They sat in the oak panelled
kitchen, each with their own cup of relaxing tea patiently waiting for the
observer to speak.
"Okay, it was nothing that I
could put my finger on but *I* was definitely getting vibes, man," Blair
stuttered to a halt. Mentally, he reviewed his gushing; deliberately he centred
himself. "There was nothing overt," he began, moving into scientific
language, "but Jim you’re not habitually..." He struggled to put
nebulous emotions into words. "You’re impatient, Jim, but you not normally
snappy without a reason. And I don’t make a habit of ... flaunting my...."
"Intelligence," Jim said
dryly, there was an amused gleam in his eye,
A twitch of the lips, which could
have been a smile, graced Blair’s face.
"Hmmmmm," Blair responded,
resisting the temptation to stick out his tongue. "And Philip - you’ve
never even raised your voice in my presence."
"So what are you saying?"
"I’m saying: that shrunken
corpse negatively impacts on our emotional state in a subtle manner."
Jim blinked and rocked back on his
chair, nursing his cup of herbal tea. They waited for him to speak.
"This is more you field than
mine, Chief," the Sentinel said deliberately. "We were just snipping
at each other. We can control that and continue with the forensics."
Blair rocked back on his own chair,
mimicking his Sentinel, setting his feet on the table.
"Yes," he hedged.
"Now that we’re aware of it. Father, what do you think?"
"There are procedures we can
use to minimise exposure but most of the battle has been won since we’re aware
of the manipulation. It’s very subtle. I’m surprised that you noticed it."
"I just know you guys, you
know. You weren’t acting right. And that thing’s horrible." His pen began
to dance in his fingers. "I think we should find out who she was and..."
words failed him.
"Bury her with due
ceremony," Philip said with quiet authority.
"Yeah, man. I think that she’d
be a lot happier."
"So, Blair." The priest
leaned across the table, lacing his fingers together. "You think that
there’s some kind of malevolent activity around the effigy, but you also
believe that this lady’s soul... spirit... is still present?"
The colour leached from Blair’s
face.
"Uhuh. Maybe, I’m just being
dramatic. I don’t like the thought that that thing’s watching us, especially
knowing that someone’s mother’s trapped inside."
The pen continued to dance in his
fingers almost mesmerising them.
Father Callaghan took a slow draw of
his tea before speaking. "How do you know that the kidnapper’s watching us
and this lady’s soul is trapped within the desiccated husk?"
Abruptly the pen stopped. Blair’s
eyes darted nervously from priest to Sentinel. That the Sentinel had not
contributed anything to this facet of the conversation had not went unnoticed
by the Guide. When they delved into the mystic aspects of the Sentinel’s
nature, Jim first response was to recoil.
"Educated guess, " Blair
muttered. "After that shit with the daemon, I find that ghosts, spirit
guides and waking dreams isn’t that difficult to accept. That thing,"
Blair jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the
laboratory," was put there for a reason. The clothes aren’t dirty or wet;
it was in a drain, for God’s sake - so the kidnapper put it there. Why? ‘Cos he
can use it somehow. The only thing I can think of is that he can use it to know
what’s going on."
"That’s an interesting theory,
Chief." Jim’s measured tones imparted some calm to the conversation.
"We need to find out if the body’s clothes, skin and hair colour matches
any of the descriptions of the previous kidnap victims. We need to keep someone
at the site to check if this guy comes back for his toy. I’ll call Simon.
Chief, you go the library here and see if you can find any similar occurrences.
Father Callaghan, can you check with any of your associates about exorcising
the body? We don’t go back into that room until we’ve got more
information."
~*~
The heavy oak panelled door of the
rectory library drifted shut with a quiet sigh. The Sentinel hovered in the
hallway listening to the noises within the room. A heavy chair was dragged
across the carpeted floor, and the soft hum of the library’s computer filled
the Sentinel’s ears. Satisfied that the anthropologist was blissfully
ensconced, Jim went to find the priest. Tracking the man’s heartbeat was
simplicity itself. He found him in a master den, filled with typically
masculine knickknacks and a few curios. Father Callaghan sat at a large oak
desk flicking through a bulky address book.
Jim coughed lightly but the priest
was already aware of his presence.
"What can I do for you,
detective?"
An easy gesture directed the
Sentinel to the assortment of seats in the room. Jim avoided the couch and
settled himself in the chair opposite the priest, sitting in the subordinate
position. The priest closed the address book and brought his full attention to
bear on the detective.
"Yes, Jim?" he pursued
when the detective remained silent.
Jim strove to put his concerns into
understandable English, eventually he decided on, "What did you think of
Blair’s display in there?"
The priest hummed under his breath
for a moment. "You mean the way that he identified that there was a
problem or that he was convinced that the figure is sentient and watching
us."
"Both," Jim said tersely.
"Do you think he’s wrong?"
"This is like talking to the
precinct’s psychiatrist. No, I don’t believe he’s wrong but how did he
know?"
"If you’re asking me if Blair
is psychic, I don’t know. He doesn’t display any overt abilities, such as precognition,
that we can test."
Jim ground his teeth together. He
had entered into the conversation with vague unformed questions of his own and
a need to talk. The priest had recognised this and was asking nicely thought
out questions but the man was shooting in the dark.
The priest was still speaking,
"As Blair has said, he is a student of human behaviour. From the first
moment I met Blair I was impressed by his depth of feeling and intuition."
"He’s like that with the
Sentinel stuff," Jim admitted reluctantly, not at all comfortable
discussing his abilities with the priest. "I’ll have a problem and *BAM*
he solves it, especially when we are out in the field. I wonder where he gets
the answers from."
"He’s studied sentinels for
many years, maybe he absorbed the answers from there?"
"Maybe," Jim enunciated,
"maybe not. A month or so ago, a good friend, a Chopec shaman... the man
who guided me while I was in
"How did Blair handle
that?"
Tensely, Jim laid his hands palm
down on the table. "Completely freaked out at the scene and then
immediately pulled it together well enough to reactivate my sentinel abilities,
which were temporarily on the fritz, by putting me in touch with my spirit
guide."
"So Incacha made Blair your
shaman?" the priest ventured, looking a tiny bit affronted. Since
Callaghan knew the Chopec native’s name, Blair must had mentioned the affair.
Apparently the grad student had made a few omissions, like that he had been
dubbed a shaman.
"Incacha making Blair a shaman
is a bit like telling Uri Geller how to bend forks. A shaman looks after the
physical and spiritual needs of those around him, at least in the Chopec. Blair
was filling in that role, especially down the precinct, before he was dubbed a
Shaman."
Father Callaghan leaned forwards
intently. "If Blair is already your shaman, what is the problem?"
"It’s not cut and dried.
Fuck!" Pushing down with his hands Jim launched himself to his feet.
"I have dreams. I have a spirit guide. I’ve spoken to it... him. I’m
fairly sure that Blair doesn’t have a spirit guide. He does it all from inside,
he doesn’t need any outside guidance - or he’s so in tune with...." He
began to pace like a caged panther. "Look, I’m... concerned. As our roles
continue to evolve, I don’t know where this shaman stuff is going to take
him."
The priest’s doleful eyes became
commiserating. "You can only trust in yourselves and God - whomever you
perceive him to be."
"Platitudes," Jim groused.
"No, it is not," he
rebuked gently. "You’ve spoken to spirits, touched the ‘otherside’ and
forged a time honoured partnership of brotherhood. I think you’re blessed. You
have a genetic predisposition - according to Blair - for enhanced senses. Maybe
that makes you more aware of the beauty around us, more sensitive to the wonder
of God’s creation. Thus he can act through you."
"Still doesn’t explain
Blair," Jim muttered.
"Blair is your partner. Think
of it as a kind of symbiosis. He is aware of you, he picks up on your moods -
it is about friendship. Perhaps it is simply that degree of empathy which makes
him your guide and coincidentally your shaman?"
Dissatisfied, Jim took his leave.
The priest didn’t stop him, merely returning to the task from which he had been
interrupted.
Jim stormed along claustrophobic
corridors. He felt the urge to check up on his Guide, shaman, partner,
observer... whatever.
He slipped silently into the old,
well stocked library. Light breathing directed him to a set on book stacks in
the far corner of the room. Crouched on his haunches, Blair held a computer
print out in once hand and a book in the other. He noticed the Sentinel
immediately.
"Hey, big guy. I was just
coming to look for you."
"Why?"
"I dunno." He shrugged
expressively. "Gotta vibe - wondered what you were doing."
~*~
After a quick brunch they returned
to the laboratory. Following methodology laid down by the Legacy organisation,
Blair remained outside the lab watching the action through a close circuit
television. To say that he was put out by the circumstances was something of an
understatement. The two-way mike attached to the Sentinel’s ear buzzed as Blair
muttered sub-vocally.
Father Callaghan flipped open the
canister.
"Mother of Mary," he
blasphemed.
"What? What? What!"
Blair’s tinny voice sounded loudly in the room.
As the sentinel surged forwards to
examine the canister an irreverent portion of his brain noted that he’d turned
down his hearing in the ear harbouring the ear piece. Sometimes the Sentinel
stuff did work subconsciously.
"It’s gone, detective," he
said brokenly.
~*~
"I don’t believe it!"
Blair curled up into a ball in the blue and white truck’s passenger seat.
They had searched the lab from top
to bottom, utilising sentinel senses, to no avail. That the figure had managed
to escape from the securely sealed canister seemed unlikely. Spiriting it away
by arcane means seemed equally unlikely. Yet the evidence was undeniable. It
had disappeared.
"Mystical crap aside," Jim
muttered, "how likely is it that Father Callaghan or another member of the
household moved it?"
Blair watched the moving traffic
before speaking. "I prefer that over teleportation or that thing is
scurrying around the wainscoting watching Philip."
Blair twitched as something with
long spindly spider’s legs walked over his grave. Twisting, he peered down
between his legs looking under the seat.
"It could be in here,
man."
"Get a grip, Sandburg. I can’t
hear anything out of the ordinary."
Muttering under his breath, Blair
lifted his feet off the floor and sat cross-legged.
"Are we going back to the
precinct?"
"Yes, I want to check the
victims’ database to see if we have a match with the shrunken thing."
Blair decided to change the subject.
He pulled his backpack into his arms - clutching the familiar shape closely,
and withdrew a book.
"I found some stuff in the
library - but most of it referred to voodoo dolls when I cross referenced
effigies and figures. The books are all recently published. I mean voodoo!
Anyone with any sense knows that effigies and pins is tabloid television
voodoo. I guess the Legacy purchase every book that has anything to do with the
mystical side on the off-chance that there might be something in it."
"Get to the point."
Blair glared. "This type of
magic is called sympathetic magic. There are two divisions of sympathetic
magic: homeopathic and contagious. I suspect we’re dealing with contagious
magic." Slowly, he read from the book. "Where things which have been
conjoined must remain ever afterwards, even when dissevered from each other, in
such sympathetic relation whatever is done to one similarly affect the
other." Setting the book aside, Blair continued to think out loud.
"I’ve found two articles about animating stocks and fetishes, but nothing
specific to shrunken bodies."
"You’ll find it, Chief."
Blair basked in the surety in his
friend’s tone.
~*~
Leaving Jim to play footsie with the
F.B.I. agents, Blair settled himself at Jim’s desk. An F.B.I. agent’s laptop
was set on the desk.
‘Serves them right for invading a
sentinel’s territory.’ Blair grinned wolfishly. ‘Big
mistake.’
Unobtrusively, he switched it on and
started hunting through the non password protected files.
He downloaded to a disc a number of
documents relating to previous victims, plus a few extras, and then he moved
over to Jim’s computer.
One mother, Evelyn Huntingtower,
matched the effigy.
Blair closed the files and saved them
in another folder on the computer’s c:drive. He hid the disc in plain sight in
Jim’s motley collection of discs.
"What are you doing?"
Choppy, short words reached his ears.
"Hi Cassie," Blair leaned
back in his chair and greeted the forensics officer.
"What file were you looking at?
It looked like an F.B.I. file?"
Blair made frantic shushing motions.
"Why don’t you just announce it to the whole world, man!" he hissed.
"Sorry," Cassie stage
whispered, earning a curious look from Henri Brown.
"It’s nothing. I was just
working on some stuff." The file was closed. Blair double checked. All
Cassie could have seen was the merest glimpse.
"What’s this?"
Blair lifted his head and watched as
a finely plucked eyebrow rose questioningly.
"What’s what?"
An equally manicured nail pointed to
Jim’s desk pad, which doubled as a doodle pad for the anthropologist.
Underlined, starred and highlighted was a list of things-to-do. Number one was
to re-search the site where little Marcus had been found.
"Why do you want to search
there again? My team went over it thoroughly." There was a hint of wounded
pride in her tone.
"Er, well," Blair hedged,
scrabbling for an excuse. "I lost my Mantobi bracelet when we were looking
for Marcus. It probably as good a place as any to look."
"Oh, yeah," Cassie
drawled. Suddenly she turned on her heel.
"Cassie." Blair stood,
scattering papers. "You want to get a chinese in the break room
later?"
"Maybe." Smiling
enigmatically, she flounced out of the squad room.
‘I know it. I know it,’
he thought miserably. ‘She’s going to go back there.’
He shared a knowing glance with
Henri - who had a similar opinion to Jim Ellison’s when it came to the new
forensics expert, despite the anthropologist’s best attempts to make them view
her more charitably.
’What now?’
Blair wondered. ‘Would she find anything?’
As his mind spun he looked to the
captain’s office. The head of F.B.I. field operations plus two of his
subordinates were in conference with the captain and his premier detective.
Ellison was pacing back and forth - a measured controlled movement that spoke
of his unease with the situation. Sharing their discovery with the agents would
be a quick route to the Happy Farm for the psychologically challenged. The
agents were probably wondering why Jim was so interested in the previous
victims. But this was getting the anthropologist nowhere fast. Interrupting
Simon in his office usually resulted in a dressing down. He wasn’t particularly
bothered about that, but alerting the F.B.I. agents that something was up was a
definite no-no.
Decision made - Blair scribbled a
note to his partner and left it stuck on the computer.
~*~
He caught up with Cassie in the
precinct garage. Automatically holding his breath, to stop inhaling the vehicle
fumes, he danced his way in between the patrol cars. Cassie was loading up her
van with her paraphernalia, most of which she tested for different companies.
"Hey," Blair sidled up and
grabbed one of the crates and helped her put it in the back of the van.
"You don’t really have to do this. As you said: you’ve checked."
She dropped the crate with a thud.
"Look me straight in the eye and tell me that you’re not going back
there?"
Blair bobbed uneasily from foot to
foot.
"See! You and Ellison are
planning on finding something that you think that I’ve missed. So I’m going to
look again, before Bloodhound Ellison finds it and makes me look like a
fool."
"It’s not like that,
Cassie," Blair protested.
"Yes, it is!" she said
sharply. "I don’t know how he does it but he does."
She slammed the sliding door shut,
almost catching the anthropologist’s fingers. Forcing her way past him, she
climbed into the van, reaching behind her to slam the door in his face. Blair
caught the door and jumped in next to her.
The forensics officer turned on him.
"You’re coming?"
"Uh huh." Blair held out
his cell phone and waggled it.
"You’re going to call
Ellison?"
"If and when it becomes
necessary."
"I do not need back-up,"
she said caustically.
Blair’s response was to fasten his
seat belt and cross his arms, mimicking Simon at his most authoritative.
"Do you do this with
Ellison?"
Muttering under her breath, she
pulled her black velvet, floppy hat over her curls and proceeded to ignore the
anthropologist. As she reached for the ignition, Blair beat her to the keys.
"Don’t do this, Cassie. Wait
for Jim to finish with Simon and then we’ll all go together. He won’t be long.
We don’t even know if what we’re looking for will be there."
"So you are looking for
something specific."
Blair could have kicked himself.
She gunned the engine and screamed
out of the garage with the observer clutching the dashboard.
~*~
Jim deliberately stopped grinding
his teeth together. ‘I am calm. I am calm. I am calm.’ The mantra came
easily to his lips, but Blair’s coaching did not help. The F.B.I. agents
weren’t as irritating as normal, in fact they were downright accommodating. It
was what they weren’t saying that was tormenting the Sentinel. If the Feds were
investigating the supernatural aspects of the case, Jim felt he had to tell
them what he had discovered. However, until he knew that they were sufficiently
opened minded to consider the possibility, he was not going to bring up the
subject.
"Jim," Henri Brown called
out. He was pointing at the detective’s desk. "Sandburg left you a
message."
Glancing at the note, Jim swore
under his breath. "Kids."
"What are they up to?"
Brown asked.
"Tell Simon, when he escapes
from the forces of evil, that Wells and Sandburg went back to where we found
Marcus. I’m going to go get them."
"You want me to come?"
"Nah, how much trouble can they
get into? Don’t answer that. Just keep your cell phone free."
~*~
They stopped at the campsite, at the
edge of the Cascade Woods, some two hundred yards from the storm overflow into
the Fox River that eventually reached the Pacific Ocean. The forensics officer
pulled on her Cascade P.D. coveralls, pointedly not offering the grad student a
pair. Weighed down with her equipment, Cassie strode off in the completely
wrong direction. Evilly, Blair debated whether or not to allow her to walk to
Canada or turn her around.
"It’s this way, Cassie."
"I knew that," she
snapped, but tempered it with a smile.
The coniferous forest was cooling in
the late afternoon sunlight. The uneven ground was covered with fine needles
and damp mosses. Cassie struggled onwards until Blair remembered his manners
and offered to help. Together they picked their way to the entrance of the
outfall.
"What exactly are you looking
for?"
"I’ll know it when I see
it."
A dike was formed from cement
sculpted into steep sides. The outfall pipe emerged from the south wall. In the
distance, Blair could see the housing development that fed the pipe. Between
the river and the houses was the sewage works, which intercepted the sewerage
material from the residences and, no doubt, occasionally dumped into the river.
"Not very big, is it," she
said. "I’m surprised that Ellison let you go in there."
"I was the smallest."
Blair did not add that the Sentinel had monitored the tunnel before he had let
his guide more than one foot into the depths.
Cassie picked her way down the dike,
making mincing little footsteps to keep her balance. Blair leaped down to join
her. Yellow police tape flapped in the slight wind. Crouching, she peered into
the pipe.
"What I’m looking for might be
out here," Blair said, before she could crawl into the pipe.
"And you’ll know it when you
see it," she sniped. Then with mercurial suddenness she changed track.
"You can tell me," she wheedled.
"I’m looking for a doll."
Her mouth made an ‘o’ of
understanding. "If you think it is relevant, why didn’t you turn it over
to the F.B.I.? I know, you want the credit."
Blair snorted. "I don’t want to
embarrass Jim if I’m wrong."
Cassie accepted the blatant
fabrication. "Why do you think it is important?"
Kicking over a riverbed stone with
his foot, Blair paused before answering. "It kinda resembles one of the
kidnapper’s previous victims but only vaguely."
"And if you find one here
you’ve got a lead..."
"Exactly - look between the
stones. It might be wedged in."
As she hunted, Blair cast his eyes
heavenward. ‘Where are you, Jim? You should be here.’
A piece of dead rabbit was almost
mistaken for the long hair of another figure. Cassie was methodical, working
along the side of the river as Blair covered the mouth of the pipe. Standing,
she lobbed a stone into the water and then picked her way, over the river
stones, back to Blair’s side.
"Let’s check inside," she
began, brooking no argument.
"I..." A noise stopped him
mid-word. A muted wail hiccuped in the distance.
"What was that?" She
leaned past him and peered into the tunnel.
"A cat?" Blair ventured.
"Charlie," she said
decisively.
Blair caught the tail of her coat as
she launched herself into the tunnel. "Stop! It could be anything: fox,
cat - the kidnapper."
Cassie wiggled out of her coat and
disappeared.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Blair
swore. He dropped onto his hands and knees and squinted. The darkness had
already engulfed her. Still swearing, he yanked out his cellphone and angrily
hit the buttons that would connect him with the Sentinel.
Jim picked up immediately.
"Ellison. That better be you, Sandburg."
"Cassie’s gone into the tunnel.
I’m going after her. I’m leaving the cell open."
Blair ducked into the pipe and
immediately lost the cell phone signal. Muttering, he cast it outside, hoping
that Jim would be able to pick up his voice via the phone.
"I’m gonna kill her." The
wail sounded again, reverberating off the concrete walls. It sounded like a
child’s cry. Scuffing his knees he picked up speed. Twists and turns confused
him. He went further than he had before. The ground disappeared beneath his
hands and he tumbled downwards.
He landed in something wet and icky.
Gagging, he pushed himself up on his elbows. It was pitch black - he couldn’t
see his hand in front of his face.
"Cassie?" he whispered.
The echoes told him that he had ventured into a larger tunnel. Composing
himself, he listened - he had directed the Sentinel through many sensory tests
- he knew how to listen. Scuffling sounded to the left. He couldn’t tell what
was moving but it might be Cassie. Counting under his breath, Blair crawled
forwards.
Then the screaming began.
Feminine screams reverberated around
the passage. Where, where? He couldn’t tell. The scream rose in pitch, followed
by a wet crunch and then a higher childish wail. A flash of light blinded him -
flaring against his eyes - forcing him to his knees. For an instant he saw a
woman’s shape silhouetted against his eyelids. Knowing it was Cassie he fumbled
in her direction.
Another scream assailed his ears.
Reaching blindly, he tried to touch her. A scream, a thud and then someone fell
against him. They went down in a tangle of limbs. Heavy, damp breath wheezed
against his throat. He jerked away from the touch of lips - not knowing who
held him.
"Cass?"
"Oh, god. Blair? Shssssh. It’s
coming." She descended into coughing.
"Breathe," Blair soothed,
patting her cheeks and shoulders. Her back was wet but it was warm. As he
fumbled he came across a small bundle hugged against her chest. His fingers
investigated, feeling a small, still face and rosebud lips. The child; Charlie.
"Oh, my god." His heart
stopped for a stuttering moment. Then he felt the faintest flutter of breathing
against his fingertips. Charlie was barely alive.
"Go, go, go," she
implored, as she transferred the child into his arms.
"Come on." Wriggling out
from under her body, he struggled to his feet pulling her upright, the child
sandwiched between them.
A noise slithered ahead of them.
Creeping, coming closer, threatening. Blair backed away, dragging the failing
woman with him. The child whimpered. Their breathing sounded harsh in the tight
tunnel, unerringly leading the slithering noise closer.
"Come on, Cass."
Her knees gave way and she slipped
out of his grasp. Futilely, he tried to catch her. Pain blossomed in his chest
- throwing him backwards. Hot agony radiated down his left arm. Somehow he kept
the child clasped to his side. Cassie lay upon his legs - she was silent. With
shocking suddenness, the weight was dragged away. Unpenetrable darkness loomed
over him. The child was joggled and the observer struck. Blindly he flailed,
connecting with leathery skin. He kicked and was rewarded with a strangled
grunt. He followed through with another strike. Sobbing, he continued to kick
and kick. Connecting, not connecting. Fetid air washed over him and, galvanised,
Blair kicked with all of his strength.
He was free.
Automatically, he scrambled
backwards. He backed into a wall with bruising force. Slowly, he stumbled along
the wall, listening for absolutely anything. The child was still tucked up
against his side, but where was Cassie? It was as dark as the deepest pits of
hell. His entire left side was numb. There was someone lurking and he couldn’t
find Cassie.
He stumbled and fell on the slope on
which he had tumbled down into this hellhole. The way out. Blair listened with
all his heart and soul for his co-worker. Nothing - not even a sinister
slither. Footsteps sounded somewhere above him. He prayed that it was his
Sentinel. He couldn’t leave; he hadn’t found Cassie. Wincing, he shifted the child,
tucking a curly head under his chin. And then he took a step towards the
monster.
‘Please, Jim, find Cass - find
us. We’re here. Listen to my pounding heart.’
The echoes sounded closer together -
running footsteps. It had to be Jim - the Sentinel would not be constrained by
poor light. Once past the entrance he would be able to stand and to run.
The footsteps skidded to a halt, on
the ramp directly above him.
"Jim?" he tried. The name
caught in his throat choking him.
"Chief?" Hands touched his
body, trailed over his cheeks and down his neck. They paused at the sharp pain
at his breast. Red-hot pain drowned out all coherent thought. Blackness,
whiteness - shocking nothingness, which was almost a relief - washed over him.
Slowly, Blair became aware of his friend’s sensitive fingers touching his rib
cage as he leaned against him. They were wasting precious time.
Mutely, Blair nodded into the
darkness, begging the Sentinel to find their friend. An arm was flung over his
shoulders. The child was cradled between them.
"What, Chief? Cassie? Is Cassie
still here?"
They stood rooted to the spot.
Blair’s heart thrummed unevenly as the Sentinel searched outwards with his
senses. He knew when the Sentinel found her; when the blessed protector froze.
Poised, the Sentinel was listening for a heartbeat that had been silenced.
Cassie was dead.
They stood silently until Blair
began to shiver, shock finally overcoming his defences. Jim held him closer,
reaching for the little boy. Blair refused to relinquish Charlie, but he
submitted as Jim gently turned him and drew him up the slope and towards
daylight.
He was pushed ahead through the
pipe, Jim taking up the rear. Legs dressed in pressed trousers and polished
shoes blocked the entrance.
"Sandburg?"
A tree trunk of a man reached down
and Blair automatically cringed. Large hands caught his shoulders, dragging him
out of the pipe. A dark face, hidden behind lenses, yammered down at him.
Another man, nearly as tall as the first, tried to take the child. Blair bared
his teeth.
"Hey, hey, Sandburg," the
first man said cajolingly. "Let Henri look after the kid."
His knees were buckling. Only the
hold the enormous man had on his shoulders was keeping him upright.
"Chief?" The warm voice of
his Sentinel embraced him. "Let me look at Charlie, please."
Eyes narrowed, he examined his
friend and then slowly passed the limp child over. Jim accepted him with a sad
smile, smoothly dropping to his knees, draping the child over his lap.
Competent hands checked him out and sensitive ears listened. The sound of
sirens drew Blair’s attention from the tree trunk holding him. An ambulance was
bouncing up the dirt path paralleling the river. Brightly dressed men and women
leaped out.
"Is he okay, Jim?" The big
man nodded at the child.
"I think he’s been
drugged."
Blair shrugged out of the man’s hold
while he was distracted, and stumbled across to a convenient boulder. He
slumped down next to it, almost burrowing into the earth. Blair lost himself in
sadness.
Detached, he was aware of someone
flashing a light in his eyes. His shirt was lifted away and flesh below his
collarbone was probed. The pain was a step away, removed from perception. A
familiar face was hovering behind the stranger. Lips were moving - but he
wasn’t listening so he couldn’t hear. Impersonal hands were turning him. He was
lifted and settled on a stretcher.
~*~
"What the Hell happened out
there, Ellison?" Banks hollered even though he didn’t raise his voice.
They were standing just outside the
E.R. entrance. The detective rested his hand on the stone wall. It was
preferable to being inside and suffocating. The shell-shocked victim who had
been wheeled into E.R bore little resemblance to the vibrant observer they knew
so well. The cigar in Banks’ mouth was chewed to a nub.
"As near as I can guess, Cassie
got it into her head to return to the site and Blair went with her."
"Why wasn’t the site under
surveillance?"
"Oversight." Jim punched
the wall, hard. "Marcus told us that he hid in the pipe. I sensed him in the
woods. I never guessed that this creep might be in the tunnels. I should have.
Especially after the school."
"And going into the tunnel
after the kidnapper?"
Jim rested his forehead on the place
he had so recently punched. "Blair just said that he was going in after
her."
"Detectives?" A soft voice
interrupted them.
Both men turned on the diminutive
man standing in the doorway. "Doctor? How’s Sandburg?"
"Doctor Sung," the man
identified himself. "Mr Sandburg will be fine. He has minor laceration
just below his left collarbone. It only took three stitches to close."
"But there was so much
blood," Jim said directly. The kid’s t-shirt had been awash with blood.
"I believe that your man had
been drugged by a neurological cocktail that included an anticoagulant."
The black haired doctor held out a
plastic bag. Resting in one corner was a bloody piece of what looked like
flint.
"I’m afraid we may have
compromised your evidence, we chipped off a fragment and sent it to our labs.
I’ve never seen anything like it - it’s like something out of the dark
ages."
The Sentinel’s sight automatically
honed in on the stone. Black balsamic flint had been carved into a tiny
arrowhead. This case got stranger and stranger.
"Blair’s all right?"
"I believe so - yes." He
took a deep breath as both police officers bristled at his circumspect wording.
"There is some desensitisation on the left side - we have no reason to
assume that it is not temporary. His pupils are non reactive, which first led
us to think that he had been drugged, and he is uncommunicative."
"So you’re keeping him in for
observation."
"At least until we are sure
that there are no complications and the drugs have been sluiced from his
system."
"When can I see him?"
"Now. We’re waiting for a bed -
until then he is in cubical four."
"Thanks, doc." Jim left
Simon to finish the interrogation of Doctor Sung and retrieve the physical
evidence.
The small cubical was curtained off.
Listening, Jim ascertained that Blair was awake. Slowly he pushed back the
curtain. Yes, indeed, his Guide had been drugged. Sleepy, dull eyes gazed
blearily up at him. The bed had been raised and Blair was propped upright on a
mound of pillows. An I.V. snaked into the back of his left hand and an urinary
catheter emerged further down the bed from under a regulation red blanket. His
bruised right wrist bore a new pristine bandage. A pulse-ox sensor was attached
to his right index finger.
"Hey, buddy," Jim pasted a
forced smile on his face.
There was no answer.
"Doctor says that you’re going
to be all right. Charlie’s going to be fine too." He hadn’t actually
checked, but since Blair needed to hear some positive news, he was going to
lie. "You saved him."
A fat tear trickled down the kid’s
cheek. "Hey, hey, buddy. None of that." He couldn’t help himself; he
reached down and brushed it away. What could he say? Blair had to be blaming
himself for Cassie’s death. The way Brown told the story, Cassie had walked out
in a snit and Blair had chased after her. Yes, there was blame to be
apportioned but it didn’t all lie on the anthropologist’s shoulders. Cassie had
acted irresponsibly. Brown should have either went after them, or informed the
officers in the captain’s office that they had left. Hindsight was always
twenty-twenty. He should have driven faster. He should have been there.
"You both saved the kid,"
the Sentinel choked out.
~*~
Back in his own bed, Blair stared up
at the plastic glow stars he had glued to the ceiling. He had spent one night
in hospital, the first visit since the Golden incident, and then he had been
released.
‘Everything comes in threes: the
fire people, getting shot in the leg and now stabbed by a fiend. No more
hospital visits. I hope.’
Now he was home. Once he could move
his fingers and when his pupils would contract, there was no reason to keep
him. Gingerly, Blair shifted and then probed at the wound protected by a thick
layer of gauze. Such a little scratch should not have caused so much trouble.
Jim had mentioned something about a
cocktail of drugs. That was as good as an excuse as any for why he had
retreated deep inside of himself and hid. Accepting that there would be no
sleep tonight, Blair kicked off his covers and wandered out into the living
room. He moved aimlessly from door to window, stroking the back of the sofa,
circling around the fireplace.
The city looked peaceful through the
closed windows. Cassie’s funeral was tentatively timed for beginning of the
following week, when she too would be put to rest. The cold of the night passed
through the glass, chilling him. He would be able to see better if he stood on
the balcony. Twisting the handle and stepping out of the loft would be
simplicity itself. He couldn’t bring himself to open the door.
"Sssssh. Back to bed."
The Sentinel had somehow managed to
come down from the loft and reach his side without disturbing him. A gentle
hand gripped his shoulder and drew him away. Blair didn’t disabuse his partner
of the notion that he was sleepwalking. Somnolent, he stumbled back to his bed,
falling into it, not protesting as covers were drawn over him and tucked in.
"Sleep peacefully, kid."
The order brought the little death
of sleep.
End of Chapter One
~*~
Chapter Two - Death in the Family :
The Collector
The crew of Major Crimes had done
its Sentinel proud. The detective had harboured some doubts about the
atmosphere when his observer came into make his statement. It was not
improbable that an idiot would have blamed Sandburg for Cassie’s death. Yet,
they were all treating the observer with care and attention. Even before he had
been shepherded into an interrogation room by Simon Banks and the F.B.I. agent
Oscar Mutawbi to make his statement, Henri, Rafe, Collins and Hakon had asked
after him, subtly reassuring him that all was well.
Jim set himself in the break room,
sipping the god awful brew they called coffee as he listened. He was going to
be interviewed next. There was little that he could say - he had entered the
tunnel found Sandburg and the kid - then he had found the forensics officer.
The autopsy report on Cassie lay on
the coffee table, mocking him. He had read it - like Sandburg, she had been hit
by flint darts - unlike Sandburg her breathing had been paralysed by the
neurotoxin and she had suffocated. A flack jacket would have saved her life.
Cocking his head to the side he
listened to Sandburg’s interview. Reassured, he noted that both captain and
agent were treating the observer with kid gloves. No doubt his observer papers
would be suspended and he would be taken off the case, pending an inquiry. The
Sentinel was not looking for the resultant explosion.
The case was not progressing well.
They were no closer to determining the identity of the kidnapper. Mulling over
what they had discovered so far, Jim set his feet on the coffee table, crossing
his legs.
"Detective Ellison?"
The field director filled the
doorway. Jim made a mental note to ask if he was related to Simon, when
opportunity presented itself.
"Have you finished with
Sandburg?"
"He’s with the stenographer
reading over his statement. Simon is with him. May I sit?"
"Yeah," Jim said easily.
"You want some coffee?"
"Always."
Jim found a semi-clean cup and
poured a hot cup of coffee. He allowed himself an unfettered look at the agent
using the reflective glass in the cupboard above the sink. Instinctively, he
felt he could trust this man. Maybe it was the physical similarity with Simon,
or maybe it was his majestic presence.
"What’s your story?" Jim
inquired. "Seals? Marines? Rangers?"
"Doctorate in law. I then
joined the F.B.I.."
"You’re kidding?"
The agent accepted the coffee with a
knowing grin. "All it proves is that you can handle stress. Perfect
qualification for the F.B.I. or any governmental organisation. I was tempted to
study Greek myths and legends."
"I’m shocked speechless."
"Hardly. Now, detective, why
did your partner return to the site?" There was a calculating gleam in the
agent’s eye.
Jim had listened to the interview;
he knew what his partner had said. "He went with Cassie, to keep an eye on
her."
"What was she looking
for?"
"I don’t even think she knew
what she was looking for," Jim said with perfect honesty. He decided to
ask his own question before the conversation degenerated into verbal sparring.
"What’s so unusual about the ransom notes?"
"Why do you ask?"
"We haven’t seen them."
"Forensics has them. That is
hardly unusual."
It probably wasn’t, but invariably
Blair tried to get a hold of evidence so the Sentinel could run his ‘walking
forensics lab’ routine, or rather, use his sentinel abilities. This time, even
with Simon’s guarantee, he had been unable to obtain permission.
"Why do you want them?"
Agent Mutawbi countered.
Jim stirred some sugar into his cup
while he thought of his answer. He didn’t even take sugar.
"Another clue, maybe. I want
the bastard," he growled.
Oscar sat back on the low slung
chair, nursing his coffee in broad, square hands. Evidently, he decided to come
clean. "They’re drawings, not a letter. There is a fairly accurate
rendition of the child and a typical child’s picture of a family. An arrow
links the kid with the mother."
"And that’s considered a ransom
note?" Jim demanded, flabbergasted.
"A third drawing comes a day
later showing the mother joining the child."
"By then any parent has
informed the police that their kid has gone missing! Who’d believe a drawing is
the ransom note?"
"True. Any responsible
parent." Oscar tapped his fingers against his coffee cup, his demeanour
introspective. "A parent puts the pictures aside thinking nothing of them.
Marcus’s grandfather was an F.B.I. agent. He was aware of the importance of the
drawings and called us in. The first parents simply didn’t figure it out - the
kid had gone a week before they got around to calling the police. The second,
the Huntingtowers, accurately guessed that there was more to the drawings and
called in a private security firm who thought using the mother as bait was a
good idea. It was not. Neither mother nor child was seen again. The Benjamins
called the police half an hour after Dillon Benjamin had gone missing. The
mother disappeared three days later and the father was found gutted in a
dumpster. That’s only three that we know of – but there are other unexplained
disappearances that are probably accountable to this creep. Usually when one
parent goes missing with minors, you assume that it is a custody battle."
"So this guy is
illiterate."
"We believe so."
"Why keep the drawings under
such secrecy?"
"They’re drawn on cured human
skin."
~*~
In the light of their conversation,
Jim’s statement was only a matter of bureaucracy. Sandburg had scurried out of
the interrogation room when finished and headed to their desk muttering about
doing some work. Oscar had had a messenger deliver one of the most recent
drawings to the Major Crime department. The agent was bending over backwards to
be accommodating. Hermetically sealed in plastic, the drawing seemed innocent.
Knowing that it was drawn on human skin made it macabre.
The Sentinel slit the seal. A
melange of odours washed over him. A musky scent triggered memories of the
school, reaffirming that the scent he had detected under the caretaker’s
building did belong to the kidnapper. The skin of the victim bore no scent. It
was what was missing which confused the Sentinel - he could sense no harsh
modern chemicals. This had been tanned by old methods of sun and teeth.
Missing? Yes - there was something missing.
Needing more, he concentrated
further.
~*~
Banks ducked out of his office.
Automatically he took stock of his people - everyone appeared busy. Sandburg
was wrapped around Jim’s computer, it was deliberately angled so no one could
see what he was doing. The kid looked like he had been dragged through a hedge
backwards. Wan, and sporting grey stubble, he was a scarecrow wearing
Sandburg’s clothes. Ellison should take him home. While his observer’s paper
work hadn’t been pulled, he was on suspension pending an examination by the
precinct’s psychologist. He also looked as if he needed a couple of days in
bed... or at least being pampered. Knowing that Ellison was still in the
interrogation room looking at some evidence, he decided to send them both home.
He guessed that it wouldn’t work but he was going to try.
He knocked and entered. Ellison
stood, stock-still, holding an F.B.I. evidence bag. The tension in his body
told Simon that there was, most definitely, a problem.
"Jim?"
There was no answer. Two long
strides and he was at his subordinate’s side. Ellison’s expression was blank.
This must be the zone out factor of which Sandburg had spoken. He hadn’t seen
one. As near as he could guess, it had been some time since Jim had suffered
what he thought of as a type of epileptic fit.
"Ellison!" he said sharply.
No response.
He followed through with a sharp
shake and then called out in shock as Jim folded in on himself, slipping to the
floor. Simon could only flow with him, preventing his head cracking against the
floor. First aid training took over as he checked his man’s pulse and breathing
- the detective was fine apart from being unconscious. He shrugged out of his
coat and balled it under Jim’s head.
He couldn’t call the medics; they
would diagnose it as some kind of fit and the Sentinel would be pulled off the
streets so fast there would be burns. Simon darted out of the interrogation
room, setting the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door. Taggert looked at him a
bit strangely as he barrelled into the squad room and bodily hauled Sandburg
out of his chair with a terse, "let’s go for lunch."
"It’s only eleven
o’clock," he protested.
"Tough, I have a meeting with
mayor at one. We have to go now."
"I’m not hungry," was
Sandburg’s retort as he was frog-marched out of the room.
The kid only put up a token
resistance, as if he really couldn’t be bothered with the whole affair, as
Simon propelled him down the corridor and into the interrogation room.
"JIM!"
Blair scuttled forwards, dropping to
his knees at the Sentinel’s side. Long hands latched on either side of the
unconscious man’s face.
"Wake up, Jim." Blair’s
tone was uneven and stressed. "Come on, man."
There wasn’t a flicker of
acknowledgement. The Sentinel remained unresponsive.
Simon slowly knelt next to Blair.
"Maybe it’s not a zone," he hazarded.
"What else could it be?"
Blair snapped. His attention returned to Jim. "Come on, man. Wake up,
already."
Jim’s breathing became audibly
compromised as failing lungs struggled for air. Startled, Blair drew back and
then slapped the Sentinel. The blow resounded throughout the room.
"Jesus, Blair!" Banks
caught the student’s wrist before he could strike again.
"No," Jim croaked.
Moaning, he brought his hand up to his face, wincing at the forming bruise.
"What happened?"
"You zoned, badly," Simon
answered when it appeared that Sandburg was going to remain silent.
"I couldn’t bring you
out," Blair whispered. "I had to hit you. Are you all right?"
Gingerly, Blair laid his hand on the
Sentinel’s chest as if reassuring himself that he was still breathing. Moving
slowly, Jim brought his own hand up and clasped the student’s.
"I’m fine, Blair. I just
realised something when I touched some evidence and I got lost looking for
something that wasn’t there."
"What?" Simon demanded.
Still lying flat, the detective
answered. "I didn’t smell the kidnapper from the school in the tunnel
where you found the kid."
Simon immediately saw the
implications. "There is an accomplice."
"Yeah." Jim struggled onto
his elbows. Moving to help, their captain tucked his hands under the
detective’s arms and hauled him upright. Jim wobbled and then found his
balance.
"This form of kidnapping isn’t
usually associated with accomplices," Simon said sagely. "A psycho
doesn’t normally share his trophies."
"I smelt the evidence."
Jim crossed his arms.
"Don’t you have anything to
offer, Sandburg?" Simon sniped.
"If Jim says that there’s an
accomplice, there is an accomplice."
"I *know* that. But how am I
going to sell this to the F.B.I. with no demonstrable evidence."
Blair retreated to a far corner of
the room before speaking. "You asked me during my interrogation if I had
seen the kidnapper - I said I didn’t."
"You were lying." Simon
scowled.
"No," Blair snapped back.
"But I did kick him - a lot. I had the impression that he was big, maybe
the same size as Jim or bigger. Too big to go wandering through drains."
A wide smile crossed the police
captain’s face. "How did we miss that? Excellent. I’ll talk to Oscar. You
take Jim home - he needs a rest. You sit yourself down quietly and see if you
come up with anything else. This is personal now - we’re going to get these
guys."
"I don’t need a pep talk,"
Blair muttered loudly.
"I heard that, Sandburg."
He speared the grad student with his best authoritarian gaze. "You’re not
making this a personal vendetta. I know where you are coming from, so does Jim.
You are not responsible for what happened. Yes, there will be an inquiry. Yes,
you made a mistake, but Cassie made the bigger mistake. If you’d stayed in the
squad room and let her go off alone you’d still be blaming yourself *and*
Charlie would be dead."
"I shouldn’t have..."
"Stop second guessing yourself,
Kid. That way leads to madness."
Blair’s eyes became suspiciously
bright but no tears fell.
"Take your partner home, Blair.
You’re officially off the case, but even I know that that is
unenforceable." He softened his rebuke with a smile. "Do what you do
best: think."
~*~
The loft was deathly silent. Jim
plumped his pillows and straightened his quilt. While ostensibly tidying his
room, he was keeping out of his Guide’s way. He looked over the railing that
defended his bedroom, down into the living room below. Blair was sitting
cross-legged on the floor in front of the dark television. He was staring at
the swirling screen saver on his laptop. He’d been there for several hours,
thinking.
To say that the Sentinel was worried
was something of an understatement. He had expected this: grief; misery;
depression and sadness. He didn’t know if Blair had experienced the death of a
friend. Relatives seemed few and far between in the Sandburg family tree. It
was entirely possible that this was Sandburg’s first experience with a close
death. The silence was heartbreaking. Jim was a hairbreadth away from phoning
Naomi and inviting her for a visit.
Jim sat on the edge of his bed. He
too felt the grief. Cassie had been a colleague. Cassie might have become a
friend; the true grief was that opportunity had been lost. He could hold one
cherished flame against his breast. Blair was alive. Blair was as miserable as
sin, but he was alive.
"Jim, you want some
coffee?"
He launched himself to his feet.
"Yeah. You wanna call out for chinese?"
"Kung Po Chicken with fried
noodles?"
"Good for me."
Slowly he ventured down stairs,
timing his descent as Blair crossed to his phone, so they met. Avoidance
technique blown out of the water.
"You doing okay?" Jim
reached towards his grieving Guide.
"No!" Blair’s hands came
up, blocking his comfort. "I’m not. And..and…and don’t tell me the shit happens.
Okay? People are dead. And I…I…I can’t switch it off. First Janet, then
Incacha, now... now.... Shit," Blair said eloquently. "I don’t wanna
talk about it."
He worried feverishly at his bottom
lip.
"Chief..."
"No," Blair snapped.
"I…I…I’ve lost my appetite. I’m going to lie down for awhile."
Ducking his head down and staring at
his feet, he pushed passed the Sentinel. The glass door slammed shut, but the
lock didn’t catch and the door opened just a little bit.
"I just wanted to talk,"
Jim said softly, hoping for a reaction.
He had forgotten about Janet, killed
by the security officer working for Cyclops Oil. She had just been trying to
help them investigate the destruction of Chopec land and it had resulted in her
death. They had shied around the subject of Incacha’s death, mainly because he,
big bad sentinel, didn’t want to talk about it. Blair had asked a few
circumspect questions, testing the waters, so to speak, then the subject had
been dropped. Now he was being tarred with his own brush. Blair didn’t want to
talk about Cassie. He laughed hollowly at himself. Not once had Blair brought
Janet’s death into a conversation. His garrulous Guide, while trying to get him
to talk about the loss of his shaman, had not once mentioned his own friend.
‘You suck, Ellison,’ he
chastised himself. The problem was that he didn’t know what to do.
Cleaning the kitchen seemed like a
good idea.
He had sterilised the tabletops and
had moved onto the oven when he heard soft footsteps stop outside the front
door. A mellow Irish voice called his name.
Drying his hands on a dishtowel, Jim
opened the door.
"Hi, Father Callaghan."
"I didn’t want to knock in case
you were sleeping or something..."
"Come in." He stepped
back. "Blair is asleep."
Philip slipped into the apartment.
It was his first visit; he made an obvious and cursory examination of the
living area.
"Nice."
"Yeah, I like it. You want a
cup of tea?"
"Please."
Jim lost himself in polite
necessities, making a ‘proper’ cup of English tea. Blair had lectured him at
great length about the cultural implications of the English teatime. The
anthropologist had even demonstrated the ‘proper’ way to make a perfect cuppa,
on the off chance that priest visited. Dutifully, Jim excavated the teapot from
the recesses of the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
The priest settled himself on a
kitchen stool. "I was concerned when you didn’t get back to me. Have you
made any progress?"
"Ah, of course, you don’t
know."
Philip waited patiently for him to
elaborate.
"We got the kid back...
~*~
... so we’re still no further to
knowing who this creep is," Jim finished.
The priest set aside his, now cold,
cup of tea. "I found the figure," he announced. "Do you remember
Bethany?"
"Yeah, your colleague? The one
who’s a bit... strange."
"She’s very gifted, it demands
a heavy price. As you can attest," he chided gently.
Jim ducked his head in apology.
"Go on."
"She had retrieved it from the
lab. She said that it called to her."
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I don’t know what she
did, but it doesn’t register on any of our instruments now as being
psychometrically charged. She removed the malign influence."
"And you haven’t found out how
she did it?"
"You don’t know the way Bethany
operates. I can no more understand what she does than I could understand
Einstein’s Relativity equations. The point is that Bethany can’t explain it
either."
"You consider her a useful
member of your organisation?"
"I am aware of her limitations
and her gifts. And how well do you think she would operate in the ‘real’ world?
To a certain extent we protect her."
Remembering his brief meeting with
the ethereal Bethany, he had to admit that everyday life would chew her up and
spit out an insane ball. Not that she had a full deck of cards at the best of
times.
"Did she tell you
anything?" he asked, not letting his thoughts show on his face.
"Only that Evelyn was not at
peace. And wouldn’t be until Samuel was with her."
"Ah hah."
Blair had printed off the documents
he had acquired from the F.B.I. computer. Jim retrieved them from the student’s
backpack. He handed them to the priest. Samuel Huntingtower was the seven year
old son of Evelyn - the second family victimised by the kidnapper. The file was
terse - neither mother nor son had been seen since the kidnapping. Was the
child alive? Or was his soul tied to his own shrunken corpse?
~mumble~
Jim froze. His ears pricked up,
listening.
~mumble~
He angled his head, peering into the
student’s room. The door was ajar. All he could see was Blair’s sock covered
feet, as he lay on the top of his bed covers.
"Jim?" A hand was waved in
front of his face. "Is this zone out thingy?"
"Shsssh." Jim raised a
finger to his lips.
Restlessly, Blair twisted on his
bed.
"Don’t remember..." The
words came clearly to sentinel ears. "No... The book? Uh?"
A long drawn out moan filled the
air. Father Callaghan twisted on his chair and stared at Blair’s bedroom. Jim
caught him before he could rise.
"Wait a second."
The bed creaked loudly. Sleepily,
hair mussed, Blair wandered out of his room, completely oblivious to the two
men sitting at the table.
"Hello, Blair, how are you
feeling?
Jim moved his finger to and fro in a
shushing motion and mouthed, "He’s sleepwalking."
As silent as a ghost, the Sentinel
slipped off his seat and paralleled Sandburg’s path. He reached for his
friend’s arm to redirect him back to his bed.
"Let him be," the priest
whispered.
Hovering, Jim nodded tersely.
"Backpack. Backpack,"
Blair muttered, looking and finding the bag tucked under the kitchen table.
He upturned the bag on the table.
Computer discs, pencil case, note pad, file, paper and a pile of books tumbled
out. Pawing through the pile he selected one of the books. Brow furrowed, he
flipped the pages, scanning the paragraphs.
"No... No... Not that one... I
did? Read it before..."
A third of the way through the book,
he found the passage he was looking for. Still fast asleep, he started reading.
The priest was so still he had to be holding his breath. On tiptoes, Jim crept
forwards and read over his guide’s shoulder.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Collector (Forsvinne Ta Mann
(lit. The man who takes and disappears)) - is a little known figure in the
mythology of the Viking Age. The Collector steals children who misbehave. The
first story dates back to the nineteenth century. As such, it is not considered
to be a true figure of Norse mythology but rather a corruption of an older
myth, in much the same way as Robin Hood, Maid Marion and his Merry Men are
based on older legends. Victorian writers were known for sanitising urban tales
for children. The darker aspects to this tale have been lost in time, although
the phrase: ‘behave or the goblins will take you away’ - and variants thereof -
is a well known threat to children all over the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We’re looking for a
goblin?" Jim hissed.
The grad student closed the book.
His expression was pensive. "Here you go, Jim." He held the book out,
offering it in mid-air, nowhere near where Jim was standing.
"Whoops." Philip leaned
forwards, grabbing the book as it fell.
Off in his own little world, Blair
slipped off his stool, unerringly heading back to his bedroom. Jim danced out
of his way, as the kid walked straight towards him. Jim shadowed the
sleepwalker into his room.
"Hobs, brownies, goblins,
little people," Blair intoned as he fell into bed.
Standing in the centre of Blair’s
room surrounded by African masks, dream catchers, incense burners and crystal,
Jim wondered what the Hell was happening.
"Jim?" Father Callaghan
breathed. He stood at the threshold of the room. "Does that happen a
lot?"
Slipping out of the room, Jim
quietly closed the glass doors.
"No, that’s new." Rubbing
his forehead tiredly, he slumped into the sofa. "God, he’s always talked
in his sleep. This sleepwalking thing spooks me."
The priest remained standing; lost
in thought. "Who’s he talking to?"
"What?"
"He’s talking to someone.
Surely you noticed. Who?"
"Himself, I guess. The Sandburg
zone is a weird and wonderful place."
"You’re sure?"
"It’s not something that I
given much thought to." Jim dismissed the subject. "What do you think
of the Collector?"
"Are you going to wake up Blair
and bring him in on this conversation?" Philip countered.
"Yeah, suppose I better. It’s
the sort of conversation he excels at."
Jim gripped the bridge of his nose
and exhaled before standing.
"I’ll make some coffee."
The priest retreated into the kitchen.
Jim crept back into the room. Curled
up on his side, Blair slept with his expressive hands tucked neatly against his
chest. Disturbing the kid seemed like such a pity when he looked so
comfortable. However, he wouldn’t appreciate being left out of the loop.
"Hey, Blair. Chief," he
called. "Wakey wakey."
Sleep-fogged eyes opened.
"We’ve had a breakthrough in
the case. You want to join in? Or sleep?"
"No, man. I’ll get up." He
yawned hugely and rubbed his eyes. "Have I got time to grab a
shower?"
"Yup, chinese take-out still
suit you for dinner? Father Callaghan’s here, by the way."
"Oh, we’re not going to the
precinct?"
Jim affectionately patted his drowsy
partner on the shoulder. He left him to finish waking up. The detective was
halfway to the door when Blair spoke.
"Jim... I’m sorry about before.
I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just out of sorts." His words were fragile.
"S’okay. When you want to talk.
I’m here."
"I know you are," Blair
said quietly.
~*~