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Just Jen's Fanfiction
Falls the Shadow, Part 2
The first day Josh didn't arrive, Blair didn't think much about it. The freshman had had a nearly perfect attendance record since they'd first talked, but even the best students missed days occasionally, especially early Monday classes, and Josh was far from the best student. The second class, Blair was really disappointed. He'd thought he was really getting somewhere with the kid. When the third class rolled around, making it a full week of no-show, he resolved to find out what was up.
Jim was due to pick him up this afternoon for a late lunch followed by a debriefing on a new case that promised to be particularly nasty, so Blair had roughly a half-hour after his last class to check in on his missing student.
When he got to the freshman's room, he was surprised to find the door standing wide open. He stood there in the open doorway for a moment, thinking he'd remembered wrong, but the room looked exactly same. Except for one minor detail. The inhabitant of this room was obviously in the process of packing. Three boxes were already taped and waiting just inside the door, and another one sat open and awaiting more contents. There was no sign of Josh, though.
A young woman stood on one of the beds, in the act of trying to pull the large "Hellfire" poster off of the wall. The tacks holding the top of the poster were just out of her reach. She had apparently managed to pull one out, since one corner hung limply already, but she was still having to stretch to reach the other one. Blair watched her for a moment, admiring the view, then reprimanded himself half-heartedly for forgetting his purpose, and tapped lightly on the open door.
The girl turned around, dropping off of her tiptoes, but still standing on the bed. The anthropologist decided she was even prettier from the front, in an exotic sort of way that he found very appealing. Her wide, open face was highlighted by almond eyes and high cheekbones, and framed delicately by dark hair that fell in a soft wave to just brush her chin. Her clothing, a pair of well-worn jeans and a slightly too big sweater with wide horizontal stripes in earthy primary colors, reminded him of his own Salvation Army-approved wardrobe before life in Jim's shadow had required him to invest in more appropriate duds.
"Can I help you with something?" The young woman frowned, blowing a strand of hair out of her face with impatience at his much-too-blatant interest. Blair reprimanded himself once again. He'd come to check on Josh, and here he was thinking about making moves on the young man's girlfriend.
"Uh, yeah, sorry," he stuttered, skirting past the boxes and into the room. "Hi, I'm Blair Sandburg. Josh is in one of my classes here, and he's missed it all this week. I wanted to check in on him, make sure everything's okay...?" He glanced pointedly around the little room and the obvious packing job.
The young woman's frown disappeared as he identified himself, and she stepped down from the bed in one fluid stride, pushing back the too-long sleeves of her sweater as she did so, and held out her hand to him.
"Oh, Dr. Sandburg, I'm glad to meet you. Joshua has told us how much he enjoyed your class."
Blair shook the offered hand, more than a little confused and not sure which confusing element to follow-up on first.
"It's just mister. Actually, just Blair is even better. I'm still working on my graduate degree, Miss...?"
"Chandler," she informed him. "Miki Chandler. Josh is my younger brother. I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to inform the University yet, but Josh won't be returning to classes this semester. I'm afraid he has some problems that can be better handled in a safe environment."
Blair frowned, reading, he was sure, way too much into that vague description, but not quite able to let it drop.
"I'm sorry," he said, fishing for details. "I wasn't aware that Josh was sick."
Miki looked uncomfortable at his deliberate misinterpretation of her words, but just shrugged slightly and turned her attention back to the poster she'd been trying to get off the wall, stepping back onto the bed and speaking over her shoulder, her words slowed by her concentration on the irritating tack.
"He's not...sick...exactly, Mr. Sandburg."
"Blair. Please."
She laughed softly. "Okay. Blair. You see..."
Before she could finish her sentence, Miki's fingertips finally caught the tack at the right angle to pull it from the wall. It's sudden release caught her by surprise and the top half of the large poster came loose from the wall to fall down around her head and shoulders. She batted at it frustratedly, and Blair, laughing, sprang to help her hold it up while she pulled out the bottom two tacks. They stepped down off the bed, sharing responsibility for the awkward mass of paper. They got it straightened out somewhat, and Blair held one end for Miki as she started to roll it up tightly. As she did so, the young woman looked back to Blair with a serious expression.
"Josh is schizophrenic, Mr. Sandburg."
The tail ends of the poster fell out of Blair's hands in surprise. He'd gotten to know Josh pretty well in the last month or so, and he hadn't seen any indication of mental illness. The young man was a little erratic, yeah, but so were most freshmen. Truth to tell, so were most people he knew outside of the Cascade PD. Miki finished rolling the poster quietly and watched him through lowered eyes, gauging his reaction. Blair sat down slowly on one of the beds.
"Well, that is - *really* - a surprise. I'm sorry. I had no idea. He seemed so..."
"Normal?" Blair winced at the callousness of the word, although he couldn't deny that that was what he'd meant. Miki softened the harshness of it with a little smile. "It's all right. He's been doing okay for a while now with the right medication, so you probably wouldn't have noticed anything too out of the ordinary unless you were really looking for it. He seems to have backslid in the last few weeks, though, and my family just decided that it's not such a good idea for him to be on his own right now. He might be back next semester, or he might transfer to Rainier's local branch. We live out in Sycamore Hills in the eastern suburbs."
Thinking about it, Blair realized that he *should* have noticed. There were little things that Josh had mentioned or done, mild paranoias that Blair had thought were half in jest, and then, of course...Blair smacked himself lightly on the head as realization hit.
"The voices! I should have realized..."
Miki nodded a little sadly. "Oh, he mentioned those to you, huh? I don't know where he got that stupid tape, but I'd sure like to wring the neck of whoever gave it to him. He's got himself talked into believing that he can really hear and see things when he listens to it."
Blair felt a small worm of guilt curl its way into his soul. He'd been so enthusiastic about Josh's "meditations" himself. Had he somehow contributed to the young man's problems, giving credence to his delusions? Blair hesitated, on the verge of confessing to Miki, but the young woman was still talking.
"We thought it would be okay when he first started talking about it, you know?" she said softly. Her voice was pensive, and Blair saw his own guilt reflected in her eyes. This was something she needed to share. "We figured, as long as he was coping with the real world and taking his medication, it wouldn't really hurt him to go off into La-la-land or whatever it was every once in a while. But I think, now, that it just gave him a place to hide from the reality of his problems."
Something about the way she said that, the simple honesty of her words, combined with his own blossoming guilt, caused Blair to inhale sharply in sudden horror. His grasp of reality shifted slightly and, as she continued, he was sure she was talking about Blair, himself, rather than her brother.
"He's been burying all the real issues down in his subconscious somewhere and, I dunno, now it's like it's all filled up and they're starting to spill out again and he can't control it because he's been avoiding it for so long. To get better, he has to accept that he's got a problem and confront it, not hide from it."
Miki trailed off, blushing slightly, unaware that her words had just sent a shaft of pure ice into her listener's heart, hitting much, much, much too close to home. Blair cleared his throat roughly, finding the silence suddenly unbearable. Miki looked up, her cheeks still pink, and grimaced.
"Listen to me, going on about my family troubles. I don't even know what I'm talking about, really. Josh's psychiatrist could explain it a lot better. I'm sorry to unload this all on you, Mr. Sandburg. I'm sure you didn't bargain for all this when you decided to make a friendly check on a wayward student."
"I don't mind at all, Miss Chandler." Blair stood, pushing past his own suddenly overwhelming insecurities to reassure her, although all he could come up with were the standard teacher-platitudes. "Josh has a lot of potential. I'll hope to see him back in my classes next semester. And it's Blair. Really. I'm only Mr. Sandburg to bank tellers and students trying to explain why they can't possibly turn in their homework on time."
Miki laughed. "Sorry, I forgot. Thank you, Blair. I'm sure Josh will be glad to hear that you were worried about him. And I appreciate it, too."
Normally he would have used that as a launching point to ask her out, but right now going out was far, far down on his priority list, and *getting* out was right at the top.
"Thank *you* for sharing this with me, Miki." He glanced down at his watch as if just now thinking to notice the time. "Oh, I'm due to meet a friend for lunch in ten minutes. I hate to run, but..."
Miki smiled. "I should get back to packing, anyway. It was nice meeting you."
They shook hands again, and Blair fled.
When Jim arrived at the University ten minutes early, he was surprised to find his partner waiting for him. Blair had been sitting on the steps leading up to the building's main entrance, but as soon as he saw the truck pull in, he came down to the parking lot, hopping in before Jim even had a chance to pull into a space.
"In a hurry, Sandburg?" Jim asked wryly.
Blair shrugged and gave the Sentinel a peevish glare.
"Just being punctual for a change. Don't knock it."
Jim frowned at the unamused tone of voice and shifted slightly to get a better look at the young man as he settled into his seat - stowing the backpack on the floor between his legs and pulling on the seatbelt. There was a sloppy, rushed, irritated quality to his movements the spoke volumes. It wasn't often Blair let a black mood affect him this much.
"Bad day?"
Sandburg gave a guilty little start that sent gears whirling in the detective's head. Jim knew before the grad student opened his mouth that he wouldn't give a straight answer. Blair covered pretty well, but at least didn't try to deny his obvious pique.
"Yeah, so far. Is it that obvious? Wait, don't answer that. I forget who I'm talking to sometimes."
Jim chuckled. "Well, that's flattering. So, what's the problem?"
There was a slight hesitation as Sandburg tried to form an explanation that he thought Jim would accept. Finally, he admitted grudgingly, "I just found out one of my students has some problems I wasn't aware of. It's got me a little depressed. I'll get over it."
The Sentinel considered that, giving his partner a long look. Blair was telling the truth, but there was obviously more going on here.
"Are these problems anything we should be telling campus security about?"
Blair sighed in exasperation, and when he spoke, his voice was tinged with anger again. "No, Jim, it's not. And it's really none of your or my business in the first place, so let's just drop it, okay?! Now, can we go? We're not going to have time for lunch before the meeting if you sit here grilling me all day."
~Ooookay, then.~
Jim held his hands up briefly in symbolic surrender, then put the truck back into gear, pulled back out into traffic, and headed north towards the station. After a few minutes, there was the sound of jeans shifting on leather as Blair fidgeted a little.
"Sorry, man. Just got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, I guess."
That wasn't it, either, but Jim chose to let the little peace offering smooth things over for now. Thoughts of the Bowman shooting haunted him for a moment, but he shook off the suspicion. He couldn't spend the rest of his life blaming Blair's every peevish moment on that one event. Sometimes a bad mood was just a bad mood.
"Not a problem," Jim accepted the apology graciously. "If I could handle irrational bouts of hysteria from Carolyn on a monthly basis, I'll live through this."
The little joke had the desired effect, relieving some of the tension, and Blair chuckled. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse."
The conversation slipped into friendly haggling over lunch spots for a while, and they eventually decided on a place more because it was conveniently en route to the station. As they drove there, Jim broached the subject of their newest case.
"Well, we're all set to meet with Simon and a few forensics guys at two o'clock. This is a pretty nasty one, you gonna be okay with that?"
There was just the hint of a nervous pause before Blair said, "Yeah, I'll be fine." Then, when Jim flashed him a skeptical glance, "Nervous, but fine, okay?"
Jim just nodded his acceptance of that. After a few moments, Blair asked, "So, how bad is it?" Ellison started to fill him in on the details, keeping things simple and direct, anticipating some of the information that would be covered in the meeting.
The daughter of Samuel Astor, one of Cascade's wealthiest citizens, had been found murdered in her apartment late last night, although forensic evidence showed that the crime had occurred the night before. Simon had called at about 3 A.M. this morning to ask Jim to take the case, and the detective had spent the morning overseeing the crime scene, glad that Blair hadn't put up a fuss about staying away from the seedier side of police work for a while. It had been particularly messy, enough to leave Jim with very little appetite for lunch, so he could just imagine the effect it would have had on his more sensitive partner. As it was, the Sentinel was still rather worried about involving Blair in this case at all, but the young man had been more and more eager to help out lately, so they'd compromised by bringing him in to consult from afar, as it were.
A few blocks shy of the restaurant, they were interrupted by the ringing of Jim's cell phone. Jim brought the truck to a stop at a red light ahead of them, then flipped open the phone. It was Simon, with bad news. Another wealthy young woman, another crime scene. What was it about Cascade that pulled in all the psychos?
"I'll be there ASAP, sir."
Jim tossed the phone onto the dash with a growled expletive and glanced over at his partner, who was looking back curiously.
"Looks like we'll have to take a raincheck on lunch, Chief."
"What is it?"
"Got a homicide over in those new condos on the north beach that looks like it's related to the Astor one. I'll drop you back at school, then I have to run up that way."
Jim maneuvered the truck over into the turn lane of the intersection they were waiting at, flipping on his turn signal in preparation of circling back around the way they had come. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, eager to be on his way and get this over with. In the passenger seat, Blair cleared his throat self-consciously.
"Ummmm...Why don't I just come along?" he suggested. "It'll take you an extra twenty minutes to circle back around. Maybe more with it being lunch hour."
Jim glanced over at his partner, missing neither the stubborn set of his jaw nor the suddenly nervous catch in his breathing, and shook of his head. "Not a good idea."
"Why not?"
Jim let a single raised eyebrow answer that. Blair sighed.
"I have to get back into things again sometime, Jim." He pointed out practically. "I got used to it once, I can get used to it again."
The older man thought about that for a minute.
"You never got used to it, Sandburg."
But he turned off his blinker, and, as the light turned green, he pulled the truck back into the appropriate lane, continuing on straight through the intersection. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a quick nod of approval from Blair. Jim just hoped he was doing the right thing.
Simon was talking to the medical examiner when Ellison arrived at the crime scene nearly a half an hour later. The "Northern Bay" condominium complex was a good long hike from downtown Cascade. Finding the condo's driveway filled with police cars, Jim was forced to park down along the side of the road, his nondescript pickup standing out like a sore thumb in this suburban neighborhood of Subaru's and Mazda's. Simon excused himself and went to greet the detective. His face settled into a frown when he saw that Jim wasn't alone. Detective and anthropologist caught sight of him and paused by the front of the truck, wearing identical sheepish expressions. Simon didn't deign to give them the tirade they were probably expecting and just waited, arms crossed in a "Well? Let's hear it" pose.
"We were on our way to lunch, sir," Jim began. "I wanted to get here as soon as possible, and didn't think you'd mind."
"Didn't...think...I'd...mind?" Simon repeated, exasperated. "Ellison, maybe you don't get it. The agreement was that he stay out of this kind of thing!"
"I understand that, sir. But we can't keep him away from crime scenes forever."
Blair stepped forward. "I'm not much use as a partner if I can't help with the actual first-hand investigation, sir. I just want to help."
Simon hated this. He really, really hated this. If this had been about one of his other men, he would have been able to tell at first glance if the officer were really ready to get back in on the action. But Sandburg, Simon could only read enough to know he couldn't read him well enough.
Simon fixed the young man with a sharp, captain-ish glare, daring the kid to lie to him.
"You really want to be here?"
"Yeah, Simon, I do."
He didn't miss the nervous tick that crossed the younger man's face, but the voice seemed sincere enough and the eyes held Simon's, unwavering. In the end, the Captain could do nothing but trust the proof of his own less-than-Sentinel- esque senses and accept that for truth.
"Then come on."
A relieved grin passed between the two partners and they fell into step beside the Captain to walk the half-block to the condo. Simon filled them in on the details known so far, as they walked.
The victim was 26-year-old Tanya Thorne, daughter of one of Cascade's most influential businessmen and a former mayor, Wallace T. Thorne. As with the Astor girl, the cause of death had been blood loss from multiple stab wounds, none of them immediately fatal. Aside from the obvious similarities in cause of death and background, there didn't appear to be any connection between the two girls.
They entered Tanya Thorne's home, a brand new condominium at the end of the unit. It had apparently been decorated with a great deal of care, but was a mess now. Simon led the way through the organized chaos of workers documenting and securing the crime scene, continuing his explanation as they went.
"The whole place is like this," he said, indicating the trashed living room they were passing through. "Best guess so far is that it happened after the murder. It's doubtful this could've been done quietly unless they'd already shut their victim up. Seems like they were looking for something, but there's no way to know yet if anything's missing. Could be they wanted to make it look like a robbery gone bad."
Simon glanced back at Sandburg, remembering that the young man hadn't been present at the previous site this morning. "The Astor apartment was like this, too," he supplied. Blair nodded, his face serious and brow furrowed slightly with concentration. Simon noted with approval that the young man was paying close attention to the shambles around him, probably logging the details for later comparison with the other scene. Or, Simon corrected himself, remembering Blair's true reason for being involved in police work, maybe the intent consideration was aimed at some unknown Sentinel-related purpose. In any case, the kid had an eye for detail that had come in handy before and just might again.
They paused at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second story of the condo, and Simon made his stand, addressing Jim.
"The upstairs is a mess. Sandburg stays here."
He needn't have worried about being so stern. Ellison's face was already wrinkled with disgust at something he sensed from above, and the Captain got no argument from that quarter. Even Jim apparently knew when enough was enough, and he'd seen enough at the Astor place this morning to guarantee that he knew this wasn't something Blair needed to see. Not before, and certainly not now.
Sandburg looked like he might put up a fight anyway, out of sheer contrariness, but Jim gave him a little push past the stairs to emphasize their decision.
"He's right, Chief."
Simon was pleased to see that the "two-against-one" thing didn't just apply when it was Ellison and Sandburg versus Banks. Blair dropped sulkily into a wicker chair in the corner.
"I guess I'll just wait here then," he agreed dryly. Jim flashed him a conciliatory grin, then followed Simon up the stairs to Tanya Thorne's bedroom.
Blair sat still for all of two minutes after Jim and Simon went upstairs. It felt ludicrous. Not that he was eager to join them, or ever would have been, but what was the point of him being here if he just sat around and waited for Jim to get done doing his thing?
The anthropologist stood and paced a few steps, looking around the living room for something to occupy himself like a bored child. The place was a mess. The chair he'd been sitting on was the only intact piece of furniture in the whole room. A plump, overstuffed couch and lounger, especially, had taken a lot of damage. They looked like they'd been mauled by some wild animal, with long deep gashes carved into the fabric and pale foam innards yanked out and strewn about the room.
~Nice image, Blair.~
Blair rapidly banished the picture that came to his mind and continued pacing the confines of the room, keeping a wide berth from the police officers still examining the wreckage. He probably shouldn't have pushed Jim to let him come. He was starting to realize that he was dealing with too much of his own baggage right now to really add anything to Jim's investigation. The encounter with Miki Chandler had gotten Blair's personal demons all into a huff (or one demon in particular, anyway) and he probably wouldn't be much good to anyone until he got that sorted out.
When the call had come from Simon, Blair'd had some vague intention of just sticking it out...taking on the challenge of solving a crime to avoid dealing with the internal stuff threatening to overwhelm him. He'd forgotten, somehow, that it didn't work that way. This shambles of a living room wasn't just a brain teaser to dig into to keep his mind off his own issues. It symbolized a life cut short, and so many other shattered lives that would be affected by that loss.
Blair's steps brought him to the wide brick fireplace at one end of the room. A young woman he thought he recognized from forensics was sifting through the ashes there, and he stood and watched her for a few moments. The remains of several picture frames cluttered the mantle. Glancing down, Blair found the pictures that had once graced the frames strewn across the floor at his feet. Before he could look away, one picture grabbed his attention and he bent to pick it up.
A pretty, dark-skinned woman with warm chocolate eyes grinned back at him, captured in a moment of sheer joy, standing at the end of a boat dock, framed by a crystal blue lake, holding a pair of waterskis upright with one arm. The other arm was wrapped affectionately around the neck of an older man next to her, who was dressed in the sort of charmingly unhip fashions favored by fishermen of a certain advanced age. Blair flipped the picture over curiously and went suddenly pale. At the top of the picture's back, in a neat, precise script, were the words "Me & Dad, Glen Lake, August '96" But, underneath, in a frightening, scrawling red, were the words "Daddy's Little Girl, July 5, 1972 - November 5, 1998".
Blair's heart went cold, blood rushed to his head, and he cursed himself silently for a fool. Any idiot knew you didn't walk around picking up stuff at a crime scene with your bare hands. Any idiot who wasn't too busy feeling sorry for himself to pay attention to the job at hand, anyway. God, what if there were prints on it? What if he'd screwed up a valuable piece of evidence?
Blair quickly shifted his hold on the picture, balancing it between the palms of his hands to minimize contact, and held it out to the girl in the fireplace.
"Ummmm...Penny?" He called, just using the first name that came to his head for her, too distracted to care if he'd remembered it right. "I think I've got something here."
"Penny" pulled herself out of the fireplace and reached out reflexively to take the picture from him, but pulled back just as quickly as she realized with a rueful smile that her gloved hands were covered in ash. She pushed herself up, instead, to get a look at what he held, and grimaced distastefully at the message revealed.
"Pleasant guy," she muttered sarcastically. She pulled her gloves off and retrieved a plastic bag from one pocket, holding it out, open, for Blair to drop the picture in.
"I think I may've already screwed it up," he told her, wagging a bare hand as demonstration. She shrugged mildly, not placing blame.
"With a mess like this, something's bound to get a few extra prints on it. Not a biggie."
He smiled in appreciation for her reassurance, letting her return to her earlier task, then returned to the stairway Jim and Simon had gone up a few minutes ago. He sat down on the steps and rested his head in his hands, running nervous fingers through his hair, shaken by the mistake.
Oh, man, he didn't want to be here - didn't belong here. How had Blair Sandburg, anthropologist, ever felt comfortable in this world of death and ugliness where pretty girls with chocolate eyes died horrible deaths? Why had he wanted to come back, once he got away? Why was he here now?
~Get a grip, Sandburg.~
His subconscious recognized the sure signs of a panic attack quicker than his conscious mind and sent a mental kick to his stream of thought - the mantra that had helped once before, this time delivered with the voice and tone of Blair's Sentinel - firm and unyielding. The tone Jim used when he was laying down the law.
And it helped.
Blair forced himself to sit up straight and kick the self pity out of his system. This wasn't about him. They were here to find out who had killed those two girls, not indulge in a Sandburg pity party. He needed to get a grip on this right now. He was Jim's partner. The department had gone to a lot of trouble to get him back in that position and he owed it to all of them, but most especially to Jim, to make sure they got their money's worth. Blair's own personal issues could wait until he got home. Right now, the important thing was to find the killer, and the best he could do for Tanya Thorne and Melanie Astor was put his own limited skills to helping Jim do so as quickly as possible. He needed to remember that - keep things in perspective.
Resolutely, Blair stood and fixed his gaze on the top of the stairs. He stepped up one step, then another. He could do this. He could.
"We got a real sick bastard on our hands, here, Jim."
Simon sighed, focusing his gaze on Ellison and starting a conversation because he couldn't handle the room anymore. The two of them were alone in Tanya Thorne's bedroom, the various crews having finished up here before moving to the lower levels. Ellison was in his "sentinel" mode, though, his attention solely occupied by the effort to pick up something missed by the professionals, so he didn't answer beyond a soft little "Yep" to acknowledge Simon's statement.
The Captain sighed and resumed his own examination, although he'd already been over it before Jim had arrived. The bedroom was something out of a horror film - those unending slasher freak shows that Darryl got such a kick out of, raving to his friends about how "great" the effects of blood and gore were, how *he* would have been able to take out Freddy or Jason or whomever before the killer could get the drop on him. The room was like the aftermath of one of those scenes, except the blood and gore weren't just effects.
When Simon had arrived, the body had still been up here, sprawled across a once- white sheet laid out on the floor like a shroud. The sheet still remained, all but the corners dyed the deep red of death. The murder weapon (a large-bladed carving knife from the victim's own kitchen, apparently) had been stabbed into the floor nearby, standing like a badge of victory, taunting them with the presence of the weapon and the almost 100% certainty that there would be no prints or other identifying features about the blade to aid in tracking the killer.
"So, you getting anything on this?" Simon asked softly. There was no response at all this time, and the Captain glanced back to Jim curiously.
The detective had stopped near the middle of the room and was looking - no, staring - down at the bloody sheet with a dazed-ox sort of expression that said intelligent life had fled the premises. Simon followed his gaze, noticing this time how striking the contrast of vibrant red and pure white could be, from a purely visual standpoint. A little morbid, maybe, but that apparently wasn't an issue when a zone out kicked in.
Simon ran one hand over his face in exasperation. Okay, so now what? Did he get Sandburg up here, or snap Jim out of it himself? If the latter, how?
His decision was made rather abruptly when he heard a low, choking gasp behind him and he turned to find Sandburg standing in the doorway. Simon took one look at the young man's pale face and wild eyes and thought fast.
"Sandburg, you want to do something about this?" he ordered, gesturing toward the poleaxed Sentinel. Not waiting for an answer, he turned back to the crime scene, making it obvious he expected Blair to handle things.
It should have worked, in theory. He was giving Sandburg something useful to do and getting Jim out of his zone - killing two birds with one stone. Unfortunately, Blair didn't seem to hear the Captain's orders. When there was no reply, Simon sighed and turned back around. The young man had joined Jim in staring dazedly down at the bloody sheet, his eyes wide and horrified.
"Wonderful," Simon muttered to himself. This zone out thing was apparently contagious. The term "High Maintenance" sprang to mind to describe this duo. He decided Blair was still the more likely of the two to hear him and circled around Jim to give the young man a quick shake.
Blair snapped back to awareness with a jerk, stumbling instinctively away from the bedroom - the cause of his distress. He leaned heavily against the door frame, breathing hard, struggling with something. He looked up, eyes moving past Simon to take in Jim's motionless form, then scanning the blood spattered bedroom, before finally coming back to meet Simon's concerned gaze with a wild, haunted expression.
Looking into those eyes, Simon suddenly realized he'd handled this wrong. Very, very wrong. The panicked young man before him in no way resembled the one who had arrived, nervous but collected, fifteen minutes ago. Blair might not have realized it, and Jim might have overlooked it in his eagerness to have his partner back, but Simon should have known that this was too much, too soon.
"Blair, Jim needs you," Simon said softly, gesturing again to the swaying detective, trying to salvage something from this - give the kid something to focus on besides the death in the air.
Blair's hands came up in a negating gesture, and he shook his head slightly.
"Maybe...maybe you'd better do it, Simon," he said in a calm, serious voice that was belied by the way he was trying to shrink back against the doorjamb. There was a funny look in his eyes that the Captain couldn't quite read. Funny, as in frightening. "You know...practice. Someone besides me should know how to pull him out."
That made some sense. Simon wasn't sure exactly what Sandburg's motives were here, wasn't sure he *wanted* to know, but it *did* make sense. He turned his attention to Jim. "All right, so what do I do?"
"Talk to him. Touch him. Anything." The young man's words came slow and choked. Simon spared him a quick glance. He was leaning heavily on the doorframe, eyes aimed at the floor, looking like he wanted to be sick. "He's focused so much on one sense, he's ignoring the others. You just have to give him something to focus on besides the zone. You've done it before without knowing it. It's not too tough if you catch it early."
Feeling exceedingly self-conscious, Simon came around in front of Jim, grasping the other man's shoulder and giving him a little shake, as he had done to Blair a few moments earlier.
"Ellison, I know you're in there, so just snap out of it," he tried. Nothing. "Jim, wake up! Now!" A slightly more forceful shake did the trick, and Jim jerked to awareness, startling back from Simon's restraining hand and shaking his head to clear out the fog.
"Whoa, sorry about that, Simon."
"Not a problem. Welcome back." Simon clapped him on the back, and turned back toward Blair, opening his mouth to tell Jim to get the kid out of there. He didn't need to bother. Blair was already gone.
Simon cursed softly, and Jim glanced up from where he'd started to resume his investigation as if nothing had happened.
"Problem, sir?"
"Yeah, I think you better go find your partner."
Simon briefly described to Jim what had just happened, and was not surprised when the detective bolted for the door halfway into the narrative.
Jim found Blair outside, sitting on a low brick accent wall that curved along one corner of the property. Blair's back was toward him, but the Sentinel didn't need to see any more than the barely perceptible tremors that ran through his frame to recognize the extent of the young man's distress. Jim sat down next to him, facing the other way, back towards the building, rather than step over or around the wall. A quick glance showed him that Blair had colored slightly when he became aware of Jim's presence, cheeks flushing a pale pink against otherwise pale skin.
"You okay?" Blair's voice was low and flat, and he kept his gaze aimed away from Jim, down at his shoes. It took Jim a second to shift gears. Was *he* okay? Leave it to Sandburg.
"Me?" he scoffed, voice casual. "You betcha. You?"
"I'm fine."
There was a long, long pause, and Jim finally exhaled in frustration, turning to face his partner directly, kicking one leg up and over to straddle the wall.
"Now, correct me if I'm wrong here," he said, gesturing with one hand to indicate the air between them. "But I thought we were past this silent treatment phase."
Blair sighed, but nodded. "We are." He glanced briefly at Jim, just a flicker of eyes moving sideways before going back to his shoes. After a pause, he asked in a sad, sullen tone, "You pissed?"
"About?"
"Uh, I don't know...maybe the fact that I totally freaked out?"
"Oh, that." Jim let a bit of a smile into his voice. "Nothing new, there, Chief. Maybe next time you'll listen to me when I tell you to stay away from a crime scene."
Blair shook his head, rejecting the attempt at lightening the situation.
"Maybe you missed it, Jim, but it was a little bigger screw up than that. Oh, wait, you *did* miss it, didn't you? Because you were *zoned* at the time."
Jim reached out his hand to grab the younger man's arm, stopping that train of thought before it could go any further.
"Don't turn this into a big deal here, Sandburg," he stated firmly. "You've had a bad day and weren't ready for this. We just moved too fast. We'll back up and take it slower. No harm. No foul."
"But it *is* a big deal. Can't you see that? This isn't a game, man. Maybe next time Simon won't be around to cover for my screw ups. Maybe next time someone'll get hurt." Blair lifted his head finally and met Jim's gaze, an odd sort of resolve in his eyes. "I can't be responsible for that, Jim. I think maybe you should talk to Simon about getting a real partner."
Jim blinked once in surprise. "What?"
"I said..."
"I heard what you said," the Sentinel interrupted, a warning note creeping into his voice. "I already have a partner."
Jim had to restrain himself from speaking the next words along with Blair. He knew them practically by rote.
"I mean a *real* partner, Jim. Someone who can really watch your back. Someone who..."
"...isn't you," Jim interrupted, letting the frustration and, yes, anger, show a bit. This was coming just a bit too out of left field, and James Ellison didn't deal well with surprises. "We've been through this before. Just give it a rest. You do fine."
"No! I don't!" Blair was on his feet now, and paced away several steps, working up a nice tirade, no doubt. Jim stole his thunder, going off on a tirade of his own.
"Yes! You do! Man, *where* is this coming from? Is this a Bowman thing? 'Cause I thought we...you...were past that, Chief. And if it isn't Bowman, then what the hell is it? I need something to go on, here, because last time I checked, Blair Sandburg doesn't let a five minute panic attack mess with his head like this."
"Well, maybe he does now!" Blair was still facing away, his shoulders tense, arms crossed over his chest, breathing hard. When Jim didn't respond, the shoulders slumped and he dropped his arms, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "No. That's not it. I don't know what it is. Maybe...y'know... Bowman. Maybe just the time off. I don't know. I just know I don't want to do this anymore." He turned then, and Jim saw in his eyes that he was serious - that this wasn't just a kneejerk reaction but something he really intended to follow through on - and the Sentinel's heart went ice cold with a mixture of fear and anger. After everything they'd been through in the last several years - after everything Blair had lived through and come up swinging - he was picking *now* to bail out? This was just unbelievable.
"You don't want to do this anymore," he could only repeat the younger man's words dangerously, incredulously. Blair swallowed, but nodded an affirmation. "Just like that, you don't want to do this anymore. It might have been nice if you'd figured that out *before* we wasted the time getting you hired back."
It was a low blow at a bad time. Jim knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. This was the point where he was supposed to be understanding and supportive. But, goddamnit, Sandburg wasn't a quitter. He couldn't sit here and agree like this was no big deal. Jim saw his criticism hit home, Blair's face crumpling a little with guilt and apology. But the hurt was replaced almost immediately by rock solid anger, and Blair straightened again, eyes flashing in irritation.
"That's great, Jim. That's just great. Thank you so very much for understanding. God, it's always about *you*, isn't it? *Your* wasted time, *your* inconvenience. The world revolves around Jim Ellison, and I'm given the 'privilege' of coming along for the ride. Well, ya know what, buddy? This ride *sucks* and I want off."
Jim stood, suppressing his urge to react with anger of his own with some difficulty. Neither of them was thinking straight.
"I'm not going to argue this right now, Sandburg," he said calmly, keeping an iron resolve in his tone. "I've got work to do. Just wait here. I'll get done as soon as I can, then we'll go home and work this out."
Blair laughed sarcastically. "Ellison Avoidance Tactic #35: If you can't win an argument, walk away from it. Go back to work, Jim. Just don't expect me to sit out here contemplating the error of my ways. I've got better ways to spend my time."
Before Jim could respond to that, Blair stalked off down the street, putting enough distance between them that Jim would be forced to shout or chase him down to continue the conversation. Jim was inclined to do neither. A walk around the block would do the kid some good, give him a chance to blow off steam. He realized too late that walking wasn't what Blair had in mind when he jumped in the truck, using the spare key Jim had given him for emergencies, and drove away with a squealing U-Turn.
Jim watched his truck careen away with something akin to despair. ~Now what?~ If he commandeered a car, he might still be able to follow by sound. The pickup had a pretty distinctive engine to it. But to what purpose? To continue the argument he'd been trying to walk away from in the first place? Even as he made the decision to do just that, though, he was losing the chance. Sandburg turned the truck out of the condo development and into the main flow of traffic on North Shore Blvd., driving much too fast. By the time he could get someone's keys, even Jim wouldn't be able to track him.
"Damn it!"
The exclamation startled two forensics guys on their way out of the building. Jim didn't bother to acknowledge their presence, just stalked past their curious gazes and back into the condo. Sandburg had effectively eliminated all of Jim's options. The only thing left to him was to wrap things up here as quickly as possible. Only then would he be free to figure out what his next move should be.
~Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god...~
The blue and white Ford careened through the streets of Cascade, its driver barely even noticing several near collisions that sent other vehicles swerving to avoid his erratic path. Blair didn't have any idea where he was going. He just knew he needed to get away. He really had some gall to accuse *Jim* of running away from an argument. Look at him! Running scared.
~Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god...~
A traffic signal at the next intersection flashed from green to yellow to red, and Blair was forced to slam on the breaks. His momentum nearly sent him through the windshield, pushing him into the steering wheel hard, and knocking a bit of variety into his panicked litany.
What had just happened? What the *hell* had just happened? Oh god, what had he done?
~You ran, you stupid, worthless coward. You ran! You took off on Jim in the middle of a zone and then used that as an excuse to abandon the whole thing. What kind of partner is that? What kind of fucking *backup* is that? God. Oh, god.~
So much had gone wrong in the last few hours, Blair couldn't even begin to get his mind around all of it at once. The images kept jumping through his head in random flashes of memory. Miki Chandler's sad, sad eyes as she unknowingly tore apart the delusions he'd rebuilt his sanity upon. The warm, smiling eyes of Tanya Thorne in that picture - daddy's little girl, now a lifeless heap of flesh in the back of some coroner's van somewhere. The cold, sick feeling in his gut as he'd looked at the room where she'd died - so much blood, the smell of death and fear so thick you didn't need Sentinel senses to inhale the stench with every breath. Simon's half-accusing, half-pitying look when he'd seen Blair's reaction to it. What must the Captain think of him, now? In the document that had gotten Blair back on the force, Simon had used words like "courage" and "strength" and "honor" - what must he be thinking, now that those words had been thrown back in his face and proven wrong.
And Jim - god - the look on Jim's face when Blair had said he didn't want to do this anymore. That look of abandonment that Blair had seen before. Could he blame the Sentinel for reacting the way he had? Blair had abandoned him twice in the space of ten minutes. When called on it, he'd reacted with even more hurtful, angry words. He would be lucky if Jim ever spoke to him again.
An angry horn shook Blair back to the intersection and his foot hit the gas pedal instinctively, not bothering to check if the light was green, just needing to move. He had to go somewhere. He had to get away and sort this all out. He couldn't go home - couldn't face Jim. The university was out, for the same reason. It would be the first place Jim looked when he wasn't home.
As if on cue, a road sign caught his eye up ahead. "Alocarma Beach - 15 miles" with an arrow pointing right. It sounded like as good a place as any. Blair swung the truck to the right and kept an eye out for more signs, relieved to have a goal.
Alocarma Beach turned out to be a narrow strip of sand presided over by a string of posh beach houses - vacation homes for Cascadians who came up here for a little R&R on the weekends. It was a the wrong time of year for weekend jaunts now, though. As Blair pulled off of the access road that had brought him here, he noted that most of the houses seemed empty and abandoned, waiting forlornly for the return of summer. The beach was deserted, as well, and a haphazard breakwall of tumbled rocks and boulders lent an additional air of seclusion to the place. All in all, it looked like this spot would serve his purpose just fine.
There wasn't any real parking area, so Blair pulled the truck off to the side of road, locking it carefully before he left. That was all he needed, to get Jim's truck stolen. Come to think of it, he was probably already in pretty deep shit for stealing it himself.
~That's it, Blair. Think happy thoughts.~
He trudged down to the water's edge and walked along the tide-line for a while, picking a direction at random and letting stray waves soak into his sneakers and pant legs without complaint. He deserved any discomfort Mother Nature deigned to throw at him right now.
Now that his initial round of self-recrimination had passed, Blair was starting to think more clearly about what had happened. Unfortunately, saner thoughts didn't really help much. They couldn't change the truth. And the truth was that Blair had screwed up, big time. Today's melt-down was just a symptom of a much more serious problem - one that had started when he'd shot Tom Bowman in that warehouse, and when he'd promised Jim that he could handle this on his own.
How could he have been so stupid? Even a *little* bit of research, or common sense, (or just listening to *Jim*, for Pete's sake) would have shown him how counter-productive it was to try to shut out all the negative emotions surrounding Tom's death. But Blair had been so excited to find a quick fix in Josh's meditation tape, so eager to believe he'd found a way that beat out the conventional methods, he hadn't really thought through the long-term effects of that sort of denial. And look where his arrogance had brought him. Several months' worth of avoided fear and guilt had dropped on him today like a bombshell, finding the worst possible moment to put in an appearance.
So much for the delusions he'd been having of living up to both his position on the police force and the "shaman" title passed to him by Incacha. The first major challenge Blair had faced, and he'd failed miserably, on both an emotional and spiritual level.
A mile or so down the beach, the breakwall curved back toward the water. Blair found a convenient outcropping, settled onto the damp stone, and stared gloomily out across the blue-gray ocean to a horizon shrouded in mist. Probably a storm front moving in. The skies above Cascade had been building up to one all day. It couldn't be much later than four or five o'clock right now, but already, the cloud-filled skies were casting an early twilight over the city, washing all colors down to gray on black on white.
Blair felt very in tune with the world just then. The chilly, moisture-laden air, the roiling, choppy chaos of ocean waves colliding back and forth until they reached the shore in an uneven susurration of pounding surf... It all fit his mood perfectly, and granted him some measure of peace as nature's own tumultuous rhythms bombarded him with a mind-numbing repetition of rolling waves and crashing tide.
Reveling in the sudden freedom from the need to think at all, Blair lay back against the stone and closed his eyes, letting the ocean's roar pound away the fear and self-pity and self-loathing. Once those were gone, though, Blair had no emotions left at all, and mental exhaustion got the better of him, dragging him into the darkness of sleep.
He fell asleep to wind and damp and pounding surf. He woke to dry, thick, motionless heat. Blair let his eyes flicker open to squint at a red sun beating down from a cloudless sky. The ground under him was parched and cracked, and when he sat up, he saw that the dry earth extended in all directions in a featureless plain, clear to the horizon.
~Desert~ his mind whispered. ~How?~
He slowly rose to his feet, peering out at the horizon in confusion. After a few eye-straining moments, that stark line suddenly swooped to a dizzying, geography-defying angle, and then righted itself.
"We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," he muttered, his voice falling flat and echoless from his lips, weighed down by the heat. The mental allusion to "The Wizard of Oz" brought realization.
~A dream?~
As if to confirm his guess (or perhaps to deny it), a long, lonely howl suddenly cut through the air. Blair turned slowly, scanning the horizon again. The sound repeated, and this time he found the source. Between one circuit and the next, a canine silhouette had appeared in the distance. Intrigued, Blair started walking towards it - his sneakers falling noiselessly on the dry earth in this muted landscape.
As he drew closer, he was surprised to see that the animal was a wolf, not a coyote as Blair had assumed when he'd heard the howl. The wolf looked out of place here, with it's thick coat. He belonged in the lush Washington parklands somewhere, not here in the middle of nowhere with no water and scarce prey. The animal was definitely the worse for wear, too. It panted heavily in the heat, tongue lolling to one side, and pawed restlessly at the barren ground as it watched Blair approach. There was a moment when Sandburg considered that it might not be wise to approach a wild animal whose last meal had been an indeterminate time ago, but he dismissed the thought as trivial. This was a dream, after all.
"Hey, Puppy," he addressed the wolf quietly as he drew closer to it, keeping his voice kind and gentle. "How did you end up way out here, huh? Not one of your usual hangouts, I bet. Maybe you should get on home."
The wolf cocked its head to one side, considering him soundlessly for the space of several heartbeats. Then, it let out a little whine, and started to change. The transformation was quick, the canine form stretching and shifting to stand as a man.
Actually, not just a man. Blair blinked in confusion - the creature had turned into *him*. Sort of. It had his shape, his hair, even wore a shabby pair of jeans and a t-shirt that looked familiar, but it was still clearly obvious that they were not the same person. The design might be the same, but there was a world of difference in the execution - a slightly different tilt to the head, a more centered, balanced posture, and ice-blue eyes gazed back at him with the wolf's disinterested, passionless scrutiny. Without preamble, the new arrival spoke in a solemn voice that also did not belong to Blair.
"Why are you here?"
Blair looked around the landscape again, feeling the indefinable wrongness of this place. He wished he had an answer to that question himself.
"I don't know."
The apparition wasn't satisfied. It repeated, "Why are you here?"
Blair chuckled nervously, slightly embarrassed at his own ignorance. "I hate to disappoint you, but I honestly don't know."
"Why are you here?"
Blair sighed. It really wasn't fair for this guy to be quizzing him when he hadn't had a chance to go over the material. Well, maybe if he went at it from a psychological angle...
"I am here because I'm dreaming," he stated, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about. Sometimes confidence in one's answers was as important as the answer itself. "My subconscious mind apparently has some deep issues to work out and has stuck me in the middle of the desert with myself so we can have a real heart-to-heart and get things fixed. I don't really think its going to work, though, so why don't we...."
"Why are you here?"
*GROAN*
"Okay, look, man. That's going to get really old, really quick. I told you I don't know. What do you want from me?"
"The truth. Why are you here?"
With some effort, Blair reined in his frustration. ~Okay, smart guy, play the game. Why are you here? What sort of answer would the Dr. Collins's of the world be looking for with that question?~ Except that the question was just way too vague and existentialist for Collins to have come up with. Blair looked around himself again, trying to pull the answer from the surrounding wrongness. It actually came remarkably easily once he opened up to it.
"I'm lost."
He expected to wake up, or change locations, or *some* sort of fanfare. All he got was the steady gaze of his doppleganger. Nothing told Blair he'd gotten it right except the continued silence and his own inner certainty. He was lost.
"What do I do now?" he asked softly.
The other Blair offered a sad little smile. "Return to the path."
It sounded so simple. Except for one teeny little thing. "Ummmm...if I knew how to do that, I wouldn't be lost, now would I?"
"You know how."
Blair didn't see how that could be true, since he had no memory of getting here in the first place, but logic dictated that he could at least try heading back the way he had come. He hadn't walked very far since first sighting the wolf, so maybe he'd be able to find the path from his original position. He turned away from the wolf-Blair, determined to at least try, but was stopped after not even two paces. His way was blocked by the grinning, blood-covered specter of Tom Bowman.
"Where do you think you're going, Sandburg?" the man asked with a sardonic grin. Blair stumbled back from him, stomach suddenly churning with horrified fear. The dream had become a nightmare. It took his last shred of courage to stop his backward momentum and face the ghost before him.
"I have to go back, Tom," he stated, hoping his voice didn't betray the sick twisting in his gut. "Jim's waiting for me."
~Jim.~
Blair hadn't remembered to worry about Jim. His partner would be waiting back at the path. Blair had to get back to him.
"Waiting for you?" Tom barked a short laugh. He had always been a suave, well- spoken man, but now that facade was gone, his face twisted and cruel. He started walking, strolling around Blair in a casual circle, sizing the young man up with piercing, hawk-like eyes. "You've gotta be kidding. Why would Ellison be waiting for a weak little shit like you? After that brush off you gave him today, he's probably glad to have you finally out of his hair. Far as I can tell, you've been nothing but trouble, anyway."
"That's not true," Blair replied weakly, trying to deny the accusations coming from the other man and ignore the echoing accusations within his own heart. It couldn't be true. "I've helped him a lot. He needs me to..."
He trailed off, avoiding the revelation of Jim's abilities out of long habit. He glanced briefly back at the doppelganger, half-expecting some sort of protest or aid. The other Blair just stood passively by, watching the proceedings with an observer's eye. Flicking his gaze between the stalking Bowman and his own double, Blair had the bizarre feeling that he was stuck in some Dali- inspired rendition of a bad Tom & Jerry cartoon, facing the choice between the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. Except in this case, the choice was not so clear-cut. How could he choose when he didn't know what the two sides represented? Another laugh from Tom pulled his attention back.
"I've helped him a lot," the big man mimicked in a high-pitched, whiny voice. "Who're you trying to convince, Sandburg? Me or you? Seems to me you've set yourself up a pretty sweet deal, convincing Ellison to keep you around for the senses when both of you know he could handle 'em just fine on his own, once he got over the initial adjustment period."
He should've known Bowman would know about the Sentinel secret. This was his own subconscious after all. Tom had paused, as if expecting a reply, but Blair didn't know how to respond to the accusation. There didn't seem to be any point in arguing his role in Jim's life. He hadn't quite figured out for himself what it was. After a moment, Tom gave a disappointed little shrug. Blair had a second of hope that maybe the lack of answer would take the fun out of the game for Tom. Not so.
"Works out pretty well for both of you, actually, doesn't it? You get your own personal sugar daddy, and Ellison..." Tom cocked his head slightly, sweeping Blair from head-to-toe with a darkly lewd gaze. "Well, if I had a pretty thing like you hanging on my every whim, I wouldn't be kicking you back into the street either."
"Fuck. You."
A line had been crossed, and Blair was abruptly angry. He turned his back on Bowman and started to stride away across the desert, no longer caring if he was headed in the right direction, just wanting to get away from the whole scene and out of this damn dream.
Bowman materialized in front of him again, but Blair moved to walk around him, buoyed by the sudden upswell of anger. The dead man refused to be ignored so readily, though, and he stopped Blair with one blood-covered hand, leaving a bright handprint on Blair's chest, right over his heart. A shock of cold raced through the young man at the contact, and he stumbled backwards, tripping over an unseen rock and falling down hard, barely catching himself with outflung arms.
Between one blink and the next, Bowman was next to him, down on one knee, bloody fist curled around a handful of Blair's shirt, pulling the younger man up so their faces were inches apart.
"It doesn't work that way, boy," he hissed in an icy, grating whisper. "You leave when I say you leave. Let's not forget who the *victim* is here."
Tom released his hold on Blair's shirt, shoving him back onto the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He lay there for a moment, eyes closed, struggling to breathe, emotions swinging out of control from terror to guilt to anger and back again. He felt a shadow cross his face as Tom stood, looming to block out the sun burning down from above them.
"Get on your feet and face me like a man," Tom's voice ordered, thick with derision.
Blair braced himself and blinked his eyes open, risking a quick glance sideways to see the doppelganger still standing nearby, still making no move to help him. Blair supposed he hadn't expected any. As it had been the first time, this was his battle, and his alone. The realization helped to steady the anthropologist's nerves, and he was able to keep his composure as he slowly rose to his feet, accompanied by a continued monologue from Tom.
"You were always so sure of yourself, weren't you, Sandburg? Always so happy on your high-and-mighty pedestal with your *principles* and your *ethics*. Always so quick with your peace and love and save-the-whales bullshit. But when it came right down to it...mano-a-mano...ethics went right out the window, didn't they? How'd it feel, Sandburg? How'd it feel finding out that deep down you're as much of a self-preserving bastard as the rest of us mere mortals? How'd it feel watching me die? How'd it..."
"It felt bad, Tom." Blair forced his reply into the stream of words, noticing the slight quirk of the eyebrows that showed the other man was surprised by the interruption. He pushed on, afraid to stop and give Bowman an opportunity to continue chipping away at his reconstructed composure. "It felt really, really bad, and I'm sorry. I will regret until the day I die that things went down the way they did. But don't you *dare* lay this all in my lap. I did my best to talk you out of it. If you had just put the damn gun down when I asked you to... Hell, if you'd just turned around and gone the other way. If you hadn't screwed us over in the first place, none of the rest of it would've had to happen either. I'm not going to stand here and defend myself to a backstabbing traitor who wouldn't have blinked twice about shooting me dead."
Blair took a deep breath. He hadn't thought about it like that before. He'd regretted taking a life, had felt like a coward for protecting his *own* life, but what choice had he had? Would it have been worth it to let a criminal kill him and get away? No.
It was a revelation, and he breathed deep again, meeting Tom's gaze with a hard, cold resolve.
"It felt bad and I regret it, Tom, but it happened. And, I tell you now, if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing, you son-of-a-bitch."
Tom's eyes widened and a triumphant howl rose behind Blair's back. The scene held in a motionless tableau for just a moment, then a wild wind rose suddenly, sweeping across the barren plain, whipping up sand and rocks in a sudden pelting uproar. Blair's arms came up, one shielding his face from the sudden onslaught and the other trying in vain to get control of his wildly whipping hair. He heard his own voice shout something to the winds, although he hadn't been aware of any intention to speak, and with a resounding crack, the desert world split apart, shards of landscape slipping off kilter, leaving great black rents in the fabric of this reality. The darkness loomed larger and deeper until, with a second crack of pure sound, Blair was swallowed up by it completely, and he fell into darkness.
The storm hit Cascade just after 8:00 pm, building in the first half hour to a full-blown gale, blowing through the streets with a blinding barrage of hail and rain. It was a night to stay home, safe and warm, sipping hot chocolate in front of a roaring fire.
~Where the hell is he?~
Jim Ellison stood at his living room windows, eyes fixed on the street below, willing the familiar blue and white pickup to pull into the parking lot. He hated this...hated waiting, hated worrying, hated the rain that made it so hard to see past the pelting water on the windows, hated himself for making things worse for Blair right when the young man was obviously in the midst of some personal upheaval. Since when did Sentinel senses give him the right to run rough-shod over Sandburg's own needs or wants. He would never forgive himself if...
"Jim!"
"WHAT?!"
Ellison's head snapped up at the shout, close to his ear, angry at the interruption. He was suddenly aware of Simon's hand on his shoulder, and realized the Captain had been talking for a while without Jim hearing him. Not zoning, exactly, just tied up in his own gloomy thoughts.
Simon's expression had darkened at Jim's angry response, but he made a visible effort to control his own desire to snap back.
"I said you aren't going to bring him home any sooner by glaring out the window all night. Come have some coffee."
Jim shook his head. "Appreciate it, Simon, but no thanks."
He heard the other man sigh and settle onto the couch resignedly. Jim glanced around. Simon had picked up one of Blair's textbooks from the coffee table and was flipping through it idly. The Sentinel felt a twinge of guilt. He had dragged Simon to the four corners of Cascade earlier this afternoon, checking just about every hangout he could remember Blair ever mentioning. They had just gotten back to the loft a half hour ago, with still no sign of Blair, and now Simon seemed to be settling in for the long haul.
In retrospect, it had been futile from the get-go. Blair knew that Jim, with his Sentinel-trained memory, would know where to look. If the grad student didn't want to be found, it would be easy enough for him to avoid his usual haunts. And if he *did* want to be found, he would have gone to Rainier rather than bothering with the more obscure locations.
"You don't have to wait, sir," Jim told his Captain. "I can always take the Volvo if I need a car."
That earned him a wordless grunt from Banks. "Leave you alone now? I can see *that* going over well with Sandburg when he finds out I left you to zone out to your little heart's content. I don't think so."
Jim grimaced mildly, but didn't argue. Zoning might not be as big a risk as Simon, in his new position of responsibility in that regard, made it out to be, but he welcomed the company, anyway. He turned back to the window. The storm seemed to be getting worse.
The trill of a cellular phone forced its way through the pounding rain and thunder. Both men reached reflexively for their units. It was Simon's. Jim didn't bother trying to be polite, and just listened in.
"Banks."
"We may have found him, sir." Rhonda's voice on the other end of the line started without preamble. Simon's administrative assistant had volunteered to do what she could to help find Blair from the station, once she'd heard a pared-down version of what had happened. "There was a report of a prowler in the Alocarma Beach area. The caller mentioned being suspicious of a blue and white Ford that fits the description of that old hayseed truck Jim drives."
Jim's eyebrows rose, and he saw Simon wince. ~Hayseed truck?~
Rhonda provided directions to Alocarma Beach and informed them that a patrol unit was already en route to investigate the prowler report, then hung up. Simon flipped his phone closed with a chuckle.
"Well, that's a new one to add to Sandburg's resume. Anthropologist, police consultant, and prowler."
Jim laughed lightly in agreement as he headed toward the door, grabbing his coat from where he'd thrown it over a chair on the way in. He felt better already. It was a relief to be moving again, with a goal in sight. He would find Blair and the two of them would work this all out. End of story.
"Assuming, of course, it's him and not some *other* prowler driving a 'hayseed' truck," he reminded both himself and his Captain in a wry voice.
Simon chuckled again, joining Jim by the door to pull on his own coat.
"You have to admit, it's an apt description."
Jim shook his head sorrowfully at this new criticism of his beloved vehicle and stepped backwards, hand over his heart, wounded. "I'll have you know, that truck is a classic, sir."
He paused, realizing there was something odd about what he'd just said. It came to him, and he belatedly added: "As Sandburg would say."
Simon laughed again. Jim joined him, and together they headed down to the parking lot and north to Alocarma Beach to pick up the wayward anthropologist.
He woke to a roaring wind and spitting darkness that for a long time was indistinguishable from the maelstrom he'd left in the dream. Some part of his mind realized that it was rain, not sand, pelting him from all sides, and he headed back to the truck on pure instinct, shielding his face with one arm, still not quite realizing he was awake, just knowing he had to get back to the path and apologize to Jim.
In his dazed state, Blair failed to notice a half-buried piece of driftwood in his way until one foot connected forcefully with it, and he fell face-first into the sand, banging his knee painfully against the obstacle. The tumble just added to his confusion, throwing yet another element into his already cluttered mind. He lay there in the rain for a moment, squinting up at the looming pile of rocks that formed the breakwall. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the scene, and Blair saw the outline of an A-Frame house and a narrow, sandy trail that led up to it.
~A path!~ His subconscious whispered, while his conscious mind seconded the vote by suggesting: ~I should let Jim know I'm okay. Maybe they have a phone.~
He pushed himself up to his feet, waited for the next flash of lightning to reconnoiter, then set his foot to the path. As he drew closer, he could make out a flickering firelight shining feebly through the storm but still clearly visible through the sliding glass door leading into the house. Closer still, and Blair made out the shadowed silhouette of a man moving about inside. A smile touched the anthropologist's face as he suddenly realized he'd expected the beach house to be uninhabited. He walked the last few feet to the door, raised his hand to knock on the glass...
...And stopped. There was a large, jagged hole smashed in the glass by the locking mechanism, and shards of glass still littered the carpeting inside the entryway.
The sight provided the jolt back into reality that had been missing in the storm-roiled night, and Blair's first truly coherent thought since waking on the beach hit him hard and fast.
~Crime in progress.~
Instincts learned in the last two years pushed Blair into the shadow of a nearby shrub, hiding him from the house's occupants until he could evaluate the situation. On the surface, everything seemed disarmingly calm. A woman was sitting huddled on a couch, facing away from the door, and a large, dark-haired man was pacing back and forth in front of her, gesticulating with one hand and talking earnestly. If Blair hadn't seen the broken glass, he would have assumed they were in the midst of some serious discussion, but seen no threat in it. Now, though, he could see an underlying menace in the man's movements.
Blair stood still, barely noticing the storm now, trying to decide what to do. He had stumbled into a crime scene, he had left his cell phone back in the office after the disastrous meeting with Miki Chandler, and Jim had no idea he was out here. The smart thing to do would be to hurry to one of the other beach houses, find a phone, and call the police. But that would mean leaving the woman and her "visitor" alone, and he didn't want to do that. He would never forgive himself if something happened while he was off getting help.
And, then, the decision was taken out of his hands. The veiled menace in the man suddenly made its presence known full force when he grabbed the woman by the arm, yanking her roughly up from the couch and shoving her toward a stairway. Blair got a better look at the victim as she was manhandled to the stairs: a trim, healthy young woman, deeply tanned with sunstreaks in her dark blonde hair. She had the look of a usually-confident woman who was being pushed to her breaking point, losing the battle to maintain self-control as her situation became more and more desperate. She reminded Blair of Tanya Thorne.
Realization clicked into place, and Blair was suddenly aware of the glimmering knife blade held in the man's other hand as he ushered his victim roughly upstairs.
~Oh, my god, he's going to kill her.~
Feeling as though he was still somehow caught in the unreality of his desert dream after all, Blair reached out and slid open the glass door and stepped inside. He was hit with a wall of warmth as he stepped out of the rain, and he conscientiously pulled the door shut behind him lessening the cacophony of storm-sounds that had assaulted his ears earlier.
The other two were upstairs and hadn't noticed Blair's arrival. He could hear the man's voice, still talking in a firm, lecturing tone that offered a bit of hope. This guy was apparently one of the types who liked to give his captive audience the whole Psycho-Killer Manifesto before doing the deed. It gave Blair a chance to look for a weapon and maybe figure out some sort of plan.
Looking around the ground floor, he found a phone sitting on an end table and picked it up, intending to call for "backup". It was dead, of course.
~Oh well, not like there's time to wait for them anyway.~
Above him, the man's voice rose in volume, becoming more angry and violent. Blair hurried his search and finally grabbed a poker from the rack of fireplace implements. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. He still didn't have any sort of plan, but he didn't dare leave the woman alone with her attacker any longer. Brandishing the poker like a club, Blair set his foot on the first carpeted step, and headed quietly upstairs.
The stairway opened into an open-plan loft area that served as the A-Frame's only bedroom. Blair was clearly visible as he took the last few steps, but neither of the other two noticed him. The killer had the young woman kneeling in the middle of the room, one large hand tangled viciously in her hair, yanking violently at it with each of his shouted, incoherent threats. His victim didn't seem to hear him anymore. She was rocking back and forth with his yanks, eyes closed, keening piteously, obviously beyond reason or any expectation that she would survive this night.
In the split second it took Blair to take in the scene, the situation escalated again. The man raised his arm high above his head. Light reflected off the knife blade, and Blair had no more time to think. The poker in his hands was all but forgotten in the sudden rush of panic, and he flung himself forward with a running jump, tackling the man, catching him off guard, sending him stumbling into the kneeling woman. They all three went down in a struggling tangle of limbs.
"So, where is he?"
Jim and Simon stood on either side of the truck, peering through the rain- streaked windows as though Blair would have miraculously reappeared within since the last time they'd looked. They had arrived at the beach a little while ago, finding the parked truck alongside the patrol car dispatched to check on the prowler call. There was no sign of Blair.
Jim went to stand on top of the tumble of rock overlooking the beach, squinting through the storm to scan as much of the area as he could. Unfortunately, Sentinel eyesight couldn't help him much in this downpour. He caught sight of the patrolmen trudging their way through the stubborn sand on their way back up to the car, but ignored them for the moment, still searching for his partner. His eyes were drawn by the crashing surf, and he felt a sudden stab of fear. Blair wouldn't have...
Of course he wouldn't have. Jim pushed the thought aside unformed, ashamed that he'd even started to think it. He knew Sandburg too well to even consider something like that.
The two uniformed officers were now close enough to see Jim standing atop the tumbled pile of rocks. They hailed him and the he raised a hand in greeting, recognizing Frank Turner and Allan Syndovich, both of whom Jim had worked with in the past. The two men hurried their pace to join him, and Simon came over as well to quickly brief them on the situation. Frank pushed his hat back, grimacing at the water dripping from the brim.
"Well, sir, I don't know about this Sandburg," he informed Simon respectfully, gesturing down the beach with one hand. "But the woman who called in the prowler report said she'd seen a big guy stalking around - pretty scary looking. Doesn't sound like the one you're looking for."
Jim and Simon exchanged a look, and Jim groaned inwardly. This was just wonderful. A potentially dangerous man roaming the beach, and Sandburg out there somewhere, too. Not a good combination.
"No, it doesn't," Simon told the other men, taking charge. "Okay, let's assume we've got a real prowler on the loose and play this by the book. Just keep an eye out for Sandburg."
Turner nodded acceptance of that. "We just did a quick sweep of the beach, but didn't see any signs of trouble," he said. "We were just about to start going house-to-house along here, see if anyone else noticed anything."
Heaving a sigh, Simon squinted up into the driving rain.
"Well, since we're here, we might as well give you a hand, Frank," he decided, giving up on the thought of being warm and dry for a few hours at least. He gestured off down the beach to the left. "We'll take this end if you two can handle the other?"
Turner grinned gratefully.
"Much obliged, Captain. It's not a fit night for man nor beast out here."
Simon chuckled. "You got that right. What is it they say? Neither rain nor sleet nor dark of night...?"
"Uhhh...I think that's the post office, sir."
Simon shared a laugh with the two patrolmen, aware of Jim fidgeting impatiently nearby, then bid the men good luck. The Captain spared a final glance for the abandoned pickup, then fell in with Jim, heading down the beach towards the first beach house, intent on finding Blair.
It wasn't a fight, really. Blair tackled the man, they fell, and for the next several minutes, the world dissolved into a frantic struggle to just stay alive. His only goal was to get himself and the young woman away from her attacker before the man could gather his wits and start putting the knife he still held to good use. As it was, as Blair scrambled backwards, fighting to an upright position, he felt a fiery slash of pain across his thigh. A quick glance showed him that blood was starting to spread on his pant leg, but he shoved the pain to the back of his mind. His leg still supported him, so the wound probably wasn't too serious.
Blair had dropped his poker/weapon at some point, but had somehow managed to regain it in his retreat from the initial fray. He held it up again, hoping it would do him some good. He needed all the help he could get.
The situation was serious. The young woman had retreated to one corner of the room and was huddled there, crying uncontrollably, barely seeming to be aware of the fight going on around her. Blair had gotten himself between her and her attacker, but the large man was between Blair and the stairs. With the hysterical woman to protect, it would be next to impossible to get past the man without another physical confrontation...one in which Blair was pretty sure he would be snapped like a toothpick.
The man was big - not as tall as Jim, but wider - with broad shoulders that weren't just muscular, but muscle-bound. If Blair hadn't caught him off-guard, he never would have had a chance. A chance that had now been lost.
"Who the hell are you?!?" the attacker demanded, infuriated by the intrusion into his carefully planned drama.
Blair thought fast, trying to find a way to salvage this.
"Just a neighbor," he answered firmly, holding the poker in a tight grip, hoping he looked like he could use it to good advantage if he had to. "I already called the cops before I came over here, so maybe you should just clear out, man."
Behind Blair, the young woman shifted position.
"Just get out of here, Pete," she sobbed. "I won't tell anybody if you just leave now."
Blair spared her a surprised glance that was more of a half-turn of his head in her direction, eyes still on "Pete". "You know this guy?"
She nodded. "He works at a club I go to sometimes."
~And I bet I know at least two other girls who went to this club.~
"Which is exactly why I'm going to have to kill you both, now." Pete smirked cruelly. The twisted expression reminded Blair suddenly of Tom Bowman. He didn't much care for the comparison.
"You can't do that," Blair said calmly, although his mind was whirling. He needed to stall for time. He had to give Jim a chance to get here. Which, of course, was stupid, since Jim didn't have the slightest idea Blair was here - let alone in danger. But it was the only thing he could think of right now. Fight or Flight was all well and good, but Blair had had more luck with "stall until Jim gets here"...except for the one notable exception of Tom Bowman, of course.
~But let's not think about that, shall we?~
Pete laughed at Blair's feeble attempt at changing his mind.
"You think you can stop me, hippie?" He looked the grad student up and down, then considered the glistening blood that colored the blade in his hands. He shook his head, grinning. "I don't think so."
Blair shook his head, too, playing a hunch and praying it didn't backfire.
"Sure, sure, you *could* kill us pretty easy," he agreed, ignoring the gasp of fear from behind him. "But I'm thinking it wouldn't be a good career move right now. You want to play with the big boys...Manson, Dahmer...you've gotta stick to your MO."
Blair did not miss the slight frown that slipped across Pete's face at that. All those hours of poker with stone-face Ellison had served him well.
"I'm right, aren't I?" he pressed. "You think you're gonna make a name for yourself by terrorizing 'daddy's little girl'. Maybe make a statement about...what? Upper class hypocrisy? Repression of the masses? Or is it simpler than that? Maybe you're just looking for a spot in the serial killer hall of fame. Is that it? I dunno, man...Pete the Ripper just doesn't have the right ring to it..."
"Shut up!" The big man advanced menacingly, and Blair made a show of holding the poker up in self-defense, keeping up the stream of words. They were having an effect, at least. It was a dangerous ploy, but he was definitely succeeding in keeping the man off balance.
"I'm just saying, this is make-or-break time, man. Third time's the charm and all that. You kill three girls in three nights, that makes you a name. You kill three girls and some shmo who stopped in to borrow a cup of sugar, you're just a plain old run-of-the-mill murderer."
Blair honestly couldn't believe it when he saw the spark of something like interest kindled in the other man's eyes. That *anyone* could be buying this crap was just incomprehensible. He forged ahead.
"I'm telling you. Now's not the time to get greedy. Let her be the one that got away." Blair gestured with his chin back over his shoulder. "Move on. Set up shop in a new town, get a little free publicity from 'one woman's harrowing tale, tonight at eleven'."
"You make good sense, hippie," Pete said softly, the knife hanging loose at his side. Blair felt a bit of the tension ease from between his shoulder blades. He couldn't believe it had actually worked! But Pete met his gaze with eyes that were flat and dead. "Just one question. How'd you know about the other two girls?"
"Oh, god," the young woman whispered from behind Blair, and he echoed the sentiment mentally, cursing himself for underestimating the man. There was nothing to do now but try to play out the bluff. He opened his mouth to say he'd seen the murders reported on the news, or some other likely excuse, but didn't have a chance.
"I guess this means you're a cop, huh?" Pete said calmly, not giving Blair a chance to deny it. "Which means your cop buddies are waiting outside, which means I might as well go out in a blaze of glory."
His voice was cold and dispassionate, but between one moment and the next, the disarming surrender in the man's posture was gone and the knife was coming back up, and he was charging at Blair. The young man blocked with the poker as best he could. He managed a decent swing that struck Pete's knife-arm and knocked the weapon out of the killer's hand, but lost his own in the process. Pete easily ripped the poker out of Blair's hands, and then he slammed into the smaller man, dropping both of them to the floor. Blair struggled helplessly against the heavier weight pinning him down as hands closed around his throat, cutting off his air.
Blair's vision started to go dark, and true panic set in. Where was Jim? Why wasn't he stopping this? His recall of the situation fled with his consciousness, and he truly expected Jim to step in at any time.
Finally, the hands around his throat relaxed, and he heard a roar of rage, the weight lifting from his chest. Blair lay still for a long time, gasping in precious oxygen, giving Jim time to finish the guy off before bothering to move any further. It wasn't until a choked-off scream cut across his dazed consciousness like a splash of cold water that he realized Jim hadn't saved him at all. The young woman had stirred to his defense, striking Pete from behind with the discarded poker.
But the blow had only further enraged the violent man, and she was in real trouble. Pete had her pinned against the railing of the loft in a vicious grip, his hands around her neck, as they'd been at Blair's only moments ago, and he was shouting at her incoherently, savagely slamming her into the railing. The young woman's eyes were wide with fear, but dimming rapidly, and she seemed to have no strength left to escape his hold.
Blair struggled to his feet, hardly noticing when his groping hand found the handle of the knife lying nearby. He took a few steps towards the railing.
"Let her go!" he shouted.
Pete looked up. His face twisted into a cruel mimicry of a smile and he gave the woman's throat one last squeeze before pulling his hands away from her, holding them up in mock surrender. It was too little too late, though. Without his hands holding her up, the young woman collapsed into a lifeless heap at her killer's feet. An incoherent rage turned Blair's vision red.
"YOU SONOFABITCH!"
It was surprisingly easy, this time, to know what to do. It was not a time for deliberating over decisions, but somehow the decision was already made. When the other man came after him, Blair waited until the last moment before revealing the knife. He felt the sickening lurch of steel cutting into flesh and bone, heard the snarl of pain from the man, felt the warm gush of blood over his hand, but closed his mind to all of it, concentrating on not losing the advantage.
At first, it didn't seem to do him much good. The killer was like a wild animal. The wound only made him wilder, causing him to attack Blair with a vengeance, fists lashing out and connecting a few too many times. Blair fell backwards under the onslaught, his grip on the knife bringing the weapon with him. As the metal broke free of the other man's stomach, a fresh gout of blood rushed out of the wound, and Pete stumbled backwards as well. He was too close to the stairs, though, and one of his faltering steps took him right over the edge. He flailed frantically at empty air, trying to regain his footing, but failed. Blair caught the look of fear that crossed his face, and then Pete was tumbling down the stairway in a succession of thuds and shouts, and then all was silent except for the storm still pounding down outside.
Numbness overtook Blair. He limped slowly to the edge of the loft and peered down at the still heap of flesh at the bottom, ensuring himself that it was over. He looked down at his own blood covered hands and dropped the knife with a shudder. A choking gasp drew his attention, and he turned immediately to the heap of flesh at the *top* of the stairs, relief washing over him. The young woman was stirring feebly, her hands clutching at her throat, her attempts at breathing hampered by the hysterical sobs shaking through her. Blair knelt beside her, futilely wiping his hands on his already bloody pant leg before reaching out and tentatively wrapping his arms around her.
"Easy," he murmured gently. "Just take it easy. You're safe now. Just breathe. In and out. Shhhhhh...just relax."
Once she realized he wasn't the killer, the young woman clung to him, tangling her hands in the front of his shirt, still shaking with silent sobs. He held her tight and promised to stay as long as she needed.
It was all over by the time Jim and Simon finally arrived at the A-Frame house halfway down the beach from the access road. The storm had stymied the Sentinel's abilities at every turn, but Jim had taken one glance through the sliding door and noticed immediately the broken glass and the body crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Fear coursed through him and he risked turning up his hearing in the lull between rolls of thunder to check the house thoroughly. He immediately caught the soft murmur of his partner's voice from inside. Blair sounded strained and exhausted, but he was assuring someone that they were safe, and sounding like he meant it. Jim aborted his original warning signal to Simon, and instead simply indicated to the Captain that there was something going on, before he stepped through the door. Once out of the rain, he could easily make out three heartbeats. One came from the form at the bottom of the stairs, one was Blair's, and one, presumably, belonged to whoever Blair was talking to.
"Hey, Chief," Jim called softly, glancing up and catching sight of the familiar form sitting with his back pressed to the bars of a railing overlooking the entrance. He saw Blair's back stiffen, heard both heartbeats jump into double- time. "It's Jim and Simon, Blair," he hurried to reassure them. Blair peered around and the tension went out of him at the sight of Jim standing in the doorway below.
"It's okay. It's my friends. They're cops. They'll take care of everything," he told someone above, speaking in a low, soothing tone.
Jim stepped further into the room, trailed by Simon, who was taking his cue from the detective, realizing that there was a reason for quiet.
"I think we're going to need paramedics here, sir," Jim told him softly. "Can you get this guy, while I check on Blair?"
The Captain nodded his agreement, already flipping out his cell phone to make the necessary calls, kneeling beside the wounded man. He cursed lightly when he took stock of the full extent of the man's injuries.
"Jim," he called out to the detective, who was halfway up the stairs. He then lowered his voice, seeming to remember Jim's abilities as an afterthought. "Knife wound in his gut. Could be the work of our slasher."
Jim threw a quick look over his shoulder, jaw clenched in concern, then hurried up the final steps to the upper floor. As he'd seen from below, Blair was sitting with his back to the railing boundary along the side of the loft area. He was holding a bruised and battered young woman, still murmuring to her softly. He glanced up when Jim arrived, his eyes unreadable, and the girl looked up at him anxiously, tears still running down her cheeks. She seemed to be all right for the time being, so Jim let himself focus on Blair.
The grad student was just as battered and bruised as his charge, but looked worse off from this angle. He had obviously come in from the rain, and was still soaking wet, dark hair hanging limply around his pale face, lips turning blue from cold, equally blue bruises starting to rise along one cheek, around one eye, and around his neck. The arms that held the young woman were stained with blood to the elbow, and he shook visibly with, Jim guessed, a combination of cold and shock. Jim knelt down beside him, backing off a little when the girl cringed away from his approach. Blair's arms tightened around her protectively.
"It's all right, miss," Jim said quietly. "I'm a police officer. We've got an ambulance on the way. You just hold tight."
She relaxed marginally, risking a panicky glance up from where her face was buried in Blair's chest to fix Jim with wide, terror-filled eyes. Her hands, clutching fistfuls of Blair's wet shirt, showed no signs of doing anything *but* holding tight. Jim met his partner's gaze.
"What happened here, Chief?"
Blair blinked once, as though surprised by the question, and looked around the shambles of the bedroom area.
"It was him. The - the one who killed those other girls." A fresh shudder ran through the young woman in his grip, and he glanced down, a flicker of a smile flitting across his face. "Hey, I don't think we've been introduced, by the way. I'm Blair."
The incongruous nicety earned him a tremulous smile, and she whispered in a bruised, shaking voice, "I'm Tammy."
"Nice to meet you, Tammy." His attention turned back to Jim. "I wanted to use the phone. I was gonna call and...oh, man, Jim, I'm so sorry for what I said before. I had no right to go off on you like that. I don't know..."
Jim shook his head gently and put a hand on Blair's shoulder, interrupting him.
"Don't worry about that for right now. We'll talk about it later."
"Right. Okay, well, the door was all smashed, and I saw him...he was going to..." Another shudder from Tammy, and he shrugged helplessly. "Anyway, we stopped him."
Blair's eyes flickered towards the stairs Jim had come up, then back to the Sentinel.
"Is he dead?" he asked in a flat, tired monotone. Jim shook his head, and Blair closed his eyes for a moment, head falling back to rest against the railing. "I thought he was probably dead."
"He's not. Simon's down there right now, patching him up 'til the paramedics get here."
"Actually, Simon's right here," the Captain said from behind them. Jim grimaced, realizing he'd been so caught up in his partner and his fragile charge that he'd missed the other man's arrival. "He'll live, Blair. How about you two? You okay?"
Blair smiled tiredly. "We'll live, too."
Simon knelt down, taking in their condition.
"Glad to hear it. How're you doing, Miss..."
"Tammy," Blair supplied. Simon nodded acknowledgment of that.
"Tammy, I'm Captain Banks with the Cascade PD. How about we get you a blanket and some hot tea? You look a little cold sitting there."
"Go ahead," Blair murmured gently, and the young woman allowed herself to be passed to Simon's care. The Captain helped her over to the bed, surprisingly gentle for all of his size. Jim helped Blair to his feet, noticing for the first time the cut in the young man's jeans and the surrounding blood.
"You're hurt," he said unnecessarily. Blair shrugged.
"It's just a scratch." He glanced down at the blood-covered pant leg, then back at Jim's skeptical frown. "Most of the blood is...his, not mine."
Blair pulled away from Jim's restraining hand on his shoulder and headed for the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing for support. Jim made a move to intercept him, but Blair shook his head.
"Please don't, Jim. I'll be okay. I'll just go downstairs and wait for the paramedics. Someone should wait for them."
Jim glanced over at Simon. The Captain met his gaze with an unreadable expression, not sure what call to make this time, leaving it up to Ellison. Jim moved to help Blair limp down the steps.
"How about we wait together?"
Blair shrugged, but accepted Jim's help gratefully. The stairs had turned out to be trickier than he'd expected, the leg obviously giving him more trouble than he'd let on. At the bottom, Blair stood for a long time looking down on the man who lay sprawled out where Simon had left him, a makeshift bandage of towels scavenged from the nearby bathroom doing it's best to stem the flow of blood from his side.
"His name's Pete, and he works at a club Tammy goes to," Blair supplied calmly. Jim made a mental note of the information. "I told him I knew about the other two girls. It tipped him off that I was a cop. Pretty stupid, I guess."
Jim swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Seeing Blair this detached, so calm and emotionless again, was overwhelmingly painful. He would make it right this time. He had to. But how?
"I'm sure you did fine, Chief," he offered lamely. To his surprise, Blair actually nodded in agreement, tearing his gaze away from the unconscious man to look up at Jim.
"Yeah, I must've. We're alive, right?"
The sentiment was so unexpected that Jim actually grinned in relief. "Right."
Blair nodded again, not returning the smile.
They stayed there together in silence for a while. Blair limped over to look out the broken door and Jim followed him. The storm finally seemed to have spent its fury. Rain was still falling in sheets, but it was now more of a half-hearted downpour - dreary, but not dangerous.
"Does this ever get any easier?" Blair barely whispered, knowing Jim would hear.
The Sentinel hesitated, unsure what answer Blair was hoping for, and wanting to say the right thing. Finally, he had to settle for the truth. "It can, if you let it."
"But...?"
"But I hope you won't. It's not something that should be easy."
Blair nodded his understanding of that, and they let silence descend again. After another several minutes, Jim heard the crunching of gravel as the approaching ambulance pulled off the access road and into the narrow lane that led to the beach houses.
He went out front to greet them, finding that the two patrolmen had arrived as well, and took charge of the situation, ushering the paramedics inside and filling Turner and Sydnovich in on what had happened. Ten minutes later, once "Pete" had been stabilized and taken on a stretcher out to the ambulance, Simon brought Tammy down to be checked out, helping her down the steps with a secure, fatherly arm around her shoulders.
Their arrival reminded Jim that his own partner needed medical attention, and he looked around for Blair. There was no sign of him on the ground floor. Jim grabbed Frank Turner's arm in passing, asking after the injured young man. Turner nodded.
"Yeah, he was here a few minutes ago. Think he headed down to the beach."
Jim thanked the other man and headed down to the beach himself, following a trail of disturbed sand from the door down to the water's edge. He paused at the base of the breakwall, catching sight of his partner sitting huddled in the sand, knees drawn up tight against his chest. Blair's head rested on his bent knees, and as Jim watched, his shoulders began to shake with wretched, heaving sobs.
There was no decision to be made. There was the option of leaving Blair to the privacy he'd obviously sought in coming out here in the rain and cold, but Jim was no more capable of granting him that privacy than he would have been capable of letting him bleed to death if he were injured. The Sentinel moved quickly down the beach and fell to his knees beside his friend, instinctively reaching out to wrap long arms around the huddled figure, his chin resting on top of Blair's bowed head, holding on tight, rocking gently with the trembling, sobbing young man, murmuring soothing words that were swallowed by the night before they'd gotten much farther than Blair's ears.
After a long while, the sobbing slowed, and Blair seemed to become aware of Jim's presence for the first time, tensing and pulling away from the Sentinel's embrace. Jim let him go, suddenly worried that he'd done the wrong thing, after all. Blair didn't pull away far, though, just giving himself a little space before settling back down in the sand. Neither of them paid much attention to the rain still coming down. They were both thoroughly drenched anyway.
"I'm sorry," Blair finally said after a few moments.
Jim shook his head. "Nothing to be sorry about, Chief. You didn't do anything wrong."
Blair echoed the head-shake, limp, wet hair slapping against his face. "Yes, I did," he insisted. "I...I promised myself, when this all started, that I wouldn't take it out on you, and today I did. I told you I wasn't shutting down, and I was. I told you I could handle it and I...couldn't. I've been lying to myself and you for months, and I'm sorry."
Jim considered that for a moment, and felt a small smile touch his lips. The kid had a point.
"Okay," he replied. "Apology accepted."
Blair gave him a suspicious glare.
"That's it?"
"You were expecting more?"
"Well, yeah. I figured I'd earned at least an 'I told you so' or two."
Jim chuckled. "Not tonight, Sandburg. Look me up in a few days and we'll talk. I make it a rule not to chastise my partner when he's going into shock."
Blair laughed out loud at that, wiping futilely at his eyes to clear away the tears, not quite realizing that half of the wetness on his face was due to the rain. "Is that why I feel so dizzy? Guess I forgot I got knocked around so much."
All joking was immediately set aside, and Jim shifted preparatory to standing back up. "You're dizzy? We should get you inside. You've probably got sand in that leg wound, too."
"I told you, it's just a scratch," Blair insisted. But he let Jim help him to his feet and accepted the older man's support as they started trudging back to the beach house. "Y'know, Jim, I was thinking. I bet I'm the only teacher at Rainier outside the college of medicine who can tell the difference between a flesh wound and the real thing. Isn't that funny, man?"
Jim clenched his teeth, not thinking it was funny in the least, but humored the drifting young man. "Yeah, that's pretty funny, Chief."
Blair continued to babble aimlessly as they walked back to the house, sagging more and more into Jim's supporting grip, the events of the day finally catching up with him. At one point, Jim thought he'd passed out for good, but as they crossed the last few yards to the door, Blair got his feet back under him and protested the forward movement. Jim heeded the unspoken request and stopped. Looking down, he found the young man suddenly lucid again, his eyes dark and serious in the dim light.
"I did what I had to do, Jim," he stated firmly, although the Sentinel didn't miss the hint of a question mark in the statement. "There wasn't anything else I could've done."
It was a reference to both tonight and Bowman's shooting. Jim swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded his agreement. "There wasn't anything else you could've done, Blair. You did the right thing."
A smile spread across Blair's face and into his eyes. A gentle, beatific, Sandburg smile.
"It'll be all right now," he said simply, and relaxed against Jim's support again. The Sentinel tightened his hold, making it more of an embrace for just a moment, resting his cheek on the top of Blair's head.
"Yeah, Chief," he murmured. "It'll be all right. Now."
--THE END--
Thanks for reading!
Huge thanks are owed to K.Ryn for her help on this story. She did the "stroke the newbie writer's ego" thing so well after part one that she got stuck with me for the long (and I do mean *long*) haul. Along the way, she's provided the perfect title, a kick in the creative pants when my ideas stalled about halfway through, and invaluable encouragement. Not to mention her spot-on beta-ing, in general.
Thanks also to: Mackie for her superb suggestions, encouragement, grammatical counseling, and giving my stories a place to call home. =) To Beth for finding ways to say what I wanted to say far better than I could say them. And to Storm for some especially insightful criticism and keeping me on my toes characterization-wise. Any remaining problems are, of course, entirely my own fault.
Disclaimers: Sales tax not included. Some restrictions may apply. Use only as directed. And furthermore: Jim, Blair, and the rest of the gang belong to Pet Fly and a bunch of other people, none of whom are me. I'm not making any money on this, so suing me would be a waste of time.
Feedback is always welcome in any form at jen526@aol.com. This is my first completed story with an actual plot (*grin*), so honest, constructive criticism will be especially appreciated this time around. Not that blatant ego-stroking won't be just as eagerly accepted, of course. ^_^
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