13
Blair sat cross-legged on the couch as he reviewed his notes about Jim's vision. He still had papers to grade. They were stacked up on the cushion beside him. But thoughts of the vision kept pulling him away from his work and back to this new mystery. Was Jim becoming psychic? Was he gaining that illusive sixth sense? Excitement warred with fear, making it impossible for Blair to think about anything else. He couldn't help but contemplate the implications this all had to his own well-being. Yet if Jim truly was becoming psychic, that added a whole new level to their work together and a whole new dimension to Blair's studies. Of course, if the vision were true and Blair was essentially marked for death, those studies would end up in someone else's hands - if Jim didn't clam up and try to go it alone. No, Jim, that would be a mistake, a huge mistake. Every sentinel needs a guide.
If he were to die, who would Jim accept as a guide? Blair started to think of the most likely candidates currently at the university, as though he were considering hiring someone for the job - until he realized he was lining up interviews to fill a position soon to be vacated by death, his death.
"Who are you kidding?" he whispered to himself. Fear was definitely winning this latest battle. "Okay, not the future. Not the future. Just a puzzle we have to solve." Blair took a deep breath, exhaling slowly until his lungs felt empty, and then repeated the calming exercise.
Unfortunately, he did not feel any calmer. He started to wonder whether he should try to reach Charlie Springer again, Naomi's psychic friend. But he knew Charlie was out of the country, pitching his latest book overseas.
"So why don't you call me, huh?" Blair asked sarcastically, as though the psychic might hear him. "If you're really the expert we all thought you were, you should know I need to talk to you." But a glance at Charlie's book on the table in front of him reminded Blair he was being unfair. The man had proved his capabilities, even to the ever doubtful Jim. "Sorry, Charlie." The image of an old TV commercial featuring a cartoon tuna briefly swam into his thoughts, and he chuckled softly to himself. "Sorry Charlie. Cute."
But he was just letting himself get sidetracked again. He needed to focus.
He tried another cleansing breath. "It's just a puzzle." Closing his eyes, he repeated the words as though it were a mantra. "Just a puzzle. Just a puzzle." After all, the things in Jim's vision could be symbols, not actual events.
"So just think of the images, and try to match them to something they might symbolize." Blair's thoughts instantly went to the blood Jim had described drenching his hair. It wasn't the best place to start, but he couldn't avoid it. The image was certainly the most important to Blair. He tried another repetition of the mantra to combat the new onset of nerves - "just a puzzle, just a puzzle" - then blew out a rush of air. "Not blood then, just red. Think red. Red hair . . . Jake."
Blair opened his eyes. Jake. He looked at the logograph Jim had drawn, and still thought of red hair, and still thought of Jake. "Wow," he said aloud. Then he shook his head. "That's great, but I have no idea what it's supposed to mean."
A knock on the door made him jump. "Just a minute," he shouted, climbing out from under the papers in his lap. The knocking continued as he got to his feet, and grew increasingly louder and more persistent with each step he took. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Blair said more softly, making no real attempt to be heard. "Just hold on, I'm coming."
By the time he got to the door, his visitor's staccato beat began to unnerve him. He put one hand to the knob, the other to the chain, and hesitated. Leaning into the thick wood, he asked, "Who's there?"
The knocking stopped, but the visitor didn't respond right away. Blair felt his anxiety returning, worse than before. He glanced at the phone and wondered whether he should call Jim. But what would he say? Someone's here, but I don't know who it is and I'm afraid to answer the door. Yeah, right. There's a big emergency. It would probably end up being package delivery or something. So, if it was a package, they could just leave whatever it was on the landing, right? Who said Blair actually had to answer the door, anyway? He was about to stick by that scenario when a frightened voice called to him from the other side.
"Mr. Sandburg?"
"Jake? Is that you?"
"Please, you've gotta help me."
Blair hurried through the locks and opened the door to find a stranger, dressed entirely in black leather, the face masked by a black helmet. "Jake?"
When one gloved hand was raised to push up the face-plate, Blair finally let out the breath he'd been holding, grateful to see the familiar features he'd expected. "What's with the. . .?" He indicated Jake's outfit with a quick sweep of his hand.
"Please, Mr. Sandburg, you have to come with me. You have to help me."
"Okay Jake, just relax. Calm down, okay? Come on inside, and I'll call Jim. You'll be safe here."
"No, no, no. Not here. He's watching. No, you have to come with me. You have to come."
"Where, Jake?"
"Just come."
The kid was terrified. There was no way Blair could refuse him. If he did, Jake would just run off again, and who knows what might happen then. Jake's parents were dead. He might well end up that way, too. Blair couldn't just stand aside and let that happen.
"Okay, just calm down. Give me a minute to leave a note for-"
"No. There's no time. He's watching. You've got to come now." Jake replaced the shield over his face and turned to leave.
"Jake?" Blair called to his retreating back. "Hey! Just wait, okay? I'll be right-"
Jake never slowed.
Blair hesitated long enough to slam his hand against the door jamb in frustration before he grabbed his jacket off the hook beside him and bolted after the student. There was no time to worry about locking the door.
* * *
Jim needed to take another look at Connelly's emeralds. Part of him insisted he might find some new clue hidden within the crystal depths - yet another part secretly wanted to experience another vision, one that might help explain the first one. There was a problem, however. The emeralds were no longer in the evidence room. They were gone, released into the custody of one Kirby Allen, an employee of William Connelly.
Infuriated, he marched into Simon's office with no regard for protocol. "Since when do we release evidence before we've even solved the crime?"
"Well, Jim, why don't you come in, then?" the captain replied sarcastically, barely glancing up from the papers he'd been reviewing.
"I'm sorry, sir. But this is insane. The emeralds are gone."
"I know. We couldn't keep them any longer."
"Why not?"
"Because the feds made it loud and clear those gems could not be linked to a crime."
"They can't do that, sir."
"They did. Their gone, Jim. I'm sorry."
Something about Simon's reply made Jim question his captain's full sincerity. "All of them?"
Simon smiled up at the detective. "Not quite all." He removed an evidence bag from a drawer and placed in on his desk. "There is one that hasn't been fully checked in yet."
Jim sighed, relieved to see the rock he and Blair had delayed turning in - the one he'd held in his hand during the vision. "Thank you, sir."
But any attempt he might have made to analyze it was interrupted when Marconin barged in much as Jim had a moment before.
"Why do I even bother with having a door?" Simon complained.
Marconin ignored the remark. "We have a problem," he announced gravely. "We've got two agents down."
Captain Banks stiffened in his chair. "I'm sorry to hear that. But how, exactly, does it affect the Cascade PD?"
Marconin looked to Jim. "They were watching your partner when they were hit."
* * *
14
Blair jumped off the back of Jake's motorcycle as soon as it came to a full stop. "Are you crazy?" he yelled as he ripped off the extra helmet the student had given him. "You could've gotten us both killed." At least three red lights and countless hairpin turns later, he still couldn't believe they'd made it this far. West Oaks Mall was halfway across town. And how they'd managed to avoid gluing themselves to the front grill of that last bus was nothing less than a miracle.
But Jake wasn't fazed. He didn't even seem to notice Blair was with him. All of his attention was given to opening the trunk of the old Dodge Omni he'd parked beside.
"What's gotten into you, man?"
Jake pulled out a brown grocery bag and slammed the trunk lid shut.
"Come on, Jake. Talk to me. What's going on?"
"Not now. He's coming."
"Who's coming?"
Having already replaced his leather jacket with a plaid, flannel shirt, Jake started unzipping his pants.
"Jake?"
He upended the bag, grabbing the pair of jeans that fell out and letting the wind take the paper.
Blair wasn't sure whether he should be more amazed at the dexterity Jake displayed as he balanced himself to change into the jeans, or at the transformation he was watching take place. Practically in the blink of an eye, the student re-emerged and the black-clad motorcyclist became nothing more than an empty husk on the back seat of the Omni.
"Get in," Jake demanded as he took the driver's seat.
"No, Jake. You have to tell me what's going on first."
"It's like that shaman said," Jake turned the ignition and the old car sputtered to life. "I have to pay a spiritual debt."
"What?"
Although the car was already rolling slowly out of the parking space, Jake reached across the seat and pushed the passenger door open. "Get in."
"I told you no, man. Come on. You've got to tell me what's going on."
Finally Jake seemed to listen. He shifted into park and leaned his head against the seat. "If I don't take care of him first, he's going to kill me."
"What? No, Jake. I told you, Jim's a detective. He can help you."
"No." Jake sighed. "No one can help me now but you."
"I'm your teacher, Jake. I'm not a cop."
Emerald eyes gazed out at Blair. "I don't need a cop. I need a shaman."
What? Blair shouted mutely to himself. What makes you think I'm a shaman? Or do you just think I can help you find one? Yet he had no idea what to say aloud. He stood in startled silence for a long moment, staring into Jake's searching eyes, looking for even the smallest glimmer of rationality. What he saw instead was absolute desperation. "Oh, man. I don't believe I'm doing this," he muttered as he slipped inside.
* * *
Jim Ellison stepped through the door of his loft to find a team of federal agents already performing a full sweep.
"No sign of forced entry," a woman reported to Marconin, who followed Jim inside. "The door was unlocked. No evidence of a struggle."
Jim had to agree. He was relieved to see the state of his home revealed none of the usual signs of a crime scene, aside from his partner's tendency to ignore house rules and leave his books and papers scattered about wherever he wanted. But where was his partner? "The door was unlocked?"
The woman looked to Marconin before responding. At his nod she gave a full accounting. "It wasn't even closed all the way. The latch hadn't quite cleared the door jamb."
"Sandburg wouldn't do that," he said softly.
"Maybe he was in a hurry," Simon offered.
"His car's still parked outside; his keys are here. No, if he was in a hurry. . ." Jim left the statement unfinished as he focused on something new.
"Jim?"
"Do you smell that?"
"What? I don't smell anything."
"It smells like. . ." He tested the air a few times. "That hidden room at the Connelly estate."
"Should we get you out of here?"
"No, I'm fine. It's not that strong. Just a faint-" He shook his head. "I don't know. It could be one of the herbs, but there were too many. I can't pinpoint it."
"You think Brooks was here?"
Jim turned to Marconin.
"I'd say that's a pretty safe assumption," the agent offered. "The hit on our guys outside just about guarantees it."
"Why were they watching Sandburg, anyway?" Jim asked coldly.
"They weren't watching your partner. They were watching for the Connelly kid. How many places could he go? He obviously felt some sort of connection with Sandburg. He was bound to show up here, sooner or later."
He obviously felt some sort of connection with Sandburg. A connection? Jim was reminded of Blair's explanation about twin heroes, or whatever it was. His guide had described a connection, like siblings or partners. Could he add student and mentor to that list? And wasn't it Jake who had come up with that wild theory Sandburg had gotten so creeped out over, the thing about sacrificing someone you have a connection with? Could that whole vision thing have meant it was Jake who was supposed to do a sacrifice after all, and not Jim?
No. He was jumping to conclusions - bizarre, unthinkable conclusions. Stick with the facts, Jim reminded himself. Stay focused on the real world. He gave his attention back to Marconin. "Jake was here too, wasn't he?"
The agent sighed. "Again, it's just a guess. I'd say the kid showed up, just like we'd expected. But I'd also say Brooks had expected him too."
"But Brooks took out your agents so there was no one here to interfere."
Marconin nodded. "It makes sense."
Jim's eyes never left Marconin's. "And it makes sense that Sandburg and Jake are probably both in Brooks' hands now, doesn't it? It makes sense only because you wouldn't let us put that man in jail where he belongs."
"Wait, Jim," Simon interrupted. "It is possible Sandburg and the kid made it out before Brooks got to them. That could explain the rush to leave, and the door being unlocked."
"But why hasn't he tried to get in touch with us?"
* * *
