The dancing was what drew Jim's attention to the quad. He'd gone
over to the university to check on Sandburg's Volvo, still parked
in the faculty parking area. Jim had decided to leave it there, Rainier
security was tight enough to keep the car from being stolen, and
it gave him one less problem to deal with. But, Jim being Jim, he had
to make sure it was still there personally. He couldn't check on Blair,
but he had a measure of control over Blair's car.
The detective was driving away from the parking lots when unusual
movement in the quad near the school caught his eye. Rainier had
more than its share of free spirits, and apparently they had decided,
en masse, to celebrate the continued good weather with an impromptu
dance party. Jim pulled over and walked toward the place, drawn to it
by the vague notion that Blair would have gone. "He would have had
some long-tailed theories about why they picked today to dance," Jim
thought, with grim amusement, "and probably pulled the name of some
remote tribe that used to do the same thing out of his hat."
Students in jeans, in shorts, in skirts, older folks out enjoying a walk in
the sun, somehow they'd all converged on this spot surrounding a group
of street musicians. Onlookers were laughing and clapping in time with a
guitar, a flute and some other kind of wind instrument. The scene had a
festival feel, and the musicians seemed to be playing at least as much for
the fun of it, as for the money being dropped in an open guitar case.
Jim edged closer to the trio, being guided by instincts he wasn't quite
aware of. They were a motley group, with a young man in a stained red
t-shirt, fatigue pants and Army boots playing guitar, his fair hair hanging
in odd dread locks around his face. An older woman was playing the flute,
long silver-threaded brown hair spilled down her back from a leather thong
at her nape. The long Indian print skirt and white peasant blouse she wore
suited her, gave her the appearance of a gently aging flower child.
The third player had most of his attention. She was closest to him, her
coppery, boy-short curly hair glinting in the sunlight. She had the figure
of a half grown boy too, adolescent in her baggy green t-shirt and patched
cargo pants, but she worked her slender wooden recorder with an adult's
authority. The work hardened hands were covered with fingerless gray
gloves while slim fingers flitted over the holes of the simple instrument.
When she noticed him watching, she flashed a quick grin up at him, then
concentrated on the harmony she was coaxing out of her pipe.
Something nagged at him, and Ellison cautiously extended his senses,
one at a time, all too aware how easy it would be to get caught up
in the intricate music, the noisy crowd. How easy it would be to zone
out, without his Guide to bring him back. Scent..his head turned, sampling
the light breeze, catching hints of perfume, food, the warm wood of the
guitar, candlewax, woodsmoke..Sandburg.
Jim reacted before his forebrain had kicked in, stepping forward and
taking the redhead by her arm, disrupting the music. "Jenn." It
wasn't a question.
"Jenn." He repeated, and saw the colour drain out of her sharp little face,
heard her heartbeat accelerate.
Then, her shoulders squared and her chin came up. "Nope. You've got
the wrong chick, mister." Jazz's voice was rock steady, and her eyes
were clear and full of apparent innocence as they met his.
"I'm Jim Ellison. Detective Ellison."
Cool gray eyes looked him over, and then she shrugged. "So? There's
no law against playing here, Detective, and everyone was having a good
time." Adroitly, she left the "until you came along" hanging unspoken in
the air.
The crowd had begun to gather, but the sight of the gold badge on the
big man's belt kept them from interfering. A cop, a street person, not
anyone else's business. Excepting, of course, the other players. BeBop
was frozen in place, watching his friend try to bluff the detective. This
was serious trouble.
Jim ignored BeBop and Hush, he was completely focused on Jazz, and
on Sandburg's scent. "I want to see him, now."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Detective, but I'd suggest that
you let go of me." Her face was stone, her words were ice, and Jim was
losing his temper.
He grasped both of her upper arms, gave one good "I mean business"
shake, and leaned down to emphasize his next words. "I am NOT playing
games with you, lady. Kidnaping is a federal crime, and kidnaping my
partner..." That sentence didn't need finishing. "So, you can take me to
where he is, now, or I can take you to jail, charge you, and watch the Feds
throw away the key."
She struggled against the punishing grip of his hands. "Sure, lock me up. That
will help a lot..NOT. Look, this is not my decision, okay? If it were just
my hidey hole, I'd take you there and find me a new one. But I am NOT
going to betray my family, especially not to a cop." Jazz spat the word like
a curse at the square jawed face so close to her own. "A bully of a cop
at that! You're a big tough guy, Jim Ellison, you're hell on wheels against
women a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than you. Does Blair
know you like to manhandle chicks like this?"
Stung, Jim loosened his grip a bit. He wasn't trying to hurt the girl, after all.
But her words had covered the sound of someone coming toward him, a
body stumbled and fell heavily against his back, and the detective staggered.
It was BeBop, who had given his guitar to Hush and made her leave while
Jim had all his attention on Jazz.
The younger woman had seen the whole thing, and when Jim faltered, she
tore herself free and ran. The pair took off in opposite directions, and Jim
swore. He could track her for a while, but she'd lost herself among the late
afternoon pedestrians. He didn't dare open his sense of smell wide enough
to sort her out from among them. Not without his Guide.
end part 11
over to the university to check on Sandburg's Volvo, still parked
in the faculty parking area. Jim had decided to leave it there, Rainier
security was tight enough to keep the car from being stolen, and
it gave him one less problem to deal with. But, Jim being Jim, he had
to make sure it was still there personally. He couldn't check on Blair,
but he had a measure of control over Blair's car.
The detective was driving away from the parking lots when unusual
movement in the quad near the school caught his eye. Rainier had
more than its share of free spirits, and apparently they had decided,
en masse, to celebrate the continued good weather with an impromptu
dance party. Jim pulled over and walked toward the place, drawn to it
by the vague notion that Blair would have gone. "He would have had
some long-tailed theories about why they picked today to dance," Jim
thought, with grim amusement, "and probably pulled the name of some
remote tribe that used to do the same thing out of his hat."
Students in jeans, in shorts, in skirts, older folks out enjoying a walk in
the sun, somehow they'd all converged on this spot surrounding a group
of street musicians. Onlookers were laughing and clapping in time with a
guitar, a flute and some other kind of wind instrument. The scene had a
festival feel, and the musicians seemed to be playing at least as much for
the fun of it, as for the money being dropped in an open guitar case.
Jim edged closer to the trio, being guided by instincts he wasn't quite
aware of. They were a motley group, with a young man in a stained red
t-shirt, fatigue pants and Army boots playing guitar, his fair hair hanging
in odd dread locks around his face. An older woman was playing the flute,
long silver-threaded brown hair spilled down her back from a leather thong
at her nape. The long Indian print skirt and white peasant blouse she wore
suited her, gave her the appearance of a gently aging flower child.
The third player had most of his attention. She was closest to him, her
coppery, boy-short curly hair glinting in the sunlight. She had the figure
of a half grown boy too, adolescent in her baggy green t-shirt and patched
cargo pants, but she worked her slender wooden recorder with an adult's
authority. The work hardened hands were covered with fingerless gray
gloves while slim fingers flitted over the holes of the simple instrument.
When she noticed him watching, she flashed a quick grin up at him, then
concentrated on the harmony she was coaxing out of her pipe.
Something nagged at him, and Ellison cautiously extended his senses,
one at a time, all too aware how easy it would be to get caught up
in the intricate music, the noisy crowd. How easy it would be to zone
out, without his Guide to bring him back. Scent..his head turned, sampling
the light breeze, catching hints of perfume, food, the warm wood of the
guitar, candlewax, woodsmoke..Sandburg.
Jim reacted before his forebrain had kicked in, stepping forward and
taking the redhead by her arm, disrupting the music. "Jenn." It
wasn't a question.
"Jenn." He repeated, and saw the colour drain out of her sharp little face,
heard her heartbeat accelerate.
Then, her shoulders squared and her chin came up. "Nope. You've got
the wrong chick, mister." Jazz's voice was rock steady, and her eyes
were clear and full of apparent innocence as they met his.
"I'm Jim Ellison. Detective Ellison."
Cool gray eyes looked him over, and then she shrugged. "So? There's
no law against playing here, Detective, and everyone was having a good
time." Adroitly, she left the "until you came along" hanging unspoken in
the air.
The crowd had begun to gather, but the sight of the gold badge on the
big man's belt kept them from interfering. A cop, a street person, not
anyone else's business. Excepting, of course, the other players. BeBop
was frozen in place, watching his friend try to bluff the detective. This
was serious trouble.
Jim ignored BeBop and Hush, he was completely focused on Jazz, and
on Sandburg's scent. "I want to see him, now."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Detective, but I'd suggest that
you let go of me." Her face was stone, her words were ice, and Jim was
losing his temper.
He grasped both of her upper arms, gave one good "I mean business"
shake, and leaned down to emphasize his next words. "I am NOT playing
games with you, lady. Kidnaping is a federal crime, and kidnaping my
partner..." That sentence didn't need finishing. "So, you can take me to
where he is, now, or I can take you to jail, charge you, and watch the Feds
throw away the key."
She struggled against the punishing grip of his hands. "Sure, lock me up. That
will help a lot..NOT. Look, this is not my decision, okay? If it were just
my hidey hole, I'd take you there and find me a new one. But I am NOT
going to betray my family, especially not to a cop." Jazz spat the word like
a curse at the square jawed face so close to her own. "A bully of a cop
at that! You're a big tough guy, Jim Ellison, you're hell on wheels against
women a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than you. Does Blair
know you like to manhandle chicks like this?"
Stung, Jim loosened his grip a bit. He wasn't trying to hurt the girl, after all.
But her words had covered the sound of someone coming toward him, a
body stumbled and fell heavily against his back, and the detective staggered.
It was BeBop, who had given his guitar to Hush and made her leave while
Jim had all his attention on Jazz.
The younger woman had seen the whole thing, and when Jim faltered, she
tore herself free and ran. The pair took off in opposite directions, and Jim
swore. He could track her for a while, but she'd lost herself among the late
afternoon pedestrians. He didn't dare open his sense of smell wide enough
to sort her out from among them. Not without his Guide.
end part 11