Disclaimer: All things "Sentinel" belong to Pet Fly, I'm just having some fun with them
Notes/Timeline/Spoilers: Set during the first season, after 'Vow of Silence'. Spoilers for most Season One episodes; specifically Cypher and Siege.
Notes June 2015: This was the very first Sentinel story I ever wrote. :) Be kind.
Who Am I?
By Mele
"Jim is so going to kill me, man," Blair moaned to himself as his Corvair coughed and sputtered its last, rolling to an anticlimactic stop in a deserted parking lot. Blair had nosed the car into the lot when he realized the noises coming from the engine compartment were not the usual discordant symphony, but the onset of a terminal breakdown.
He looked around dispiritedly; there were no businesses open in this area anymore, and the odds of someone just passing by were remote at best. He had been doing deliveries for another professor, his payback for the man having taken his place teaching a few times when police/sentinel duties had called Blair away. After the last drop-off Blair had made the mistake of asking directions for the shortest route back to Rainer, knowing he needed to get finished quickly if he was to make it in time to pick up pizza for them to enjoy during the Jags game.
It had been a hectic week, and a quiet night of pizza and basketball had been the 'carrot and stick' incentive to get them though the day, and Jim was NOT going to be happy if Blair didn't hold up his end of the bargain.
"Thank God for cell phones," Blair muttered, grabbing his bulging backpack. He reached for his cell phone, only to find a cavity where the phone was supposed to be. "Oh, shit," the anthropologist sighed, looking around more desperately now that help was not just the punch of a button away.
Sighing in frustration, he finally got out of the car, locking it carefully before walking to the sidewalk to survey his options. He knew if he backtracked it was at least a dozen large blocks until he'd find any payphones or open businesses. Going forward was a gamble, since he wasn't familiar with this area, and, at 4:45 pm in the winter, he had at best a half hour of weak light.
"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten yourself into," he muttered under his breath, mentally flipping a coin before deciding to backtrack. "The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know," he misquoted to himself as he set out at a brisk walk.
His hurried pace was partially due to the need to get home fairly soon, and partly because it was damned cold, especially this close to the waterfront. The realization of exactly where he was suddenly hit, bringing with it unwelcome memories of the last time he'd been near the waterfront district.
An abandoned warehouse.
Muted light through broken windows.
David Lash.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, don't think about that," he counseled himself, picking up the pace a little more. But it seemed that once the association was made, his brain insisted on filling out the whole picture. Lash putting on that wig, keeping up a running commentary: **I can be you.**
**I can be you.**
And a small corner of Blair's mind anxiously yammering **if he becomes me, then who am I?** The answer, of course, was 'nobody'. That was Lash's specialty, after all; assume the persona, and leave the empty shell of the original 'owner' behind. Thank God Jim had shown up when he did, and thank God Jim had carried a second gun, and thank God David Lash could not come back and finish the job.
Except in his dreams.
The first dream hit the second night he was home, his cry of terror bringing Jim down to his room so fast the older man was lucky he didn't end up falling down the stairs. If Blair hadn't been so distraught, he probably would have enjoyed the spectacle of his normally cool roommate's panicked arrival. The dreams continued, slowly decreasing in frequency, until they all but disappeared. But even now certain things could trigger a flashback or a dream: sitting in a dentist's chair, seeing someone wearing a yellow neck scarf, the smell of the waterfront.
At least fear lent additional speed to Blair's pace; he couldn't get away from there fast enough. So intent on fleeing the demons of his memory was he that he didn't notice the two men in the alleyway he was passing until the sound of a single gunshot drew his attention. He stopped, looking over to where one man stood over the crumpled figure of another, a motorcycle idling nearby.
The killer looked up to see Blair rooted to the spot, then leapt on the cycle, aiming right for the startled anthropologist. The police observer belatedly realized that he was alone, unarmed, and standing like the world's dumbest target while a newly-minted killer bore down on him with a mean-looking bike.
Running desperately down the sidewalk, the roar of the motorcycle filling his mind, Blair ducked into the first doorway he found, praying it would be unlocked. His prayers weren't answered. The knob remained stubbornly still as the young guide risked a glance over his shoulder ... directly into the barrel of a gun pointed at him from a few feet away. He didn't even have time to be afraid as the blast of a gunshot, and a blindingly bright flare of agony, sent him spiraling into darkness.
TSTS*TSTS
"I'm going to kill him," Jim mumbled, glancing at the front door as if he could will his roommate to appear. It was a fruitless gesture, since he knew full well Blair was not anywhere near. If he were, Jim would have heard his heartbeat, that steady cadence that helped focus and anchor the sentinel.
"Well, as long as you get the pizza from him first, I'll turn a blind eye to it," Simon grinned, enjoying baiting his best detective.
"I'm sorry, Simon; I should have gotten the pizza myself. The kid probably got invited to some function at the university and forgot all about our plans. I'll go ahead and call in an order," Jim said, reaching for the phone.
"You ever try Louis's? They have a meat-eaters' special that is to die for. And they deliver," the captain suggested with a gleam in his eye.
"You know, that sounds perfect. And if Sandburg shows up ... well ... too bad," Jim agreed. A few minutes later the two men settled down to await their dinner and enjoy the game, unencumbered by worries about the wayward police observer.
TSTS*TSTS
"Oh, man, my head is killing me," Blair groaned as he carefully sat up, fighting the nausea that activity produced. The young man tentatively put his hand up to his forehead wincing at the tenderness and absently noting the sticky feel of partially dried blood. He rested with his back against a convenient wall until the world steadied a little, then staggered to his feet, holding on to the building for support.
His dazed eyes swept the area, finding nothing familiar, so he started unsteadily up the street, toward the lights he could see in the distance, away from the darkness and damp stench of the waterfront behind him.
Reaching the business district at long last, the anthropologist wandered along the lighted street until he found a 24-hour gas station, where he used the bathroom facilities to clean off his throbbing head wound.
"Must have fallen pretty badly," he muttered, checking out the nasty gash that marred the left side of his forehead. The cut was deep and irregular, and the entire area around it was swollen, discolored, and painful. He stared at his reflection, realizing with a sudden chill that he didn't recognize the face staring back at him; in fact, he couldn't remember who he was or where he was from or even where he was now. Suddenly frightened, he hurried into the gas station and up to the bored attendant.
"Where is this?" he asked, looking around for anything that might be familiar. "Where am I?"
The young man looked at the obviously confused customer in front of him, taking in his soiled, disheveled appearance, and concluded the curly-haired fellow was coming off some sort of bad drug experience.
"You're not in Kansas anymore, man. You wanna act like a head case, take it out of here before I call the cops and have you hauled off," he growled, pointing toward the door.
"But, where am I? What city? Have you ever seen me before?"
"No, I haven't, and I don't want to again, understand? Get out of here." The attendant stood, turning out to be much bigger than Blair had first thought. In the face of the blatant threat, the police observer decided the best course of action would be to find someplace else to ask his questions.
"No problem, man, no problem," he muttered, making his unsteady way to the door. **If this pain in my head would just let up, maybe I could remember.**
A block further he found a large bench, onto which he sank gratefully; the pounding headache made walking an ordeal. He'd almost nodded off when the city bus pulled up and the doors opened, revealing a large, dark driver with impatient eyes set in an oddly jovial face.
"You waiting for a bus, buddy? If not, you need to move on," he asked brusquely.
Blair considered the rumbling bus, then with a shrug boarded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out what he found there. Unsure what was needed, he held his handful of bills and coins out to the driver.
"Take what you need, man," he said quietly.
The driver looked at the slight, swaying figure, taking in the raw looking head injury above dazed, guileless eyes, and any thoughts he might have had of taking advantage of this passenger fled.
"You don't mind me saying so, buddy, looks like you should stop by the hospital," he commented, taking out the proper fare.
"I don't like hospitals," Blair murmured, unsure where that notion came from but utterly certain it was true.
"I guess I can understand that. Go take a seat."
Blair found a vacant seat and leaned against the window, listlessly watching the passing scenery, vaguely hoping to see something familiar. He was nearly asleep when a distant building caught his eye, compelling him to step forward to be let off.
"You want off here, buddy?" the driver asked incredulously. "You sure? There ain't much around this part of Cascade."
Blair just nodded, still glancing out the window frequently as if he expected the view to change. The driver brought the bus to a stop and opened the doors with an odd reluctance.
"Good luck to you, then," was all he said, though, before pulling the doors shut behind the eccentric young man.
Blair didn't even glance back at the departing bus, his attention was focused on a group of tall warehouses a couple of blocks distant. Moving as quickly as he could given the pain in his head, he made his way cautiously to the vaguely familiar neighborhood, until he found himself standing in front of the piled wreckage of what probably once had been a warehouse. The sight of the jumbled pile of partially blackened lumber was oddly upsetting, though he had no idea why it bothered him so. Glancing around he saw he was again in a mostly deserted area, and wondered where all the people of this city hid. He certainly hadn't seen many.
"They were testing drugs on monkeys when it blew up," a rasping voice informed him.
Blair turned to find a weathered little man standing beside him in the soiled light of the old street lamp. Shorter than Blair even, with wispy white hair in random orbit about head, and faded blue eyes.
"Really? Did they save the monkeys?"
"Well, Curly, I don't know. I suppose they might have. I never believed the story myself. Oh, I believe there were drugs about, but not monkeys. Who would believe something like that?" The little man laughed, a hearty baritone sound, incongruous from such a sunken chest.
Blair couldn't help but smile at the man's comments, and he was frankly grateful to see a friendly face. He noticed the first faint lightening of the sky to the east, heralding dawn's approach, and yawned hugely.
"I was heading on home when I saw you here. You need a place to sleep? I have enough room, as long as you don't mind doing the bulk of your sleeping during the day."
"That sounds good," Blair murmured gratefully. "I could use some sleep."
"Well come on along, then. Oh, I'm Aristotle, by the way. Who might you be?" he queried, sticking out his hand in greeting.
"I'm ... I'm ... I'm not sure who I am, to be honest," Blair admitted reluctantly, while reaching out to shake the proffered hand.
"You don't know who you are? How long have you been like this?" the older man wondered, his gaze on the obviously recent head injury.
"Since I woke up earlier, I guess."
"Where were you?"
"In the doorway of some abandoned building, somewhere else in this city. No one was around, and my head was hurting really bad. I must have fallen," Blair reported thoughtfully, frowning a little. "It's weird, man. I should know who I am, shouldn't I?"
Aristotle shrugged noncomittally. "Come on to my place and sleep. If you still can't remember in the morning, then we'll figure something out."
"Aren't you ... um ... worried I might steal from you, or something?" the police observer asked as they walked slowly up the street away from the burned-out building.
Again that delightful laugh rumbled out, bringing an answering smile to Blair's face. "Bless you, Curly, but I've nothing worth stealing. And out of idle curiosity, were you planning on robbing me?"
"I don't think so," Blair grinned, shaking his head at the question.
"Well, then, we should get along just fine!"
TSTS*TSTS
"Chief, I'm going to kill you when I get my hands on you," Jim muttered again as he pulled into a parking place at the precinct. "You promised you'd be here this morning!"
Jim's mood had gone from bad to worse when he discovered he was alone this morning, no wayward roommate in sight. He had watched for Blair's distinctive car, but there was no sign of it anywhere near the police station, which meant the kid was standing him up today as well.
It was high time he had a serious discussion with his free-spirited friend. Though he valued Blair's enthusiasm, and ability to act on the spur of the moment, Jim needed to be able to depend on the younger man. **Things are going to have to change** he assured himself as he got out of this vehicle, so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't notice the approach of the captain of Major Crime.
"Jim, just the man I want to see. Come on, we have to get over to the waterfront district," Simon said, ushering the detective to the passenger side of his car.
"What's at the waterfront, Simon, besides some bad smells and worse memories?" Jim asked, a cold ball of dread in his stomach; somehow he knew he wasn't going to like his captain's answer.
"They found a murder victim down there; Jack Drummond. Owns a string of video stores with questionable business practices," Simon told his passenger as they exited the garage and headed toward the waterfront district.
"The name doesn't ring a bell with me," Jim confessed with a puzzled frown. "Why is homicide calling us in?"
"Because near the murder scene they found a wallet. Blair's," the captain said as gently as possible. "Sandburg didn't happen to come home last night, did he?"
"No, he didn't." The big detective's voice was strained, the muscles in his jaw bunching in a manner Simon was all too familiar with.
"Well, the officers ran Sandburg's license, and found out his association with our department. They called just a few minutes before you got there. You know, Jim, it could be Sandburg lost his wallet, or it was stolen, and it's just coincidence that it turned up there."
"Sir, being around Sandburg for the last few months, I've learned something. Nothing is a coincidence with him. If his wallet is there, then he was there. And is probably in some sort of trouble. Can't you go any faster?"
Simon stepped up the speed without comment, turning on his flashers to help clear their path. He wouldn't have said anything to the young observer on a bet, but the gruff captain had grown rather fond of the hyperactive grad student. The kid was scrappy and determined, both characteristics Simon appreciated.
When they finally reached the murder scene, Jim got out of the car almost before it stopped moving, pulling out his badge to still any questions the officers already on the scene might have. He did a quick, cursory sweep of the area, trusting he could go back to the memory later and hone in on any details he needed, one of the latest techniques Blair had taught him.
"We found your observer's wallet over here," Officer Richards said, pointing to a recessed doorway. "Oh, and we just got the word, they found Mr. Sandburg's car a few blocks away," he reported, pointing up the street. "But no sign of him yet."
Jim and Simon shared a worried glance at this newest development, then Jim hunkered down, looking closely at the spot the wallet had been located.
"There's quite a bit of blood here," he said softly, only loud enough for Simon to hear, ever careful to hide his abilities from others.
Simon looked doubtfully at the dark, discolored old wood, unable to distinguish blood from amongst the various other stains, but trusting his detective. He signaled an officer to gather some samples of the wood for testing, then joined Jim at the head of the alley, standing silently as the sentinel went to work.
"See that track there, Simon?" Jim said, indicating a single dark line on the worn surface of the alley.
"Yeah, looks like a motorcycle track. So?"
"It's fresh, Simon. I can smell the rubber. Let's see how this worked. Sandburg's car breaks down, so he starts walking toward populated areas. He gets this far, hears/sees the murder, the killer sees him. He flees, tries to get inside this building, while the killer pursues on his motorcycle. He hits or shoots Sandburg, then takes him with him. That doesn't work. Not on a motorcycle." Jim paused, deep in thought.
"So the killer leaves the kid here, probably thinking he's dead. But where is he now? Did he wander off, get lost? Someone else grab him? The killer come back for him?" Simon thought out loud.
"He wouldn't come back for him, too risky. And if he was going to do that, he'd have taken Drummond, too. Someone else? That's possible. Could be Sandburg was trying to get to help and the wrong 'help' came by." Jim sighed, looking out at the street for any possible clues. **Come on, Chief, even YOU can't be that unlucky.**
TSTS*TSTS
"I'm gonna kill whoever it is banging in my head," Blair Sandburg muttered, opening weary eyes to gaze around at unfamiliar surroundings. The pain in his head was actually a bit less than the night before, but he still didn't remember anything of his life before waking up on that deserted street last night. However, his sleep had been disturbed by random images: men in uniforms with guns, men in civilian dress with guns. A naked dead woman floating in a bathtub. Him holding a gun on a helicopter pilot. Fighting with a dangerous, armed woman. He probably would have awoken screaming if not for the images interspersed between those. Images of a large, muscular man with a painfully short haircut and piercing blue eyes.
An image that should be frightening-but wasn't. Whoever the man was, he was important to Blair; he seemed to represent safety, sanity, and security.
"How you doing, Curly?" The now-familiar voice of Aristotle broke into his thoughts. "You figure out who you are yet?"
"I think I'm better, but I still don't remember anything."
"You sure you don't want to go to the hospital? They could maybe help you figure things out," the older man suggested.
"No, man. No hospitals. I've seen enough hospitals."
The faded eyes lit up a little at that. "Say, Curly, you sure you aren't remembering? How come you don't like hospitals?" There was no suspicion in his voice, just an honest hope the younger man was beginning to recall his past.
"No ... I don't know. I just ... when you say 'hospital' ... I get a sick feeling inside. I don't want to go there. It's getting better, I'm okay," the younger man muttered, half to himself.
"I won't force you to, seeing you feel that way. But, I maybe know where you could get your head looked at. And we can get a meal while we're at it. You feel up to some walking? It's kind of a long ways to go."
"Don't have any other plans for the day, I guess. And I'm with you if it means food," Blair replied with a small smile. "Food would definitely be good."
TSTS*TSTS
"Well, he managed to kill it again," the mechanic said with a resigned sigh. "I've told Blair repeatedly to LISTEN to the engine, but does he heed my words of wisdom? No."
Brent Douglas was a big man, with long dark hair pulled back in a braid, and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. He had been Blair's mechanic since the teaching assistant had tutored Brent's sister several years before, and the man's fondness for the missing anthropologist was obvious.
"He calls this heap a 'classic'. I call it the bankroll for my son's college education. At this rate, he should be able to fund his Master's without having to get a loan," Brent grinned, the spiel obviously well rehearsed. The two older men had the distinct impression Blair had probably heard it a time or twenty.
"What was the cause of death?'" Jim asked tersely, hoping it was something that corroborated his theory. The Homicide detectives had not come right out and accused Sandburg of anything, but they did say in no uncertain terms that they were anxious to talk to the missing observer. Blair had made considerable progress toward being accepted in the Major Crime unit, a great deal of it from his traumatic first day with his show of courage and ingenuity against Kincaid. Jim knew Joel Taggart, Henri Brown and Brian Rafe were all concerned when they'd heard Blair was missing. But to much of the remaining police force, the grad student was the sort who should only set foot inside the precinct as a suspect.
"The fuel pump is the culprit this time, detective. Gave up the ghost on him, stranding him wherever he was when it gave out."
"So, he would have had no choice but to call for help or go seeking help?" Simon asked, just to be sure he understood.
"Absolutely."
"Okay. Please fill out this paperwork as neatly as possible, I'll send an officer by in a little while to pick it up. Can we leave the car here for now?" the captain queried.
"Sure thing. When do you figure Blair will be by to pick it up?" Brent wondered, not having been told of his friend's fate, but guessing Blair was busy elsewhere.
"We'll have to get back to you on that," Jim said, evading the question.
"Sure, man, no problem." The look the mechanic gave him was curious, but he didn't pursue it, figuring Blair would fill him in later.
TSTS*TSTS
"You know, Jim, it wouldn't kill you to be a little more tactful with the homicide boys," Simon commented at they made their way back to Major Crime. They'd stopped by Homicide to let the detectives there know what the situation was with Sandburg's car, and Jim had ended up exchanging heated words with one of them when the man had hinted that Sandburg might have been an accomplice, not a victim.
"Simon, it wouldn't hurt them to remember Sandburg is innocent until proven guilty. It's a pretty basic right, and in Sandburg's case he's EARNED it by his actions," Jim ground out.
"I agree, Jim, but we need to be able to work with these guys. Be the bigger man in this case, if only for Sandburg's sake," Simon requested, laying a comforting hand on the broad shoulder of his best detective.
Before the irritated sentinel could come up with a suitably scathing reply, Henri and Rafe interrupted them.
"Captain, we found out what Sandburg was doing in that area," Henri announced.
"And what was that?"
"Professor Stanton asked Blair to deliver some stuff yesterday afternoon, as kind of a payback for his having taken some of Sandburg's classes when Blair was busy. One of the deliveries was not far from the waterfront district. So, we figure somehow he must have tried to shortcut or something."
"Did you happen to get a list of the deliveries?"
Rafe held it up with a grin. "Of course."
Simon scanned it quickly. "About a dozen drops. If we split them up between us, it we should be able to finish by the end of the shift," he decided, tearing the list in half and handing the top part back to Rafe and Henri.
"Come on, Jim, you're with me," he said, indicating the two younger detectives should get going.
"Simon, I haven't seen you do this much fieldwork in years," Jim noted laconically as they approached the elevator. "One would almost think you were taking a personal interest in this."
"I'm trying to keep you from doing something we will both regret. Now, Homicide is concentrating on Drummond's murder, so it's up to us to figure out where Sandburg wandered off to. But the bottom line, Detective, is that this is Homicide's case. I don't want you forgetting that."
"No, Sir. I won't forget that." **Unless they get between me and whoever hurt Blair** he amended silently.
TSTS*TSTS
"Thank God we're here. I don't think I could walk any more, my head is killing me," Blair moaned as he and Aristotle walked up the steep steps of the mission Aristotle had led them to.
"I'm sorry, Curly. I didn't think how much pain you would be in," the older man said unhappily. "I should have realized it was too far."
"Ah, no, man. Do NOT apologize. I appreciate you bringing me here," Blair assured his companion.
The old man smiled a little sadly. "I used to come here a lot, but these days I usually can't be bothered. Let's see if the doc is around," he invited, leading the way toward the back of the cavernous building.
"Hey, Doc! I was hoping you'd be here today!" Aristotle called out to a youngish man with the reddest hair Blair could imagine.
"Aristotle, it's good to see you! Did you change your mind?" he man asked with a hopeful look.
"Nothing to change it to," Aristotle chuckled. "Brought you a new patient, though. This here's Curly. Seems his head had some sort of altercation with a blunt instrument, and the instrument won. Curly, this is Doctor Jamieson McFairlane. He's a certified quack, but the cheapest medical care I know of. Worth every penny he doesn't charge you."
Blair chuckled at the unconventional introduction, shaking the proffered hand as the doctor scrutinized his new patient.
"Okay, young man, come on back here with me and we'll take a look at that head of yours. Okay, hop on up here and let's see what we have. How did you get hurt?" the medic asked as he gently probed the injury.
"I ... I'm not sure how it happened," Blair confessed uneasily.
"You don't remember, huh? What's the last thing you remember before you were hurt?"
When Blair remained silent the doctor looked at him more closely. "What's your name?" he asked in a firm voice.
Blair simply shrugged and shook his head with a miserable expression.
"Good God, Son, you need to be in a hospital, not in the back room of a mission. And you should contact the police, see if someone has reported you missing," McFairlane added, then stopped when he saw the look of mingled panic and stubbornness on the young face of his patient.
"No! No hospital, no police," Blair declared, shifting to get off the makeshift examination table and out of there.
"Okay. Okay, no hospital, no police. Let me finish, okay? I won't force you to do anything, but please, let me help as much as I can here, all right?" he placated the upset younger man.
Blair settled back warily, allowing the physician to clean and bandage his injury, and accepted the small bottle of acetaminophen he was given for the pain. Then he joined Aristotle for a meal of army beans and bread, before beginning the long walk back to the old warehouse his benefactor called home.
TSTS*TSTS
"Might just as well kill two birds with one stone," Simon commented, pulling out his cell phone and punching in a number. A few terse words later and he turned the phone off with a satisfied sigh.
"Brown and Rafe's last call was right near a pretty decent Chinese food restaurant, they'll pick up the food when they're done and meet us back at the station. Why don't we stop by the loft and make sure Sandburg hasn't wandered home, huh? That would just his way, to be sitting home safe and sound, grading papers or something, while we're all going nuts trying to find him," the captain grinned, hoping to lighten Jim's mood.
But Ellison wasn't having any of that. He knew full well his roommate had not blithely returned home, just as he knew Blair was injured and in need of his help. He didn't know if it was a Sentinel/Guide thing, or a Jim/Blair thing, but he knew without a doubt it was true. He first felt this connection shortly after meeting the hyper grad student, when Kincaid had taken over the entire police station and Blair had caught the psycho's attention. In the couple of months since then the connection had been proven time and again, so Jim didn't doubt what he felt was true. Blair needed him, and as soon as possible.
The stop by the loft was perfunctory at most. There were three messages on the machine, all for Blair from students wanting to discuss grades. No one had been there since Jim left that morning; the mail was still in the box. A tiny hope Jim hadn't even realized he'd harbored died quietly as he surveyed his undisturbed domain.
"Let's get back to the station and compare notes with Brown and Rafe," Jim muttered, ushering Simon out and locking the door behind him.
The meeting with the two younger detectives, over an early dinner, yielded no further information on the possible whereabouts of their missing observer. Discouraged, they made a last few phone calls and called it a night, walking together to the garage.
"Jim, I want you to get some rest. I'll come in tomorrow morning, and we can work on this some more. But it won't help if you are dead on your feet," Simon said quietly as they watched Brown and Rafe drive off.
"Sir, I appreciate the offer, but tomorrow's Sunday," Jim started, only to be interrupted by Simon's raised hand.
"Believe it or not, Jim, I do know what day it is. Now, I'll meet you here at eight sharp. Go home and rest. You can consider that an order," Simon told him.
"Yes, Sir."
Jim couldn't quite hold back the smile that crossed his features at Simon's instructions. The man had balked initially at Blair's involvement in Major Crimes via his work with Jim's senses, but he wasn't fooling Ellison. Blair had managed to get under Simon's skin as well, though he knew the big captain would probably rather eat ground glass than admit it.
He drove to the loft as per his orders, but that was as far as he planned to follow them. He hurried up the stairs, automatically noting the absence of a heartbeat in their home, and pulled out his warmest jeans and a thick sweater. It was the time of year when it got downright cold at night, plus, he needed to look a little less 'official' than he usually did. Changing his clothes quickly, he was back out the door in ten minutes and driving toward the waterfront district.
He made his way to the deserted parking lot where Sandburg's forlorn-looking Corvair had been found hours before, and parked his truck, locking it and engaging the alarm. He then began to attempt to trace his guide's probable path of the night before, walking briskly until he reached the murder scene.
In his mind's eye he could see Blair standing there, seeing a crime committed right in front of him, and trying desperately to escape, only to be foiled by the locked door of an abandoned building. Then what? Taken away while still unconscious? Or did he come to and wander off only to meet with another mishap?
Since there was no evidence that anyone else was involved, Jim made the only logical decision available to him; he began to follow Blair's most likely path to the nearest populated area.
His path, chosen as if he were a stranded, injured civilian, led him at last to a 24-hour gas station. He was almost to the front door when he saw the reflection of a shadowy figure lurking around the side of the building. Pulling his revolver, he decided on the direct approach and all but leapt past the corner of the building, leveling his gun at a very startled Brian Rafe.
"Dammit, Rafe!" Jim gasped, jerking his gun skyward. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," the dark-haired detective countered, his eyes still rounded in surprise.
"Why don't you go first?" Jim suggested irritably.
"Henri and I got to thinking, it was probably nearly dark when Blair broke down, and if he lost consciousness for a time, it would be fairly late when he reached this area. The night shifts would be on. So we thought we'd come on down and do a little snooping," Rafe explained calmly.
Jim felt a faint flush of shame warm his face at Brian's words. The two detectives had come in on Saturday when they heard Blair was missing, had worked hard all day on the case, and were now doing some investigating on their own time. His irritation fled immediately in the face of his colleagues' dedication.
"I'm sorry, man. You startled me. I don't take kindly to nearly shooting a friend," Jim confessed. "Why were you skulking around out here anyway?"
"Henri thought it would go better if he went in there alone. Something about me not looking like I belong in this neighborhood."
Jim snorted a quick chuckle as he glanced over the dapper detective. "I can't really argue with him there, pal."
"Well, we wanted to get right to looking for Blair, and I didn't have time to change."
"What's taking Henri so long, anyway?" Jim wondered, turning toward the entrance of the business only to find the younger detective emerging with a frown.
"What a jerk," Henri grumbled before looking up to see Jim standing here. "Hey, Jim, what are you doing here?"
"Same thing you are, apparently. Did you learn anything useful?" Jim asked, tilting his head at the cashier inside.
"Oh, yeah. Like the milk of human kindness is definitely not flowing through that dude's veins. Come on and walk a bit, and I'll tell you what I know," Henri said, urging the larger man to start walking away from the gas station.
"The guy in there, one Leroy Gaines, saw Blair last night, around nine or ten. Said Blair had a head injury, and was asking if he ... Leroy ... recognized him."
"What!?" Jim exploded, turning a laser-like look on Henri Brown. "Blair was there just last night? Injured? What did that ass do? Kick him out?"
"Basically ... yeah. Whoa, Jim, don't do it, man," Henri said, grasping a massive arm to prevent one very pissed-off sentinel from going back to 'question' the clerk himself. "Won't do anyone any good, you get arrested for assault."
"He sent an obviously injured, disoriented man back out on the street without even calling the police or someone to pick him up?" Jim growled, fighting the urge to kill the person who had turned his injured guide aside.
"Jim! Look at this neighborhood, man! Look! That guy probably sees junkies, mental cases, you name it, every night. He's withdrawn from it, man. Self preservation - he can't help them, even if he wanted to. Let it go, you can't do any good there. Blair needs you free and able to find him. Let it go," Henri urged him, loosening his grip as bit as he felt the muscles under his hands relax a little.
"You know, this is ... this is good news," Brian added. "I mean, he's alive, right? He wasn't killed at the scene. Maybe he's just wandering around, trying to remember where he belongs."
"That's not exactly a very comforting thought, Rafe," Jim muttered.
"It's better than thinking he's dead," Brian insisted.
"Yeah, but Blair wandering around lost and confused? How long can he survive out here like that?"
"I dunno, Jim. We ARE talking about a guy who managed to help capture a helicopter full of bad guys using nothing but a flare gun and his creativity," Henri said with a chuckle. "He might do better than you think."
"He'd better," Jim mumbled, looking around with a dark expression. "Now, let's see if we can find anyone else who saw him."
TSTS*TSTS
***Flickering light ... candles in a breeze ... a wheelchair hanging from the ceiling ... cold ... chains ... alone with madness ... the eyes, oh God, the eyes ... a yellow scarf ... falling ... they fell ... gunshots ... JIM!***
"Jim! Don't kill Jim!" Blair cried out, sitting up suddenly in the cold silence of the warehouse. He looked around in confusion at the barren area illuminated by sunlight filtering through filthy panes of glass.
"Hey, Curly, you okay? Who's Jim? Is that you?" Aristotle asked, looking at his new roommate with the confused expression of a man jolted from sleep.
"Jim's ... Jim. My friend, I think. Oh, man ... I don't need dreams like that," Blair shivered from a combination of cold and residual fear.
"Dreams like what?" the older man asked, settling down near Blair's thin pallet and looking at him with patient curiosity.
"Oh, man. I was in this warehouse ... and there was a guy. He was nuts ... he ... he was going to ... to eat me. No. No, he was going to BE me. He had stuff from people he'd ... been ... before, I ... I think. God, his eyes were insane. I was chained up, couldn't move. Then Jim came, and they fought. And ... and ... fell. Then gunshots, and then I woke up. Jim wasn't ... he didn't ... I don't know if he's alive still, man," Blair told him, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. "I was so cold, man. So cold," he whispered.
"Do you think this was a memory? Does it FEEL like a memory?"
"Yes. God help me, yes," Blair muttered.
"Well, Curly, no wonder you don't want to remember. But, it's good. You know, good that you're remembering stuff, even if it is kind of bad stuff. You need to remember. Anything else?"
"No, not that I can recall. Is it really that cold or is it just me?"
"It's pretty cold, Curly. Sun's just barely up, hasn't warmed up much yet," Aristotle informed him.
"Is that why you sleep during the day and are up at night? To stay warm?"
"Partly. Partly because that's the way I lived for a long time."
"What were you ... before?" Blair wondered, pulling his knees up to his chin and looking at his new friend curiously.
"Before? Ah, Curly, I was a lot of things. But the job I had the longest, the only 'career' I had, if you can call it that, was as a truck driver. Ran my own rig from one side of this country to the other, hauling everything from explosives to cat litter," he chuckled at the memories.
"Really? Why'd you quit?"
"Ah, couldn't pass the physical any longer, my blood pressure, you know. When I came off the road, I didn't know what to do with myself. I hadn't saved anything, I wasn't used to doing regular work or living in a regular place. Found myself in a homeless shelter, which wasn't all that bad, but I prefer this. Freedom, you know. I had it for years, I'm not ready to give it up now."
Blair considered the former trucker seriously, gnawing on his bottom lip. "It doesn't seem right," he commented. "There must be a way for you to get a warmer, better place to stay."
"Haven't you ever heard that fine old saying, goes like I'd rather be a king in hell rather than a servant in heaven? Or something like that," the old man asked before noticing Blair's rueful expression. "Ha, dumb question, right?" he chuckled.
"Well, no, I don't remember hearing it, but I understand what you mean by it," the younger man shrugged. "Who am I to tell you what to do, huh? I don't even know who I am." Blair paused, considering what he had just said. "Um ... that didn't make any sense, but I think you know what I meant."
Aristotle laughed heartily at that. "Indeed I do. And if you are saying things that make so little sense, and I am understanding them, then I believe it is a sign we need more sleep. What do you say to that, Curly?"
"Oh, man, I am down with that. Totally," Blair yawned, stretching out and watching Aristotle settle down on his pallet. "Thanks. For being so good to me," he said into the quiet of the warehouse.
"You're welcome, Curly. Now get some sleep," the older man replied, closing his eyes and relaxing. "This time try to have a pleasant dream, huh?"
"Yeah, pleasant would be nice," Blair mumbled as he drifted off to a sleep that was, thankfully, dreamless and peaceful.
TSTS*TSTS
"There's been no progress in finding the killer," Simon announced as he and Jim settled in his office. "They will continue their investigation on Monday, according to the message they left yesterday. Now, Jim, did you go home as ordered?"
"Yes Sir," Jim replied without irony.
"Did you sleep?"
"Yes Sir."
Simon gave Jim an appraising look. "Did you go out and continue the investigation last night?"
"Yes Sir."
Simon sighed with mild exasperation. "Did you learn anything?" he asked, deciding to forego any lecture.
"Yeah, Blair didn't die on that street," Jim reported calmly.
"You sure?" There was a spark of renewed hope in the captain's dark eyes.
"Yep, have a witness, saw Sandburg late that night, ten or eleven or thereabouts," Jim replied with a slight grimace, then proceeded to give Simon a full report.
"So, the logical step would be to search any nearby locations where a person without a home or money would go, huh?" Simon asked, rubbing his jaw. "Not a lot right there, but it's all we have for now. Of course, you realize he could have taken a bus to almost anywhere, right?"
"Yeah. You put out an APB on him, right? Have the media been informed? Bring the public in on this, maybe?" Jim suggested.
"Well, now that we know he's probably alive, and possibly ... confused ... yeah, I think going public would be a good idea. Let me set that in motion, then we can go down to the waterfront again and look some more."
They spent the morning and early afternoon visiting all the shelters within a twenty block radius, interviewing street people, checking alleys. They found no sign of the missing anthropologist, though they did find evidence of a crack lab, which they turned in to Narcotics. Both men were footsore and weary as they climbed into Simon's car after yet another fruitless interview.
"I dunno, Jim, it's as if Sandburg disappeared off the face of the earth," Simon sighed, leaning back in the seat. "You have any suggestions how to proceed here?"
"I'd like to try something, I'm not sure how well it'll work, but we're running out of options. I want you to cruise the waterfront district very slowly, and I'm going to listen for Sandburg," Ellison replied a bit hesitantly.
"'Listen for Sandburg'? What ... how ... do you listen for Sandburg?"
"I know the sound of his heartbeat. I can't explain it, Simon, but I found I can pick out his heartbeat, even in a crowded room. Blair thinks it may be a sentinel/guide thing, assuring the sentinel can always find his guide. I dunno. But, I know it works, and right now I can't think of anything else to try."
"Too much information, Jim," Simon said with a smile that let his friend know it was intended as a joke. Though the whole sentinel business rather bothered Simon at times, he had seen enough to know it was genuine, and the increase in Ellison's solve rate was all the supporting evidence he needed. That, and the overall improvement in Jim Ellison's attitude since a certain hyper grad student finagled his way into the older man's home and life. If that was a 'sentinel/guide thing,' then Simon was all for it.
Jim chuckled quietly in response, then sobered. "I'm going to be turning my hearing way up to do this, so please, don't make any loud noises if you can avoid it."
"Got it."
The big car cruised slowly along the seedy streets, while Jim sat back with his eyes closed and an expression of intense concentration on his face. He filtered past the ambient sounds, seeking that one familiar rhythm that centered his world.
An oddly discordant sound filtered in, and Jim's attention turned to that, trying to decipher the sound, it was metal against ... plastic? Some sort of machine? What was it doing working here? If he could just analyze it ...
There was a sharp sting on his left cheek, then Simon's voice booming painfully in his ear.
"Jim? Jim, knock this off! Snap out of it, man."
"Si ... Simon ... what? What happened?" he asked, hastily turning down the dial on his hearing.
"You tell me. One minute you seemed fine, then I looked over at you and your eyes were glazed, your breathing shallow and strained. I asked if you were all right, and you ignored me. No matter how loud I asked. So ... well, I didn't know what to do ... so I slapped you. You okay? What happened to you just now? Was that one of those 'zones' Sandburg's always harping about?"
"Yeah, Simon, sorry. Guess I was trying too hard."
"Well, did you hear something to set you off like that?"
"Yeah, but it was mechanical, a machine of some sort. Could be a ... a ... coffee maker for all I know. I do know it wasn't Blair." The detective rubbed his hands over his face with a weary sigh.
"Jim, how much sleep did you get last night?" Simon asked gently.
"Not a lot. Couple hours, maybe."
"Go home, Ellison. That's a direct order. Go home and sleep." He held up one hand to cut off his companion's protest. "I'll come pick you up at ... say ... seven tonight. We'll get some dinner, and do some more searching among the night folks."
"Simon, you don't have to do this ..."
"I know I don't HAVE to do this, but I don't want you getting hurt out here alone if that happens again."
"Thanks, Simon," Jim said sincerely, easing back in his seat and relaxing while Simon drove him back to the loft.
A warm shower behind him and a cold beer in one hand, Jim wandered onto the balcony and looked out over the city he called home, his thoughts on his friend and roommate. His guide. There had been so many changes, so quickly, in the past few months. And there in the middle of them was a curly haired young man with laughing eyes, hands flying through the air as he spoke, all but bouncing with enthusiasm at each new discovery. Where Jim had seen his evolving senses as a burden, Blair had seen them as a gift, an opportunity, something to be used and treasured and enjoyed. The older man knew Blair was a little envious of Jim's abilities, but he threw himself into helping Jim in any way he knew or could create.
And it wasn't only the sentinel thing Blair helped with. Jim had forgotten what it was like to have a partner, someone to bounce ideas off of, to contribute their own ideas and perceptions, to watch his back. Ellison found he could be a little more aggressive in pursuing suspects or evidence, because he knew he had a backup, though he wished at times the kid would learn to actually stay put when told to do so. But it wasn't every anthropology student who could face the things Blair already had faced, and come out of it with sanity and enthusiasm intact.
"I know you're out there somewhere, Chief. Hang on, we'll find you," Jim promised softly before turning and heading upstairs to get some much-needed sleep.
TSTS*TSTS
"Get out of here, you scum, before I do the world a favor and kill you," the harsh voice announced as a rough hand grabbed Blair's arm and dragged him to a standing position. Roused so roughly from much- needed sleep, the anthropologist was groggy and disoriented.
"Wha ... Simon?" he queried, then almost immediately wondered who 'Simon' was.
"What do you boys want with us? We aren't hurting anything," Aristotle argued, looking worriedly over at the still confused Blair. "Leave him alone, he's been hurt enough."
"You old fool, this is our turf, man, and we doan want no white trash laying around," the young leader growled. "You can get your pale asses outta here, or we can fix it so you won't hafta worry about where you sleep ever again." His eyes were the dark, dead brown of a man who just didn't care.
Both Blair and Aristotle looked around, noting no less than six young men, all dark and very well built, angry disdain twisting their features.
The former truck driver sighed, then straightened up a bit shakily. "We'll go. No need to be violent," he said, indicating to Blair that he should come along. They took their blankets, and Aristotle grabbed a very worn backpack stuffed with a few bits of extra clothing, before turning to leave.
He glanced at the gang leader as if he wanted to say something, then abruptly changed his mind and shuffled toward the exit, not looking back. Blair followed silently, keeping his gaze downcast, stepping up to walk beside his benefactor once they reached the street.
"What do we do now?" Blair ventured at last, glancing sideways at his companion.
"Now we find a new place to stay. I know of some places near the old railroad station, they aren't as nice as that was, but they'll do. It's just a lot longer walk to find food and such, but we'll get by, right, Curly?" the old man smiled.
"Right. I guess. Does that happen a lot?"
"Often enough. In a week or two it'll be okay to go back, probably. Ah, well, it was time to get up anyway, I suppose. Let's get ourselves settled, and we can find someplace to get some food."
The two of them walked slowly onward, toward another nearly-forgotten, decaying part of Cascade's past, as the sun slowly dispersed the late morning chill.
TSTS*TSTS
"You know Blair would kill you if he saw you eating that," Simon observed, biting into his own double-decker burger.
"Well, when we get him back we just won't tell him, will we?" Jim replied around a mouthful of fries.
"Since I don't want to hear his lecture any more than you do, I guess we could avoid mentioning it," Simon agreed.
"I knew you'd see it my way," Jim smirked, gathering up their trash to throw away. "If you're done, we could get going," he urged his captain.
Simon smiled indulgently as they walked to his car, with Jim settling in the passenger seat. "You have a plan, Jim?"
"Something I thought of earlier, before the mess at the waterfront. What if Sandburg caught a city bus? I know Rafe and Brown talked to one or two drivers last night, but no one recognized Blair. I'd like to try again, if you don't mind. See if one of them saw him, even if he didn't board the bus."
"Sounds fine to me. I have my tennis shoes on this time, better for walking," the senior officer grinned, hoping to keep Jim's spirits up.
"I appreciate your help, Simon," Jim said diffidently, a bit surprised to find it was true.
The big captain answered with a dismissive growl, which brought a ghost of a smile to his detective's face. They parked the car near the gas station where Blair had been seen, then started up the street, hoping they were following in the missing man's tracks. They had gone only a few blocks when they spied a familiar figure.
"Joel, what are you doing here?" Jim asked.
"Ah, well ... I thought I'd come on down ... you know I used to be a detective ... wanted to keep my hand in," the bomb squad captain tried to explain.
"I see," Jim grinned, turning to find Simon was smiling as well.
"Okay, so I've gotten to like Blair. He's a good kid, I just wanted to help," Joel confessed.
"Thanks, Joel," Jim said, clapping one meaty shoulder. "I appreciate that, and I know Blair will, too."
"Anyway, I got some information that might help. I have a buddy who works at the bus station; he got me the information on who was working this area the night Blair disappeared. I wasn't able to talk to the guy, he'd already left, but this stop is on his route tonight, and he should be here in fifteen minutes or so."
Simon smiled at his colleague. "You ever want to go back to being a detective, Joel, you just let me know. Good work."
Distracted by worry, both men missed the shadow that flitted briefly over Joel's broad face. "What? And give up the thrills of the bomb squad? No way, man."
"Looks like it's running early," Jim commented, staring down the street at a far distant pair of headlights.
"You sure that's the bus, Jim?" Joel wondered. "How can you tell from here?"
"Just a guess," Jim amended, still staring down the street to avoid having to look at Joel as he lied to him.
"You brought the picture of the kid, right?" Simon asked as the bus slowed toward a stop at the bench they were standing by.
"Yep," Jim replied as he entered the bus, stepping up to the driver and pulling out a small photo and his badge. "I'm Detective Ellison of the Cascade PD, and we're trying to locate this man, who's been missing since Friday night. Have you seen him?"
The man studied the picture carefully, then gave a soft scoff. "Oh, yeah. On my second cycle through this street. Polite enough young fella, but kind of dazed. Confused. I told him he needed to go to the hospital, he had a hell of a cut on his forehead. But he said he didn't like hospitals, and went back and took a seat, calm as you please."
"Do you remember where you let him out?" Jim asked.
"Oh, yeah. The old industrial district. Wasn't even a scheduled stop, but he came up and asked to be let out, and I figure, what the hey, let 'em out if they want out. Asked if he was sure, and he said he was. Ah, think it was near Jackson Street. Walked off like he knew where he was going," the driver concluded.
Jim's jaw muscles clenched spasmodically. "You let an obviously injured man off in a dangerous area like that?"
"Listen, Detective, like I said, he seemed to know what and where he wanted to go. What do you expect me to do? Take every passenger with an injury to the hospital against their will? Look around you; this is a bad neighborhood. It's not the first time I've picked up a bleeding passenger, and it won't be the last. I see you got the information on my ID, so if that's all you need, I have to keep rolling." The man's voice softened a little as Jim started to go. "If he's a friend of yours, if he's in some sort of trouble, I hope you find him okay."
"Thanks, man," Joel replied when Jim remained silent. The doors closed and the bus lumbered on its way, leaving the three men to decide what to do next.
"The old industrial district. That's where Sandburg lived when I first met him. I'll bet that's where he went back to," Jim said at last, setting aside his anger at the bus driver.
"The place that burned down?" Joel asked.
"Yeah. It was Sandburg's home, maybe the sight of that neighborhood triggered some sort of memory for him. You want to give us a ride back to Simon's car, Joel?"
"Sure thing, and I'll follow you on over to Blair's old place. Help you look."
Thirty minutes later they were parked in front of the pile of rubble that was once Blair Sandburg's home.
"The kid lived here?" Joel asked incredulously.
"Yeah. Paid $850 a month for the privilege, too."
"Ah, youth," Simon smiled, getting an answering grin from Joel. "Let's take a look around," the captain suggested, noticing Joel was carrying a flashlight, as were he and Jim. "Why don't you take that side, Joel, and we'll take this one?"
"You got it."
When Joel was safely away Simon turned to his so-far silent partner. "Well? You hear anything?"
"No, dammit, nothing. Well, at least not Blair. I do hear heartbeats, a block or two over, I think. We need to be sure not to let Joel go that way alone, I know there's suspected gang activity in this area now," Jim reported, sounding a bit distracted.
"You can hear heartbeats a block away?" Simon asked, his eyes rounded in surprise.
"Faintly."
"Well, what do you want to do, Jim? Want to try to search tonight? Wait until tomorrow? What?"
Jim stood thinking for a moment, then turned to his captain. "Let's send Joel home, then we can try the same thing we did at the waterfront. I'm better rested now, and I'll be more careful. And if I do zone, you can always hit me again," he said with a faint smile. "If I hear him, we'll decide what to do then. If I don't, then, with your permission, I'd like to have a team help me search the area tomorrow. I agree, it's not likely to be effective searching at night, and could be dangerous."
"Sounds good. Let's go tell Joel he can go get his beauty sleep," Simon said, clapping Jim on the back encouragingly.
To be continued...so silly, really...is long since finished. Final part to be posted shortly...K
