in
exchange for Mr. Sandburg. The something is your choice. Needless to say if
your fellow police officers get too close you won’t see—sorry, poor joke—Little
Blair again.”
“Where?”
“You’ll figure it out...”
There was silence on the phone line. Jim strained his ears trying to pick up
any clue. All he could hear was a low hum. Tree laughed richly.
“I’m curious. Why are you
so worried about someone who blinded you? Through their own
stupidity ruined your life.” Tree’s voice smiled.
“What are you talking
about?”
“So what’s your Blair worth
now, Sentinel?”
The phone went dead.
U U U U U
Simon stood in front of
the balcony window. The sunlight silhouetted the large captain. Jim carefully
watched him. He couldn’t see any details except for a black mass surrounded by
grey light like a stormy, grey ocean, but for now that was enough. The captain
was outlining the next steps but since the ball was firmly in Tree’s court his
thoughts were pure speculation. Blair’s cell phone was, of course, now bugged
to high heaven. Jim ran his fingers over the rubber buttons. He knew
instinctively that Tree would not use the phone again. The psychopath would
find another way to contact him. Simon let out a heavy sigh and paced across
the room muttering to himself. Jim sat quietly, now
that peace had descended; the FBI agents had been absolutely fuming when they
had realized that they had missed the kidnapper’s call. Jim tiredly rubbed his
eyes. He had miscalculated,
he knew that, he should have let the phone ring, unattended. The FBI agents
could have than tapped the phone and the next time that Tree had called they
could have tried to trace the call.
“How did Tree know that
the phone wasn’t bugged?” Jim asked midair. “He deliberately allowed sufficient
time to pass for the FBI to trace the call. Either he knew that the phone
wasn’t bugged or he wanted to be traced. How would he know that the phone
wasn’t bugged? Is it part of his game—the thrill of the chase?”
He stood up, turning
unerringly to the balcony where the darkness lightened.
“He said that he had been
trying all night. He knew that the cell phone was in the apartment—it was lying
on the couch when he kidnapped Blair. So if he kept trying he knew that the
phone had been moved. Why didn’t he simply assume that the FBI bugged the
phone? Why did he risk it?”
Jim answered his own
question but in the loneliness of his mind, ‘Because he’s watching the
apartment or it’s bugged.’ He leaned forward and pressed his hands and forehead
against the cold window panes.
“Simon!”
Footsteps clattered across
the wooden floor.
“Jim, are you all right?”
His captain’s voice
sounded concerned. Belatedly, Jim realized what a picture he made leaning
against the windows. Simon probably thought that he was having a stroke or
something. Jim moved away from the captivating kaleidoscopic light.
Simon caught his elbow and
steadied him. Jim submitted to Simon guiding him back to his kitchen chair.
“What were you doing?”
Jim came to an abrupt halt
and held up a single finger demanding silence. Irked, Simon sniffed, but stayed
quiet. Jim closed his useless eyes and
cocked his head, his ears pricked; listening devices would give off the
slightest of hums. As taught, he mapped and dismissed each known sound. The
high pitched whine of a transmitter was not present.
“I want to show you
something in Blair’s room.”
“Yeah, right,” Simon said,
but led him to the room.
Blair’s room was a warm,
dark haven. He felt surrounded by his roommate, the room sang of his presence.
Jim whispered, “Tree’s
watching us. Get the FBI to canvas the neighbours again. He’ll have some kind
of telescope. The apartment isn’t bugged but he might have a parabolic mike.”
Simon was already half way
to the door.
“Simon.” Jim stopped the
captain mid-stride. “I need to talk to Binnie
Barnes.”
“Jim, you’re under
protective custody,” Simon said dismissively, his mind obviously elsewhere.
“What?” Jim said into the
resultant silence as Simon left the room.
He heard a knock at the
door. Someone called circumspectly for identification. Jim tuned them out. He
hadn’t been railroaded when he was blinded with Golden,
it wasn’t going to happen now.
‘This is intolerable!
Everyone thinks that they know best—I am babied.’
“Hello?”
The voice was familiar.
Jim’s ears twitched, the voice was roughened by many years of smoking and there
was a trace of an accent.
“Yes,” Jim finally
responded, relieved. “
“I’m pleased to see you
too, son.”
“We need to get out of
here.”
“Why?”
“I think Tree’s waiting
for me.”
“Shouldn’t we tell the
agents? It is their job,”
“Ford is an idiot. I don’t
trust him with Blair’s life.”
“And you’re capable of
saving him? You’re blind, Ellison.”
“Look—” Jim shook his
head. “Tree wants me. If he sees anyone else, Blair’s toast.
I might be blind at the moment but I’m not helpless.”
“Jim…”
U U U U U
One hand running along the
wall, Jim picked his way carefully down the stairs of his apartment building.
In bright sunlight he could now make out shapes but in the dark corridors he
could only see varying shades of darkness.
“I have no idea, but I bet
there is a clue in the building across from the loft.”
The astute
“Yeah, I doubt that he’s
there now.”
“Do you know which
building?”
Jim pictured the shops and
houses around their home. Both sides of the street mirrored each other with
shops below and apartments above. He didn’t know their neighbours quite as well
as Blair did. But he knew that the superintendent of the apartment building
lived above the bakery. The foyer was brightly sunlit and Jim walked without
hesitation onto the sidewalk. He pointed out their destination to
The building super was
very helpful; only one apartment had been recently rented. Jim now stood outside listening. Nothing moved
or breathed within, there was, however, the distinct smell of Ipecacuanha.
Heavy footsteps stormed up
the stairs behind them; preceded by a waft of cigar
smoke. Jim growled; Simon. He had hoped that he had given his captain the slip
as he conferred with Rafe by cellphone
on the balcony.
“Jim.”
“Simon,” he acknowledged.
“So you were just thinking
that you could run off.”
“No, I knew that you’d
follow. I just didn’t want Ford to come along.”
“Boys,
boys.”
“Describe what you see.”
“It’s a bit like yours. No
furniture, though. There’s a parabolic mike and telescope set up pointed
directly at your apartment.”
“There’s a surprise.” Jim quested
forwards, nostrils flared. There was an overwhelming scent of Ipecacuanha. “I thought that there would be a clue here
regarding Tree’s whereabouts.”
“Why? The man’s obviously
intelligent: he would leave no clue,”
“Because when I spoke to
him he said I would know where he was.”
“I see no maps laying around. So you know already.”
Jim looked into the
sparkling sunlight. Where was he? Where could Tree be with Blair in tow? Blair
wouldn’t go silently. Someone should have noticed.
Tree was an artist; he
liked to direct his pawns in a chess game, to watch them dance at his whim. Now
where was Jim supposed to move? And he was supposed to bring a gift to the
board. What could he offer in exchange for Blair? He could think of nothing.
Tree took a mother’s child. A Monét.
Exquisite African statuary. A
sentinel’s guide. And what he normally received was a sense of
superiority for pulling one over on the police.
Had Mrs. Pogue ransomed
her son? “
“Maybe this isn’t the best
place to talk, son? Ears, you know?”
“Yes.” Jim started as
U U U U U
They chose a park that
both he and Blair favoured. There was a really good hotdog vendor. They sat on
a park bench each with a hotdog.
“Did Avril
Pogue ransom her son?”
“Yes. Ten
million dollars. We ran the whole scheme, thought that we had the drop
under surveillance. Tree got away. The kid was dropped at Cascade General’s ER
a couple a hours later.”
“Did the kid say where he
was held?” Simon asked.
“Nah, he was drugged the
whole time.”
“He drugged Blair with the
milk.”
“We might have a clue
there, knowledge of drugs,”
“What about Ms. Spence at
the bank, can we check up on her?” Jim said.
Simon’s cell phone chirruped
as he pressed the buttons. Jim squinted in his direction. He still couldn’t
make out details, but the wash of variations of light and shadow now had
colours. The green of the trees was darker than the green of the grass. Simon
was a dark blob; Jim guessed than he was wearing his dark suit and dark, wool
overcoat. The blob that was
“Uh huh,” Simon was saying
with interest. “Scalia? What? Ford.
Rafe, you
idiot!”
“Simon?”
Simon swore under his
breath. “I sent Rafe to speak to Ms. Spence. Ford
sent two of his agents ahead of him.”
“And?”
“Rafe
just found out that an Alan Scalia works out of
“So where is he now?”
“Supposedly
in
“Where does he live when
he stays here?”
“Rented
apartment on the dockside belonging to the bank.
The Feds are on their way their now.”
“Fuck!” Jim lurched to his
feet. Running to Simon’s car took no sight; he knew where it was. They had to
get there before the FBI agents screwed up everything.
“Jim!”
Jim skidded to a stop on
the wet grass.
“So where the fuck is he?”
Jim asked no one in particular. The only place that came to mind was the loft.
That Tree was hiding in the loft in plain sight; yet as a sentinel, he knew
that Blair wasn’t within the confines of the apartment building. Where would
the clever, but insane, Tree hide both himself and Blair. “Hide in plain
sight?”
“What, son?”
“The
“Yes,” Simon answered.
“What about his old
haunts?”
“What do you mean?” Simon
asked.
“Avril Pogue’s home?”
“There’s no evidence that
Tree and Colin Pogue’s kidnapper are one and the same.”
“Except for modus
operandi,” Leon said acidly.
“The FBI doesn’t agree
with you, Mr. Riccolo.”
“On
what count? Weird cat-burglar steals important items from people.
The systematic
“You know that case back-to-front,
“Interesting
choice of words.” Light flared as
“So what are we waiting
for?” Simon said.
U U U U U
The Pogue residence was,
as
Jim leaned forward in the
car’s passenger seat listening.
There were four people.
Two were on the top floor; judging from the faster heartbeat one was a child.
Another person, who was sleeping based on the slow heart rhythm, was on a lower
floor. The fourth person paced and
talked to himself on the same floor.
Tree.
“He’s there,” Jim said.
“How do you know?”
Jim ignored the question.
“I’ll go ahead. I want you two to sneak in through any way you can find.”
“No,”
“Jim,” Simon began
simultaneously.
“Listen, Tree’s been
studying me, he expects me to be gung-ho and go it alone. So I won’t do that…”
“Look, kid,”
“I’m not allowing you to
put yourself in danger.”
“I’m just the demented old
neighbour who you asked for help.”
“Like
Tree’s going to believe that.”
“Okay, I’m an old cop,
friend, that’s the truth.”
“Will Tree know you?”
Simon asked.
“You got a weapon?” Jim
asked.
“My
trusty magnum.”
“And where do I fit into
this plan?” Simon asked sourly.
Jim read the sarcasm under
his words; his captain was about to argue their method of confronting Tree.
“You’re going to skirt
around the wall and get in from the west side. Tree’s pacing around, he’s not
with Blair.”
“How do you know?”
Jim ignored him. “Blair’s
in the room on the far side of the building. Tree’s switched off the security
system; I can’t hear any humming. You can get in through any window and get
Blair out. Mrs. Pogue and her son are upstairs.”
“How
in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ so you know this stuff?”
“
“I’m going to hold you to
that, Jim Ellison.”
“Look, Jim, hold off—I’ll
call Brown and Rafe. We need back up.”
“No. Tree’s pacing now. He
could go back to where Blair is or the Pogues. We’ve
got to go now.” Jim pushed open the car door and stepped out into the road.
Listening, he could hear no traffic. Skilfully, he walked across the road,
mapping the area by the reflection of the echoes from his footsteps. He could
see a region of darkness ahead.
Jim rested his hands on
the wall, fingers tracing the pattern of the bricks and mortar as he listened
for movement within. He felt his way along the wall. He could see a brighter
region which was likely a gate. His questing fingers met air and then felt cold
metal. The vertical bars were cold to touch. Jim felt further and found the
lock. It was a smooth metal plate.
“Got to be electronically
controlled,”
An intercom crackled. “It
took you long enough to get here, Ellison,” Tree said sardonically.
Jim honed in on the
intercom like an arrow fired at a bull’s eye. He planted his hand over the
speaker. Not knowing if it was two way, he whispered, “Stay back, away from the
gate, Simon. Don’t let him see you.”
He heard a huff of
acquiescence. Lifting his hand away, he spoke again. “You
going to let me in?”
“Who’s your friend,” the
voice asked.
“Leo,” the old FBI agent
said.
“Jimmy. Jimmy. Why did you
bring a friend to our little meeting, is he my prize?”
“Getting here by bus,
would have been a little difficult,” Jim pointed out bitingly. “Leo’s an old friend, he’s going to wait here for me.”
“No, he’s not.”
The gates swung open.
“Come on, son.”
“I thought you couldn’t
see?”
“Can you hear humming?”
Jim cocked his head.
“Uhm, no.”
“It’s more of a
swish-swish.”
“Very
descriptive.”
Jim listened. “I can’t
tell. That swish-swish is getting pretty irritating.”
“You got super ears or
something?”
“Yeah.”
Jim stumbled. The world around him was rather strange at the moment. Under the
influence of Golden he had seen images which strobed
in a golden-yellow light. When the head injury had left him blind he had seen
nothing, no light, no darkness, really, he had just seen nothing—as if his
sight had just switched off. Now he saw the kaleidoscope. It was nauseating,
twisting. He saw shapes that didn’t compute. By combining what he saw with his
active senses he could figure out what he was seeing. Now he knew that he had
tripped over the first cobbles of a winding drive.
“Have you thought this
through, Jim?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“I’m playing my cards
close to my chest. Someone might be listening, you know?”
“You’re playing them so
close that you can’t even see them. Hah!”
Jim snorted. As they approached
the wall of blankness that bespoke of the house, a click heralded a door
opening. A figure, sinuous, twisting to his sight danced before him.
“Tree,” Jim said.
“Ah,
Detective Ellison. So I’m curious: where’s the backup?”
Jim shrugged.
“I knew you wouldn’t bring
back up.”
“I’m just the chauffeur,”
“Come in. Come in.” A tendril emerged from the swirl—Jim guessed
that it was an arm—and gestured them inside.
“He has a gun,”
Outside, away from the
sunlight, his vision became more vague, harder to
interpret. The click of his footsteps reverberated through a hall with a high
ceiling. His sense of smell told him that someone in the house was terrified:
sour sweat. The mother and child upstairs, most likely.
He could smell, Blair, sunshine and coriander. There was an unfamiliar cut to
the known scent.
“Where’s Blair?”
“What did you bring me in
exchange? The old guy?”
Jim patted his front
trouser pocket. “Let me see Sandburg.”
“I want to see what pearl
of great worth you’ve brought me.”
“Sandburg,” Jim said
uncompromisingly, his hand not leaving his pocket.
“You see, I don’t think
that you’ve brought anything. I think that I have the most valuable thing that
you posses. Your Blair is a clever guy—although he should have invested in some
better encryption program for his laptop. I think, though, he underestimates
his worth. He writes of an agent called Bracket who mentions that a sentinel
has a guide. His research into this—‘partnership’ is for the most part
speculative. Although, his book on
“I’m getting bored.”
“Well, you see, you’re the
pearl of great price. I’m a collector and now I have a sentinel. The fact that
you came here even when Blair was responsible for blinding you, that you’d come
here, stupidly not daring to risk him, without backup, confirms that I also
have your guide.”
Jim’s hands flexed. “Blair
didn’t blind me.”
“Whatever,” Tree said
absently. “He believes that it’s his fault.”
Jim shook his head. He
would deal with that confusion after he had dealt with Tree. They walked into
an open airy room. Blair’s heartbeat rang in his ears.
“Blair’s on the sofa;
asleep,”
Jim walked without a
misstep to Blair’s side. He reached down to feel the cold skin at his throat.
Blair was chilled, like a sleeper deep in the arms of Morpheus.
“What have you been drugging him with?”
“Nothing
that will harm him.”
“What do you want?” Jim
said tiredly.
“You,” Tree said simply.
“You’re insane.”
“You’re not the first to
say that. Pick up your partner, Ellison.
The arm-tendril moved
demandingly.
“Gun?”
“Leon Riccolo,
you’ve been after me for years. Did you honestly believe that I didn’t know
you? Pass over your gun, now.”
“Pass it over,
“An agent never gives up
his weapon.”
Jim jumped as the shot
echoed through his very bones. The stink of cordite and the stench of blood
engulfed him.
“
“Don’t move, Ellison.”
“I’m okay,”
Tree moved right into
Jim’s personal space. He backed away from the combination of Ipecacuanha and garlic oil.
“We don’t have time for
this. Get your guide, now.”
The muzzle of a gun poked
against his ribs. The tip was warm.
“
“Jim, damn, I’ll be
okay—don’t worry about me.”
Growling, Jim turned to
the unconscious Sandburg. He ran his fingers over the inert form. Blair lay on
his back, lax, head rolled to the side. His lips were dry and cracked; he had
been breathing through his mouth too long. Tree had thrown a blanket over him.
Jim cast it aside. Blair still wore his jeans and shirt. His sling was in
place.
“Chief?
Wake up?”
Blair ignored his demands,
staying in Never-Never land. Jim manhandled his friend, pulling his legs off
the couch and then drawing him into a sitting position. Blair moaned at the
handling.
“Chief?”
“Hurry up.”
Jim jerked Blair onto his
feet and ducked down to plant his shoulder into the student’s gut. Blair folded
over his shoulder into the classic fireman’s position. He groaned for real, his
mending collarbone protesting the movement.
“Come on.” The muzzle of
the weapon jabbed Jim over his left kidney.
“Where are we going?” Jim
walked slowly forward.
“You’re amazingly
arrogant. Why didn’t you bring your colleagues?”
U U U U U
Jim picked his way
carefully over the lawn, tripping and stumbling over the uneven terrain. Blair
was an ungainly weight over his shoulder. Warm breath brushed through his
sweater and shirt and dampened his skin. The student moaned and shifted. Jim
jigged a bit harder, trying to draw him nearer to consciousness. The
swish-swish was getting closer. The noise sounded like a rotor.
“A helicopter, you have a
helicopter.”
“How did you expect me to
get away?”
He was going to have to
dump Blair on the grass and jump Tree. Blair’s hands flexed against his ass.
The moan was only discernible to sentinel ears. It was amazing what a little
pain could do. Jim pinched the sensitive skin at the back of Blair’s knee.
Jim’s ankle turned under
him and he fought not to fall over. Holding Blair was like trying to carry a
sleeping bag of loosely packed ball bearings, but somehow he didn’t drop him.
Tree caught his elbow momentarily, helping him stay upright. The hand cupping his
elbow was warm and felt moist and sweaty and excited. Before he could think to drop Blair and take
out the freak, Tree had moved away.
“Just out of curiosity,
what do you hope to gain from kidnapping us?”
“I figure highest
bidder. Or I might have you stuffed and
mounted.”
“Very
funny.”
Tree took things that
people valued over all else. Kidnapping Blair made twisted sense. But he was
breaking his modus operandi taking them both.
“The blind thing is going
to get in the way of any
“I guess you’ll just have
to have me stuffed and mounted.” Jim squinted, in the better light, a figure
was resolving. A flare of sunlight was likely reflected off the muzzle of the
gun. Tree was cavalier, it was aimlessly moving, rather than trained on his
victims.
“Drop the weapon!” Simon’s
voice boomed.
Jim stepped out from under
Blair’s weight and straight armed Tree in the face. The psycho fell backwards.
Jim followed through, palm open, the ball of his hand connected with Tree’s chin
forcing his head back with a spine tingling crack. Tree’s throat was totally
exposed. Jim heard teeth splintering. Honing in on the sound, he karate-chopped
at the delicate larynx. Cartilage fractured and collapsed under the blow. The
impact set a profoundly satisfying quiver through his guts. Jim felt, rather
than heard, Tree’s Adam’s Apple pop. The man gagged a
bloody sigh and fell.
Jim dropped beside the
dying body. He flipped Tree on to his stomach and handcuffed his hands behind
his back.
“You assumed that I hadn’t
brought my friends.”
“Jim!” Simon was at his
shoulder, reaching over to check Tree’s pulse. Jim could hear the hammering of
Tree’s heart plainly and blood draining into his lungs.
“I need to check on Blair,”
Jim said unnecessarily. He moved to his friend’s side. Blair lay in an ungainly
sprawl, his arm twisted under him and his legs spread-eagled. With
sentinel-sensitive fingers, Jim’s checked the soundness of his neck and spine
before carefully turning him onto his back.
“How is he?”
Jim leaned in close until
he could almost make out the broad planes and banks of Blair’s face. “Out for the count. I don’t know what Tree drugged him with,
but it’s potent.”
“I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Call two; we need one for
“
“Yeah, go check on him,
I’ll watch Tree.”
“I think that we need one
for Tree.” A dark blur squatted next to the dead body. “How hard did you hit
him?”
Jim propped Blair up
against his hip before answering, “Hard enough, I guess. He’s trained: a good
fighter—he was armed, I needed to stop him before he shot one of us. I couldn’t
chance him firing.”
“I had him covered.”
“Did you?” he asked
sincerely. “I couldn’t see.”
U U U U U
Epilogue
Blair was doing a sort of sloppy
thing on the couch. He was draped over the cushions like a child’s cuddly toy
with all the stuffing hugged out. Jim walked past and flicked the hand hanging
over the arm of the couch with his index finger.
“Get off,” Blair slurred.
“How are you feeling?”
“Dopey. What did he… use?”
“Some kind of narcotic
like rohypnol cut with a curare derivative. Do you
remember the emergency room?”
“Huh?”
Jim shook his head. “The
doctor said another forty eight hours before it’s out of your system.”
“Really,” Blair said
disinterestedly as he made a futile attempt to roll onto his stomach.
“Tree’s been identified,”
Jim volunteered.
“Oh,
yeah?”
“Kyle Stewart Cottingham.”
Blair gave him a leery eye through a veil of tangled curls. “Is that supposed
to mean anything?”
“Senator
Cottingham’s son—big East Coast family.
Father sits on the senate and kid swans around getting kicks turning people
over.”
“I’d love to be that bored
some day.”
Jim shook his head at the sideline—Blair’s
world was a strange and surreal place.
“He’s going to get off you
know,” Blair said with uncharacteristic cynicism, the drugs had obviously
squashed his bright, sunny personality. “He’ll have a high-priced lawyer and
his dad will interfere.”
“Not a problem, Chief.”
“Why?”
“He was pronounced dead at
the hospital. He suffocated.”
“What!” Blair managed to
flip over and found the energy to sit up. “Suffocated?”
“He died of wounds
sustained during his capture,” Jim said clinically.
“What happened?”
“I hit him too hard.”
“Shit,” Blair said
inelegantly. Then he was silent, as only Blair could be when he was trying to
process the unpalatable.
Jim shrugged and went to
help himself to a beer. Tree would have undoubtedly been sidelined into a
mental institution if he had been prosecuted. As Kyle Cottingham,
a senator’s son, his lawyer would have probably played a different card since
he apparently was only in it for ‘fun’ and no one had actually been harmed. The
man had a strange and creepy sense of what was fun. Kyle had planned to kidnap
a sentinel and guide and Jim only had suspicions of what the psycho had
intended.
‘But it’s not a problem.’
Jim put the Coors back and
grabbed a Bud.
“Jim?” Blair said with a
tired, drugged voice from the vicinity of the sofa.
“What?”
“How are you feeling?”
“In what way?” he asked,
as he played with the bottle cap.
“About Tree, I mean—?
“That he died?
“Yeah.”
“I’ll have to talk to IA about
it and probably the unit’s psychologist. I guess the senator will make sure
that I never progress beyond detective.” Jim sighed deeply. ‘What a horrible
punishment,’ he thought disingenuously.
Jim juggled the Bud then
put it back and picked up the Coors again.
“Hey, you did that really
well; is your sight back? Your eyes, man!”
“Hmm…
no can’t see a thing. I’m as blind as a bat.” There weren’t
any snacks in the refrigerator. He really wanted something non-nutritious and
‘bad-for-you’.
“I’m sorry, man,” Blair
was saying sadly. “I…”
“It wasn’t your fault,
Chief.” He found a Snickers hiding the behind the jar of homemade relish.
“I…”
“It was a car accident,
Chief; and I was driving.”
“But if I hadn’t fumbled when
we first tried to catch him, he wouldn’t have run and you wouldn’t have had to
go after him,” Blair burbled.
“Don’t second guess
yourself, Sandburg; life’s too short. We’ll talk again when you’re more
‘here’.” Jim poured a small measure of the beer into a glass. It should be a
safe amount coupled with the sedatives in Blair’s system: he would be out like
a light. “I’m pretty sure that my sight will come back in a week or two.”
“What?” Blair was peering
blearily at Jim, over the back of the couch.
Jim crossed to his side
and handed over the beer. Blair sipped automatically, sighing happily at the
taste. Jim listened to the alcohol flowing down his gullet and hitting his
stomach like a club against the back of skull.
Knowing that Blair would
be communing with his glass of beer for a while yet, Jim darted upstairs to his
bedroom. He pulled the trunk out from underneath his bed. Opening it, he lifted
out the top layer to reveal the hidden compartment beneath. His covert ops
equipment lay in foam slots; safely stored. He pocketed the small knives and
the lock picks and then closed the box up and tucked it back into place.
As he moved back down the
stairs, Blair was sagging back onto his cushions, a snore in the back of his
throat. Jim watched him, mentally mapping his physical condition and finding
all rolling along on an even keel. He gently relieved his sleeping partner of
the glass and set it on the coffee table.
Grabbing a handful of Blair’s jeans and shirt, he pulled him onto his
side in an approximation of the standard recovery position. He tucked a pillow
behind Blair’s back to stop him rolling back. His guide secure, he stood and
then collected his sunglasses and his cell phone from the kitchen table. He
could get a taxi to Tree’s apartment or maybe even drive himself?
“Decisions. Decisions.”
A taxi could be traced and
he really needed to search Kyle Cottingham’s haunts
to recover Blair’s journals and any other documents that Tree had left around
revealing that he was a sentinel.
Jim grabbed his coat and
his car keys.
He wouldn’t be exposed.
The End
