"Jim!" Blair cried.
Jim Ellison shook his head, blinked, and ducked. The bullets flew over his head with millimeters to spare.
He clearly heard the kid who had fired the gun curse and toss the weapon aside, footsteps beating the tempo of a quick retreat. Another set grew louder as they approached. Hands grasping his shoulders, blue eyes peering anxiously into his. "Jim, you okay?"
"Dammit! Yes, I'm fine," he brushed off his partner's ministrations, "Damn!"
"Amen," Blair seconded quietly, "God, that was close."
Jim ignored it, "Damn it all! He got away!" He raised his fist, preparing to smash it into the brick wall of the alley. He could almost feel the pain, well-deserved punishment for letting the ball drop--hell, throwing it away--
He was stopped by his partner's sardonic tone, "Yeah, now that would be effective." When he paused mid-swing Blair continued, "I mean, you can do your job so much better with your hand bandaged up, unable to carry a gun, confined to a desk for the next week..."
"Hell of a lot of good I'm doing out here!" he retorted. "I let him get away, I had him, and I just stood there and waited for him to slip through my fingers--"
"You zoned," Blair stated calmly. "You were listening for the other one, you heard him at the window--"
"And I lost it," the Sentinel condemned himself flatly.
"You zoned. For less than a minute. If you want to point fingers it's my fault, I'm sorry--"
"You were busy dealing with his cohort," he excused his partner. "He's secured, right?"
"Handcuffed in the back seat. Jim, seriously, I'm the one to blame. If I had been a second later--God, he was aiming straight at your head..."
"Where else do they aim?" Jim asked rhetorically. Wasn't a two-bit hood in all of Cascade who wasn't fully educated on the function and usage of bullet-proof vests. Most criminals worth their salt owned one themselves. They only aimed for the chest when their bullets were armor-piercing.
This wasn't law enforcement. This was war.
He had just lost one of the battles. And now Sandburg was reacting--that seemed to be his strategy of late. Deal with the crisis with utter, calm, competency and then panic after the fact, when it hit just how much could have gone wrong. To an extent that had always been his way of handling situations, but the tendency seemed more pronounced now. Perhaps because he was older, slightly wiser and a little less hyper. Or perhaps because he now was facing crises with far greater frequency.
At any rate, Blair's pulse had sky-rocketed since the danger had passed. "Man, if he had hit you because you zoned--I should've been right behind you, God, Jim, I'm sorry--"
"Relax, Chief. I'm fine," Jim assured him. "And it's my fault, not yours. If I hadn't zoned---
"You're the Sentinel, that's part of what you do," Blair wrote it off. "I'm your Guide; keeping you from zoning is what I'm supposed to do. I've been getting lazy, you haven't had any problems in a couple of weeks--"
"I thought I had it under control--"
"It's my responsibility, Jim!" he shouted over his partner. "Look, it hasn't even been six months since you returned--since your senses came back. I should have a handle on how far they've recovered, but obviously I screwed up. This has nothing to do with you. Zoning is a natural function of a Sentinel's extended senses; it even has its place. It's my job to make sure it's only invoked when necessary. My error if you fall into it at a bad time--my fault, if you get hurt because of it."
"If you're going to take that angle--it's neither of our faults. Just a mistake. We don't have time to be passing the buck, we have duties," Jim reminded him.
"Fine. Fine," Blair replied. "Then let's get on them." He spun on his heel and strode back to the truck.
Casting one final look around the alley, acoustically probing the window where the gunner had ambushed him one last time, Jim followed his partner back to his vehicle. He realized as he left that not only had their argument wasted several minutes, most of his anger at himself had bled away, either thrown at Blair or faded into memory.
On second analysis, he concluded that had probably been Sandburg's purpose all along.
He heard the radio crackle to life and hurried to the street to take the next report. One thing about life now, it was never boring. One couldn't go five minutes without a new assignment--in fact, if they were that far apart it felt like a vacation. No matter how much they did, how hard they worked, there was always another urgent call, another rescue to be made or crime to be stopped or dealer to be arrested. In fact they came with even greater frequency; the more they did, the more they found to do.
Chief Banks had confirmed this with no small degree of pride. "They're beginning to trust us again," he had said. "People had just about given up on the cops being able to do anything, bad or good. That's changing; they're coming to us for help, now. They're starting to believe in us."
It would help if Jim could believe in that himself. If he had some evidence..."You're being way too hard on yourself," Blair had insisted recently. "Just look at what we've done, in so little time--"
"What? Tell me that, Sandburg, what have we actually accomplished?" A student had been killed a couple day before that conversation, shot on the street a block from the university campus. Probably a buy gone bad, it wasn't clear. Blair hadn't slept in the intervening two nights; he hadn't known the boy and was no longer working at Rainier, but he still had ties.
Nevertheless he fought back despair, kept their spirits up. "What haven't we done? We closed down Gettering--that punched a major hole in the organization's production here in the city. We've collared some of the alliance's primary dealers and suppliers. We've even put a dent in the corruption in the force." That was possibly their greatest achievement, ferreting out those officers on the take, the officials bribed to look the other way for far too many years. Amazing what one could hear in the station halls, when the listener was a Sentinel. He had almost conquered his residual guilt of eavesdropping on his associates.
It was a good thing the chief was on their side. Without Simon's help their accusations would have meant nothing; with Chief Banks to back them up...the mayor was currently undergoing a federal investigation. Half the city officials had something dirty on the side. Unearthing them was a good part of the fight, though right now they were devoting even more time to keeping their efforts from becoming a witch-hunt. There were honest men and women left in Cascade, but separating them from those using their positions to further their own ends was far from simple.
Jim didn't care for any of that. Legal infighting, costly lawyers--the whole situation was a mess. There was a difference between an official who accepted a seafood dinner from a corporate sponsor and one who took a cool ten thousand for letting shipments past customs, same as there was a difference between smoking a couple joints on the weekend and pushing crack on grade-schoolers. Drawing the line, though, that was the difficult part. He preferred the streets in that respect. Lines clearly demarcated, actions obvious...danger more straightforward, physical.
He understood that in the long run more might be accomplished in courtrooms. And he suspected Blair favored that battlefield over the possibly deadly back lots and alleys. Yet his partner never said a word, followed him without complaint no matter where he lead. Always with a cheerful mien and willing attitude, ready and able to take on whatever may come.
As Cascade's Sentinel he needed Blair as his Guide, to deal with his heightened abilities. But if he were near-sighted and hard of hearing he'd need Sandburg just as much, required his partnership to keep going, to do what he needed to do. To enjoy what he wanted to do. Everything centered around his partner, his entire life orbiting another. He wasn't sure he could break away even if he had wanted to; accepted it, because he knew he didn't want to. And as Blair showed no inclination to pull back himself, he could afford to let it be and focus on larger issues. Like protecting the city--their tribe.
They drove to the reported block. Blair switched on the sirens and flashers, and by the time they arrived most of the gathering gangs had scattered. Another benefit of the police's improved reputation: they now had a certain intimidation factor.
A nervous mother dared emerge from her apartment to express her gratitude, "Thank you, thank you, those bad boys, they might've hurt someone. Big fight, so many boys, they would hurt each other worse. Thank you!"
Nothing else they could do on the empty streets, so they accepted her thanks and returned to the truck, heading to the station. In the back seat their suspect remarked, "Stupid, man, come all the way out here for that? Just kids fightin' in the street, thought you big cops had better things to do."
"Most of those kids probably had switchblades, or worse," Blair said, twisting in his seat to glance at the dealer. "They might not even be high school age, but that doesn't mean they aren't dangerous."
"We get deaths in the day gangs," Jim added. "All the time."
"So? Couple of kids duck too slow, their parents cry, lots more left. You want danger, go after some nighthawks," he returned smugly.
Jim ignored him, used to the cavalier attitude of a hardened criminal. This man might be barely out of his teens, but he had grown up in this system, could hardly see the wrong in it. The law hadn't prevented these things, only helped control them. It was that control that they had lost entirely, were fighting so desperately to rebuild.
Blair should have been accustomed to it by now, but he still had to say, "We stop them too, but what the day gangs do is just as important--maybe more. If your kid brother died in one of those fights, wouldn't you have wanted it stopped?"
"Don't have no kid brother."
"Fine, your friends' brothers, or sisters, whatever--you, when you were younger--"
"I made it fine, I'm quick," the dealer said sullenly.
"Forget it, Chief," Jim murmured. "Just drop it." As he did, with one final glance at the handcuffed man.
That was the worst part, the children involved. The majority arrested were under thirty, and too many juveniles to hold or rehabilitate. There were kids in Cascade who had never so much as been inside a classroom, because there was no way to enforce that law. Too many other concerns. And few enough ways to teach or help those who did make it to school once in a while.
So they joined the day gangs, until they were old enough to become members of night hawks, and if they rose far enough in the ranks the organization might hire them to deal, produce, or ship; or the private alliance would contract them for their own sales. Depended on where they were, whose territory they fell under.
Not complete chaos after all. Just disaster. The longer it went on the more people paid for it, in lives and spirits lost. And no matter how Blair tried to point to the brighter side, optimistically recalled their accomplishments and hopes, they were still a long ways away from victory.
Two hours later the prisoner was in an interrogation room and Sentinel and Guide were in the midst of a rousing round of good cop/bad cop. Blair, relying on his innate empathy and already-displayed compassion, made a natural sympathizer, accentuated by his non-regulation appearance. Even with the shorter hair, his civilian status was never in doubt. Jim assumed the role of tough cop without difficulty; generally it was harder to curb his aggression than it was to release it.
"We want the name. Now!" and to punctuate the command he slammed his hand down on the table.
The prisoner--his prints had identified him as Jackson Drew--didn't so much as flinch. "And I wanna lawyer--you think you can keep me here forever?"
"I dunno, man," Blair returned. "The legal system's way overloaded as is; there aren't any attorneys available, won't be for a while--"
"You'll starve to death before one shows," Jim snarled. "If anyone's willing defend you--even lawyers think twice about helping a son of a bitch selling crack to ten year olds."
"Hey, man, it's just business. Gotta make a living somehow." He leaned back in the metal folding chair. "'Til I see my lawyer I ain't talking."
"Yeah, but you won't be eating, either," Blair murmured, "unless you're going to pay for a lawyer yourself." Drew twitched at that; they all knew that the alliance had neither the funds nor the inclination to go out of its way for its members. It wasn't a corporation but a consortium, and it worked entirely on the big fish-little fish principle. Sink or swim, and it didn't care which unless you tried to drag others down with you. "Come on," plead Blair, "you don't need to say much, just a little cooperation. If they think you have something big..." He cocked his head meaningfully toward Jim, "I can't do much, but if you give me an edge I could negotiate."
Drew only narrowed his eyes, shaking his head.
"Listen, you little punk-ass--" Jim began, stepping close to tower over him, fist raised as if to knock him from the chair.
"Whoa, hold on," Blair protested. "Think we better take a breather." He grabbed Jim's arm and forced it down, ushering his partner from the room.
As soon as the door closed behind them Jim smacked his open hand against the door frame. "He hasn't given us a damn thing!"
"Yeah, I noticed. Gotta watch the temper there, big guy."
"Oh, lay off, Sandburg," irritated. "You know I wouldn't touch him."
"Mm, I know, but I bet he doesn't--that was quite a performance. You almost scared me--ever consider acting as a career? Maybe you missed your calling."
"Lot of good it did."
"Take it you haven't had much success?" asked the captain of Major Crimes, coming down the hall.
"No," Blair told Brown with a sigh.
"Nothing, H," Jim seconded grimly. "If we hadn't had his prints on file we wouldn't even know his name. He won't give the name of his partner, who they've dealt with, who they purchase from, nothing. Won't confirm or deny anything we ask. We've been at this for over half an hour and we knew more when we started."
"Sounds like you need a new approach," the captain commented.
"What we need is a lead!" Jim snapped. "A clue, a name, something! We haven't done anything in the last month--picking up random dealers does nothing, there's always more. We need to cut the supply lines, break the organizers--kill the root, and then clear away the rest of the mess. Otherwise it just grows back."
Brown blinked, turned to Blair. "I take it you've been discussing with this him again, Doc?"
"A bit, here and there. Anthropologically it's kind of interesting." Throwing up his hands to block Jim's sharp glare, "Hey, I analyze it because that's why I'm on the payroll!" Officially, at least. "Can't help it if I find it intellectually stimulating as well." He looked back to the captain. "He's right. We need a break; all this small-time stuff is just spinning wheels in the long run. Taking Drew off the streets doesn't help--but the information he might have, that could do something."
"We need it," Jim said.
"So, keep trying," Brown told them. "With a method that works," he added unhelpfully.
Jim glowered at him. Sometimes Brown took entirely too much pleasure in being their nominal superior. Blair, however, fell immediately to the problem at hand, "Let's get back in there. I have an idea."
"What's that?" Regarding his partner with some suspicion.
The gleam in Sandburg's eye did not bode well. "We psyche him out. Come on, Jim, follow my lead," and he directed his partner back into the room.
The suspect looked up at their entrance and yawned, slowly and deliberately. He nearly choked on his tongue when Blair grabbed his chair and rocked it backward, shoving forward when he released it so the legs clanged against the cement floor. Drew, jarred by the impact, blinked at him confusedly, "What--"
Blair didn't let him get any further. "Shit, man, you could've told us, you could've told me, why didn't you let us know that much? If you had just told us we could've done something, stopped him somehow--"
"What are you talking about?" Drew straightened in his seat, adjusted himself. Jim could almost see him re-establishing his equilibrium.
Blair wouldn't allow him to maintain it. "Don't you dare sit there and act like you had no idea," he shouted into the man's face. "He's your partner, he must've told you what he was planning--I don't believe you'd go along with it, even a bastard like you, come on, man--I wasn't expecting decency, but this--"
"Shit," the prisoner groaned, "What'd Harris--" catching his slip too late, "--what'd he do?"
Blair didn't even seem to notice, so filled with rage. Outside the room Brown was probably already running the name down; at least he had narrowed the options a bit. Jim listened and heard the captain's voice, probably on the phone...no, talking to someone; Detective Rafe had joined the observation.
Well, they were getting quite a show for their time. Blair had pushed away from Drew and now was pacing around the room, flinging his arms in the air as he raved, "I don't believe you wouldn't know, God, if you knew--I tell you, man, I was almost ready to believe you, try to help you. Good kid gone bad, that's what I was trying to tell myself, no matter what they say, but this--I can't believe...I could kill you myself!"
"What, man?" demanded the prisoner, for the first time showing unease. He tracked Sandburg's movements around the room, circling the table, fists opening and clenching as if he were fighting to contain his fury. His eyes were so wide white entirely circled the blue, darting around without ever quite fixing on the dealer.
"Uh, man?" Drew muttered, glancing from him to Jim. "Is he, like..."
Jim shrugged and played along, "I don't know. He doesn't get like this very often...but he's got good reason, now."
"What's wrong with you!" Blair screamed suddenly, as if it had exploded out of him, so unexpectedly Jim couldn't help but jump. Drew stared at him like a transfixed rabbit, the bemused, nervous expression of a sane man dealing with a possibly dangerous psychotic. "Can you just explain why you would go along with it, can you justify it somehow?" He whirled and grabbed the chair back over the man's shoulders, trapping him between his arms, their faces only inches away. "Why?"
Drew babbled, "Aw, shit, man, did Harris--I didn't know, honest, I didn't know what he was doin', he was the one that dealt with them, we didn't have nothing planned. We were supposed to meet tonight, he didn't tell me nothing else. Smith didn't say nothing--"
"Smith?" Jim inquired. He took Blair by the shoulders and pulled him back.
Drew shook his head, "That's the only name he uses. Harris brought me to him, I don't know who he is. He gives us the stuff on schedule, that's all I know, I swear, man, that's all."
"Harris who?" asked Jim.
Drew started, "Wait, I thought--"
"Who's Harris?" Blair yelled, made a motion to grab him again.
Jim interposed himself between Drew and his flailing partner, "We just want confirmation of the name."
"C.C. Harris." Drew seemed to sink into himself as he mumbled the name. "Christopher Harris."
"Thank you," Jim said, and escorted his seething partner outside. Rafe and Brown broke into spontaneous applause as soon as they shut the door, which Jim joined enthusiastically. Sandburg smiled ironically and essayed a bow.
"Great performance," the captain congratulated him. "We got a couple names, we got a date. Now all we need is a place and we're home free."
"That won't be as simple," Blair commented. "I think he's onto us; if he's got any brains he's going to clam up."
"And he doesn't seem that dumb. Unfortunately." Captain Brown looked at his men. "Ideas?"
"Cut him loose," Rafe suggested. "Seriously. Release him, follow him, listen to what he says."
Brown shook his head. "Good idea but no; we can't risk losing him. He won't agree to a bug, and our listening devices aren't reliable enough--most of the smart crooks have jammers, anyway."
The detective shrugged. "So don't use devices. Just have Jim listen."
There was a moment of silence and a series of looks exchanged between the four men. Jim scrutinized his colleague's expressions--Rafe with an odd wry confidence, and Brown showing resigned acceptance. Then he turned to Blair, who seemed absolutely speechless, a rare condition indeed.
The captain finally sighed, "I think we should go talk to the chief," to which the others immediately agreed.
Jim grabbed Blair before he could follow Brown and Rafe, brought him aside for a moment to hiss, "What was that? They know?"
Blair tried not to squirm, keeping his tone relaxed, "Apparently."
"You didn't tell them?" The Sentinel was all suspicion.
Wasting no time to establish the truth, "I had no idea--before you got back I hadn't even seen them for a couple years, remember."
"Sandburg, you're sure--"
"Jim," working to keep his voice level--no easy trick; he was still hyped from interrogating Drew. But Jim needed him to be calm. "I told them nothing, swear it by my first-born son."
"Sandburg..." his partner began, trailed off and blinked at him.
Blair waited just long enough for the gaze to become a stare, then grinned, "Kidding, man. I would've mentioned any children to you by now, trust me. And I would have said something if I knew your secret was out. I'm as in the dark as you are--let's get down to Simon's office and see if some light can be shed there."
"I don't know what the issue is," Rafe was arguing when they entered. "I mean, one of us has abilities, we're all aware of them--we should use that to our advantage. If you're willing, Jim," with a respectful nod to his fellow detective. "I know, when he first got back we didn't want to add more pressure, but it's stupid to play dumb for this long."
"How long have you known?" Blair beat Jim to the question.
"Since you published the diss," said Brown. "Come on, we're not all brains like you, Doc, but we can read."
"The librarians were very helpful," Rafe added. "We gave them your name, filled out the appropriate slip, and they brought it right to us. Wouldn't let us check it out but they made photocopies for us to read at our leisure."
"Not that it was all that fun," the captain commented. "You could've made it easier on us laymen. But pretty interesting, what we did get, a lot of stuff made sense. Things Jim had done. Why you were here."
"Of course we didn't think it did much good," Rafe said soberly. "Since Jim was...gone. But when you came back--we remembered."
Jim looked to Banks, leaning back in his chair and quietly watching them. "Simon, did you know?"
The district chief shook his head. "Had no idea...should've guessed, though."
"So who else read it?" Ellison demanded.
"Just us," Brown replied. "Oh, and Joel--he was still on the force then. Don't worry, we're not planning on talking. No point in having an ace in the hole if you show it off to everyone. We figured you'd 'fess up eventually...and if you didn't, you probably had your reasons. Right?"
He glanced sidelong at Jim, but the Sentinel wouldn't meet his gaze. Yes, he had his reasons, but he wasn't eager to announce them...admit that he hadn't trusted them. Blair could understand that; not an easy confession to make, even to yourself. They were his friends, but he hadn't been planning to tell them any of it.
And then there were the other reasons. Jim wasn't willing or eager to examine those, either.
"Sorry, guys," Blair covered for his Sentinel. "That was me, asking him to keep it under wraps. Before it was because it could have affected my research, and now...well, we weren't sure you'd understand. It is kind of unusual, and I didn't want you to think Jim was a freak, or God help us a superhero." He grinned. "I mean, if he's Wonder-Ellison then I'd have to be the sidekick, and I hate those florescent tights!"
The other two chuckled over that mental image. Jim shot him a quick look, the merest glance but Blair could easily read the gratitude in his eyes.
"So," Rafe said, still smiling, "now that we know, and you know we know, can we put it into action? Release Drew and see what happens--listen, smell, whatever?"
Brown nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sounds like a plan--Jim?"
"Sure," Ellison agreed. "Whatever it takes." He sounded no different but Blair could see the determination returning to his stance, straightening his back the tiniest bit more. It helped that Rafe and Brown had known for this time, and weren't disturbed by his difference, or angry it had been kept from them--accepting. Just what Jim needed.
Now if only he would acknowledge why he was so disturbed by their knowledge, by what others had done with that knowledge. Not something Blair had much hope for. He had tried often enough to get his partner to talk in the last five months, but Ellison clamped his jaw shut whenever the topic of his missing years came up, no matter how blatant or subtly.
Just as he refused to discuss his nightmares, even when they tormented his sleep almost nightly. Rare for a week to pass that Blair didn't have to wake him from one; other times he'd rouse himself with his own cries. Always embarrassed if he woke to find his partner by his bed; usually he'd apologize, roll over and feign sleep until Blair left. And nary a mention in the morning.
Occasionally, if Blair quizzed him when he first opened his eyes, still half in the grip of his dreams, Jim would describe bits and pieces of what he experienced. Never enough details to make any sense of them, but enough...smooth walls and dark rooms, brilliant lights and sharp needles. Remnants of ordeals he was probably better off forgetting. What little he mumbled was enough to haunt Blair's sleep as well, though he was sure the horrors of his imagination were no match to what Jim had endured. And that thought was far worse than any nightmare.
"All right," Simon declared, and he jumped his train of thought to attend to the chief, "if Jim's agreed, then try it tonight. Brown?"
"We'll release Drew at nine this evening," the captain decided. "That should give him enough time to get to any rendezvous he might have. Jim, Blair, you stay as far away as you can and still be able to listen--that's a hundred feet at least, right?"
"If he's whispering," Jim confirmed. "And behind a wall."
"No problem," Blair assured them. At least if Jim didn't zone...he could see past the facade of confidence on his partner's face, realized the Sentinel had the same concerns. Laying a hand on his arm he murmured in an undertone pitched for his ears only, "It'll be fine." He'd stay on the ball this time. No problem.
It went exactly as planned, at least until the end. They fed Jackson Drew a line about technicalities, evidence loss, and first offenses; and let him back onto the street. He called ahead and got a friend with a motorcycle to take him back to his part of the city. Jim and Blair followed from a couple blocks away in Jim's new Ford pick-up, Blair driving so Jim could focus on anything they might say. Nothing, as it turned out; in silence Drew disembarked and entered a bar, and they pulled into a nearby alley and observed.
Lots of voices in the bar; hard to discriminate between them. Brow furrowed in concentration, Jim followed Drew's footsteps on the tile. They couldn't enter the bar themselves; he'd notice them. But the Sentinel listened to everything he did.
He didn't seem to be there to drink so much as to socialize, catch up on whatever he might have missed. Low murmur as he began speaking with another patron, nothing important, trivialities. Passing question about the bust; he shrugged it off, said that the cops hadn't been able to hold him. Started flirting with a woman, a waitress perhaps, who rejected his advances in no uncertain terms. Then he posed casual query about his partner Harris, which got no response.
After an hour of this, Jim's head began to ache. Sandburg on the seat next to him was yawning. The Sentinel was relieved to hear Drew muttering goodbyes--maybe he was going back to his flat to sleep. Brown had agreed to put others on surveillance in that case, and they would be free to get some rest themselves.
No such luck. When he exited he furtively glanced in either direction and hurried across the street. Blair straightened up, snapped on his seatbelt and put his hand on the ignition. "Don't start it yet," Jim instructed softly. "Can't risk him hearing and we don't know where he's going."
Not far; he ducked into an alley on the other side of the road. Jim listened hard and made out a second pair of lungs breathing, confirmed when Drew hissed, "You there, CC?"
Tap of a hard-soled footstep. Tension in Drew's voice, "Smith--I'm sorry, I don't know where Harris is--"
"Stay here," Jim whispered to his partner, and quietly opened his door, not closing it completely. They most likely would notice nothing over the sporadic traffic, but it couldn't hurt to be careful. Turning up his collar he slipped out and strode down the sidewalk, stopping to lean against the brick wall opposite the alley. He tried to look inconspicuous, innocuous, waiting for someone or maybe just catching his breath. Harder than it seemed; there were almost no pedestrians, despite the active bar. Few people willingly walked these streets at night.
But no one was bothering him at the moment, and he could see across into the dark alley. Drew's back was to him, partly blocking the man he was addressing. Smith. The dealer sounded far less composed than he had during his interrogation, practically babbling, "I know we had the deal but we had a problem today, the cops showed during a buy and they took the goods. Harris split with the cash before he got caught, don't know where he is now, but he told me about this appointment--"
"Don't concern yourself with Mr. Harris," Smith said. Low voice, and cool, very cool. "What precisely did the cops get?"
"All we hadn't sold yet, maybe half a kilo. They collared me and asked some questions, but they couldn't hold me."
What little Jim could see of Smith didn't fit the grimy confines of the alley. Light hair trimmed short, clean-shaven, and he appeared to be wearing a suit and tie, charcoal gray. Some of the organization's representatives might be so well-groomed, but rarely those of the alliance, and Drew wasn't an organization dealer. Nor did Smith seem to be. Too calm; an upper member of the organization wouldn't be, not on these streets--they knew how quickly they could wind up dead. The alliance dominated this neighborhood.
"What cops?" asked Smith.
"What?"
"The cops who questioned you. Did you get their names?" Was there a touch of impatience in that level tone?
"Uh." Drew thought hard. Jim saw Smith look up, eyes glittering in the ambient glow from the streetlights. The detective ducked his head, brought his hands to his face as if lighting a cigarette. I'm nobody, don't pay me any attention--I'm too far away to see or hear anything, you know.
The dealer snapped his fingers, sharp click echoing in the alley. "Detective Ellison. John or something. And he had this partner with a girl's name--"
"Blair Sandburg," Smith murmured.
"Yeah, that's it, I think. Crazy bastard. He wanted to know about Harris, said CC had done something, I don't know what, though--maybe he was yanking my chain, I couldn't tell. He seemed pretty pissed--you know anything about that? What has Harris been doing?"
"Don't concern yourself with him," Smith repeated. "What did you tell Ellison, that he cut you loose?"
"Nothin'!" Voice fluctuating as Drew shook his head emphatically. "I swear, they got Harris's name, but that's it--I didn't rat on no one, I don't deal with cops. They let me go 'cuz of some stupid law, you know, paperwork stuff--"
"They just released you?"
"Yeah, weird, but I wasn't gonna fight it! I just split, thought Harris would be here to meet with you, but he's gone--what's up with him, what is he into? Hell, I don't even know about you, who you are--"
"And you won't be able to tell what you do know," said Smith quietly.
Jim heard Drew's breath catch, didn't dare raise his eyes. "Aw, shit, man, please--I swear, I didn't tell them nothing, they didn't bug me--"
"Ellison wouldn't need a bug," Smith told him. "He'd track you down--he probably has heard too much already. That can't be helped. But this can be." Two muffled thuds--a silenced gun. Drew made no sound beyond the impact of his body against the pavement.
Swearing, Jim drew his own piece, dodged across the street at a diagonal, out of the line of fire. Cautiously he sidled along the wall, took a breath and ducked into the alley, aiming his gun at Smith's position, "Police, don't move!"
No one there, and three doors lead out of the alley. Drew lay on the ground, head angled back, a trail of blood dribbling from the small hole between his eyes. No need to check his pulse. Instead Jim listened for another heartbeat; Smith couldn't have gotten far...
Nothing behind any of the surrounding walls, though he focused to the point of zoning. Squeal of tires outside on the street brought him out of that, Blair slamming the truck's door as he dashed to his partner's side. He skidded to a halt upon spotting Drew's body, "Jim? What happened?"
"Smith killed him."
"Who?"
"Smith." Jim shook his head, "Dammit, where is he? I don't know where he went--"
"Easy," Blair soothed. "He must have taken one of the doors, right--listen for footsteps--"
"I am, Sandburg. There's no one behind any of them, that I can hear--" At the corner he heard a vehicle brake suddenly, a car door opening. Shoving past his partner he made it to the street in time to see it pulling away, sleek black car, turning out of sight before he could reach the corner.
Blair pulled up in the truck a moment later, calling through the window, "You see where it went?"
Jim shook his head, climbed into the passenger seat. "I didn't hear him," he panted disbelievingly. "I couldn't hear him at all!"
"You heard his car fine, though," Blair pointed out. "So...either he's literally heartless, or he's too quiet to be heard. Remember Brackett's white-noise generators?"
"Why--" They weren't standard dealer equipment, at least. Except...except Smith had seemed to recognize his name. But if it was a generator, he hadn't activated it until after he had known Jim might be out there. After he had shot Drew, even. Revealed his hand only to escape...how had he known at all? What did he even know?
While these thoughts chased around his head he called in and reported Drew's murder. They spent a few minutes in the alley waiting for the forensics team to arrive, searching for clues with the truck's headlights and a flashlight. Nothing, unsurprisingly; the door Smith had apparently escaped through was unlocked but only lead down a narrow hall out to the street. If Jim had only heard him it wouldn't have been that hard to follow--but he had been prepared. Another round lost.
When the team came Jim and Blair returned to the station to discuss what little they had learned with Captain Brown, the three of them trying to make some sense of it. "We need to know who Smith is. And we need to know what happened to Harris," Sandburg finally summed up half an hour of mental exertion. "But I don't think we can do that tonight--tomorrow, then, captain? After a good night's rest?"
His partner could be very convincing. They actually made it home and were in their beds by twelve. Not asleep, however. The events of the day insisted on playing themselves over and again in Jim's mind, catching Drew, the lead he had given them, and it had ended up going somewhere entirely different than they had expected...not the organization or the alliance. He suspected it wasn't drugs at all.
What it was, however...he didn't dare go there. Bright lights and featureless hallways, waiting for him under his eyelids should he drop off. Rafe and Brown both knew, not about that, but they knew the reason for which he had been taken, his senses, and they'd probably have put it together by now. And Smith--who was he? Obviously an assumed name, cold voice and clean suit, not an average criminal...not a street crook at all, but a far more heinous sort, the instigator of horrors that wouldn't soil his hands. But he had killed Drew, to prevent whatever small secrets he knew from escaping. And he had known Jim would be near. Or feared it, at least...
He didn't know Smith; surely he had never heard that smooth dark tone, the sharp-featured face he had barely glimpsed, he didn't recognize it, did he? He had never met the man before, not in his life, not anywhere in his memory...not that he knew of, anyway.
Eventually he slipped from thought to sleep, only to jerk awake hours later, gasping as if he had run a marathon, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. There was a presence in his room, a second heartbeat, familiar...warm hand on his shoulder. Blair. "Yeah, Sandburg?"
"You were shouting." Quietly, not accusing or questioning, only stating a fact.
"Yeah." His short hair was matted under his fingers. Consciously he slowed his breathing. "Thanks, Blair."
"No problem." Bright blue gaze cutting through the darkness. "Want to talk?"
"No." Sharper than he intended, but too late to take back the denial.
Blair wasn't disturbed. "Was it about today, or before?" he asked quietly.
"Both," Jim replied after a pause, "neither. I don't know." He waited a bit before saying, "You can go back to bed."
"Sure you don't want a bedtime story?" Teasing because he knew it was needed, that reassurance of normality, comfort in patterns and familiarity and everyday life. Not shapeless horrific dreams but warm reality.
"No glass of water, either. Goodnight, Chief." His eyes tracked his partner through the dark room. Even in his bedroom he would still be able to hear his heart; he never told Blair how often he used that rhythm to count himself down into sleep.
It always was even, never accelerated with fear or interrupted by panicked gasps. Before he could stop himself he had asked, "Do you have nightmares?"
Sandburg paused at the doorway but didn't answer immediately, and Jim half-hoped he hadn't heard the soft query. Then he turned back, shook his head slowly. Knowing the Sentinel would see even if he couldn't. "No. Not since--not for a long time."
"How did you stop them?" He heard his own voice and wondered at it, so small and quiet, but it was late at night and only he and his partner were here to hear it.
Blair's teeth flashed in a twisted smile. "I stopped dreaming." He waited. When Jim didn't respond he headed back to his room, bed creaking as he settled on it.
Jim listened as his breathing slowed. He closed his own eyes, rolled over and felt the mattress springs shift under his weight. That was one solution, he supposed. Now if only he knew how to effect it...
Fortunate for Sandburg that he had no dreams. Therefore he was under no obligation to discuss them, as he repeatedly pushed Jim to do. No pressure to define borderless unformed fears, label emotions he barely knew he could feel, let alone understand. He couldn't tell Blair all that. Not that nightmare...not so many of them. How many times had he closed his eyes, and found himself in that place again, those lights too bright overhead, those men...
A freezing shiver coursed down his spine. Frightened by the memory of a mere dream--it wasn't real. It hadn't happened. They never had taken his partner.
Those were the worst nightmares of all. He would be watching, not part of it, only a helpless observer, and he'd see them with Blair, be forced to watch everything they did to him, every test, every experiment, deprivations, exacerbations, needles, drugs, electroshock, poisons. And he all the time as if behind an impenetrable glass wall, banging his fists against the invisible barrier and screaming his partner's name, ordering, demanding, begging them to stop--they never heard, they never did. No matter what he said or tried--nothing he could do.
He'd awake in a cold sweat, throat aching if he'd been shouting aloud, fists clenched so tightly his nails left imprints in his palms. Sometimes Blair would be right there; sometimes Jim would be alone and would force himself to listen, hear him always in the other room, close and present and safe. He was fine; they had never touched him, not once in those seven years. When Jim had first returned there was the abduction, but that had been the alliance's attempt to extract vengeance, nothing so covert and terrible as his nightmares. He had overhead one snippet of conversation but nothing had come of it. It was over. He was safe, and Blair was safe.
When he finally convinced himself of that, then he could tell Blair his dreams, perhaps; when they both could laugh at the foolishness of it all, then he could admit them. Right now his mind still whirled with the vivid false substance of the nightmare, and the too-real enigma of the man Smith. If they could puzzle that out, maybe then he wouldn't dream so darkly.
Meanwhile he stared up at the ceiling and waited for morning, forgoing sleep for the time being.
Jim hadn't slept well the night before. Blair noted the exhaustion in his eyes and the amount of coffee he downed before they left for the station. More lines on his face than there had been years ago; he couldn't hide fatigue quite so easily. Characteristically he said nothing, and Blair decided against asking him. He had witnessed the nightmare, after all; he wondered if Jim had been able to sleep after it. Probably not.
He wished Jim would bring it up on his own. The cries which had roused Blair had held a note he had heard before, but only when Jim slept. A pleading, terrified tone, nothing like his normal waking voice. Jim Ellison didn't beg. But in his nightmares was something so frightful he couldn't even fight it, could only pray for its ending. Understandable that he refused to mention it when awake; Blair wished he would regardless. Whatever it was, together they could find some way through it, talk out an answer and end that torment. And give Jim a full night's sleep for once.
In the meantime they had other matters to discuss. Jim had recorded a hasty but complete report of Drew and Smith's conversation the night before; now in the clear light of day they went over it again, tried to interpret everything said. It wasn't much to go on. Worse still, even when he studied the events as objectively as possible, he kept reaching the same logical, unavoidable conclusion. Smith knew about Jim's abilities, and had been prepared for them. Because he suspected the Sentinel might be around, or because he always was ready? Either explanation made Blair's skin run cold.
Jim worked with a sketch artist to make up an approximation of the man he had seen; Smith was a murderer in addition to whatever else he might be involved in, and at least they could put out a warrant. Not that there was much hope they'd find him. Jim wasn't even sure he could pick the man out of a lineup, though he'd recognize his voice it might not hold up in court, and it was a sure bet the generic name was an alias. But they did what they could.
Of course Smith wasn't the only concern; another random killing hardly put a dent in Cascade's active criminal schedule. Vice had had a successful bust the night before and half the officers were still mopping up the red tape around that one, processing who and what they had apprehended. And the phones were ringing off the hook as usual.
"Yes, ma'am, thank you, we'll get back to you, ma'am," Rafe said into his, his slightly accented voice tighter than normal for the easy-going detective. He slammed down the receiver with more force than necessary, shouted over to the Major Crimes receptionist, "Screen the missing persons calls a little more carefully--that's the third I've had to handle this morning."
Jim was busy flipping through arrest records on the off-chance Smith's face might pop up. Blair scooted his chair over to Rafe's desk, inquired, "What was that one about?"
Rafe sighed. "Some loco mother, upset because her baby didn't come home last night." He rubbed his temples, shaking his head when Blair raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, sorry, I don't mean it like that, but the kid is seventeen and has a girlfriend; he's been 'missing' before, last time for almost a week. I'm not saying he wouldn't get into trouble, but it hasn't been twenty-four hours, and though he is a minor we don't have time for a pointless APB."
"Lots of them today?" Blair murmured sympathetically. In truth he was torn; on the one hand he could understand the detective's impatience, on the other it was their job, after all. Worried mothers had good reason to be paranoid. But Rafe understood this; can't call a man on letting off steam, not when his heart was still true to his duty.
"We always get 'em," Rafe said. "Today's just been bad. There could've been something big last night, for all we know. Maybe a gang fight--remember when the alliance declared itself? Major shifts in territory; kids got stranded; if they were in the wrong colors they couldn't go home until they negotiated their safety. It's crazy but that's the way it is--we'll have to investigate, but right now we don't have the people for it."
"That's why I want you to look into it," the captain said behind them. Rafe glanced up at him questioningly; Brown nodded. "That was the twelfth missing person call this morning; a dozen before noon breaks the record. Collate them and see if there's any reasonable explanation--I got a bad feeling about this."
By the end of the day the count had risen to twenty-three, and at least two mothers mentioned other concerned parents who weren't calling the cops. Rafe found some commonalities--all from the same general part of town, all kids between fourteen and twenty-five. Even mix of race and gender; all bad kids, or at least not straight ones--gang members, drug buyers and sellers, and worse. Didn't mean their parents or friends weren't upset all the same. How many others might be gone with no one to notice their absence, or care?
It made Blair slightly sick, that so many kids could just vanish, and worse how he overheard a few of the officers reacting to Rafe's questions--Who cares? they wanted to know, some asking it bluntly, others implying it through their unhelpful attitude. So the streets were that much emptier--make their jobs easier. He remembered Jackson Drew's indifference--but Drew was dead, a frozen corpse in the morgue. Only a kid himself, had never had a chance to live; when would he have learned to care? The police should know better.
Jim was furious, cold ire showing only in the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. Technically it wasn't their case, at least at first, but he could listen and the attitudes of his fellow cops angered him as much as they did Blair. Then they had reason to be involved. C.C. Harris was one of those missing, unreported, but they visited his haunts, made judicious calls, listened around corners--no one knew where he had gone, or if they did they weren't talking. Considering Drew's fate it was hardly surprising.
They didn't get a break until after they went home for the day. The phone was ringing when they reached their hall; Jim heard and pushed past his partner, unlocked the door and grabbed it before the answering machine could pick up. "Ellison, hello?"
He listened for a moment, then passed the receiver to Blair, murmuring, "James Modell."
Blair took it with a smile, "Hey, Jim!" James had been his student last semester when he had still taught at Rainier, and though he no longer was employed by the university Blair remained his informal advisor, both in classes and other matters. James was a good kid who had pulled himself out of trouble with their assistance; the dealers had learned not to mess with him. Helping Modell had been Jim's first true act as detective--and Sentinel--upon his return to Cascade. Blair was happy to call James friend if no longer pupil, and the student appreciated his mentoring and requested it when needed.
This, however, would take more than a word or two of advice, Blair realized when James spoke. "Uh, yeah, Professor--Blair." He only reverted to 'Professor' when worried--and James had been through enough that he didn't scare without cause. "I've been trying to get you--I was wondering if maybe you could come over tonight, you and your part--your friend, Mr. Ellison."
"That should be okay, Jim," Blair said slowly, after his partner nodded agreement. "Why, though?"
"Uh, I've got a--a friend here, and I think you should meet her, you know, in private? I've told her you're nice guys, my friends, and she's willing to talk, but we can't do it where somebody might find out..."
"Are you in trouble, Jim?" Blair asked quietly.
He was reassured by James's immediate reply, "No, I'm fine, but...my friend might be. You have to hear what happened to her. Will you?"
"You want us to come over to your place, or meet you somewhere?"
There was a pause before he answered, "No, come to my apartment, but make sure you aren't, uh, followed."
Blair agreed, hung up the phone and shook his head. "Wonder what he's up to now."
"He has a woman there at least," Jim told him. "I heard her--she wanted to know if it was safe, when he told you to come over. He has a girlfriend, right?"
"Not right now...we should get over there. If she was listening to the conversation, the way he was talking--he doesn't want her to know we're with the police?"
"My impression, too," Jim agreed. "But that doesn't mean he's got a gun to his head--it's probably for her sake. He doesn't want to intimidate her. Maybe she was assaulted--he strikes me as the kind a woman might go to for help."
He nodded, liking the reasonable, relatively safe nature of the suggestion. "James is interested in going into police work but I wonder if he might be better off in psychology. At any rate, I don't want him getting in over his head; that's the last thing he needs right now. Maybe it won't take much to help his friend--we have to at least check it out." Also to disperse the itching feeling in his stomach telling him that this wouldn't be so simple.
Cop instincts must be contagious; he recognized the signs of his partner's unease. "I hope we're right," Ellison muttered as they headed downstairs to the truck. "Since I know why you get along so well with James Modell."
"Oh?" Blair held the door for his partner. "Why's that?"
Jim ruffled his hair in passing. "'Cause he's like you--a natural trouble magnet."
Rolling his eyes, "And here I thought it was because I get along with any old idiot named Jim."
"Who are you calling old?"
"Well, not Jim Modell, anyway--" Blair said with a grin, slipping behind the truck's cab and into the passenger seat before his partner could prove how spry a spring chicken he still was.
James Modell answered on the first knock, hurried them in and locked the door behind them. Jim stood quietly by while his partner exchanged greetings with his former student. The apartment was a typical sophomore flat, living room, bedroom, and combination kitchenette, dining room, and entryway. Neater than some, but the low coffee table in the center of the living room was buried beneath a mound of papers and one had to maneuver around discarded shoes and jackets to reach it. James excused the mess with an indistinct wave, his mind obviously on larger concerns.
He was a gangly auburn-haired boy whose long face should have looked younger than his years, but there was a seriousness in his eyes that lent him an air of maturity. Nineteen is a young age to have faced death, and it had changed James Modell, Jim suspected; the ordeal he had undergone with the alliance dealers had taken a toll on what innocence he might have had before coming to Cascade. It was for people like him that they continued to wage their war. People who deserved to be saved, though they may have stumbled into trouble; kids who could do great things, given half a chance. Such reminders Jim found he needed all too often, after what he and his partner witnessed on the streets and behind the walls of the city.
"So why are we here?" Blair asked quietly.
James glanced at the closed bedroom door. Jim listened, heard soft breathing directly behind it--someone listening to them in turn. The student raised his voice, "You can come out, it's safe. These are my friends."
The girl who opened the door might have been pretty, but it was hard to tell between the chopped platinum hair and the dark circles around her hazel eyes--not all mascara. She was too thin under her black leather jacket and she moved with the jerky motions of a startled deer, at odds with cold, jaded stare she subjected them to. James, unintimidated by that hard gaze, approached her and repeated, "These are my friends, Blair, and Jim," gesturing to each in turn. They nodded. "And this is..." He trailed off, allowing her to supply her name.
"Lindsey," after an instant of hesitation. Judging from her voice she couldn't have been older than James, for all the bitter tone, "Why'd you come, what the hell can you do?"
"They can help," James insisted, "but you gotta tell them what happened."
When she seemed unconvinced, Blair cocked his head inquiringly at his student. James shrugged helplessly, nodded. Jim, understanding the exchange, stepped forward and took out his badge. "I'm Detective Jim Ellison of the Cascade PD; Blair is my partner. If you'll tell us what's wrong--"
He didn't get any further; Lindsey's eyes opened wide, then she whirled and dashed back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Blair raised a questioning eyebrow. James sighed, apologized, and followed the girl into his room; Jim heard her round on him, "The cops? What the fuck, you promised--"
"They can help," James told her, very calmly.
"You said friends, not the damn police--they'll just throw me into the cage, they wouldn't listen--"
"They'll listen." Blair was right; James should go into psychology. That soft, trustworthy tone was suited to the best counselors. "They are my friends, they're not just cops. Blair is Professor Sandburg, you've heard me mention him, right? He's the one who helped me out when I went straight; he's still helping me. And Detective Ellison is his partner--you've probably heard of him, too."
"Yeah, he's busted my friends--"
"He is a cop," James agreed. "But he's a good guy--he's a hero, really. He saved my life, Blair's and mine. The alliance kidnapped us, they were going to kill us for a lesson; Detective Ellison rescued us just in time. He's an honest cop, and I know you can trust him--he'll be able to help. And Prof--Blair's a good listener, and he's very smart, he might have some idea what happened. They both might. Even if they don't, they need to know--you know they do. They'll believe you, and they won't arrest you, they'll listen to you. I swear."
"I knew you'd quit but I didn't know your friends were cops," Lindsey muttered.
James sounded as if he were smiling. "Not everyone, just them. Most of my friends are just students--they're not in gangs, and we stay on campus usually, but they're nice. You could hang out with us, if you want to."
"Right, like I'd fit in."
"Hey, I do," James pointed out. "It's easier than you might think--"
"I can't," she said shortly. "Not now."
"I know. That's why you have to talk to them now--so you can be safe. And everyone else, too. Please, Lindsey?"
There was a pause. At last she asked quietly, "He saved your life?" James confirmed it. She exhaled, "Guess I can talk--but they better not tell who told them."
To assure her of this, the first thing Jim did when they re-entered was vouch for the anonymity of their sources. Lindsey nodded, though her narrowed eyes showed her lack of trust. Nonetheless she began to talk. It wasn't an assault case, that immediately became obvious. This was entirely different.
"You know I do stuff," she began, and they agreed, trying to keep condemnation from their expressions. "I don't deal nothing, I know using's illegal too, but if you're going arrest me I won't talk, and I'm dead if you take me in--" She swallowed, afraid for all her attitude.
Blair touched her arm. She jumped but met his eyes, and he told her steadily, "We won't arrest you; we just want to know what happened to you." True sympathy in his voice and gaze, and she relaxed a little under it. Seven years hadn't diminished Sandburg's charms; even this hardened street girl wasn't immune. Few things are as compelling as honestly-felt compassion.
"All right," she said. "A couple days ago, in the afternoon, I met this man--I thought I knew what he wanted, and he looked like he could pay well, dressed up in a suit and all. But he didn't want to pay me for that; he wanted me for, I dunno, an experiment. A trial, he said--they had a new drug. That's what he told me, something new, like Ecstasy only better. Designer stuff, too expensive for me, but they wanted to know everything about the high, they needed volunteers. He gave me twenty bucks and said if I came to this place that evening I'd get to try it, and they'd give me another hundred, too.
"I know, it's stupid to go along like that, but I've met a couple of those upper dealers and they're just like he was. And I've heard of tests like that, I know people who've done them at parties and whatever, they say you don't get much stuff but it's fun, and they do pay. A couple of my friends had also met the guy and wanted to check it out, so I went with them. It was like a party, there were a lot of us there, in this warehouse. A few dozen, fifty, sixty at least. We all got there and after a little while, maybe half an hour, they showed up, in suits and ties and everything. Had us all sit down, and then they gave us the stuff, no needles or nothing, just little blue pills with water. Dull shit, and we got bored sitting there waiting for the high, some of us wanted to go but they said we couldn't.
"Pretty soon everyone started getting quiet, or snoring. I was staring up at the ceiling and everything was spinning a little, it wasn't anything big, no colors or nothing--felt like some good weed, that's all. I always have to smoke a few joints to get to that high, and I can drink a lot too--I'm small but I can take a lot. High tolerance, you know? Anyway, maybe that's why I didn't drop off, or maybe it's because I've used stuff something like those pills before...
"I looked over and there didn't seem to be so many of us on the floor; then I saw the men and these other guys with stretchers, putting kids onto the stretchers. I knew that was wrong, even if I was kind of fuzzy, I thought they were taking them to the hospital and I got scared I might be sick too. Then I realized there weren't ambulances or doctors or anything, just these weird men, and that seemed worse somehow. I was in the corner already, and I rolled until I was all the way in it, against the wall. When they were all on the other side of the building, I got the hell out. Headed toward one of the doors, it was really hard, I kept tripping and every time I thought I saw them I had to freeze in the shadows so they wouldn't see me. Finally I made it, and I didn't see if they were looking, I just opened the door and ran outside, well, I tried to. I fell down and crawled onto the street and into an alley, sort of scrunched behind a trashcan and hoped they would think I was a bum or something.
"I didn't feel sick, only scared and really tired, and I sort of was dreaming, but I remember I saw vans driving by, several of them, white vans. It was around midnight, there weren't that many people around, and I fell asleep. When I woke up it was the middle of the afternoon; my head hurt and somebody had snatched my money and my sneaks but I was all right. I went over to the warehouse but all the doors were locked, and when I looked through the windows nobody was in there, it was all empty. Then I went to one of my friend's places, and that's when I found out everybody was gone, everybody who had been there was gone.
"I don't know who it was, or what happened, but I knew if they were gone then I was supposed to be too, and I needed to hide, but the friends I kind of trusted were all missing. Then I remembered Jim," she half-smiled at James Modell. "He used to hang with us, before he quit, he was a nice guy then though and I thought he still might be. So I went and found him and he took me back here, and I've been hiding here since last night. I don't think anybody knows where I am."
"Your parents?" Blair asked practically.
Lindsey nearly laughed. "Ma hasn't seen me for a week anyway, why does she need to know?"
Jim drew a breath, ignored his heart pounding too loudly in his ears. "These men, you didn't recognize them?"
She shook her head. "No, never seen them, and I've met some of the heads of the alliance and of the organization. I don't think they were with either one, I don't know who they are. But they were dangerous, I know that much...look, I don't know if you cops know, but once in a while somebody disappears, and you don't ask when that happens. Never heard of everybody taken like that, though... There's these guys, nobody really knows them, but no one messes with them. They don't ally with either side, you can't touch them, though. They pay well but if you're smart you'll just stay out of their way." Hugging her thin body, head canted toward the floor, she mumbled, "We weren't smart..."
James Modell put an arm around her shoulders, gave her a comforting squeeze. It wasn't the action of an boy attracted to a girl but a supportive gesture of a friend. "It's gonna be all right," he told her again. "Blair and Detective Ellison can help." Looking to them hopefully.
"We'll do whatever we can," Jim replied, hoping he sounded more assured than he was. It felt like a lump of ice was lodged in his stomach, not melting but freezing his guts solid.
"We'll help your friends," and there was confidence in Blair's voice, whether or not he actually believed it. "And we won't take you in."
"Can Lindsey stay here, James?" Jim queried, pushing back that inner chill.
The student nodded. "My roommate lives at his girlfriend's single anyway, it'll be fine--"
"Hold on," Blair interrupted, "this isn't a safehouse, and we don't know who or what we're dealing with..." Glancing from James to his partner with a worried furrow in his brow.
"Sandburg, if no one knows she's here," Jim began, at the same time James protested, "Professor, I understand--"
They both stopped; Jim motioned for the other to continue. James proceeded, "I know it's dangerous, but it would be worse to bring her elsewhere; she might be seen." And at the station they'd be obliged to file a report...who knew who might get hold of it. He didn't want to say that; these kids were scared enough as it were. "If they've realized by now that somebody got away..."
"Wait," Lindsey cut in, "since I'm the one you're talking about--I'd like to stay here. But I don't want to get Jim in trouble."
"Don't worry about it." James essayed a smile. "I get into it anyway."
"I think it's the best plan," Jim said, waiting for his partner's reluctant acquiescence before going on, "We can put a plainclothes watch on this building--we don't need to tell them who they're guarding, or even what room," he added when he saw Lindsey's face grow even paler. "You'll be an anonymous witness, and we'll make it clear that there is definite danger. James, don't tell anyone that anybody's staying at your place--make sure your roommate is sworn to secrecy too, if he does come back. You can trust him, right? Good. And if you see anyone around who fits the description of any of the men Lindsey saw, or Lindsey, if you see any of them--call one of us right away." He gave them his and Blair's celphone numbers. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," James replied seriously.
"Whatever," Lindsey muttered, shrugging one narrow shoulder, but her eyes were wide.
"All right," said Jim. "We'll be back to ask questions and tell you what we've found--until then, be careful." They exchanged farewells, left them in the small apartment, Lindsey on the couch arms folded and fear behind her cold adolescent eyes, and James Modell standing watchfully over her, a young but stalwart protector.
Just kids; they should be busy dating and learning and getting ready for the real world, instead of living this waking nightmare, far beyond the trials most adults had to face in their lives. When he was nineteen he had been in the army, learning to follow a drill sergeant's commands; Blair at that age had been in college for three years already, well on his way to a safe academic career. It hadn't been easy for either of them, but neither had it been this chaos, this terror...
He climbed into the driver's seat of the truck and stared blankly through the windshield at the street, hands gripping the steering wheel but making no motion to start the engine. Blair sat quietly in the passenger's seat, gazing out the window. It was a minute before he spoke, "Are they really going to be safe?"
"I don't--I hope so, Chief." Strange how calm his voice sounded, as if he weren't really the one speaking, some separate part of his brain working his lips and tongue while everything else was clenched up inside, frozen.
"They better be." Hard to say who the threat in his voice was directed at: those who would hurt them, or those who would allow them to be hurt... His partner was incredibly protective of the people he cared about, a quality Jim well understood. One of many things that held them so closely together. Probably having similar thoughts, Blair cleared his throat, changed the subject, "Do you think the men Lindsey encountered were related to...what happened to you?"
He didn't know what to say to that, couldn't have answered even if he had wanted to. When he stayed silent Blair turned in his seat, inquired, "Jim? Shouldn't we be getting back--" He paused, murmured under his breath, "Oh man." Laying a light hand on his shoulder, "Jim?"
He started at the touch, couldn't help it, worked his jaw and forced himself to respond. "Yeah, I'm right here, Chief." Gotta release the steering wheel, couldn't turn the key until he let go of it, but his fingers refused to open.
"Just wondering," Blair remarked, more to himself than to Jim. A little louder, deliberately calm, "Partner, it's pretty late, we should drive back and get to bed early, for once." He rubbed his shoulder, the pressure of his hand shifting from nerve end to nerve end; if Jim focused he could track the touch of each of his fingers through the soft cotton shirt. He let himself fall into the sensation and the soft voice accompanying it, allowing that warmth to melt the frigid paralysis inside. Shivered once before he could stop himself, and Blair gripped his bicep, "Easy, man, it's all right. You aren't zoning?"
"I'm not," Jim snapped, and nearly cringed at the petulance in his tone.
Sandburg only nodded, brushing his hair out of his eyes with one hand, the other still resting on his partner's arm, a necessary anchor. He couldn't feel the steering wheel under his hands but he could feel that gentle touch, and centered himself around its warmth. "I know, I know, Jim," he was saying.
Relaxing the muscles in his neck he turned his head, met bright blue eyes. Blair bobbed his head encouragingly. "Good, that's it--you're fine. Don't worry about it, Jim. Do you want me to drive?"
"I can do it." Concentrating, he took one hand off the steering wheel, inserted the key in the ignition and turned it. The motor rumbled to life, wheel vibrating slightly under his hand, and the vehicle's life shattered the last remnants of the spell gripping him. With autonomous ease he shifted gears and pulled the truck into the street, headed back to their apartment.
After parking in the garage below their building he paused. Could feel Blair's gaze on him and knew he wouldn't be allowed to let this ride. He didn't even want to. "Chief, I'm just not sure what happened there..."
"It's okay, Jim." Reassuring, but those sapphire eyes were intent upon him. "You--you scared me, man. I knew it wasn't a zone, but I haven't seen that look on your face since..." He only continued when Jim looked at him, verifying that he was indeed listening, "since you first came back, do you remember when the day-gang jumped us? You had a flashback..."
He couldn't help but shudder at the memory, nodded jerkily and concentrated on keeping his breathing even. Worse than the nightmares, to be awake and seeing what wasn't even happening--Blair had banished the vision, when he had been helpless to leave it himself.
"You weren't having one just then, were you?" Blair inquired, nodding understandingly when Jim shook his head. "But you were..."
"I was scared." He balled his fists, rested them against the steering wheel. "That's all, just so frightened I could've pissed in my pants, for no reason--"
"For a damn good reason," Blair overrode him with quiet force. "You know as well as I do--those men Lindsey described, they're just like whoever it was that took you. Even if it's not the same group--it's the same thing. Secret abductions, and nobody knows where they went, or even if they're still alive...God." He braced his arms against the dashboard. "God, Jim, that's close enough a reminder to make me sick to my stomach."
"I wasn't sick," he said distantly. "Just...cold..." and he shivered again, couldn't help it. Looked over and Blair's eyes were squeezed shut, fighting his own reaction. Jim reached out, pressed him close for an instant and released him, but he kept his arm over his partner's shoulder. Felt them rise and fall as he breathed, and found confidence in that. Almost smiling, "What a pair we are, Sandburg."
Blair exhaled, a long, shuddering sigh, and the corners of his mouth quirked up in a dim version of his usual wide grin. "We should both be in counseling. PTSD."
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The closest off-hand diagnosis to whatever afflicted them; possibly accurate, at that. It wasn't the first time Blair had mentioned it, but... "Don't think our budget can handle therapy at the moment," Jim said lightly, "and I know it won't fit in our schedule, so we're going to have to hold it together on our own. Hope you kept some books from your psych classes, Chief."
"Sentinel, heal thyself," Blair muttered, shaking his head. Gaze sharpening as he looked toward his partner, "Jim, I need to know, honestly. Can you handle this? Or should we give it to someone else--Rafe is on it now; we could tell him what we know." He put his hand over Jim's other fist, still against the wheel. Stared earnestly into his eyes, "Be straight with me, man. No macho cop stuff, nothing about your duty as a Sentinel or a detective or anything else. Just the truth--can you do it? Because I know how hard it's going to be for me, and I won't be able to take it without you. If we're right about this, we're going to be going up against them directly--and we have an idea how powerful they are, how far they can go. I want them, and I know you do too--but if you're not ready, I need to know, Jim. You don't have to tell anybody else. But I need to know."
Jim took a deep breath. Met his partner's gaze and returned it steadily, said, "I don't know if I'm ready or not, but I need to do this. I need to face them--it is my duty, as a policeman, as a Sentinel. And it's what I need to do, me, Jim Ellison--if I want to be myself. I won't be the man I was, not if I can't do this.
"I can, though. With you, Blair--if you're willing. I couldn't, alone...but if you're with me, yeah, I'm ready. I can take this. And we can take them down."
For a long time it seemed he looked into Blair's eyes, trying to determine what stirred in those blue depths. Then his partner nodded once, sharply, with a cough that might have been a chuckle, "You're right. We are quite a pair."
"Damn straight, Sandburg," Jim replied. "And they're going to learn what that means." It wasn't mere bravado. He knew it as well as Blair. This Sentinel and Guide thing went far beyond their own selves, something those dark others had too well known. Now more was at stake than just the two of them--they threatened the city. There would be hell to pay. And Jim was more than ready to see they met that price.
Though Jim had spent half an hour on the phone with Brown the night before explaining the newest developments, the captain all but tackled him and Blair when they arrived at the station next morning. His agitation wasn't just due to their report, they soon learned, though certainly that played a part. Sixty-plus people disappearing into the night was enough to make any cop unhappy, and what reports Rafe had followed up on supported everything they had heard.
But Brown had new concerns on top of the rest. "Two of them," he said. "They're in my office now. Yesterday I reported it to the Bureau, missing persons is their jurisdiction, after all, but I figured we'd have a couple days' leeway while it went through the red tape!"
Jim exchanged an uneasy glance with his partner. It wasn't necessarily bad news when the feds showed up...not always. They wouldn't have any idea what was going on here, however; they'd be more of a hindrance than a help, especially if they choose to accompany them on the field investigations. Harder for him to use his senses to their fullest potential if he had to watch what he said and did.
More than that though, far more...whatever else the operation that had taken him was, it had to be big, considering the extent of the cover-up. Government-supported or not--Blair had suggested it might be; Jim didn't know what to think himself. The heads of the United States couldn't balance the budget from year to year; he had a hard time believing they could handle a massive, entirely secret, completely criminal abduction and experimentation institution. So he tried to believe.
But if they could...the FBI had 'Federal' in its title for a reason...
There was nothing to be done about it now, though. Sandburg was at his side, bright eyes tracking his thoughts. His partner shrugged and Jim nodded agreement. They couldn't ignore this new obstacle, so the next best thing was to face it. Drawing a breath, he entered Captain Brown's office, Blair right behind him.
The two agents rose from their chairs. Two men, near the same height, averagely good-looking, dark hair smoothed back in similar conservative cuts. They both wore navy suits and drab ties. The older of the two, pale blue eyes just starting to crease at the corners, extended his hand. "You must be Detective Ellison. Special Agent Lee Pender; this is my partner, Special Agent Terry Guss."
Guss had brown eyes set in a youthful face; he couldn't have been much older than Sandburg when he had been an observer. A bit startling to see an agent so young, but his grip was as firm as his partner's and he had the stoicism of a fed down pat.
Jim completed the introductions, confirming, "I am Jim Ellison. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg. He's an official consultant for the department." Usually it saved time to get that part out of the way first. If they wanted to throw a fit about a civilian taking part in a federal investigation they could argue it out now.
They didn't comment, however. "You're the detectives assigned to this case," Agent Pender stated, glancing at both in turn. "Captain Brown told us you had some new information but didn't go into detail; if you would explain--"
"Look, are you going to take this investigation over or not?" Jim demanded flatly. "I plan to write up the report as soon as I'm done here--"
"Then get to it," Pender told him. "Mr. Sandburg, I presume you--"
"Before I go do anything," Jim cut him off, "I have to know where this stands. We've been jerked around by feds too much just to roll over on our backs and take it. You don't understand the situation here, and if you don't know these streets you won't learn anything from them. If you want to stand around and watch us, fine, but don't think you can march in here and start running this investigation. There's a lot at stake; I'm not about to let you screw it up." It felt good to state it so bluntly, though he knew in the long run it wouldn't help to get on them. He saw Blair shake his head slightly but he couldn't take back what he had said and didn't want to. It was important that they understood their position from the outset.
Neither agent seemed perturbed by his little rant. "We do know something of the situation here," Guss remarked in an even baritone. "Cascade has had the highest crime rate in America four years running; they're the main drug supplier for the West Coast and most of the rest of the nation. That has only been getting worse--until the last six months. It's got a long way to go, but it's improving..." There was a sharpness to the look he directed at Jim, as if he had guessed a reason for the change.
"Reports don't cover everything," Blair said quietly.
"We know." Pender's tone was placating but forceful nonetheless. "Detective, Mr. Sandburg. We're not here to bother you, or replace you--we're here to help. We're on the same side. There are people missing, and it's our job to find them, your duty and ours. We realize that you have insight into this city and these people that we don't have, which is why we need to work with you. But we have insights and information you may not have--so it's in your best interests to work with us. Does that make things clearer?" He didn't smile, waiting patiently for a response.
"All right," Jim conceded grudgingly. "We'll work with you. What do you want to know--what do you already know?" he reworded, knowing they must have read at least some of the reports already. They were informed about the basic situation in Cascade, anyway.
"What's been written up to last night," Guss answered. "We read everything faxed to the office on the plane."
"Flying in from Portland?" Blair inquired.
Pender shook his head. "We're main office. Washington, DC. Got the report last evening and spent the night getting here."
"Why?" Jim asked. Why send agents from Washington itself; why also did they come so quickly?
"Sixty people vanishing is big," Pender said. "Our division has handled similar cases. Like I said, we may have insight you need."
Jim had to agree with his logic, though he narrowed his eyes at the off-hand 'similar cases'. Together he and Blair related what they had learned, giving all the details they could while keeping Lindsey's identity and current location a secret. Guss asked for both only once, and didn't protest when they refused to divulge it.
Ellison couldn't help but be impressed by their resolve. They were attentive listeners and asked revealing questions; clearly both were intelligent and competent investigators. Yet at the same time they left him with an uncomfortable feeling, some of their questions slightly too incisive, and at odd moments they would glance at one another in silent communication. Nodding at details that shouldn't stand out, but had meaning to them regardless. And to Jim--because they reacted most strongly to mention of the men the girl had seen, the vans they had driven. Suspicious elements, of course, and as they were the clear suspects it only went to reason that they would concentrate on them, but all the same there was an edge to the agents' interest he didn't care for.
He and Blair went out for lunch to talk over their observations. It occurred to him that the two agents might take the time to do the same; he wondered what they thought. But was more curious about his partner's opinion, which Blair didn't hesitate to supply. "I don't know, Jim. It could be worse, I guess--these guys seem halfway human. Guss almost smiled a couple of times, and Agent Pender sounds like he actually cares about the people, not just the investigation. They seem to know what they're doing. But..." He trailed off.
When he didn't continue Jim nodded. "Yeah. 'But.' Chief, how closely have you been watching them?"
"Close enough to see them jump when we first mentioned the abductors." Blair frowned. "And it wasn't surprise, either, unless I was reading them totally wrong. Jim, we gotta tell Simon, Henri, too."
"We don't know anything for sure--"
"No, we don't, and I don't want to be condemning them guilty before proven innocent--but we know what we're dealing with here, man." Or rather, they didn't know, and therein lay the problem. He did agree with his partner, however. It wouldn't be safe to keep their suspicions entirely to themselves. If something happened to them...
"I'll drop by Simon's office," Jim said. "And try to find time to talk to Brown when they're not around. Meanwhile we'll both keep an eye on them and compare what we see. And be careful, Chief."
"You be careful," his partner returned. "Even if they're connected, it doesn't automatically mean that they know what you can do--don't give it away." But how much had already been given away; if they did all their research with the kind of devotion they were putting into this...and the dissertation was available...
Blair somehow followed his thoughts. "By the way, Jim, I called the university library yesterday--should've done it months ago, I'm sorry. My diss is now limited access; nobody sees it without express permission from me, in person." If that suppression of his scholarship disturbed him it didn't show on his face.
"Thanks, Blair," Jim said with relief, and meant it. They finished their lunch in comfortable quiet, paid the cashier for the Thai noodles and returned to the truck.
Blair leaned over after they climbed in. "One more thing, Jim--when you're with them, did you feel anything?"
He stiffened. "How do you mean?"
"A reaction." Blair tapped his fingers on the dashboard. "I was watching you, didn't notice anything but I was wondering if you were hiding it well. You don't recognize them, do you?"
From his quiet tone Jim knew what he implied, shook his head. "No, I don't. I don't remember ever seeing either of them before, either consciously or subconsciously."
Blair sighed. "Which doesn't mean all that much, since you couldn't have met everyone involved...still, it's something."
Not much, though, as he said. Jim spent the drive back to the station wracking his brain, shuffling through dim and obscured memories and coming up blank. As far as he was aware he didn't know them. And Sandburg was right; he hadn't reacted to their appearance or voices. The man Smith's affect had sent icy tremors down his spine, but these two agents were just ordinary men, not a threat, according to his instincts.
He wondered how much he dared trust those instincts. They hadn't been proven wrong, but they had never been proven right, either...maybe they meant nothing. Maybe they were like his dreams, response to past events, nothing to do with here and now.
He didn't know of any way of finding out, and wasn't sure he wanted to.
As they had stated, Agents Pender and Guss were willing to go along with whatever they suggested. Blair glanced at his partner in surprised suspicion, but they couldn't very well condemn them for amenability. It wasn't as if it were an unusual plan; they had a possible crime scene, only made sense to check it out.
With the agents following in their rental, they drove to the abandoned warehouse Lindsey had described. The key to the building they procured from the company currently owning the building. "It's condemned, though," the man at the office told them with a shrug. "We can't keep anything in it. Got it boarded up and our watchman in the storehouse next door patrols it a couple times a night to keep the kids out."
"So you don't rent it out, for parties or the like?" Jim inquired.
The man snorted. "t;Parties? It's against the codes to keep old newspapers there, you think we'd be allowed to open a dance hall? My boss wishes!"
When they contacted the night watchman, grumpy for being awoken before his shift began, he confessed a different story, "Alright, so they give me a couple bucks to hand over the key for the night and not check in, what's the big deal? They get a place they know the cops won't come lookin', they always clean it up--you gonna arrest me for somethin'? The jerks ain't vandalized it, have they?"
They asked him if he had so leased it in the last week. After adding that they would inform his supervisors unless he gave them the truth, he admitted to having lent out the key three nights before. Though he noticed their various reactions they didn't explain them, left him to examine the site itself.
At first glance it looked just as they had been told--an abandoned warehouse, boarded windows cracked, iron framework rusting, ceiling sagging. The floor was surprisingly dust-free; Agent Pender squatted, brushed his fingers across the cement and frowned at the result. "Should get the number of their housekeeper." He straightened up again. "It's been cleaned; I don't know if we'll find anything."
"A forensics team--" Guss began, then cut himself off even before both Jim and Pender started to shake their heads.
"Much as I'd like the help, we shouldn't," Pender said.
Of course Jim already knew the answer, but he still asked the agent, "Why?"
His hesitation was so brief as to be unnoticeable. "Beyond the fact that I doubt they'd find anything, given that it has been cleaned and the hypothetical crime was several days ago--we can't risk bringing too many people into this. Don't want to let them know we're onto them, Detective." He returned Jim's gaze steadily. "You wanted us to be straight with you--Guss and I have dealt with this before. Believe me, it's best to underplay what we learn."
Jim nodded. "I'll buy that. So we're on our own--let's split up, then, see what we can find." They agreed; it was a reasonable proposal, after all. It also gave Jim the best opportunity to put his senses to use without observation or interference.
They started on opposite ends of the warehouse, Pender and Guss testing the doors to the offices, Jim and Blair searching the corners, nooks, and crannies for some clue, some telltale hint of what might have passed here three nights ago.
Blair liked to watch Jim at work, using his abilities, invoking his full potential as Cascade's resident Sentinel. It was a pleasure he had never mentioned to his partner but had admitted to himself years ago, before Jim was gone. Now, even after five months, the mixture of novelty and old familiarity still thrilled him.
He could never experience it himself, to run one's fingers over the rough plaster and feel every dent and ridge, to identify by touch alone the layers of paint peeling and cracking under the whitewash. To smell the mold and chemicals making up the wall and be able to differentiate every odor, to know that oil paint had been used beneath the latex by the scent. But as he watched Jim move along the wall he could imagine every touch, every smell. In his mind he could peer through his Sentinel's eyes, see the smooth cement floor as its own landscape, every pebble a boulder and every imperfection of the boulders obvious if he cared to scrutinize them.
Sometimes he wondered if he appreciated Jim's senses more than Jim himself did. Not that he didn't use them well, in the best ways possible; Blair knew he wouldn't have made one tenth as good a Sentinel. But Jim was less inclined to marvel at wonders. In the beginning his abilities had seemed a curse to him, something dividing him from a normalcy he probably wouldn't have had even without them. Later he learned to accept them as part of himself, to the degree that he didn't think them extraordinary. Blair remembered, long before, when he and Jim had been partners for a couple years, how Jim almost seemed to forget that not everyone could see what he saw and hear what he heard. He used his senses so automatically that he had to consciously remind himself that he experienced perception on a different level--or more often Blair had reminded him. Another unwritten duty of a Guide.
Not now, though. Jim hadn't made that mistake once in the last five months. He used his senses often and well, but it always was a conscious decision, and he never let others know what he sensed. Except for Simon, and Blair of course. Probably Rafe and Brown now too.
Didn't matter, though, because Blair knew when he was using them. He always had, since the first day they had met, when he had seen Jim staring at the frisbee, right in the path of the garbage truck. Had recognized a zone out instantly, everything he had read rushing into his mind the moment he spotted the detective standing there frozen. He had acted without thinking, knocking him out of danger. Almost a decade later Blair had identified him zoning just as easily, hadn't been expecting that, certainly, not after seven years. But he had seen Jim across the Rainier campus and realized he was needed, went to him just as automatically.
He could describe the symptoms and signals, had done so in the dissertation. But in practice it never worked quite like that; he didn't observe and evaluate and diagnose, not consciously. He just knew, from experience, from his studies...from something else. When the Sentinel's breathing slowed and he was fixed in place, that was a zone out, and people often noticed. But the other, smaller things...his pupils dilating or contracting with uncanny alacrity as they focused. The way he tilted his head to one side, only a hair, and narrowed his eyes, when concentrating on sounds beyond normal range. The particular lightness of his touch gliding over a surface, slight tension in the tendons of his hand. Blair knew every sign, discerned them even when he wasn't watching for them.
Sometimes he wondered if it had been this way for other Guides, those long-past partners of the ancient Sentinels. Had they been so attuned to the warrior they supported? They must have; out in the wilderness, a single zone out could mean death, for one, or both, or all the tribe. They had to be ever on their guard that their Sentinel did not fall prey to his own power, too caught up in one sensation to miss a fatal other...
Not much had changed in the intervening centuries and the onset of civilization. Zone out on the street and a car would kill you as surely as a predator or warrior in older times. And their tribe, their city, would fall just as surely, with its Sentinel lost. It nearly had.
He wasn't about to let it happen again, not if he could help it. Now he watched his Sentinel closely, and imagined the vividness of every sensation as he observed Jim perceive them. Until the detective shattered his tightly focused attention by smacking his palm into the wall, growling, "Nothing!"
Blair started. "Easy, man. No one said this was going to be simple."
Jim glared, not at him so much as at the situation, though he was square in the path of those burning eyes. "Got any ideas, Sandburg?"
"Yeah." Blair half-smiled when Jim raised an eyebrow at his quick response. "Okay, the good agents are busy over there, it looks like, so we're going to zone you out--not all the way, but I want you to focus deeper. Close your eyes." Quietly he guided Jim in using his nose, not tracking like a bloodhound, but getting a general picture of the environment. An uncommon one for humans, true, but many animals relied on scent to tell them what transgressed in an area before their arrival. "Separate out each odor, identify it, and ignore it. Then concentrate on what doesn't belong."
Jim obeyed, wrinkling his nose and forehead, shifting the tiniest bit as he catalogued each scent. After a minute he said, in that low blank voice that indicated his attention was elsewhere, "Okay, I can pick up a couple...flowery scents."
Flowery? "Like perfume, Jim?"
"Yeah..." Scrunched up his nose. "Yeah, could be it. Traces...maybe cologne, too, or incense. Marijuana, alcohol... Something else...like a hospital..." He gasped and then his eyes flew open. Swallowing, he sniffed experimentally and said, "Just got a whiff and it's gone, but it was a medicinal scent. Very faint, but here."
"The drug?"
"Maybe." Jim shrugged. "Or other drugs, they probably gave them something stronger after they were out. Or maybe the men themselves, their clothing, I don't know, but I'd say it's evidence..."
"Good." Blair licked his lips. "So, uh, how do we tell them?" and he jerked his thumb toward the agents at the other side of the warehouse.
"We don't." Jim looked past him, frowned. "Lindsey said she was in a corner, right? Wonder if that's the door." There was a small metal door in the wall behind them. Blair pushed the bar and it opened with barely a creak, leaving him blinking in the sudden sunlight. Jim strode past him, checked the other side. "No handle on the outside, it's one way. That's why it's unlocked. Hold it for me for a minute, Chief, I want to check something." He jogged into the street, glanced around and disappeared into the alley opposite. In a moment he emerged and returned to the doorway.
He grasped something between his fingers. "What'd you find?" Blair asked. In the sun it glittered, a ringlet of silver wire. He recognized it, "Jim, did you see Lindsey's jacket? She had loops like that trimming the pockets."
His partner was nodding. "Found it between a couple of trash cans back there. It confirms that part of her story, at least."
"Yeah. Not that I got the feeling she was making any of it up." Blair ran his fingers through his hair. "This is the real thing, man."
"Looks like." Jim glanced up at the approaching footsteps.
"Got anything?" Pender inquired, the other agent behind him. The detective held out his discovery, then suddenly lifted his head, staring forward intently. He wasn't looking at anything, though; his face showed he was listening. Dropping the ringlet into Blair's hands, he shoved past them and dashed into the warehouse.
The agents blinked. "Where's he going--"
"Don't know, but something's up!" Blair called over his shoulder as he took off after his partner, heading toward the warehouse entrance. Jim crashed through the doors and onto the street. He had pulled his gun, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Stop! Police!"
Blair made it outside in time to see a white van take the street corner fast enough to rock onto two wheels. His partner pelted after it. A gunshot and Blair jumped, but it had been Jim, trying to blow out a tire as he ran. The van disappeared around the block--
He hadn't heard another shot, but suddenly Ellison stopped, slapped his neck, and dropped as if pole-axed, collapsing to the pavement.
"Jim!" Blair screamed, his legs finding an extra burst of speed to carry him the rest of the way. He skidded to a halt by his partner, fell to his knees by his side. Jim was lying limp on his back, head tilted up and eyes closed. Still breathing, if heavily. Blair stared at his neck, saw nothing, no sign of the gushing blood he had feared. No obvious wound--it glittered in the sun and he snatched it up, a tiny needle embedded in his throat. Not metal, looked like glass, one end bulging to form a small vial.
"Jim?" He wasn't moving, his eyes weren't opening, and he didn't respond when Blair shook his shoulder. Footsteps behind him, one racing past, the other stopping. He looked up into Agent Pender's light eyes, fixed on the object in his hands. "What's this?"
"Tranq-stun," Pender told him. "They've been popular back East for a couple of years now. Non-lethal but they'll stop who's chasing you--"
"Non-lethal?" He latched onto that.
The agent nodded. "Filled with a heavy-duty tranquilizer, fast acting. Most of them are made to pierce clothing; silent because they're fired with an air gun. Useful piece of equipment for--"
"What kind of tranquilizer?" Blair demanded tightly. Pender blinked and he repeated it, forcing his voice steady, "What kind of drug do they use?"
"A tranq-stun? Depends," Agent Guss answered, jogging back to them. His partner cocked his head questioningly and he indicated a negative with a sigh. "They were out of sight." Turning his attention back to Blair, "There's a couple standard drugs, a variation on a vet sedative is popular now--"
"Call an ambulance," Blair commanded, eyes locked on Jim's still face. "Now!" when they didn't move.
The two agents looked at one another. "He'll be all right," Guss assured him, "They're not lethal; at most they'll put you out for half an hour, unless you're allergic--"
Jim gasped suddenly, body convulsing though his eyes remained closed. Beads of sweat began to form on his pale brow. Blair grabbed his partner's shoulders, holding him still as he growled through gritted teeth, "He's allergic, we need help--"
In his peripheral vision he saw Pender whip out a celphone and dial, giving terse commands to whoever answered. Guss crouched beside him, "He should be all right; I've never heard of a tranq-stun fatality. Though a reaction..." He trailed off.
Blair couldn't see his expression, focused as he was on Jim's face, counting his breaths and ready to act if he choked on them. Skin clammy and his broad shoulders were trembling under his hands. Fast-acting poison, whatever it was. A disadvantage of being a Sentinel, that sensitivity working against him when it came to substances unnatural to his system inside him. He had his fingers pressed to his partner's throat, feeling the pulse thumping unsteadily beneath them, too fast--
It stopped. He froze, for an instant convinced this was a nightmare, had to wake up, anytime now--Agent Pender grasping his shoulders, staring into his eyes, "Do you know CPR?" Behind him Guss was bent over Jim's chest, face calm but determined as he counted off the rhythmic pressure, "One, two, three, four, five--"
Automatically Blair leaned over Jim, pinched his nose shut and breathed into him. Drawing back he let Guss continue, mentally counting with the agent and repeating the breathing when he reached five. "Come on come on come on," he was muttering, subvocally and he couldn't stop himself. One two three four five, breathe; one two three four five, breathe, come on Jim come on, breathe...
Sirens wailing louder, lights flashing in the corner of his eye, scarlet. Hands pulled him back and he resisted, until someone gave him a firm shake. Blue eyes, paler than Jim's, and a different voice, not to mention taste in clothing--"Mr. Sandburg, it's all right, you did it. He's breathing and the ambulance is here."
The agent's words penetrated when he saw the paramedics lift Jim onto the stretcher, swiftly sliding him in the ambulance. He shrugged Pender off, grabbed the closest EMT's arm, "You gotta be careful, he was hit with a tranquilizer, he's having a severe allergic reaction--"
The man nodded, "We know. We'll take care of him."
"Be careful," Blair warned them, making an effort to sound rational or at least intelligible, "don't give him anything, he has problems with most drugs, just make sure he stays breathing--" Sentinels had advantages as well; if their system could survive the initial shock it was quick to compensate and recover. If it survived...
"We'll drive you to the hospital," Guss was saying.
Blair shook his head. "Gotta bring the truck, Jim'll kill me if I leave it in this neighborhood--" He headed toward the vehicle as the ambulance shrieked away, fumbling for the keys. Barely noticed when Guss followed, climbed into the passenger seat next to him.
He did glance over at the younger man, who shrugged, unfazed by his regard, and said nothing until Blair pulled into the street. Then he murmured, "Detective Ellison should be all right."
Blair nodded jerkily, didn't trust his voice so he kept his mouth shut. Hesitating a mere moment, he switched on the siren to follow the ambulance without worrying about traffic. Guss made no comment, though halfway through the drive he pulled out his celphone and began giving quiet directions. To his partner, presumably, since neither of them knew Cascade's streets.
Blair ignored him, all his attention but the little spared for driving concentrated on his own partner. Jim had to be all right. A little thing like this would hardly slow him down--
And they had to know it. It was that thought that twisted his stomach into knots, left his hands numb with cold as he gripped the steering wheel. If they wanted to stop him...they could. He didn't doubt that, no matter how much he might want to. Hang on, Jim, he silently begged. We gotta do this together, partner--hang on, so we have a chance.
As he parked in the hospital lot it occurred to him that his mental plea held the same terrible note as Jim's own voice in his nightmares. Only made sense, he supposed. This was a nightmare, like he hadn't had in years, the very worst sort. He only prayed that Jim could wake from it.