Part 4: Nowhere Man (The Beatles)
Day 3: 7:00 AM
When Matt Meyers reached the supermarket on Third Street, he hesitated. His attention was drawn by two employees inside, readying their produce selections for the usual 8AM opening. A thirty-something woman with red hair was laughing, while her companion, a balding man with a black mustache, pushed a cart loaded with now empty boxes toward the back of the store. The woman reached for a Styrofoam cup. And suddenly that small item absorbed all of Matt's focus. The steam rising from within reminded him where he was, and why. It called to him tauntingly. It represented warmth, comfort, normalcy, the kind of things he had managed to push out of his young and stupid life.
He shivered, as much from the chill in the air as from shock. Mr. Sandburg might be dead, and it was all Matt's fault. And someone else might be dead now, too -- that cop in the alley. Though Matt hadn't pulled the trigger, he still felt responsible. He couldn't help but feel responsible. If he hadn't shot Mr. Sandburg, he wouldn't have had to go to Rick; and if he hadn't been at Rick's place, the cop wouldn't have had to protect him; and if the cop hadn't had to protect him.... There were too many "if's," and they all led back to a gun he couldn't even remember getting.
It no longer mattered where he was. His thoughts took him elsewhere, to a place far darker and far colder than this sidewalk outside a supermarket on Third Street. But the sound of a siren screaming to life directly behind him brought him back. He jumped, his entire body twitching in surprise. A bright light temporarily blinded him, hiding the form of the man who yelled "Police! Freeze!" It might as well have been God, himself.
"I'm sorry!" Matt began to sob. He dropped to his knees. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" The words steamed into the damp, morning air like the warmth rising out of the redhead's Styrofoam cup. Somehow, Matt no longer felt the cold.
* * *
The elevator pinged, letting Simon know he'd reached the seventh floor -- and with it, the ICU. Yet when the doors slid open, he made no move to get off. He stared without thought, without purpose into the blindingly sterile hallway beyond. Numb from the barrage of recent events, exhausted both in body and spirit, he lapsed into momentary oblivion. He could remember being in the Emergency Room, waiting for word on Jim. He could remember a call coming through on his cell phone, telling him Matt Meyers had been arrested. But he saw it all as though from a dream. Nothing seemed real, not even this steel box he found himself in. He wasn't quite sure why he was there, or even where there was. If his scanning eyes hadn't landed on the familiar but startling image of his ex-wife, he probably would have ridden the elevator right back down again. Instead, he pressed back the closing doors and stepped through.
By the time he reached the waiting room across the hall, his mind had begun to function somewhat normally. He stopped in the doorway, his curiosity aroused when he saw the former Mrs. Banks tapping a nervous foot against the floor and gnawing carelessly at a red, polished fingernail. This was not the confident, controlling woman who had declared her own, personal independence from him just a few, short years ago. She looked ... scared.
Yet it was anger that greeted him when her lost eyes finally found his. "Do you have any idea what this is doing to your son?"
Sighing, he shook his head slowly, refusing the argument she seemed determined to initiate. "Thank you for bringing him," he offered instead. "Is he in with Blair now?"
"You know he is. He's devastated. I barely even know who this Blair Sandburg person is, yet Daryl is in there grieving over him as though he'd known him forever."
"Blair's been a good friend to Daryl. A good influence."
"A good influence? A good influence? You do know you're talking about the man who told Daryl he should go to the Police Academy, don't you?"
Simon smiled. "That's the one, all right. I can't say I always agree with what he says. But what's important is that he helped Daryl ... and me ... to see that he has to follow his own heart, his own instincts, and it doesn't matter what I ... or you, or what anyone else thinks."
"He's a teenager, Simon. The last thing you want to encourage him to do is follow his instincts."
"Touché!" Simon smiled again.
"I'm not joking." Her voice was shaking as she rose stiffly from her chair. "Simon, I've had it with the police. I'm tired of guns and fights and all that macho, testosterone mumbo-jumbo that you brought home with you every night while we were married. I don't want any of that in my life anymore. I don't want it in Daryl's."
Simon tensed as a surge of adrenaline pushed back against his exhaustion. "Well, the Cascade PD is a part of my life. And so is Daryl. And there's not a damned thing you can do to change any of that."
"Isn't there?"
"If you try to pull him out of my life, you know you'll just end up pushing him right out of your own."
"Maybe I think it's worth the risk."
"Is that what you came down here for?" Simon felt suddenly pushed beyond his limits. He had no time for trivial arguments with his wife. "A good man ... a good friend ... is in there dying. A young man with all of his best years still ahead of him. Blair's dying, for Christ's sake. And all you care about is trying to find a way to keep Daryl out of my life?"
"Not exactly. I just want to keep your life out of his. Daryl's a young man too, with all of his best years still ahead of him. I intend for him to live them."
"And you don't think I want that, too?"
"Dammit, Simon! I know you want that, but...."
"Then what the hell is your point?"
"I don't know. I don't ... know."
As confused as ever by the strange twists of this woman's thoughts, Simon turned away, unwilling to waste any more of Sandburg's precious time with her.
"If Daryl is this upset," she shouted behind him, "over a person he hardly knows, then how's he going to handle it if it's ever you in there?"
Stunned, Simon turned back to face her. But he couldn't respond. He honestly didn't know how to answer her. And part of him couldn't help but wonder if she was also concerned about how she might react to his death.
"Let's just hope we never have to find out," he said finally.
Ironically, she chuckled. "Well, there's a handy answer. It's your answer for everything, isn't it? 'Let's just hope for the best.' When are you going to realize that's just not enough?"
"As soon as you start to realize that sometimes it's all you can get."
* * *
As Simon reached Blair's room, he started to understand the phrase "mother knows best." Daryl was clearly hurting. Yet Simon knew the kind of pain his son was suffering neither could nor necessarily should be avoided. Pain was part of growth. And it was obvious that Daryl was growing.
"I'm just not ready for this, man," Daryl was saying. "I need you, Blair. I can talk to you, you know?" He sniffed. "You always listen, no matter what. And you don't judge. That's just it. You don't judge. Who am I gonna talk to if you..." He sniffed again, and then whispered, "Damn. This just ain't right."
Believing it was time for him to go in and begin the process of comforting his son, Simon started to move into the doorway when he heard the unexpected sound of quiet laughter. Curious, he waited, listening.
"But I can hear you, man," Daryl continued, chuckling softly. "I know what you'd say now. You'd tell me to talk to my dad." The laughter was repeated, intermixed with wet sniffles. "That's all right. He's cool. But he's my dad, you know? And he's a cop. I mean, damn! I don't want to end up in military school!"
More laughter, and Simon found himself grinding his teeth. What kind of trouble was Daryl getting himself into these days? But once again, his son's words stopped him from interrupting the moment.
"But I know it's not like that," Daryl said soberly, all sounds of laughter gone. "It's just... I can talk to you like ... like a brother. You listen. You tell me what you think, but you listen to what I think, too. But my dad, he's got to be responsible, you know? He's got to do the responsible thing. It's his job to make sure I grow up with my head on straight. But sometimes... Sometimes I don't need a lesson, you know? I just need a friend. Or a brother. And that's what you've been for me, man. It's just... I don't want to lose that, Blair. I'm not ready to lose that."
When Daryl started sobbing, Simon knew that was his cue. He stepped into the room and drew his son into his arms.
* * *
Rafe couldn't stop himself from pacing.
"Would you sit down, already?" Henri Brown complained. "You're making me tired."
"Sorry. I just..." He planted himself in front of the window to the nurse's station. "Why won't they tell us anything?"
Brown shook his head sadly. "Cos there's nothing new to tell."
"But they've got to know what's going on. I mean, why won't Jim wake up? The doc said he should be fine, the wound wasn't that bad. We've got to be able to ask him what happened in that alley."
"You saying you believe what that kid, Meyers, is saying?"
Turning to face his partner, Rafe nodded. "Yeah, I believe him. He's not even trying to deny shooting Blair. But with Jim..." He shook his head. "And what happened to the gun?"
"All I know is, you wearing a groove into this floor isn't going to make Jim wake up any faster or find us that gun."
"Then maybe we'd better find something that will." Rafe grabbed his coat and hurried toward the exit, pulling a bewildered Brown in his wake.
"What about Simon?" Brown asked. "He wanted us to keep tabs on Jim."
Rafe froze, dropping his head like a dejected puppy. "I know. But... I can't just sit here and do nothing. Part of me feels like I should be upstairs with Simon and ... Blair. I mean..." He turned. "What if he dies while we're still down here, still waiting for Jim to wake up, still doing absolutely nothing while those guns are still out there? That Meyers kid, he said he didn't even go looking for a gun. If it was that easy for him to get one, then I have to believe there's another Matt Meyers out there, and another Blair Sandburg, and I just..."
Henri reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, partner. Let's get out of here. We'll let Simon know what we're doing and leave our number with the nurse."
* * *
Day 3: 11:30 AM
As morning moved toward mid-day, the waiting area just beyond Blair Sandburg's room began to fill to capacity. The blonde woman from Rainier had arrived. She wasn't shaking like she had been when Simon had first met her. She was no longer splattered with Blair's blood. Yet she still seemed to feel it was her responsibility to try to keep him alive. Her eyes made that clear to Simon, even as she stood across from the room, giving Naomi space to do her unique version of mothering.
Naomi had arrived just a few minutes earlier. Her psychic friend, Charlie, told Simon he'd had a vision that Blair was in trouble, and had used his abilities to track Naomi down at some retreat in Mexico. That was their story anyway, and Simon didn't have the energy to question it.
There were others in the waiting area as well, cops, students, professors and people from other parts of Blair's life that Simon wasn't even aware of. Blair Sandburg was surrounded by the people who mattered most in his life, the people who felt the need to be there at its end. Still, there was one person missing. And Simon couldn't help but feel the void of that absence.
That feeling soon drew him away from Blair's bedside, and led him to the quiet solitude at Jim's.
"You wouldn't believe it up there, Jim," he said for no reason other than to hear the sound of his own voice. "It's almost like Woodstock but without the music." He sighed. "No it's not. Not by a long shot. It's just plain ... bad news."
Walking to the window, Simon looked outside without even noticing what was there. "I wish I could tell you something hopeful, but I can't. I'm afraid there's not much hope left."
He moved back to the bed. As though for the first time, he saw the small, white bandage on Jim's forehead, and the slow, steady rise and fall of Jim's chest. "Who am I kidding?" He whispered to himself. "You don't know a word I'm saying."
Or do you?
A moment later, Simon cautiously touched Jim's shoulder. Somewhere deep inside him, some small part that still believed in things beyond belief, things like sentinels and shaman guides, Simon wanted to imagine that touch, that tenuous connection might be enough to rouse his friend from this empty sleep. He had seen Blair accomplish more with less of a touch, bringing Jim back from a zone-out.
Was that what this was? Some sort of super-charged zone-out?
Sighing, he shook his head and let his hand fall back to his side. If it was a zone-out, it wasn't his touch Jim needed. "I'm afraid Sandburg can't help you this time, buddy," he said softly. "This is one time when he needs you more than you need him."
Yet he couldn't stop himself from trying again. He gripped Jim's shoulder, curling his long fingers around the firm muscle.
"Jim, I hope you can hear me. I really do. Sandburg.... Blair...." He took a deep breath, finding the rest difficult to say. Thinking the words was one thing; saying them aloud was quite another.
His throat tightening, Simon had to raise his voice to speak around a growing lump. Even his jaw resisted. "He's dying, Jim." He spat the words as though to rid his mouth of a vile taste. It didn't help.
"Blair's dying," he repeated, this time letting the words through without a fight. "And you can't just.... You can't let him go like this, Jim. You've got to find your own way back. And you've got to do it soon. You hear me, Jim?"
Before he knew what was happening, pain turned to anger. Simon's hand became a vice, clamped down hard on Jim's shoulder.
"You have got to be there for him, Jim. I know you can hear me. You've got to hear me. That's what Blair needs from you. He needs to hear you. Come on, Jim. That's all you've got to do."
Suddenly aware of the deep, purple marks he must already have burned into Jim's flesh, Simon let go and turned away, as much to protect his friend from further bruising as to hide the tears now warming his own cheeks.
"Don't let him go without at least hearing your voice." These last words came out as a whisper.
And it was a whisper that answered them. "Simon?"
* * *
Matt Meyers was exhausted past the point of caring. It no longer mattered what might happen to him. It stopped mattering the moment he'd realized what he'd done. Blair Sandburg wasn't dead yet, but he would be, soon. That would make Matt a murderer. He'd never dreamed such a word could ever be associated with his name. Matt Meyers: Murderer. Now his own life was over. He'd stilled another man's heart, a man who had tried to help him. Even if by some miracle he didn't go to prison, he'd punish himself for as long as his own heart continued beating. He could never make amends for what he'd done. But at the very least he could cooperate. Ignoring the advice of his court-appointed lawyer, he answered every question that was put to him.
"Who shot Detective Ellison?"
That question had been asked a million times, and Matt answered it just as he had each time before. "I don't know. Whoever it was, they were farther down the alley."
"But you didn't see this person?"
"No. It was still dark. I couldn't see anything, except Rick and the cop."
"What about this Rick Sherman?"
This question was new. And so was the person asking it. Matt gave this newcomer his full, albeit wary, attention. The man was younger than most of the other cops he'd seen, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. A slender man with dark hair, he came in with another newcomer, a large, black man with gentle eyes.
"Do you think he might have known whoever else was in that alley?" the younger cop asked.
Matt was surprised by the idea, but not shocked by it. There was some sense to it, some logic. He remembered looking at Rick's face just after the cop went down. Though a mysterious shooter had invaded his alley, Rick had seemed neither afraid nor angry. Instead, the old man had worn a look of disgust.
"Yeah," Matt answered, intrigued. "Yeah, I think he did. As a matter of fact, he must have known who it was. I don't think there's a gun within a mile of him he doesn't know about. I mean, he's cornered the market in guns and drugs in that part of the city."
"How'd he manage to do that?" The black man asked.
Matt shrugged. "Easy. He recruited from the university. At least he did with the drugs. The guns, though, they're kind of a different story."
"How's that?"
"I never heard him talk about guns until a couple of weeks ago. Then all of a sudden he gives me one."
"He gave you a gun?" The younger cop asked.
"Yeah. I mean, not for free or anything. He said he wanted me to do him a favor. Then he'd do me a favor. I was failing my classes. He said he'd help make sure they didn't throw me out of school. So I did what he asked, and he gave me the gun. He said that was how he was going to help me."
"The gun was going to help you?"
He chuckled sadly. "Yeah, that was my reaction. It made me mad. But I took it, 'cause he owed me and I knew it was all I was going to get. I didn't plan to use it. I never thought..." he swallowed hard and looked away. "Somehow, it just.... I don't know. It's like I didn't have any control."
"What was the favor?"
Matt looked at the young detective, confused.
"The favor? What did you do for Rick that made him give you the gun?"
"I made a delivery."
"What kind of delivery?"
"A car. An old, beat up car that no one would pay any attention to."
"A car?"
He nodded. "I'm sure there was something in the trunk. But I didn't look. I didn't want to know."
"Where'd you deliver it to?"
"A parking lot, way over on the south side."
"Where'd you deliver it from?" the black cop asked.
"It was parked in the street, out in front of a couple of abandoned warehouses in that old industrial park by Lincoln and 31st."
The two cops looked at one another. A moment later, they were gone, leaving Matt to wonder what kind of racket Rick was running.
* * *
Simon was relieved to see Jim's eyes flutter open.
Squinting, probably overwhelmed by the brightness of the room, the detective asked, "Blair?" in a voice scarcely more than a whisper.
"He's upstairs, Jim. In the ICU."
The patient closed his eyes and raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. After clearing his throat and apparently attempting to swallow the dryness out of his mouth, he gave his head a slow shake, his brow furrowing. "I heard him."
Simon knew that wasn't possible. "Jim, he's.... He's in a coma."
"I heard him, Simon. But I couldn't reach him."
"He's dying, Jim."
Jim's eyes came open then with intense clarity, as though he hadn't lost the past eight hours, as though he'd simply awakened from a brief, evening nap. "I have to reach him." He started to rise, but the effort was hampered by his own body's unwillingness to comply and by his captain's firm hand.
"Hold on, Jim. Let's at least do this the right way." Reaching across the bed, he pressed the nurse's call button.
"Come on, Simon. You don't think that's going to...."
When a woman in a uniform dotted with cartoon characters stepped into the room and interrupted Jim's complaint, Simon smiled. "You were saying?"
Minutes later, Simon and the nurse worked together to help Jim into a wheelchair. His mind still reeling at Jim's sudden awakening, Simon forgot about bruising the man's shoulder.
"Ow!" Jim cringed at his captain's careless touch. "What happened there?"
After thinking of sentinels and shaman guides and other things beyond belief, Simon Banks couldn't help but smile as he considered something far more down to earth. No one had ever accused him of being overly gentle.
Unlocking the wheels, he started pushing the chair out of the room in the direction of the elevators down the hall. Maybe, just maybe, the third time really was the charm. He was starting to feel that hope might remain a possibility after all.
* * *
Day 3: 12:30 PM
The mood in and around Blair Sandburg's hospital room changed abruptly when Captain Banks returned. It was the man with him who made the difference.
"Jim!" Joel Taggart, called out in surprise.
When Taggart had arrived a short while ago, he'd exuded a certain energy, something that might have been a sense of purpose. But after he'd asked where Simon Banks had gone, only to learn no one had given the other man's absence much attention, the somber atmosphere in the room had quickly sucked him in as it had everyone else. Like the rest of Blair's visitors, he was clearly devastated to see the young anthropologist's deathly pallor.
Yet Taggart's reaction now at seeing Banks and the semi-recovered Jim Ellison the captain brought with him had an almost tidal effect. Blair's room came alive in a way that made Marianne Camdon realize what had been missing for all these hours. The enthusiastic greetings and sudden chatter turned her thoughts to the Blair Sandburg everyone had come here hoping to see. This was what Blair was about, this was what he needed to hear and feel around him, not the dismal vigil they'd provided him with until now.
As that realization dawned, so did something else. Jim Ellison, Blair's friend and roommate -- and partner, as Blair would enthusiastically proclaim whenever he spoke of police work -- the man who'd taken over for Marianne after Blair had been shot, the man who'd exhibited so much strength and caring and focus that she could finally allow herself to believe Blair would truly be well taken care of -- that man met her gaze now and would not turn away. Nor did she want him to. She felt drawn into him, almost into his soul. They were connected. It was a link that had first formed back in Blair's office at Rainier, one that had been sealed by his blood as they'd both struggled to keep him alive. But their task shouldn't have ended then. Blair was still struggling. And he was losing the battle. Neither Jim nor Marianne could sit back now and allow that to happen.
No words passed between them, yet as Jim placed himself at Blair's bedside, Marianne instinctively took up her own position across from him. She'd avoided the bed until now. She didn't feel right displacing Blair's mother or any of his close friends. After all, she was nothing but a colleague. But with Jim's arrival, the feeling had changed. It wasn't so much her right to be there as it was her obligation.
What came next would never gain definition in her mind. It was as though she stepped into a dream. She was still in the room, still surrounded by antiseptic odors and the now hushed sounds of dying conversations against the backdrop of the rhythmic whoosh of a respirator, but she could sense other things as well, things that had no place in a hospital. Part of her, the part that couldn't help but look for logic and reason, tried to believe she was remembering a trip to the Amazonian aviary at the zoo, where she could hear the cries of countless birds and almost taste the thick, humid air. Yet another part gave in to the unimaginable. She found herself stepping to the edge of an entirely different world, one that thrived on what might be called a spiritual physicality.
* * *
Jim's senses were off. They weren't off-line, they were just off. Nothing looked quite right. There was a halo-effect surrounding everyone he saw. He could imagine Naomi telling him his senses had been expanded to allow him to see people's auras. But sounds were different, too. Voices seemed muted, yet not as they would if his ears were blocked. In fact, when he looked out through the window nearest the elevators, he found himself able to listen to the chirping of a bird sitting on the ledge. No, his hearing had not been reduced, just changed.
As Simon pushed him into Blair's room, the small crowd without was easily overlooked. Part of him recognized the faces. He saw Naomi, Joel, Daryl, and even that psychic, Charlie. Yet just as quickly as he saw them, he marked their presence in some obscure corner of his brain and summarily dismissed them from his thoughts. All but one.
The blonde woman who had struggled to save Blair's life back at Rainier, she was there. Jim's eyes locked onto hers, drawn by forces he didn't question. He felt a link with her, knew something passed between them in that moment, yet he might never be able to explain what. Later, he'd imagine it was an acknowledgement that they were both duty-bound to ensure Blair survived. Or perhaps it was more like a pact, though neither spoke to swear an oath to their intentions. At the very least, it was an understanding. They were in this together, whatever this happened to be.
Accepting her presence, holding her there in his mind, Jim tried to turn the focus of his attention to his partner. He failed. Machines stole his gaze, machines that held the key to Blair's life. No, that wasn't right. How could a steel box filled with wires and tubes replace the life that was slipping away? They couldn't. There was no life in steel.
Jim found his thoughts wandering into the jungle, to a place so infused with living things it was alive in its own right -- not like this concrete-laden city, or this antiseptic building that existed for the sake of life, despite the seeming irony. Suddenly the steady whoosh of air being forced into Blair's lungs began to present a rhythmic pattern, quickly evolving into the steady beat of tribal drums. The jungle was calling him. No. The jungle was calling them.
Feeling the woman near him and the machines guiding him almost as Incacha might have long ago, Jim Ellison finally let his eyes fall to Blair. His own breath caught to see the pale, gray tone in Sandburg's skin. Even his friend's hair, which always seemed to have a life of its own, lay flat and dark around a face that looked far too frail to belong to Blair Sandburg. There was something else about him though, something less distinct that bothered Jim more than these obvious signs. The halo or aura he saw everywhere else was nearly absent around his friend.
Jim glanced at the woman. He'd made an error in his earlier perception. He saw now that the halo surrounding her was less a vision of light as a bending of it. What ensconced her was more of a pattern than a color. It was like the wavy, shifting image of heat emanating off the surface of a car on a hot, summer day. In Blair, that pattern was barely visible.
Heat. Energy. Life. Again the jungle reached out to him. He could feel the hot, damp air against his skin, smell the heady scents of a thousand flowers, the musk of a hundred animals. This was the way it was supposed to be, not like it had been in that dream-that-was-not-a-dream. He remembered a silent, lifeless place. He remembered Blair calling his name. He remembered failing to reach his friend when Sandburg needed him most.
No. This was when he was needed, this moment, this place. Jim clung to the vision of this new jungle, a living thing, and, as in the dark dream, he let the jungle guide him.
* * *
Jim? Blair was lost. He came to awareness in a dark void, surrounded by emptiness. He was nowhere, with nothing before him and nothing behind -- yet even as he realized the physical impossibility of that thought, he accepted the reality of it. He existed. His world did not.
Jim? He repeated, his cry soundlessly blending into the silence around him. It didn't matter. No one was out there to hear him. He was alone.
He shivered, but not from cold. There was no cold. No warmth. No feeling. Maybe he didn't exist after all.
Is this death? He wondered. No. Death was a transformation, a changing from one form to another, a step from one reality to the next. It was not a nothingness. It couldn't be -- unless Death really was an end, and what he was experiencing now was a vanishing, a phasing out of existence.
Like the snuffing of a candle -- he was the trail of smoke drifting into the night sky.
No. I won't accept that. Incacha! He shouted without words. If this was Death, then Incacha was here somewhere. He had to be. Incacha!
For a long while, Blair -- or the last remaining thoughts of a man who once had been Blair Sandburg -- sent voiceless echoes into a soundless, empty realm. And for that long while, those cries were tainted with fear and desperation. Blair Sandburg did not want to end in nothingness.
Yet, in time, he found himself tiring of his hopeless pleas, and the bleak nature of his thoughts. It was a useless waste of whatever was left to him.
Okay, so, Incacha's not out there. No one is. I guess this is it, then. Letting that realization lead him to a sense of acceptance, he stopped calling for the shaman. Instead, he decided to give these last moments to the people this transformation was pulling him away from. He knew he could not reach them, just as he could not change whatever was to become of him once the candle truly went cold. But as long as he could see their images deep in the core of his consciousness, he could hold them there and say his good-byes. It didn't matter that none of them would really hear him.
Before he started, Blair was consoled by the sound of a solitary wolf howling somewhere in the darkness. Suddenly he didn't feel so alone.
Hey, Jim, he said to the first image that came to him. I'm gonna be okay. And at that moment he knew it was true, no matter what -- if anything -- was on the other side of the void.
More sounds found their way to him then. He heard other voices calling Jim's name. He heard excitement and laughter, so much so that his own being felt buoyed by the sheer joy of the moment.
Jim's gonna be okay, too, Blair told himself. Jim could handle things without Blair. He'd do well. Joel and Simon would take care of him. Hey, Jim, I want to be there, man. You know I do. But you have to work with the cards you're dealt, you know? Just, please remember some of the things we've done to avoid zone-outs, okay? It's important. It's....
That's when the anxiety returned. Acceptance gave way once more to fear and desperation. Yet the shift did not return him to silence. Instead, the sounds expanded and intensified until he could almost believe he heard the heartbeat of the world itself. The roar of a jungle cat made him wonder if he was hearing what Jim heard, if he'd been brought somehow into the world of a Sentinel. He was still marveling at that idea when the heartbeat slowly evolved into the sound of breathing, then even that changed, merging into hushed voices.
"Jim? Are you okay?" Joel's voice called into the void.
Next came Daryl: "What's he doing? It's like he doesn't even know we're here."
"Just let him be, son," Simon added. "He needs time to say his own good-byes."
"No." How was Naomi there? "He's not trying to say good-bye. Come on, Blair, sweetie. Jim's here. He's okay now, see? Come on, sweetie. You've got to wake up now, too."
"Wait, Naomi." Was that Charlie? "I think they're.... There's something going on here."
With those voices filling the still air around him, Blair began to regain a sense of feeling. He started to have an awareness of self again, a sense of being something more than the last breaths of a dying candle. He could feel his hands, and other hands holding them. In one, the grip was strong yet gentle. Jim. In the other, the touch was soft and delicate. It was a woman, but not Naomi. He wanted to see who it was. But even though he had hands, he still didn't have eyes.
"His hand!" Naomi began to say. "Did you see his hand? He moved his hand."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Sandburg." That was Simon. He really did sound sympathetic. "But I don't think...."
"Look, Dad! It's true."
"Well, son of a...."
"I'll get the doctor." Joel sounded excited.
"Come on, sweetie!" Naomi took hold of his foot, and began to massage it fiercely. "You can wake up now!"
Ow! Barely comprehending the significance of finding he had a foot now, Blair was something less than pleased by his mother's demanding touch. But he still didn't have a voice. He couldn't complain to her. He tried to focus instead on the more soothing motions covering both of his hands. Hey, Jim. Could you teach Naomi how to do that? He might have smiled - if he had a mouth. He wasn't really sure.
He thought of the other hand, and the woman who hadn't spoken. Who was she? He turned his head -- or he thought he did. And a bright light overwhelmed him. The last thing he saw before exhaustion sent him to an entirely new reality, one far removed from the black void, was an angel with golden hair.
* * *
tbc
14
