Transitions 2(b) - Siege
by Mackie

Blair Sandburg huddled in the cold and tried to burrow into the collar of his black windbreaker. It was totally unsuited to the weather, but it was the only black coat he owned, so he'd impulsively worn it. His hands, fisted inside his pockets, were numb. His feet, encased in warm hiking boots, fared a little better, but his hair was plastered to his head, and the sodden ends helped the cold, melting snowflakes slither beneath his sweater to soak and chill his skin.

It was the kind of snow he hated -- mean, wet little flakes that melted on contact. If one had to endure this misery, shouldn't the snow be the big, puffy flakes of a New England winter, the kind featured on Christmas cards of happy children sledding down hillsides atop giant inner tubes? Why this dreary precipitation trapped somewhere between rain and snow?

Trying to build a snowman out of this slushy mess would only result in a case of frostbite, and while it was deep enough on the ground to make footing treacherous, there was hardly enough of it to contemplate a descent toboggan run.

He hated funerals, and he didn't even know why he'd come to this one. Well, yes, he did. He'd come to pay his respects to fallen police officers -- three of them -- men he'd never met who had died probably without ever realizing they were in danger. Earlier this same morning, he'd attended a memorial service for the three civilians who had been staffing the communications center at Cascade PD when Garrett Kincaid and his band of terrorists had taken over the precinct.

Just as with the earlier ceremony, he was struck by the air of informal segregation. Keeping a respectful distance were members of the media, observing and recording the event as part of their ongoing coverage of Kincaid's violent legacy. Friends and the merely curious stood on one side of the gravesite under a somber canopy erected against the weather.

On the other side sat the families of the slain officers, while to either side and behind them, like a shield of human bodies, stood the police. There were probably a hundred officers, most of them standing in the open, their faces chiseled and stern, postures ramrod straight, dress uniforms crisp and obviously uncomfortable as the snow soaked into the heavy wool fabric.

Blair stood at the edge of the outsiders, not so much by choice but by the conviction that he did not belong with the friends, clearly not with the relatives, and very certainly not with the police officers. From his position, he was able to observe, and rather than listen to the somber prattle of the minister conducting the service, he let his eyes roam over the group.

He knew very few of them. Captain Taggart was there, a crutch under one arm to help ease the strain on the leg that had taken a bullet during the siege. He wasn't wearing a uniform; he'd probably outgrown it long ago. But Captain Banks and Detective Ellison stood beside him, both resplendent in their winter dress blues. Their waistlines probably hadn't expanded an inch since their academy days.

Jim looked as if his thoughts were elsewhere, his eyes fixed firmly on some point above the heads of the gathering, his posture never wavering, not even when the rifle salute caused others to flinch.

Blair felt unaccountably sad. In his chosen profession as anthropologist, it was his job to observe and record, but to never become a part of the group he was studying. Usually, this fact didn't bother him, but today it did. He had shared a life-altering experience with some of these people, and yet he was not and never would be a part of them. If he admitted the truth, he didn't really want to become closely involved with this group, as much as he respected and admired most of the police force. But it might have been nice if someone had acknowledged that, unwillingly or not, he had become part of them for a brief period.

He and Jim hadn't seen much of each other in the two days since the siege had ended. Blair had finished the administrative steps necessary to become an official police observer, but the background checks and drug test wouldn't be completed for several days. He'd stopped in the bullpen to see him, but the detective had been out working on a case or something, and Blair hadn't recognized anyone else. He hadn't wanted to disturb the Captain, not just to say 'hi', and even the secretary, Rhonda, hadn't been at her desk. That had pretty much exhausted his supply of familiar faces.

So he'd simply gone back to his office at the university. He'd called Jim and left a message to say he'd completed the paperwork, but there had been no return call. Blair had sat in the silence of his office and read yet again the newspaper accounts of the siege. Six people -- three police officers and three civilians -- had died in the carnage, and Blair hadn't been aware of it; he'd been too busy trying to stay alive himself to wonder at the method Kincaid had used to take over the precinct. His name had never been mentioned in the articles, for which he was grateful, although Jim's name figured rather prominently as the police officer who had risked his life by dangling from a helicopter in order to capture the notorious terrorist leader.

Thinking back on it now, Blair felt an ache in his chest, but it was a good ache, a feeling of intense admiration for the man he was going to study over the next several weeks.

Jim Ellison was a hero. It was kind of funny, Blair reflected, but if Jim were to describe himself, he'd probably just say he was a man doing his job. Had he just been doing his job when he'd grabbed onto the landing skid of Kincaid's helicopter and dangled precariously several hundred feet above the city? Had he just been doing his job when he'd leaped atop a bus filled with terrified passengers who had been at the mercy of a psychotic killer? No, there was something inherent in the man himself. Whether it was part of a genetic makeup that also included his sentinel abilities or simply an ingrained sense of responsibility, Jim Ellison was special. Cascade PD was lucky to have him; the citizens of the city were lucky to have him.

And Blair was lucky to have an opportunity to work with him.

Abruptly, he realized the service was over, and the mourners were leaving. The police broke ranks but still appeared to be a cohesive force as they shielded the families of their fallen comrades from the prying questions and camera lenses of the media. The sea of uniforms made everyone look the same, and he lost sight of Jim in the confusion.

Wondering why he felt so out of sorts, he walked away from the gravesite and hurried for the shelter of his car, which was parked nearly at the end of the funeral procession. The media had no interest in him, again a blessing, so he was able to walk without being disturbed. Hunched against the cold, he was unaware of the quiet footsteps approaching over the sodden grass.

"Hey, Chief."

Startled, Blair looked up. "Jim," he said, stopping abruptly.

Jim stopped beside him and scowled back at the gaggle of media straggling in his wake. "Uh, give me a lift back to my truck? It's about sixty cars up the line."

"Sure," Blair said with a slight smile, climbing quickly behind the wheel.

Jim took off his hat before getting into the passenger seat and closing the door. "It's gonna start this time, right?"

"You never know," Blair admitted, inserting the key.

In response to his silent prayer, the Corvair's engine turned over with barely a protest from its grinding starter.

A reporter had the temerity to knock on the window, but Blair put the car in gear and pulled out of line to head for Jim's dark blue truck. The windshield wipers created streaks of moisture as they swept aside the falling snow.

"You need new wiper blades," Jim observed needlessly. After hurrying so far to catch up, he didn't seem to have anything in particular to say.

"I know. How are you doing?" Blair winced at how inane the query sounded.

"OK," Jim answered too quickly, then fell silent again. After a bit, he added, "Something like this is hard on the whole department, but I keep thinking -- " His voice trailed off and he glanced over at his companion. "How about you?"

He's changing the subject, Blair thought, wondering what Jim had almost blurted. "I'm OK -- a weird nightmare about being thrashed around inside a giant bubble, which I figure is my subconscious representation of the helicopter." He smiled in self-deprecation. "Or maybe it's part of the window-washing thrill ride -- I've never been fond of heights." He'd fallen several stories on a window-washing scaffold, and the view had been anything but spectacular; he'd been amazed that he hadn't lost his breakfast.

Even creeping up the narrow cemetery road, he reached Jim's truck all too quickly, with the real answer to his question left unspoken. As he stopped his car, he left the engine idling and turned on the heater. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

Jim shrugged. The dampness from their clothing was causing the windows to steam up as the heater sought to dispel the chill. The condensation created a cocoon of isolation, until it felt as if the two men were alone in spite of all the people and cars flowing around them. "To say thanks, I guess, for coming today."

Blair wasn't buying the easy explanation. "What is it you keep thinking?"

Jim pulled off his gloves and placed his hands on the dashboard, his fingers tapping a complex tattoo to a rhythm only he could hear.

The silence between them dragged out for a long minute. "Jim?"

Briefly, Jim closed his eyes, then opened them again, staring straight ahead at nothing as he said, "About that morning."

"When, exactly?"

"When we first arrived, and I said I smelled blood."

Oh. Blair felt his spirits plummet even lower. His voice fell to a whisper of misery. "I'm sorry."

Jim looked at him, startled. "Why?" he asked, genuinely confused. "I'm the one who smelled the blood -- I should have investigated."

"I distracted you by telling you about the cut on my finger," Blair answered bitterly. "I should have been paying more attention. I never figured there'd be trouble right there in the police station." Just like the officers who'd been killed, two of them gunned down in their own police garage, where they should have been safe....

"I should have known it was something more serious," Jim insisted, sounding angry with himself for the first time. "How the hell am I going to understand and use these damned senses if I can't even detect a dead body from four feet away!"

"Whoa, back up a minute," Blair protested, bristling at the self-criticism. "You're not being fair to yourself. Your senses came back on line just a few days ago. From what little you've told me about what you did during the takeover, I'd say you used them pretty effectively."

They'd had a light supper soon after the siege had ended. Both of them still had been numb from the events, but he'd managed to ask a few pertinent questions about Jim's experiences. "You smelled gasoline and knew you were beneath the police garage. You smelled a terrorist's aftershave through a solid door, for cryin' out loud! You felt the residual heat from a door that had been welded shut. You used your senses, man. More importantly, you controlled your senses. To me, that's pretty amazing after so short a time."

Jim didn't look entirely convinced. "It was pretty rudimentary," he said softly. "You told me not to be startled when one of my senses kicked in, so I was ready for it when it happened. It doesn't mean I controlled anything -- I didn't deliberately focus on a particular sense or anything."

"That's OK, Jim, you've gotta take baby steps before you can run." Blair took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I guess that goes for both of us," he added softly, tracing a design in the condensation on the side window with his finger before mustering the courage to look at his new partner. "I should have paid more attention and had you describe the intensity and location of the blood you smelled. Maybe together, we could have prevented everything that followed. It's something for us to remember."

"You're still willing to help me with this sentinel thing?" Jim asked, looking faintly incredulous. "I mean, after everything that's happened in the few days we've known each other, I wouldn't be surprised if you called it quits and went to study a prairie dog colony somewhere."

"An interesting social structure," Blair agreed with a grin, "but not anthropology."

Jim grimaced. "Whatever."

Blair tried not to sound too pathetically hopeful. "You want to do some more sensory work tomorrow? I have most of the morning free. I could meet you at the precinct."

After a brief hesitation, Jim nodded. "OK. Thanks." He pulled the door handle but didn't push it open. "See you tomorrow then."

"Right." The previous awkwardness descended between them again. Blair felt an unaccustomed sense of being left out. Jim was probably on his way to join his fellow police officers, perhaps at someone's home or maybe at a local cop hangout, to toast their fallen comrades. Whatever the plan, it did not include Blair Sandburg.

Jim still didn't open the door. "Sandburg, are you sure you're OK?"

Frowning, Blair answered, "Yeah, I'm OK. Why?"

"Because I'm planning to head home, take off this uniform, and have a hot shower. I'm probably really lousy company right now, but if you need to talk about what happened or anything -- "

Blair smiled at his abysmal lack of insight when it came to Jim Ellison, and shook his head. "No, that's OK. I'm kind of in the mood to pull a Greta Garbo myself."

Jim's brows came together for a moment, and then he nodded. "That's another thing we've gotta work on, Chief," he said, finally pushing open the door and climbing out.

"What's that?"

"Communication." Jim leaned down to peer in at the bemused young man. "When we're in the middle of a gun battle, I won't have time to try and figure out what you're saying."

"You won't have to," Blair assured him. "If we're ever in the middle of a gun battle, I'll be too busy keeping my head and my butt down to worry about saying anything."

Jim looked skeptical at the possibility of such reasonable behavior. "See ya, Sandburg," he said, and shut the door.

"'Bye, Jim," Blair said softly, feeling warmed by more than the meager air streaming from the car's heater.

His observation of the Sentinel had barely begun, but he was a little surprised to realize he hoped his relationship with the man himself would continue long after his study was concluded.

THE END