Rain pattered on the skylight and the loft was dim but warm, the air scented with desire. Below, a car halted briefly at the stop on the corner, waiting for the thoroughfare to clear. Jim could hear the metallic strains of an old Gene Pitney classic wailing softly, and his heart clenched at the words:
My arms reach out to you
You hold me tenderly;
But when I kiss your lips,
You’re kissing him not me.
Why must it be
Half heaven, half heartache
Loving you, darlin’ ...
The engine revved and the car sped into the intersection, the wheels splashing noisily through puddles, drowning out the rest of the song.
“What?” Blair asked, eyes wide in the dusky light and searching his, maybe wondering if he’d zoned.
“Nothing,” he whispered, ruthlessly banishing a jealousy that made no sense. For how could he be jealous of himself? And even if he could be, what difference did it make? Blair was here, in his arms, and that was all that mattered.
Bending his head to again capture his lover’s lips, he pressed their bodies together as if he could meld them into one being. But for all the need he felt, all the hunger, his lovemaking was slow and tender. His injured leg would protest more vigorous exertion and Blair wouldn’t let him hurt himself. And Blair ... Blair needed tenderness now, affirmation. Needed to know that, no matter what, it would all be right again between them.
Because if they couldn’t make it right — at least between them, if not in front of the world — Blair would leave.
There was no other reason for him to stay. Not now.
Now that Blair had denied himself and refused the badge to protect the man he was, the detective that was all he wanted to be.
Now that Blair could no longer work beside him, and no longer had a place at Rainier.
All they had was this, and it had to be enough.
Had to be.
Anguish curled in his chest, robbing him of breath. Regret and grief bunched up in his gut, roiled around with guilt and an anger he couldn’t acknowledge, all of it a sickness of the heart ... and soul. Blair had given him too much. Had given all he had, all he was, for this. For love.
Love.
God, Blair loved so fully, so completely — and, it seemed, so easily — as if love was as simple as breathing, as integral to life as air and water and food. But Jim had never found it easy — had learned the hard way not to trust what he thought of as ‘love’. For him, it was more often a morass of betrayal and pain. He wanted to trust Blair, but his reactions over the past few days showed only too clearly that he didn’t, or at least hadn’t, not when the chips were down. Though they’d been together for years now, he had yet to even say the words, as if by not saying them he could stay safe from the hurt hovering just out of sight over the future’s horizon, the inevitable hurt that would strip him bare and leave his heart hemorrhaging and his soul in tatters.
But that was in the unforeseeable future. Tonight, now, Blair was with him, loving him.
His fingers burrowed through the heavy silken curls to clasp Blair’s skull. “I lied,” he gasped between feather-light kisses to Blair’s jaw and throat, “when I said it was over, that I wanted you to go.” He rubbed his cheek against Blair’s, felt the raw scrape of stubble from his lover’s heavy afternoon shadow. “I lied,” he breathed again into Blair’s ear.
He wanted to say more, to confess that he never wanted Blair to go, never, but his throat closed on the words, just as he always choked up whenever he came close to confessing the love he felt. Those words would leave him too vulnerable, would haunt him if he ever spoke them aloud, torment him mercilessly, because forever was too much to hope for and, one day, he was sure Blair would leave him.
“I’m here, Jim,” Blair murmured, holding him close with strong arms, skin against skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
God, he wished he could believe that. That this, just this, could be enough to hold that wild, questing spirit.
But now, when there was nothing else, could this passion between them be enough?
Desperate to believe it could be, he nuzzled Blair’s throat. Opening his senses, he lost himself to their urgent need, to the fiery heat and unbridled joy of their union, to the pulse and scent and touch and sound and taste that he craved with every fiber of his being.
When they were spent, he wrapped his arms around Blair, holding him, cherishing his warmth, his presence. Feeling his lover’s breath against his throat, he listened as Blair fell asleep in his embrace. Staring into the darkening gloom, conscious of the rain still beating against the skylight and the swish of wheels on the wet street below, he told himself everything would work out, would be fine. They’d be fine.
But his eyes burned and a thick lump of uncertainty crowded his throat. He was lying to himself, and he knew it. Keeping his secret had come at too high a price, and the costs were only beginning to be paid. Closing his eyes, fearful of the future, he shivered in the darkness.
As if sensing the chill of his foreboding, Blair muttered reassuringly. Not quite awake, he twisted to draw up the blanket to cover them before curling an arm around Jim’s chest and snuggling closer, half on top of him as if, even lost in the netherworld of sleep, he was still offering refuge and protection.
Jim sniffed and forced away his disquieting thoughts, hoping sleep would claim him, too. But the refrain of that damned song kept echoing in his head. Half heaven, half heartache, loving you ....
Missing the solid warmth along his side, Jim rolled and unconsciously reached out but, when his fingers found only empty space, he woke and frowned in momentary confusion. The apartment was still dark and when he checked his watch, he saw that it was only a little after six AM. Very soft scuffling sounds from downstairs drew his attention. What the hell was Blair doing up at such an ungodly hour? He rolled onto his elbow to peer down through the rails. Below him, the soft yellow glow from the room under the stairs disappeared, and then he saw Blair move stealthily across the floor. Scowling now, he wondered why Blair was dressed in old jeans, the usual layering of warm shirts, and carrying heavy boots that would clomp on the floorboards. Hell, the kid hadn’t even shaved, and the heavy stubble on his face was dark in the shadows; his hair was tied back and he was wearing a leather, narrow-brimmed cap. Jim blinked and tried to make sense of what he was seeing ... because what he was seeing looked a hell of a lot like Sandburg sneaking off like a thief in the night.
“Where the hell are you going?” he growled as Blair reached for his jacket.
Blair jumped and, dropping the boots, whirled to look up at him, his eyes wide in the darkness, his hand covering his heart as he gasped in surprise. “Oh, man, you startled me,” he complained, and then apologized, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Jim climbed to his feet and grabbed his robe from the foot of the bed, pulling it on as he headed for the stairs. “What’s going on?” he demanded gruffly. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, of course I do,” Blair replied, sounding harried, his voice still raspy from sleep. He shrugged into his coat and bent to draw on the boots, hastily tying the laces as he went on, “It’s time for me to be boogying on out of here if I hope to grab some coffee and something to eat before I hit the employment line for day jobs on construction sites.” Straightening, he gave Jim a quick grin as he whirled for the door, calling over his shoulder, “And, if I’m real lucky, I’ll draw some overtime, so don’t worry if I’m not home for dinner.”
He was out the door, closing it softly behind him, before Jim had a chance to react.
“Construction sites?” he echoed in disbelief as he slowly limped down the stairs.
When he reached the floor, he slumped down to sit on a step. Thoughts and emotions warred for his attention as he stared at the closed door, until he was rigid with tension and his fists clenched so hard that his knuckles were white in the darkness. Grief and guilt mingled with regret and swirled up from his gut. He closed his eyes against the fragments of wretched memory ... walking away from Blair at the harbor; telling Simon he wanted Blair’s pass yanked; shouting at Blair that it was over; and those cold, disbelieving seconds that stretched until he thought he’d shatter as he watched Blair crucify himself on national television. His chest tightened with his effort to control his fierce emotions until he was struggling to breathe.
But he was fighting a losing battle. Though he’d kept it all locked down for days now, he couldn’t hold it all in any longer, not now that he was alone.
Rage erupted, blasting away all other thoughts and feelings. He slammed the side of his fist against the brick wall and cursed with vehement, helpless fury until he was breathless. He didn’t want the sacrifice Blair had made. Didn’t want his lover to be a martyr for him, his needs, his senses. Jim hated what Blair had done and there’d been scarcely a moment since when he hadn’t wanted to slam Sandburg up against a wall and shake him silly for having been so colossally stupid.
Nor had that press conference been an end to it. No, it had only been the beginning of Blair’s abasement on his behalf. Yesterday, he’d turned down the offer of the badge and the opportunity to be Jim’s permanent partner ... and why? Well, Blair had explained with a patience that was painful to hear, because he was a liar and a fraud who had no place on the Force, and because he had no credibility and would never be accepted or be able to testify in court. And, most of all, because people would wonder why Jim could stand having him around, and they sure didn’t need anyone wondering, did they?
God damn it all to hell!
And now Blair was out there in the pre-dawn chill, lining up with unskilled laborers in the hope of gaining back-breaking work for the day, and figuring he’d be lucky if scored some overtime.
Such a waste of talent and passion and knowledge, of years of education and effort and dreams.
Such an incalculable, criminal waste.
“God damn it,” he swore again, low and hoarse as he fought the lump in his throat and the burn in his eyes.
Images of Blair lecturing his students, working in his office, slaving over the computer until all hours of the night — the light in his eyes, the sheer vibrancy of his whole being when he was talking about something that had captured his interest and imagination, his hands flying — were crowded out by other memories, of Blair standing constrained behind a lectern, his voice ragged with emotion, his pallor stark under the harsh lights of the cameras ... and later, days later, in Simon’s office, still constrained, still pale, as he so earnestly explained why he couldn’t be Jim’s official partner, at least not then and probably not ever.
Bowing his head, Jim covered his face with his trembling hands. So much anger. Such futile rage. Fury he could never, ever express.
What right did he have to his anger when Blair had given so much — had given everything? Who was he to mourn what Blair had given up, when Sandburg himself carried on without looking back? Hell, when the man set off in the dark and cold with a grin and without resentment? No, he could never express this anger, nor his resentment that Blair had given up too much — far, far too much. No one, least of all him, was worth what Blair had done for him, for the sentinel.
A better man would be more grateful.
The man Blair deserved would set the record straight.
But there were reasons for the secrecy, reasons for discretion ... reasons ....
His gut cramped with the acid of his resentment, his anger, and his disgust with himself for not being better than he was; for not being sure whether Blair had sacrificed himself for the man or the sentinel, and hating himself for caring about the difference.
But he did care. It was the sentinel who had brought Blair into his life. The sentinel Blair had dedicated himself to, had sacrificed for. The sentinel who had such wonderful, miraculous senses. The mythical sentinel who inspired such unparalleled loyalty and love.
Not the very flawed man who, even after all these years, hadn’t integrated the sentinel into himself — hell, hadn’t accepted the sentinel. Truth was, he still thought of the sentinel as a freak. And who wouldn’t? It wasn’t ‘normal’ to have hyper-sensitive senses ... and it was downright insane to see things, like a black jaguar that morphed into some weird variation of himself to pose cryptic questions and impossible choices.
Jim shuddered and rubbed his mouth, his lips curling at the sour taste on his tongue. Stiffly, he pushed himself to his feet and hobbled into the kitchen to start the coffee machine. Leaning against the counter, staring dully out the balcony doors at the lightening sky, Jim told himself to get a grip. Whatever anger or resentment he felt, however much he wondered what might have been if Naomi hadn’t screwed everything up, he couldn’t turn back time, couldn’t undo what was done. And, despite feeling trapped in a relationship that he wasn’t sure he’d earned or deserved — or was even equal to — no matter how certain he was that Blair deserved one hell of a lot better, this was his life now. Their life.
He had to make it work. Had to make it good.
Had to do his best to somehow make it all worthwhile for Sandburg.
But, scraping his hands over his face, he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take Blair to realize he’d made a really bad bargain, and that this life — their life — wasn’t enough. Wouldn’t ever be enough. After all, Sandburg was only human and, as self-sacrificing as the kid evidently wanted to be, no one could give so much without eventual regret and maybe even resentment. No one but a saint, maybe, and as good as Blair was, as decent, he was no saint.
Spending every morning lining up in the chill of the dawn to score an unskilled laborer’s job, working outside in the cold and rain, was bound to bring the costs of his decision home to Blair in record time. Suffused with sorrow, Jim wondered if he was being cynical or simply brutally realistic to figure that, at best, they’d have six months before it all fell apart.
And he wondered which part of him would miss Sandburg the most — the sentinel or the man.
Dejectedly, he filled a mug with steaming coffee and then limped to the balcony windows to stare blindly at the fog-shrouded street. There was no equality in their relationship now, no balance. Blair had given up all he had to protect Jim’s secret — and Jim had everything, his job, his reputation intact. Shaking his head, Jim worried at his lip as he thought about the inequity. He hated the feeling of owing so much more than he could ever repay.
Repay.
His gaze narrowed and he nodded to himself as he considered how he might restore at least some of the balance between them.
**
Aching in muscles he didn’t know he had, cold and soaked to the skin, Blair slogged up the final flight of steps to the hall. It was going on ten and he was way past exhausted. Somehow, he hadn’t remembered manual labor as being so tough, but then he’d been ten years younger the last time he’d worked construction. Despite chasing after Jim for years, riding a desk had left him seriously out of shape. But whining about it wouldn’t make the future any more bearable. He had to suck it up; this was his life until he could see how well Jim would manage without him. It was easier to take off from a road crew if his partner ran into trouble than it would be from jobs that required higher qualifications. He really wished he could have accepted Simon’s offer but ... it was impossible. Sorrow assailed him, as it did every time he thought about what was lost between them, and he nearly stumbled. Throwing out an arm, he steadied himself against the wall, and continued his slow climb. What was done couldn’t be undone. He just had to hope that Jim would be okay. Megan would look out for him, and Joel. And Simon would continue to cover for him. Things would be okay. God, they had to be okay.
Finally reaching the top, he took a breath, squared his shoulders and pasted a smile on his face before striding the remaining few steps to the door with as much energy as he could muster. It was enough that he looked like a muddy, drowned rat, he didn’t need to advertise how tired he was. Knowing Jim, the man had probably been ruminating all damned day about how far Blair had fallen in the world and how unfair it all was. Well, sometimes life wasn’t fair; you just had to suck it up and go on. The main thing, as far as Blair was concerned, was that Jim was as safe as possible, his secret secure; he had no regrets about the sacrifice he’d made to safeguard his lover. He doubted, though, that Jim was quite so sanguine about it. They were going to have to talk about it all at some point but ... not tonight. He didn’t have the energy to do more than walk the next few steps into the loft, up the stairs and to the bed, where he planned to pass right out.
But when the door swung open just before he got there, his smile widened with the sheer pleasure of being home and being welcomed by the man he’d do anything for. Just looking at Jim made him feel better, stronger, and a whole lot happier. God, he was a lovesick fool for the man, and that was the simple truth of it.
“You look like something the cat dragged in,” Jim teased, a playful grin twitching on his lips, but concern shadowed his eyes as he surveyed Blair’s bedraggled appearance. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired,” Blair replied, lifting his face to lightly kiss Jim. “And wet,” he added with a wry chuckle. “Very wet,” he went on, as he shrugged out of his sopping jacket, which Jim hung on a hook. “Got a job on that condo construction project on the edge of town — you know, Hillcrest? The one on the promontory overlooking the channel islands, with the billboards screaming how luxurious living there will be? The good news is that it looks like I’ll have work there for weeks — maybe months — and the pay’s decent.”
“You must be starving,” Jim observed dryly, keeping his own counsel about what he thought of the ‘good news’, and not liking the weary, chilled pallor. “While I heat up your dinner, why don’t you warm yourself with a hot shower?”
“Good idea,” Blair agreed with a shiver as he pulled off his cap and kicked off his boots. Already drawing his shirt out of his jeans and unbuttoning it, he headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll just be a few minutes. What’s for dinner?”
“Nothing fancy. A tuna casserole and salad.”
“Sounds like ambrosia, man,” Blair called back with unfeigned gratitude. “Fit for the gods.”
Half an hour later, replete, he pushed the empty plate away. “Thanks, Jim. That was great,” he said with a satisfied sigh. Lifting the still half-full bottle of beer, he asked, “So, how was your day? You behave yourself and stay off that leg? Managing the pain okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Jim returned, waving off his concern.
His gaze narrowing, Blair studied his partner’s face and decided that Jim wasn’t snowing him. He nodded and finished off the beer. “Well, I hate to say it,” he said and pushed himself to his feet, “but I’m bushed and dawn comes early. I’m going to bed.”
“Uh, just before you go,” Jim interjected hastily. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Blair was already half-turned away, but he paused and reluctantly turned back. “Tonight? Man, I really am tired. Can’t it wait?”
“Won’t take long,” Jim replied. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to pick up the tab on your student loans and any other debt you’re carrying.”
Stunned, Blair blinked as he tried to assimilate the unexpected statement. “W-what?” he stammered, then shook his head. “No way, man. I pay my own way. I always have.”
“Chief ...” Jim began, but hesitated as if searching for words. “This isn’t charity. We’re partners, right?”
“Right,” Blair agreed, but warily. God he was too damned tired for this conversation, and he was trying hard not to be irritated by the feeling he was being blindsided. This was nice of Jim, sure, but unnecessary.
“Blair, you’ve given ... so much. It’s not fair, babe. Not fair that my life goes on like nothing happened and you ...”
“Jim, you don’t owe me anything here,” Blair cut in, his hands lifting in protest. “I did what I felt was necessary and I’d do it again. I’d do anything, and gladly, to keep you safe.”
“I know that,” Jim rasped. “But it’s still not fair, not balanced. The least I can do is help you with your debts. Not like I can’t afford it; you know I can. It’s just not right that you should have to keep paying for ... for a degree, a future, you’re not going to have.”
“Man, I’m too tired to talk about this tonight,” Blair complained, exhaustion dragging on him like a drug, making it hard to think.
Jim crossed the distance between them, and drew Blair into his arms. Nuzzling still-damp curls, he murmured, “Let me do this for you, Chief. Please. I need to do this. I owe you too much. Way too much.”
Blair leaned into the strong embrace and sighed. He should have seen this coming, should have realized that Jim would tie himself into knots trying to find ways to make things better, make them ‘fair’. As if they were keeping score or some damned thing. But Jim was a proud man, unaccustomed to being ‘beholden’ to anyone, for anything. He wouldn’t rest until he’d done what he thought was necessary and right — and if Blair refused, he knew it would put a strain on their relationship. Given everything else, it was a strain they didn’t need.
And there was no doubt that having those debts paid would remove a good deal of the financial pressure Blair was feeling. Still, accepting help was a whole lot harder than giving it and, feeling awkward, he hesitated. He couldn’t help but wonder if Jim had any idea about how much money they were talking about. Somehow, with no little chagrin, he figured the higher the amount, the better Jim would feel, and he shook his head at his partner’s need to balance the scales.
“I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer on this, Sandburg,” Jim said, low and sexy as hell. “So you can do this the hard way, fight and lose sleep, or you can do this the easy way, and let me do what I want — and then we can go to bed.”
Blair huffed a laugh. Too tired to fight about it, he nodded and looked up at the man who defined his life and gave meaning to his existence. Swallowing his pride, striving to be gracious in accepting help that made him feel like a freeloader, he summoned a smile. “Thanks, Jim. I, uh, I really appreciate this. On the weekend, I’ll pull all the details together and you can take a look at what you’ve gotten yourself into. I think we should discuss it some more, but not tonight. Definitely not tonight.”
Jim threaded his fingers through Blair’s hair, and bent to kiss him. Drawing back, he murmured, “Don’t thank me, okay? I really do need to do this.”
Blair cupped his cheek. “I know,” he said. “I understand and I really am grateful. It’s a big help, Jim. Huge, in fact.” He grinned and added, “You’ll see how huge when you see the numbers.” A yawn overtook him, and he snickered softly. “Can we please go to bed now? Before I fall asleep standing up?”
Jim turned him toward the stairs and gave him a light smack on the ass. “Up you go, Junior. My leg’s in no shape to carry you if you fall asleep on your feet.”
Chuckling, Blair spun away and boogied around the loft, turning off lights and ensuring the door was locked. Returning to Jim’s side, he slid an arm around his lover’s waist. “Lean on me,” he offered.
Jim dropped a tender kiss on his temple, and draped an arm around his shoulders. “I always do,” he said.
Blair gave him a blazing smile, and wished it were true. But the sweet smile Jim gave him, barely visible in the light streaming in from the street made his heart do somersaults. Gods, he loved this man.
Upstairs, Jim stroked a hand over his back and frowned. “You’re hurting, aren’t you?”
“Ah, just the usual first day stiffness,” he temporized with a small shrug and unconscious wince at the pull of tight muscles.
Jim cocked a brow as he stepped closer to unbutton Blair’s shirt. “Bet a backrub would help, huh?”
“Yeah, it would.” Looking up at his lover, feeling the warmth of gratitude fill him — gratitude for the offered massage and for so much more, for simply being there — Blair wondered what Jim could see in his eyes, and if Jim would ever love him as much as Blair loved him. But even if he never did, it didn’t matter, so long as Blair could be there, with him. Even after four years, it was like Jim was a drug he couldn’t get enough of ... after the last six months or so, just being with him seemed like a miracle.
Miracle, he thought again, as he stretched out on his stomach, rested his cheek on his crossed arms, and closed his eyes.
Jim’s hands, hands that knew his body so well, kneaded his shoulders and back, working out the knots, easing away the aches. “Miracle,” he whispered huskily, drowsy as sleep tugged at him though he tried to stay awake to savor the touch of Jim’s hands. The hands that had called him back from the other side, called him back to life. “Thanks,” he mumbled as the darkness closed in, meaning so much more than for the massage. So much more. If he lived for a thousand years, he could never repay all that Jim had given him, or express how very much Jim meant to him. “Love you,” he breathed.
Jim’s hands paused for the space of a heartbeat before moving again. “Go to sleep, Sandburg,” Jim muttered, his fingers working their magic.
Utterly content, Blair smiled and let sleep claim him.
**
Stuck in a traffic jam, Blair settled back, resolved to not let the delay annoy him. For the first time in two weeks, he’d gotten off work at a reasonable hour and it had been payday, so he’d called Jim and said he was bringing dinner home and they’d actually be able to eat together. He’d bought a good bottle of wine, steaks that were thick enough that even the enthusiastic carnivore he lived with would be more than satisfied, and all the fixings. Smiling fondly, he thought about the modest routine they’d established, him hurrying off to work early every morning, Jim taking it easy at home and having dinner waiting for him when he trudged in late in the evening. The muscular soreness had eased after the first week, as his body adjusted to the new demands upon it, but Jim still gifted him with a fantastic massage each night. Ruefully, Blair regretted that, rather than being a prelude to more intimacy, he usually ended up fast asleep before the massage was over.
Blair had been determined to make up for it on the past weekend, when they’d taken advantage of his two days off to get out of the city to the shore, far away from any prying eyes and lingering media questions. Though the wind off the water was brisk, the clean salt air had been invigorating. Jim’s leg was a lot better, and they’d walked for miles on the beach, skipping stones through the waves, leaning in close to one another, soaking up the peace of it all. That night, they’d made slow, sweet love to the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks. The memories of the weekend had kept him warm all week, despite having to work in the cold, endless drizzling rain.
Wondering what was holding up traffic, he spun the radio dial and cranked up the oldies’ channel to drown out the sound of the swishing wipers and the rain thrumming on the roof. Humming and then singing low along with the Gene Pitney song that was playing, he blithely inserted his own words when the original version didn’t fit their relationship.
“In the eyes of the world, I’m another poor Joe on the street,
Can’t get on my feet.
In the eyes of the world, being born was my first big mistake,
I can’t get a break.
But in the eyes of my partner I’m strong,
I’m a hero, a lover, a man who’s as strong as can be.
Any fool can see ...
That he’s looking through the eyes of love,
Looking through the eyes of love,
Looking through the eyes of love
When he looks at me.”
In the eyes of the crowd, I’m a do nothing kind of a guy
Who just lives and dies
In the eyes of the crowd, I’m a loser just wastin’ my time,
Can’t make a dime.
But in the eyes of my partner, they’re wrong,
I’m a king and a lover, as brave and as strong as can be
Any fool can see
He’s looking through the eyes of love
Looking through the eyes of love
Looking through the eyes of love
When he looks at me.
“Looking through the eyes of love,” Blair sang again, wistfully, after the song ended. “A hero,” he grunted, and shook his head.
His fingers tapped on the wheel, idly keeping time with the next song, but he continued ruminating, a frown furrowing his brow. In the past couple of weeks, Jim hadn’t said much about where they were going or ... well, he hadn’t said much about much of anything that mattered. He’d been attentive, sure, and last weekend their passion had burned as hot as ever, but ... sometimes, there was a distant look in Jim’s eyes that Blair didn’t know how to read.
Blair was beginning to wonder if what they had was what Jim really wanted. Or if his partner felt as if this life they shared was something that Jim owed Blair, like he’d felt he obliged to pay off the student loans. As good as things were, Blair couldn’t help but think it had all been a bit too easy. Jim’s position had flipped from, ‘Give it up, Sandburg’, and telling him it was time to move on, to telling him he’d been the best partner Jim could have ever had. And that had been all Jim had said about the press conference. But, despite his attestations about ‘best partner’ and ‘best cop’, Jim hadn’t fought him about not accepting Simon’s offer of a permanent position; hadn’t said a word about it after they’d left Simon’s office that day — or since. Blair knew it was up to him to push the conversational end of their relationship, but it felt too much like looking a gift horse in the mouth. The last thing he wanted to do was fight about something he wanted so badly but couldn’t have.
And sometimes, he got the fleeting sense that Jim was angry, deeply and bitterly angry, but then the moment would pass, the blue eyes would clear, the jaw and shoulders would ease, and Blair would wonder if he was just imagining things. But ... everything felt fragile, not quite real.
Was he deluding himself? Was his hope that they would share the rest of their lives a pipe dream? Jim had never, not once, even in the throes of passion, used the ‘L’ word. But ... he showed his love in so many ways. Blair figured that Jim’s aversion to expressing his commitment was partly superstitious, that if Jim said it, then things would fall apart, because that had been what had happened in all his previous relationships. And, partly, Blair thought it was just hard for Jim to expose himself, to leave himself so open and vulnerable. So he told himself that it didn’t matter, that he knew how Jim felt without the words — but did he?
Blowing a long breath, he raked his hair back and peered ahead through the teeming rain, wishing that whatever was holding up traffic would move along. Maybe he was over-thinking everything. Maybe he should just accept that things were damned good considering how bad things had gotten between them. Besides, the real issue was how Jim would do once he returned to work the next week. Blair was pretty sure, all things being equal, Jim should do just fine; if he’d thought otherwise, he’d never have turned down Simon’s offer, regardless of how impossible it was given his complete lack of credibility and current reputation for being a liar and fraud. Jim had been working increasingly without Blair’s support for months — which was something else Blair didn’t want to think too much about — before the dissertation had blown everything apart. The truth was, he’d been afraid his time by Jim’s side was growing short long before his mother had sent his draft to her old friend, Sid. Shifting restlessly in his seat, he pushed the thought away — but not before he wondered, with a hollow feeling, if he’d still be with Jim if he hadn’t given that press conference.
Bleakly, he considered how radically his life had changed and he wondered if he might, one day, miss the intellectual environment he’d left behind. There’d been a lot about that life that he’d sincerely loved; and he still regretted having blown the chance to publish something about sentinels that might help identify others, and maybe help those who, like Jim, thought there was something wrong with them because their senses were out of control. But his mouth quirked in a half-smile as he reflected that he’d do it all again, in a heartbeat, to safeguard the life that meant so much to Jim and, even more important, to keep Jim as safe as he could. Learning could be lifelong and didn’t have to occur in classrooms or a university environment. Who knew what the future might hold; he sure wouldn’t have predicted how life had turned out so far. He’d given up his best shot at a doctorate and his job at Rainier, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled about his current employment, but he had everything that mattered most to him.
Then, as he often had over the past weeks, even months, Blair thought uneasily that being with Jim was too important to him, that he shouldn’t define his life or choices only by what was good for his lover. Had he grown too dependent on Jim for his happiness, his sense of self? He wasn’t sure it was healthy to love someone, to need someone, as much as he loved and needed Jim. Less than a month ago, when he’d thought that it was all over, he hadn’t been able to imagine the future or ever being happy again. But was what they had enough for a lifetime? Did Jim even want a lifetime with him?
Mumbling to himself, not wanting to too closely examine the questions that plagued him, he cast about for something else to think about — and his worries about what was happening on the job site moved to the forefront of his mind. He’d put off talking to Jim about it because maybe he was imagining things. And he hadn’t wanted to bother Jim with what might be criminal activity while his lover was supposed to be healing. But ... but something wasn’t right, he could feel it in his bones; hell, it didn’t take a genius to see things weren’t right. Philosophically, he reflected that he was going to have to go job hunting again if his suspicion about what was going on proved to have merit.
The traffic finally started to move, albeit slowly. Blair chewed on his lip and wondered if the construction site situation was urgent enough to bother Jim with it that evening, or if it could wait until his partner was back on active duty. Grimacing, he thought about the people who would be hurt if he blew the whistle and got the cops involved but ... but what was happening could be dangerous. Oh, not immediately, but ....
“The hell with it,” he muttered. What difference would it make if he waited a few more days? This time with Jim, a whole evening to just enjoy the man’s company, would be all too rare once they were both working impossible hours. Taking a deep breath, he rode out the mingled sorrow, regret and fear for Jim’s wellbeing that he felt whenever he remembered that his time working by Jim’s side was over.
Well, officially over. Maybe, unofficially, he could still go out on stakeouts or ride along to crime scenes ... yeah, like Simon would ever go along with that, even if he could talk Jim into it. Civilians had no place in the middle of law enforcement operations and investigations. There could be no going back to anything resembling their former partnership.
And that was the only real regret he harbored about that infamous press conference.
Which only served to make it that much more important that he and Jim make the most of whatever time they had together, from here on in.
Determined to focus on more cheerful things, Blair considered the coming evening ... and smiled as he imagined exactly how he and Jim would spend it.
**
A week later as he shouldered into the loft after another all-night stakeout, unable to hold the yawn in any longer, Jim winced at the cracking of his jaw. Sometimes it seemed to him that every joint in his body had begun to stiffen and crack when he moved, and he didn’t appreciate the signs of the passing years.
But he did appreciate the lingering kiss of greeting and the mug of coffee Blair held out to him.
“Morning, lover,” Blair greeted him with a cheeky grin. But he sobered as his gaze searched Jim’s eyes and face, and he shook his head. “You look tired,” he observed and, with a frown of concern, asked, “How’s your leg? You’re not pushing too hard, are you? And how did the stakeout go? Your senses didn’t give you any hassle, did they?”
Ah, yes, the senses. Jim stiffened. Setting the mug on the table, he shrugged out of his jacket. “Everything’s fine, Sandburg,” he replied. “It was just a long night, that’s all. Shouldn’t you be on your way to work?”
“I’ve got a few minutes,” Blair said with a shrug. “Seems like we never see each other lately. I’ve been missing you.”
Nodding, Jim edged past into the kitchen. “Yeah, well, guess we should get used to it,” he returned, sounding cooler than he wanted, but it had been Blair’s decision, after all. They could have been working together.
“You want me to make some eggs?” Blair asked, following along behind him to refill his own mug of coffee.
“Nah, I’m not hungry,” Jim sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sit down, let me take care of that,” Blair offered. “I owe you a massage or two.”
Jim snorted, but didn’t resist. Sinking onto a chair at the table, he closed his eyes to better enjoy Blair’s ministrations, and couldn’t help but groan with pleasure as his partner worked out the knots in his neck and shoulders.
“Jim,” Blair said, his tone low, “I’ve been wanting to tell you about something at work, but there never seems to be time.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh, I think some illegal stuff is going on,” Blair went on, sounding a little uncertain. “I’m pretty sure a lot of the guys are getting paid under the table; I think they’re illegal aliens.”
“So, call Immigration,” Jim replied, too tired to worry about something that wasn’t his job.
“Yeah, well, I think there’s more than that. There aren’t enough qualified tradesmen on the job, and they’ve got us doing welding, masonry, carpentry, plumbing and electrical work that we’re not certified to do. It’s not safe, Jim. I’m pretty sure the foundation isn’t up to code; the cement mix was too watery, you know?”
Pulling away and twisting around to look up at Blair, Jim cocked a skeptical brow. “And you became a building inspector when exactly?”
“Jim, I’m just saying that —”
“And I’m saying you don’t have the qualifications to be making these kinds of allegations, Sandburg. You’re not undercover, you know, looking for crooks. Your job is to do whatever the foreman tells you. I’m sure that the people who are paid to make sure the building is safe will do their jobs.”
“But —”
Waving Blair off, Jim stood and headed toward the stairs. “I know it’s probably boring, and I’m not surprised your imagination has supplied you with lots of stuff to think about, but ... well, what can I say? If the job is a drag, find another one. It’s not like it was your life goal to shovel sand.”
Blair’s intake of breath was sharp in the sudden silence. Belatedly, realizing what he’d just said, Jim felt sick. Glancing back, he saw Blair’s face turned away, as if he’d been slapped, and the tight set of his jaw and shoulders revealed his partner’s justifiable anger. “I ... I didn’t mean that to sound like it did,” he said with a tired sigh. “All I’m saying is that it’s not your job to worry about this stuff, and unless you’ve got journeyman papers, an engineering degree I don’t know about, or certification as a building inspector, you don’t have the qualifications to really know if something is going on or not.”
Blair swallowed and, after raking back his hair, he nodded, but his gaze evaded Jim’s. “You’re right,” he said, his voice hoarse with control. “Sorry I bothered you with it.” Going to the sink, he dumped his coffee and rinsed out the mug. “Guess I’d better get going,” he added, and went to the door to put on his coat. Before leaving, he paused and looked back. “You and Joel going to be on stakeout again tonight?”
“Yeah,” Jim replied. “We’re expecting an arms deal to go down soon....”
“Maybe I could ride along with you tonight,” Blair suggested, and the entreaty in his eyes was more than Jim could bear to see.
Dammit, why did he feel so guilty? Sandburg could have been — hell, should have been — his partner. “Chief, you know that’s impossible now,” he finally said, his tone flat to hide the yearning he felt at how much he wished Blair could ride with him again. God, he’d missed the kid all week, his constant chatter, off the wall ideas, good humor and ... he’d just missed him — badly. But there was nothing he could do about it. Blair had made all the decisions for both of them.
Blair pressed his lips together, as if biting off words. Once again, he gave a short, sharp nod and reached for the doorknob. “Be careful, man,” he urged hoarsely, and then was gone.
How long would it be, Jim wondered with weary resignation, before he was gone for good?
Crossing his arms over the dull ache in chest, he leaned a shoulder against the brick wall and thought about Blair’s concerns of illegal doings at the construction site. The kid was no fool, and Sandburg had worked construction years ago, as one of his many and varied summer jobs, so he had some idea of how things should be done. Jim scrubbed his palms over his face and then started up the steps to bed. He’d talk to Simon about it later. It was probably worth having a quiet look at the contractor; wouldn’t be the first time someone stretched the limits too far in a rush to make more profit than would be possible legally.
I hardly ever thank the stars above
For sending me your very precious love.
You never hear me say a prayer
Of thanks to someone way up there
For giving me such a lucky break.
Oh, no, darlin’, only with every breath I take.
And in the times we have to be apart,
I never ever find you in my heart;
And when it comes to thinking of
The point of losing all your love,
I never worry how my heart will ache.
Oh, no, darlin’, only with every little breath I take.
Only with every little step I make.
Only with every little beat of my heart,
And every little second that I’m awake ...
Oh, no, darlin’, only with every breath I take.
**
Blair charged down the hall and, palms out and elbows locked, blasted open the door to the stairwell. Arms out to his sides for balance, hands ghosting along the railing and wall, he rocketed down the steps, his boots barely hitting the risers. Moving so fast that he had no choice but to blank out all thought and concentrate on what he was doing, he was conscious only of a desperate need to escape, to get away, to be somewhere else ... even to be someone else. He thundered into the lower hall and raced past the elevator to the exit. Outside, he didn’t slow down until he’d reached his car, and his hands were shaking so bad that he had trouble unlocking the door.
God damn it! he cursed mentally. Shovel sand? Why the hell did Jim think he’d taken a laborer’s job? And did he have to make that crack about not being undercover, once again reminding Blair he wasn’t a cop?
He finally got the door unlocked and, panting with charged emotion, he slid behind the wheel. After he switched on the ignition, he gripped the steering wheel and told himself he had to calm down before he drove off, or he was begging for an accident. God, he so did not need that on top of everything else.
Thoughts he’d been holding at bay surged and he stiffened defensively, physically resisting the hurt his partner’s ill-considered words and cavalier dismissal had engendered. Jim hadn’t meant to be so cutting — he’d said so, right? The man was just tired and out of sorts from being up on stakeout all night for nights on end. It wasn’t really a commentary on what Jim thought of him now; wasn’t as disrespectful as it had sounded.
But ... but one thing was crystal clear.
He couldn’t ever ride with Jim again.
That part of his life was definitely over.
A sense of overwhelming loss swelled to fill his chest and clog his throat. He’d loved working with Jim. Yeah, sure, sometimes it had been scary, but mostly it had been amazing. He’d give just about anything to be able to have that again. Wondering if Jim was monitoring him, he glanced up at the loft. Swallowing hard to dislodge the lump in his throat, then taking a slow, deep breath, he willed himself to calm down. Shivering against the morning’s damp chill, he switched on the heater and steered out of the parking lot into the street.
All the way to the building site, he debated what, if anything, he should do now that Jim had dismissed his concerns. While Jim had a point about his lack of qualifications, the fact was he knew damned well some hinky stuff was going on; stuff that wasn’t all that easy to pick up on a cursory inspection. But if the foundations weren’t up to code, if the electrical wiring was bad, the building could collapse or fires could break out or ... bottom-line, someone — maybe a lot of people — could be hurt or even killed. He couldn’t just pretend that he didn’t notice, and there was no way he could write it off as not being his responsibility. So, what could he do about it?
Whistle-blowing wasn’t really in his nature; somehow, it felt disloyal when he was quite prepared to still accept his pay check. But what was going on was dangerous and potentially deadly. Maybe an anonymous call to alert inspectors about what to look for ...? Wasn’t likely they’d give much credence to anything he had to say if he gave the authorities his name. Hell, even Jim, who knew he wasn’t a liar and fraud, at least not in the way everyone else thought, hadn’t taken his concerns seriously. But there was no way Blair was going to call the Immigration and Naturalization Service; so far as he was concerned, the illegal aliens on the site were only doing what they had to do to make a decent living for their families, just like everyone else on the job. Besides, there was more construction work these days than there were qualified citizens to fill the positions, so Blair doubted anyone would really care if some of the workforce wasn’t quite kosher.
Or maybe he’d just keep observing, make some notes — maybe do some research on the developer, see if the guy had any previous history of unethical practices. Build his case a little before he ran off half-cocked making allegations he couldn’t really substantiate. Nodding to himself, he decided that felt right, if only because research and documenting evidence was second-nature to him. As he pulled up by the wire-mesh fence that surrounded the massive excavation on the ledge of rock between the higher cliffs and the sea, and parked near the gate into the site, he sternly reminded himself to keep his suspicions to himself. If anyone knew he was more or less snooping around, well, he didn’t want to be overly dramatic about it, but he could easily end up buried in concrete or have some other unfortunate and equally fatal ‘accident’.
Talk about a sobering thought.
For a moment, he wondered if that was why Jim had warned him off; was Jim worried that he might get hurt? But he shook his head. No, Jim hadn’t seemed worried, just impatient and dismissive. Grimacing, he set aside the idea that what he was planning could be dangerous.
Was he wrong? Was he imagining trouble where none existed? Was Jim right that his boredom, his lack of sense of worth and his need to feel he was doing something important were distorting his perceptions, making him see conspiracies where none existed? Oh, sure, a number of the laborers were illegal aliens, he had no doubt of that; but what of it? The same could be said about any low paying, unskilled labor force in the country. There was profit to be made in hiring workers for less than the standard wage and paying them under the table. His lip curled with aversion for the greed that grounded such unethical practices, but he shook his head; it was just ‘business’.
Or was he right, that something more insidious, and vastly more dangerous, was happening on this work site? There was little he could do but watch and listen, make notes and maybe take some photos when no one was looking. Once he had more facts documented, he could decide whether to take the problem back to Jim or maybe it would be best to take his concerns directly to the city’s inspectors.
Blair looked out through the windshield at the gun-metal gray clouds and the splattering rain, and heaved a sigh. It was going to be another long, wet, cold day.
‘Shoveling sand’ as Jim called it might not be his life’s goal, but he’d do his best so long as he accepted the pay. The work might be humble, but it was important if virtually invisible to most of society; workers like his colleagues built the foundations and infrastructures of the community. With no little respect for the men and women who spent a lifetime on worksites like this, building homes and offices and factories, roads and bridges and highways, he settled his regulation hardhat on his head, climbed out of the Volvo and, hunching his shoulders against the drizzle, pulled up the collar of his jacket.
As he slogged his way through the mud to the gate he tried very hard to not to think about life goals, or what his life and effort were worth now that he was no longer Jim’s partner in the ways that had mattered most. Feeling hollow inside and uncertain about the future, he resolutely refused to think about the fact that he had no idea what he was going to do with his life now, except keep going, one day after the other.
“Yo, Professor!” Jake, the crew supervisor sneered. The wannabe bully never tired of taunting him, as if being senior to someone with a college degree who’d self-immolated on television was the biggest thrill the jerk had ever known. “You’re late.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Blair drawled with a careless shrug. “So what? You gonna fire me?” he shot back. “Be my guest,” he offered, knowing the site was woefully short of manpower. Hell, if you breathed and were even reasonably fit, employment was pretty much guaranteed.
Jake gave him an ugly look that promised violence at some future time but Blair, refusing to be intimidated, stared him down. “Get to work framing the next floor with Chavez and Rodrigues,” Jake snarled, and spat as he turned away.
Blair flicked him an insolent salute and rambled across the worksite to the makeshift elevator that would carry him up to the fourth floor platform. God, he was beginning to hate this job. From up there, so close to the edge of the cliff, he felt like the world was falling away beneath his feet. The building was going to be over twenty stories tall, and he did not want to think about climbing around those heights. Shuddering, he swallowed hard and kept his gaze averted from the abyss; he sure hoped he was wrong about the structural integrity of the residential tower they were building. If the damned thing collapsed, it would fall straight into the sea. At least today, he was on a solid platform, doing basic metal ‘carpentry’ work to frame walls and columns, not on the eerier heights, welding rebar or girders.
Turning away from the drop-off, he moved to the far side of the structure that backed up close to the forested cliff. The evergreens were massive, their broad trunks stretching to impossible heights and growing thickly together; they loomed over the leafed trees, mostly aspen. Looking out at the pines and aspens — so close he could practically reach out and touch the nearest branches — he could fool himself into half-believing that he wasn’t as far away from ground level as he was. Unfortunately, he barely needed to turn his head to see cliffs of barren granite where the thin layer of top soil had sheered off at some time in the past. From the weight of the huge trees upon the shallow roots? Or a landslide caused by an abundance of rain. Shuddering, Blair turned his back on the cliff-face and decided he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to imagine that the dark, rain-sodden trees looming over him might begin a relentless slide into the shell of the building. God, what was wrong with him? Imagining disaster every which way he turned. Was he that vulnerable now? That afraid of life or the future or ...? Shaking his head, he took a deep breath to steady himself and clear his head. Determined to focus on the job and not on his many and varied anxieties, within minutes, he was busy hammering nails through thin but strong sheets of steel.
The problem with manual labor, though, was that it left his mind free. As the day wore on, he found it impossible not to think about what he was doing with his life — or not doing. For years, he’d defined himself as Jim’s partner and as a doctoral student of anthropology. He was neither now. Socially, he’d defined himself as a member of both the PD and university communities, but now he belonged in neither place, with neither group of colleagues and friends. Friends? Since his press conference, he’d really only associated with Jim and, given the divergent demands of their jobs, he wasn’t even spending time with Jim anymore. God, he ached with loneliness. If he wasn’t Jim’s partner, and never would be again, where did that leave him? The pain he felt at that loss clawed at him; it was a raw, gaping hole in his gut that hurt so bad that he had to grit his teeth to not cry out in protest and grief.
When he tried to distract himself by thinking about his coworkers, guilt also gnawed at him. Raoul Chavez was barely a man; the oldest of seven fatherless children, he felt responsible for supporting them and their mother, so he’d come to the US from some little village in northern Mexico and sent practically every dime he made back home. Paco Rodriguez was about Blair’s age, and he had a wife and four children back home in San Juan de Cabo. He wanted something more for his kids than jobs pandering to rich tourists, and he wanted a nicer house for his wife, wanted to make her life easier. They were both chasing dreams for their families, doing their best to make a difference the only way they knew how; such a struggle for them, whereas for him, it had all been relatively easy.
Blair knew he’d been given wonderful gifts — talents and abilities, and the opportunity to learn — and he’d always been grateful for them, while also feeling that he had a responsibility to use his gifts to make the world a better place, if he could. And now? Now, he was wasting them. Frowning, he bit his lower lip and shoved those thoughts away. He was doing worthy work. He needed to be flexible and available, in case Jim had need of him. He wouldn’t be doing this forever, just ... just for the foreseeable future.
Though Blair was still sure he’d done the right thing, made the right choices, those choices had cost him dearly. Grudgingly, he realized he was still learning how dearly, not only in what others thought of him, but also in terms of what he thought about himself and the purpose of his life. And, in the meantime, his suspicions, if they proved true and garnered official attention, might well result in these earnest and hard-working men being deported.
The thought left him feeling dirty.
Sighing, he reflected again on that morning’s unsatisfactory conversation, and he wondered if Jim respected him. Oh, sure, Jim was grateful, but that wasn’t the same thing. And gratitude wasn’t what he wanted. So, what did he want? He’d told himself that so long as he could stay with Jim, it was enough. But was it? If Jim didn’t need him, and maybe didn’t respect him — and maybe didn’t and wouldn’t ever love him in the way Blair loved him — where did that leave him? Them? Was the anger he sometimes sensed like a storm just beyond the horizon, a low thrumming of the air between them, the result of resentment or Jim’s feelings of entrapment? Maybe Jim felt he didn’t have any choice but to stay together given what Blair had done for him? God ... how sickening would that be, if it were true?
Was he hanging on to something that was over? Could he respect himself if he clung to Jim simply because he couldn’t imagine life without the man? Or was all this rumination, this despair, simply part of the transition from the life he’d had to whatever their future would hold? Surely it was normal to feel off-balance and unsure, more than a little scared and ... and lost. Maybe he just needed to give himself time to get used to a life that was vastly different than any he’d ever imagined for himself.
Straightening his aching back, he groaned softly as he stretched and, facing the cliff, lifted his face to the ceaseless rain and gazed at the ragged wisps of mists clinging like ghostly shrouds to the nearby trees that stood straight and still, silent sentinels looming above him. Wishing the cold drizzle would wash away his doubts and misgivings, he closed his eyes and searched for some sense of peace within himself. But there was no serenity in the emptiness he felt deep inside. Shivering, suddenly dizzy, he bowed his head and took a deep, shuddering breath. Oddly, eerily, he felt as if he was drowning again, spiraling into unknown darkness, helpless and afraid ... and devastatingly alone.
Finally, finally the shift ended and Blair made his way home through the early dusk of the rainswept evening. He’d hoped he might catch a few minutes with Jim before his partner left for the PD, but no such luck. The loft was dark and cold when he arrived. Anger bubbled into his chest and he stood frozen in the entry way, fighting a useless rage that this emptiness was what his life was now. Dammit, he deserved better than this. Had earned better, with all the years of study and hard work, and all the time he’d put in for free at the PD, doing his best, always doing his best. Taking one deep breath after another, he forced the anger down, locking it deep. He’d chosen this. “Doesn’t help that I did it all to myself,” he muttered bitterly. There was no one else to blame for how things had turned out. He had no right to be angry or disheartened. And getting all depressed sure didn’t make anything better.
Cursing softly, he shrugged off his wet coat and hung it on the hook. After kicking off his muddy boots, he stomped through the darkened loft to the bathroom. Irritably raking his dripping hair back from his face, he hoped that a long, hot shower would at least drive away the chill in his bones.
By the time he’d warmed up and eaten a bowl of soup, his irritation had muted into weary discouragement. In an effort to shake off the depressing lethargy that weighed him down, he set up his laptop and began his research into the builder responsible for the construction project he was working on. But it only took an hour of effort to learn that the man, Joseph Conroy, had a sterling reputation for bringing in his contracts on time and under budget. The only hint of incipient problems might lie in the fact that he seemed over-extended with so many sites now in operation that he couldn’t possibly give concerted personal oversight to all of them.
Sitting back, Blair raked his hair off his face and grimaced at the computer screen. He wasn’t going to find what he was searching for on the ‘net. Sighing, he shut down the machine. Looked like the tried and true method of meticulous observation and note-taking was the only way he was going to document any evidence that might convince Jim that seriously illegal and dangerous building practices were the norm on the condo site.
**
“Good job, Jim,” Joel commended him several nights later, with a warm smile and a slap on the back as they headed toward Jim’s truck, leaving the uniforms to wrap up the major drug bust and crime scene. They’d netted what looked like better than a million dollars in illicit product, five hundred thousand in cash that the buyer had brought, and two of the major drug distributors in the city, along with a dozen of their henchmen.
Jim nodded and smiled, relieved that the case had finally broken open. Everything had gone down like clockwork, and he was almost giddily elated to know that he could do his job without Blair beside him to make sure he didn’t zone and to ensure he used his senses to the best of his ability. It had taken a good deal of care and concentration to the point of mental exhaustion during the long, dreary nights of the past few weeks, but he’d applied what Blair had taught him, about grounding himself with one sense — usually touch, but sometimes smell — when focusing with another, or using one sense to piggy-back on another. Both strategies were effective in helping him stay present and not get lost in one sense or another. He was proud of himself, and proud of Blair, too, for having been so successful in coming up with useful ideas and for having so effectively helped him to master his senses.
Not that he wouldn’t prefer to have Blair working with him, but it was good to know he wasn’t dependent on Sandburg. Blair wouldn’t have to worry about him, anymore; wouldn’t have to feel that he’d failed somehow because he wasn’t there, on the job with him. And he wouldn’t ever have to worry about Blair getting hurt on the job — not that that was an issue now, anyway, but having carried the fear and responsibility for four years, it was hard to let it go. His smile faded, and he felt an ache inside, when he thought about how he could now actively encourage Blair to ... to do whatever was really right for him, even if that meant he had to move away to do it. God, if Blair left him, Jim knew life would never be the same; would never hold the same vibrancy or joy. But he inhaled deeply and told himself it was only necessary and fair. Blair deserved to have more in his life than what he had now.
When they climbed into the truck, Jim came back to the here and now — and realized Joel was studying him. “What?” he asked.
Joel opened his mouth, and then rubbed it and shook his head. “Nah,” he rasped, looking away. “None of my business.”
“What isn’t?” Jim probed, though he had a good idea. When he had started back to work, Blair had wondered — for obvious reasons — if he’d be working with Megan. But the two of them were not well suited to working closely together for any prolonged period. Blair had been glad to know Joel would be Jim’s partner, but concerned that Joel didn’t know about the sentinel stuff. Still, he hadn’t said anything beyond a low, ‘Good to have a partner you can trust’. Jim had appreciated the subtle message, that it was up to him whether he told Joel or not, but ‘partner’ and ‘trust’ was a loaded combination — and it worked both ways. Joel had to be able to trust him, too. Still, he’d wanted to see if he could do it on his own, so he hadn’t said anything. But, maybe it was time.
Joel didn’t say anything for a moment, and then offered sardonically, “I was just thinking that that really was some course you took a while back.” When Jim frowned in confusion, his partner added, “You know, the one before the Ventriss case. That taught you how to see stuff others don’t, or smell or hear stuff ....”
Jim’s gaze dropped away. “You don’t really believe that, do you?” he countered.
“No, Jim, I don’t,” Joel replied, sounding tired. “But if you don’t trust me enough to —”
“It has nothing to do with trust,” Jim cut in. “I ... I wanted to see if I could do it myself. You know, without ....”
“Without Blair,” Joel supplied. His face creased in concern and sorrow. “I wish he hadn’t had to do what he did.”
“I wish that, too,” Jim agreed with a sigh as he started up the engine. “I wish it all the time.”
Silence reigned as they drove toward the PD, and then Jim said with careful neutrality, “I’ll give you a copy of Blair’s paper. And then if you’ve got questions, we can talk about it — if I can’t answer them, I know Blair will be glad to.”
“Thanks,” Joel muttered, sounding gruff, as if his gratitude was grudging, or maybe just reluctant or even regretful. After a pause, he slanted a look at Jim and asked, “How’s he doing?”
Jim shrugged. What could he say? That he hadn’t seen much of Blair lately, but what he had seen left him feeling sick at the way Sandburg seemed to be fading away in front of him; no light in his eyes, no laughter on his lips. “He got a job working construction. He says he’s fine.”
Joel grimaced, but didn’t say anything further. The air between them felt heavy, laden with everything that wasn’t being said.
**
The interrogations took several hours; instead of clamming up and waiting for lawyers to show up, the perps were falling all over themselves jockeying for deals in exchange for information. Despite his throbbing headache as he typed up the interminable reports, Jim couldn’t help being sardonically amused and well satisfied with the wealth of details they’d garnered for the DA. It seemed there wasn’t much honor amongst thieves anymore, just a lot of healthy self-interest. He was dismayed, though, when he glanced at the windows as he finished the last document and stood to retrieve the papers from the printer. It was well past dawn and, when he looked at the clock, he realized that Blair would have left for work. His mouth tightened with regret, and a frown creased his brow as he tried to remember when they’d last even seen one another. Well, at least this case was wrapped up, and he could make a decent dinner for Sandburg that evening. The thought of spending quality time with his partner cheered him and eased the weary tension tightening his neck and shoulders.
He was still waiting for the printer to spit out the last few forms when he heard the elevator open, and then heard Joel, who was returning from the evidence lockup with the exact details of the haul they’d taken that night, greet Simon and give him the good news about the bust. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as he listened to Joel lower his voice before confiding that Jim had done “real well” and was finally going to share the details of his talents. Intellectually, Joel knew about the senses, but he evidently didn’t realize just how far Jim’s hearing extended. But his amusement faded, replaced by the yearning he felt for the partner he wanted backing him up, helping him to focus, the partner who understood his senses better than he did himself.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Simon called with a broad smile as he walked into the bullpen with Taggart. He clapped Jim on the shoulder as he passed on his way to his office. “When you’ve got the reports together, bring them on it.”
“Just finishing the file now,” Jim told him.
A few minutes later, he rapped on the open door and, at Simon’s wave, he entered to place the substantial file on the Captain’s desk.
“Have a seat, Jim. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“Uh, no, thanks,” he replied with a small, tired smile as he sank into the chair. “I think I’ve had enough caffeine; any more and I won’t be able to sleep when I get home.”
Nodding complacently, Simon finished filling his own large mug and swiveled his chair to face him. After a brief searching look, he said quietly, “Joel said you seemed to have great control of your senses during this case, and that you’re going to give him Blair’s notes.”
“Yeah,” Jim agreed with what he hoped was a casual nod, but his gaze slipped away to the window and he felt his neck and shoulder muscles tighten. “I did okay. And Joel needs to know the details.”
He could see Simon’s reflection in glass studying him, and he straightened up as he turned his gaze back to his boss. “I’m ... I’m doing fine,” he asserted. “You don’t have to worry about me on the streets.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Jim, and I’m sure Blair will be relieved to hear it, too,” Simon replied, his tone mild. “How’s he doing?”
Jim shrugged. “As good as can be expected, I guess,” he finally replied, feeling weighted down by exhaustion and the ever-present sorrow mingled with perpetual guilt.
Simon fingered the file. “I guess I’d better get busy; looks like there’s a lot here for me to review before I send it along to the DA. Go on home. If I’ve got questions, they’ll keep until you’ve had a chance to get some sleep.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jim murmured and pushed himself to his feet.
“I’ll see you later at the poker game, right?”
Damn, he’d forgotten about the game scheduled for that evening at Brown’s place. Hesitating, he wiped his palm over his head and kneaded the muscles of his neck. “Oh, I don’t think so, not tonight,” he replied and took a step toward the door.
“Jim, hold on a minute,” Simon returned and he reluctantly swung back. “You’ve missed the last two games. I know it’s personal time, but these get-togethers are important for morale.”
“Yeah, Simon, I know, but ...” His voice fell away and he felt anger begin to simmer with all the other emotions he was trying so hard to keep under a firm lock. Taking a breath, he licked his lips and met Simon’s steady gaze. “Sandburg’s not welcome at the game anymore, and I’m not interested in spending another evening away from home.” He swallowed hard, biting back on the resentment he felt for what he’d heard others saying about Sandburg, but he couldn’t help adding with a hoarse rasp, “Nobody is being subtle about what they think about him, or about the fact he’s still living in the loft.”
Simon’s gaze hardened. “You can’t blame H and Rafe and some of the others for believing the story Blair fed them and everyone else in his press conference. They think they’re supporting you, Jim.” Banks grimaced and shrugged helplessly. “If he’d joined the team, we would have worked it through, but he didn’t. I won’t have this create a split in the unit, you hear me? You, Joel and Megan on one side and the rest on the other. You need to keep working with these people ... and that means getting along with them.”
“If you have problems with how I work with them, just say so,” he retorted.
“You think Blair would want people choosing up sides over him?” Simon demanded, and the low blow made Jim want to curse with frustration.
“It’s not all about what Blair wants,” he grated angrily.
Simon snorted derisively. “Like any of this is about what Blair really wants,” he rumbled, but then he lifted his hands for peace. “I don’t want to fight with you, Jim. I understand your loyalty and your gratitude. Hell, I’m grateful to him, myself, for keeping a lid on it all, and frankly, for letting me off the hook. If he’d accepted the offer I made him ....” Simon broke off and shook his head; his mouth twisted and his tone was softer when he added, “And I probably feel just about as guilty as you do about what it cost him. But the fact is he made his choices.”
“And we all have to live with them,” Jim growled, his throat tight.
But Simon shook his head. “Not all of us,” he replied starkly. “You’re the only one who really has any options, Jim. It’s your secret we’re all keeping.”
Jim regarded his boss — his friend — as he tried to find an answer, but he wasn’t ready to share everything with everyone in the unit because he didn’t trust most of them to keep the truth to themselves. His anger dissipated, leaving only the hollowness of guilt and grief and regret that so much could never be undone. Bleakly, he nodded and looked away as he rasped, “I know.”
“So you’ll be at the game?”
Bone-tired, Jim shook his head. “I can’t, Simon. I won’t do that to him. I won’t rub it in his face like that.” Turning to the door, he added with low, bitter emphasis, “They’ve worked around Blair for years — but they don’t know him at all and never wanted to. You and I both know damned well that for all the kidding and teasing, H has never liked him much, and Rafe has always been resentful of him, of his access and his work on cases without ever having to go through the hoops. Hardly anyone around here has ever looked past his hair, his clothes and his observer status. Well, fine. They’re entitled to how they feel. But so am I. Don’t kid yourself that they’re supporting me — they’re just coming clean about how they’ve always felt about Blair.” His hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Banks. “I’ll work with them, but I don’t have to like them or spend my personal time with them.”
Not waiting for a response, he abruptly left the inner office. Grabbing his jacket, he stalked into the hall and clattered down the stairs to the garage. It wasn’t until he was driving up onto the street that he remembered he’d intended to run a check on the condo developer who owned the project Blair was working on. “Dammit,” he hissed in frustration, but he heaved a breath and told himself that he’d do it the next morning. It had already been a week since Blair had told him about his suspicions and wasn’t like one more day would make any difference.
**
Blair had bought a small digital camera that he could palm or easily slip into a jacket pocket. And he’d begun carrying the daily newspaper under his arm, so he could toss it down casually whenever he took a photo at the work site. The dateline or headline on the edge of each picture provided the necessary context that the shoddy work he was documenting was current, and not from some other or older project. He still hadn’t decided whether he’d send the file he was building anonymously to the appropriate authorities, or if he’d risk the credibility of the evidence by associating it with his name. Wary of being caught, he was careful to only take pictures when the foreman and crew chiefs weren’t around. Since they seemed to be afraid they’d melt if they got wet, and spent most of their days playing poker in the temporary trailer holding the site office, the risks weren’t as great as they might have been. But then, he reflected, if the lazy bastards were actually doing their jobs, he wouldn’t have so much shoddy work to document in the first place.
In the few days since he’d shared his concerns with Jim, he’d taken hundreds of shots of substandard materials and workmanship, ranging from the thin, watery concrete mix, to used and frayed copper electrical wiring, to basic construction that wouldn’t meet code. He’d also made a list of everyone working on the site together with whatever qualifications they had as apprentices, journeymen or simply as skilled or unskilled laborers. A glance by anyone in the construction business would be sufficient to see that they were well short of fully qualified tradesmen. That morning, using the built-in zoom, he got a series of photos showing a supplier giving cash to the site foreman. Sure looked like a kickback to him.
“Hey, whatya doin’?”
Blair jumped at the unexpected sound of Raoul’s voice behind him, but he quickly plastered a smile on his face as he turned to face his coworker. “What? This?” he asked, holding up the camera. He gave a diffident shrug. “My Mom asked me to send her pictures of the job I’m working on.” Blair laughed shortly and rolled his eyes. “I have no idea what she’ll do with these shots, but you know mothers. Always wanting to know what’s going on.”
Raoul gave him a quizzical look and grinned uncertainly. “If you say so,” he allowed. “Mi madre, she just likes to see the money I send to her.”
“Yeah,” Blair sighed as he slipped the camera into his pocket, and clapped a hand on the youth’s shoulder, to turn him back toward their mutual jobs. “She must really appreciate all your help. Must be hard trying to raise so many kids on her own. I don’t think my Mom found it easy being a single mother, and she only had me to worry about.”
“Where was your padre, your father?” Raoul asked with a concerned frown. “Why did he not help?”
A sad smile flitted over Blair’s lips as he looked into the distance. “I don’t know who my father was,” he admitted.
Raoul slapped him on the back and snickered. “Maybe you are like Jesus, eh? Maybe you’re the savior, born again to save us all.” Jutting his chin toward the subfloor Blair was laying, he added, “See, there, you’re a carpenter, too. Must be Jesus, come to us again, sí?”
Blair laughed and shook his head. “Man, I only wish I could work miracles,” he replied with a rueful smile. “I’d make the sun shine and wave my hand and all this work would be done.”
Raoul heaved a mighty theatrical sigh. “Ah, yes, I remember the sun. Would be good to see it again, someday,” he said with a mournful shiver as he cast imploring eyes to the clouds that threatened more rain. “I guess you are right. You are not our savior.” His eyes twinkled and a grin twitched on the corner of his mouth. “So we have no choice but to go back to work, eh, mi amigo?”
“No choice,” Blair agreed woefully as he drew his hammer from his work-belt and, careful to avert his eyes from the drop between the girders and the reasonably secure platform he was on, knelt to lay another section of flooring. His soft chuckle joined Raoul’s cheerful laugher, but he felt rotten inside, like some kind of Judas who, far from working miracles to help this kid and the other illegals, was in the process of betraying them all.
**
The rain started again before noon, hard, stinging, driving rain that left them all soaked and bedraggled long before the shift ended. Blair’s hands were stiff and numb with the cold. Shivering as he sat in his car, icy rivulets dripping from his hair down his face and neck, dimly grateful to be out of the downpour, he blew on his fisted hands and shook out his fingers until they tingled with renewed warmth and the bite of returning circulation before he trusted his grip on the steering wheel. God, he hated this job. Hated every damned thing about it. With every fiber of his being.
He was so used to the loft being dark when he parked, that he was surprised by the warm, yellow light spilling out of the third floor windows. For a moment, he sat stunned, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Jim was home? Then the thought that something might be wrong, or that Jim might be hurt galvanized him. He scrambled out of the car and hastened into the building; inside he rushed up the stairs because he was too anxious to wait for the ancient elevator.
Breathless, he burst into the loft and stalled to a stop as he took in the homey sight of Jim making dinner in the kitchen. Jim looked up with a smile. “Hey, Chief!” he welcomed, his tone warm and tinged with humor as he took in Blair’s ‘drowned rat’ demeanor.
“You’re home,” Blair observed, still blinking owlishly as he tried to wrap his head around the reality of Jim being there. God, when had he last seen him? When had they had a normal evening together? He couldn’t remember.
“Dinner’ll be ready soon,” Jim replied. “But there’s time for you to shower first. Looks like you need to warm up.”
“Yeah,” Blair agreed, finally able to summon a tired smile as he closed the door and shrugged off his coat. “Yeah, warm sounds good.”
He was moving further into the apartment when the phone rang. He was closer to it and, besides, Jim was busy chopping up the fixings for a salad ... or maybe a stirfry, Blair wasn’t sure which. “Hello?” he answered, his eyes still feasting on the sight of his partner.
“Oh, hey, Sandburg, is Jimbo there? He’s late for the game.”
“Uh, yeah, H, sure. Just hang on,” he replied and, determined to ignore Brown’s dismissive tone, held the phone out to Jim.
Jim frowned but he set down the knife, wiped his hands on the apron his was wearing over his sweats, and took the phone. “H? What’s up?”
Turning toward his room, Blair couldn’t help but hear the irritable tone and he paused, wondering why Jim would respond to Henri like that.
“No, no, I didn’t forget. No. Look, we can discuss it another time.”
Definitely curious now, struck by the fact that Jim had swiveled away from him and, if anything, his voice was even colder, Blair moved back toward the kitchen.
“No, not tonight.” Jim listened a moment more, added a “Whatever,” and then returned the receiver to its cradle.
“What was that all about?” Blair asked.
“Nothing important,” Jim said, still not looking at him, his concentration ostensively back on chopping up stalks of celery. “Go shower, Chief.”
“He said you were late for the game? What game?” Blair probed, raking damp tendrils off his face. Unwilling to let the small mystery go, his brow bunched in concentration. Putting the pieces together, he realized that Jim was missing out on the traditional get-together in order to make him dinner; realized belatedly, as well, that it was clear from Brown’s tone that he was no longer welcome at the regular game — well, regular insofar as the work schedule permitted. “Oh, shit. The poker game. Right?” he exclaimed, dismayed, and then, doing his best to hide the hurt of being excluded, offered, “You should go. Don’t, uh, worry about dinner. I can manage.”
“I’m not interested in going,” Jim retorted, sounding impatient, even angry, and his eyes flashed warningly.
“But, Jim, man, they’re your colleagues. It’s important to take part in these team rituals —”
“Yadda, yadda,” Jim cut in, gesturing with the knife. “I already got that lecture from Simon. I don’t need it from you, too. I’ll do what I want with my personal time, thank you very much.”
Stunned by the vehemence, Blair held his hands up, palms out. “Whoa. What’s with all the aggression, huh? And what do you mean you got the lecture from Simon?” When Jim turned his back to dump the chopped vegetables into a bowl, Blair’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How many of these games have you missed? And why are you missing them? For me? Dammit, Jim. Talk to me.”
Jim stiffened, and then faced him. “A couple; I’ve missed a couple games,” he said quietly, evidently trying to get himself back under control. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, okay? I’m just ... I’m tired and I want to be home, with you. Is that a crime?”
Blair felt sick. Shaking his head, his gaze fell away. Dammit, now Jim was having to choose between him and the guys he worked with. Those games were important to build and sustain the team’s relationships with one another. If Jim wasn’t going to the games ... what else was going on? In what other ways was he pulling away from his team? The situation was evidently bad enough that Simon had said something to him. “No, it’s not a crime,” he finally replied. “But you should go anyway. These rituals are important. You know that.”
“I see plenty of those guys — a helluva lot more than I’ve been seeing of you, lately,” Jim protested.
“I don’t want you choosing between me and your work, Jim,” Blair returned heatedly. Geez, Jim needed these guys, needed their backup, especially now that he wasn’t working with Jim anymore. The last thing he wanted was for Jim to alienate them. “I get that I don’t belong there anymore, okay? You don’t have to stay home because I’m not invited.”
“Don’t make more of this than it is, Sandburg,” Jim drawled, though there was a warning edge to his tone. “Would you go take your shower before our dinner burns? I left clean sweats for you in the bathroom.”
Blair wasn’t inclined to let it drop, but he was wet and tired and chilled to the bone. Reluctantly, he nodded and made his way down the hall. “I’m not going to let this go,” he vowed, his voice low and hoarse with meaning, knowing Jim could hear him. “It’s too important.”
He paused for a moment in the doorway, but when Jim didn’t respond he continued on inside. After cranking on the tap in the bath to get the water flowing, he stripped out of his layers of damp shirts and his soaked jeans and socks and, aching with weariness and cold, he tried to sort out the emotional rollercoaster he’d been riding since he’d gotten home. It had been a surprise to find Jim there, making dinner, after more than a week of coming home to a dark apartment. A very welcome surprise that had just begun to warm him from the inside out until the phone rang. Brown’s sharp, dismissive tone had hurt; Blair had thought they were friends of a sort and Henri had seemed okay the day Simon had offered him the badge. But, well, maybe the silence since and the very clear exclusion from a team tradition he’d been part of for years was only to be expected; just one more in a long string of disappointments and letdowns.
Stepping into the shower and letting the hot water cascade over him, Blair told himself that he appreciated Jim’s preference of spending the evening with him but ... it bothered him, too. For one thing, he didn’t need Jim taking sides; that wasn’t what their relationship was about and Blair didn’t want Jim defending him, especially not to the people he had to work with every day. That could cause way too many problems and if that was what had been going on, no wonder Simon had intervened.
Blair washed and rinsed his hair, and then soaped and rinsed his body. By the time he was finished, the chill was gone, but he was still tired and despondent. It seemed that nothing was working out right, nothing was easy. Maybe ... maybe staying had been the wrong decision even though the idea of leaving left him reeling. But maybe Jim would be better off without him now. And if he loved Jim, really loved him, what Jim needed should matter a whole lot more than what he needed. Right? Right.
He struggled to swallow the lump that had thickened in his throat as he dried off and pulled on the comfortable sweats. After emptying the pockets of his jeans, he gathered up his dirty clothing and the towels and tossed everything into the hamper. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders and left the bathroom, a soft billowing cloud of steam following him into the hall.
Jim was dishing up the casserole and salad, so he took his place at the table. Too upset to have much of an appetite, he was nevertheless determined to be grateful for the meal and to eat it. Since it was already too late for Jim to go to that evening’s game, they could talk it out after dinner.
“So,” he ventured, seeking neutral ground, “is the stakeout over? Did you get the bad guys?”
“Yeah, we nailed them just after midnight,” Jim told him, with a smile that suggested he, too, just wanted to enjoy their dinner together. “It was great, Chief. Really great. I used what you’d taught me — you know about grounding one sense with another and piggybacking — and I didn’t zone once, not once, during the entire stakeout.”
Blair stared at him, and desperately tried to rein in and hide the wave of desolation that washed over him. Jim’s smile faltered and he mentally gave himself a shake. “That’s ... wow, that’s terrific, Jim,” he managed to enthuse, hoping his breathlessness could be attributed to his state of awed joy. Must’ve worked, because Jim’s smile widened and his partner nodded, pleased.
“Yeah, Simon said it was a relief to know I could do this on my own, and he figured you’d be happy about it, too. You don’t have to worry about me being out there without you, Chief. I’m okay.”
Blair inhaled deeply and nodded, as if in agreement, his face aching with the smile he held in place. This was it. Jim didn’t need him anymore, not at all.
“But, even so, I decided to tell Joel the truth today; he’s my partner now and he deserves to know. Besides, maybe the odd problem will still happen. I told him I’d give him your paper tomorrow and, if he had questions I couldn’t answer, that you’d be glad to help him out.”
“Yes, of course,” Blair agreed, still nodding. His hands were shaking too badly to hold the fork, so he set it down and hid his hands under the table. He should be glad. He was glad. This was the whole point, right? That Jim would learn to manage his own senses. And Joel would make him a great partner. The best.
“I couldn’t have done it without everything you’ve taught me, Chief.”
“I’m ... I’m glad, Jim. I really am. Stakeouts are tough. Must’ve taken a lot of concentration.”
“Yeah, it did. I was pretty tired every morning when the shift ended. But we got the perps in the middle of the buy — got the cash and the drugs. Couldn’t have been a better, cleaner, bust.”
“Congratulations, man.” This was what Jim had always wanted: to be able to do his job and do it well, and to be able to control his senses on his own, without having to be dependent on anyone. His elation at his achievement was written all over his face and lit up his eyes. He’d never looked more beautiful. And Blair had never felt so bereft, so hollow and useless.
Blair drew upon the strength of his love for the man to lift his wine glass into a toast. “I’m so proud of you, Jim. And so ... so happy for you, you know? You’ve worked really hard to get here. And ... and Simon’s right. It’s a huge relief to know you’ll be okay out there, to know ... to know you can handle everything on your own.” Blair paused as Jim clinked his glass, and swallowed hard to moisten his desert-dry mouth. “It’s great that you’re partnered with Joel. I know the two of you will work great together and, as you say, if the odd problem does come up, I know he’ll ... he’ll get you through it. No sweat.”
“Thanks, Chief. I knew you’d be pleased.” Jim’s expression was so soft — so open and vulnerable with his trust that Blair understood as no one else ever could — that Blair’s heart twisted in his chest.
Somehow, Blair got through dinner, mostly by encouraging Jim to tell him all about the stakeout and arrest so that he didn’t have to do much talking. The food had no taste and he had to keep sipping wine to swallow past his tight throat. This is good news, he kept telling himself. Jim’s safe now; you don’t have to keep worrying about him. This is good news. Be happy. Be grateful. This is good news. He doesn’t need you anymore. Shit!! No, no ... good news. Good....
Since Jim had done the cooking, Blair insisted he do the cleanup while his partner relaxed in the living room. He needed the time to pull himself together, to get past the selfishness of the hurt of Jim being so glad to not need him anymore. When he was finished, he got them both beers from the fridge and joined Jim. There was still the matter of the poker game to discuss, and what was going on with the others in Major Crime. Blair knew he couldn’t put that off, even though he wanted nothing so much as to stagger up the stairs and escape it all in sleep.
He handed a bottle to Jim, and then sank down on his usual spot on the sofa. After taking a sip, he turned to his partner and said, “Jim, I really do appreciate you choosing my company over that of your colleagues and boss, and ... and it was great to come home and find you here. But you can’t keep ducking out of these games, man. You can’t. You how important these rituals and traditions are to maintaining good work relationships.”
Jim stiffened, and replied caustically, “I don’t need either you or my boss telling me how to do my job, Sandburg. Let it go.”
“No, I won’t let it go,” Blair shot back. “I don’t want you choosing between them and me, man. That’s not healthy — and it’s sure not necessary. I’m not some blushing virgin bride who doesn’t understand the need for guys to have a boys’ night out.”
“This isn’t your problem, Sandburg,” Jim said flatly, clearly wanting to end the discussion.
“My problem? This isn’t about whose problem it is; it’s about what affects your relationship with your colleagues. These card games have been a ritual for years, man! They’re our friends!”
“If you heard what they say about you, you might feel differently about that,” Jim growled. “I’m not going to pretend they’re friends of ours.”
“I can imagine what some of them are saying; maybe most of them,” Blair replied tautly. Blowing a breath, he raked his still damp hair back off his face. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, it’s probably a good a thing they’re pissed at me or ... or hold me in contempt.”
“A good thing!” Jim roared, surging to his feet to loom over Blair. “Bullshit, Sandburg. What they’re saying is crap.”
Tilting his head back, Blair held his angry lover’s gaze. “Get over it, Jim,” he returned flatly. “I want them to believe what I said about the diss. Your safety might well depend upon their conviction that you don’t have extraordinary senses. You know Brown can’t keep a good story to himself, and Rafe will blab anything around to make himself look important or on the inside track. Besides, what they say about me doesn’t have anything to do with you. What happened was my responsibility — mine alone. I wrote the damned paper.”
Blair looked away from Jim’s glare, shook his head, and he softened his tone. “So stupid, really. A complete waste of time and effort. Maybe if I’d stuck with the science it might have worked someday, but I didn’t. I was so far into denial and wishful thinking that I lost all track of reality. That document would never have gotten me a PhD even if it could have been submitted and defended. There were no comparators, no other sentinels to substantiate my theory that the phenomena of exceptional senses could still widely exist in our world. As a testimonial to one extraordinary man, it had some merit but as a research paper? It was a piece of shit.” He sighed heavily and looked back up at Jim. “I’m sorry, man. I wanted it over and done, so it wouldn’t be between us anymore. But all I ended up doing was to put you through hell for nothing.”
“So you’re saying I really am a freak of nature,” Jim snarled, his hatred of the paper and all it represented, and all the hell it had caused — and maybe even of his senses — raw in his voice. “Alex doesn’t count.”
“No, I’m not saying that! I still believe there are other people like you out there — people who don’t understand their senses and who may be suffering because of them. And, no, Alex didn’t count, couldn’t count. For one thing, I didn’t do nearly enough tests on her to have any comparative data; for another ... she wasn’t a sentinel, even if she had the senses. She was ... damaged, beyond salvation. And besides, she murdered me. I’m hardly objective about her.”
“Yeah. Like you’re objective about me, huh, Sandburg?” Jim challenged sarcastically, though he turned his face away — like he always did when the subjects of Alex or the drowning came up — as if he couldn’t bear to look at Blair or maybe just couldn’t face talking about any of it.
Blair blew another breath. “No, I’m not at all objective about you, and that’s another reason that document was fundamentally flawed.” Blair pushed the discussion away with his hands. “Anyway, none of that’s what this is about. They’re your colleagues, Jim. If things have deteriorated so bad between you that Simon had to speak to you about it, then it’s gone way too far. I don’t want you missing any more poker games.”
“Nobody tells me what to do with my personal time,” Jim grated, fury sparking in his eyes. “Nobody. And nobody tells me how to do my job.”
“Nobody, huh?” Blair echoed. “Well, I guess ‘nobody’ sure as hell describes me, doesn’t it, at least as far as your work is concerned, or anything else having to do with Major Crime.”
“You could have been my partner,” Jim charged.
“No, no, I couldn’t,” he argued, but without energy. Blair closed his eyes and strove to bring his own temper under control. Jim whirled away to stomp across the room and stare out at the dark street. Finally, Blair said quietly, “You’re right, man. None of this is any of my business. You’ll do whatever makes sense for you.” He laughed softly, but without humor. “You’ve proven you don’t need me anymore. Which, I guess, means I can dump this godawful job and find something I’m more suited to doing.”
Looking back at him over his shoulder, frowning in confusion, Jim demanded, “What do you mean by that?”
“What?” Blair asked, surprised by the question. “You don’t really think it was my life’s dream to get back into construction, do you? That I really like ‘shoveling sand’ for a living? God, Jim. I just needed something I could walk away from in an instant if you ever needed me.”
Gaping at him, Jim shifted away from the window. “Jesus, Sandburg — you’ve been working in the rain for weeks just because you thought I might need you? Are you nuts?” he bellowed. “Let’s get this straight once and for all. I don’t need you to keep making sacrifices for me, you got that? And I sure in hell don’t want you to put yourself out on my account. I never did! Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? More than enough. Too much. Too damned much!”
Blair felt a surging blast of anger so fierce he shook with the effort of restraining himself from leaping up and belting the man. God, he was so heartily sick of the endless guilt trip. “Sacrifice?” he rasped. “Do you even know the meaning of the word? To give up something of import for something even more important? A true sacrifice is made without any regrets, because it’s worth it. Fuck, Jim. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re more important than a degree or a crummy job or whatever! It wasn’t even a sacrifice, really. I screwed up, man. Royally. I’ve been screwing up for months — maybe years. I didn’t deserve that degree. I made the mess; it was up to me to clean it up.”
Jim opened his mouth as if to argue further, but Blair shot to his feet, his hands lifted for peace between them. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said with brittle restraint. “It never gets us anywhere. I’ve got to upload some pictures onto my computer, and then I’m going to bed. I’m beat.”
“What pictures?” Jim asked, blinking in confusion at the abrupt change of subject.
Too late, Blair remembered that he’d had no intention of letting Jim know what he was up to at the work site. Turning away without answering, he retrieved the camera from his coat pocket and then went to his old room, where his laptop was open on the little desk. Settling on the wooden, straight-back chair, he turned on the machine and, while it was booting up, he took the photo stick out of the camera. All the while, he tried to ignore the fact that Jim had followed him and was leaning on the door frame, watching him.
“What pictures?” Jim asked again, this time sounding suspicious.
Blair slipped the stick into the computer port. His eyes on the screen, he replied with sardonic neutrality, “I’ve been taking some photos at work. For my memory book and posterity.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jim shouted as he strode further into the small room to loom over him. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Jesus, Sandburg. If something is going on down there and they catch you taking photos, they’ll drop you off the edge of the cliff.”
Blair leapt to his feet and, arms straight out, he pushed his palms against Jim’s chest, shoving his partner back and out of his personal space. “I don’t get to tell you how to do your job, you don’t get to tell me how to do mine,” he grated, low and dangerous. “Besides, you think I’m imagining things, right? Making up fantasies to make my dull and boring life more exciting. Go to hell, Jim. I’ll do whatever the fuck I think needs to be done.”
Jim glared at him, then turned on his heel to storm out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Breathing heavily, Blair stared at the closed door, and listened as Jim’s footsteps thumped across the apartment and out the door to the hall. “Well, that all went well,” he muttered, feeling as if he might throw up. He scrubbed his face with his palms, and then sat down to finish downloading the photos and saving them to the file he was building. A half hour later, he heard Jim come back in, and head up to their bed.
Blair thought about following him upstairs and apologizing, mostly to get the makeup sex because he really didn’t think he had a damned thing to apologize for. Staring up at the ceiling, he wondered how long he’d let the fact that they had really great sex together blind him to the other significant fact that absolutely nothing else was working in their relationship, and hadn’t been working for a very long time.
If he could even call what they had ‘a relationship’.
He really wasn’t sure what the hell it was anymore.
That night, for the first time since they’d made up after the whole dissertation fiasco, he slept in his own room.
**
Upstairs, Jim had been waiting for Blair to come to bed so he could ... apologize? Well, maybe not, at least not directly, but at least get them back on an even keel. All he’d wanted was a quiet dinner at home and time to enjoy being with his lover. God, he ached to feel Blair’s hands and mouth on his body, to wrap his own arms around the man and hold him close to breathe in the smell of him; to feel the peace that he only ever felt with Blair. He’d let his guilt-driven anger get the best of him, and he was sorry about that. And the thought of his partner taking such risks at the construction site, with no backup of any kind, terrified him, just ... terrified him. What the hell would he ever do if something happened to Blair? He huffed in self-contempt. Like everything bad in the world hadn’t already happened to the kid.
Realizing his emotions were out of control, Jim had fled the loft to walk them off and cool down in the misty rain. And he’d expected that Blair would have calmed down, too; enough that they could talk like civilized human beings ... or, even better, make love like there was no tomorrow.
But he heard the protesting squeak of the futon as Blair laid down, the brush of the quilt being pulled up over the sweats, the thump of Blair’s fist against the pillow, getting it shaped the way he liked it. Sorrow curdled in his gut and he rolled away from the staircase to face the wall. Why the hell couldn’t he ever learn? Why couldn’t he express his gratitude and awe at what Blair had done, was still doing, for him, rather than the anger he felt at his helplessness to make it all right? Because he wasn’t helpless? Simon was right about that, that they were all paying the price for his secret, Blair most of all.
Grimacing, Jim had to accept that he wasn’t angry with Blair ... well, maybe a little. But the bulk of his anger, the fierce fire of it, was with himself. For letting it go on. For not coming clean. For ... for so damned many reasons he could hardly keep track of them all.
Mired in regret, locked in the hopeless belief that things were ending, convinced he should stand back and let it all end, he stared at the wall for a long time, listening to the steady beat of Blair’s heart and the soft snuffle of his snores until the beloved sounds lulled him to sleep.
**
The air was brittle between them the next morning. Jim leaned against the post and watched Blair empty the coffee pot into his thermos. So far as Jim could tell, Blair didn’t seem to be aware he was in the room — no eye contact, no ‘morning’, no nothing. Taking another sip, he found himself thinking how sexy the worn jeans and the carpenter’s belt looked on those lean hips. Grimacing at how long it had been since ... with a soft snort, he forced those thoughts away. Blair was packing his knapsack with the thermos, a sandwich he must’ve made while Jim was in the shower, an apple and two bottles of water.
“You going to quit that job today?” he asked, wanting to push but knowing it would be a mistake.
Blair’s hands stilled for a breath of time, and then busied themselves closing up the pack. “Maybe,” he replied without looking up. “I’ll get a paper on the way to the site; see what other jobs are out there.”
“Don’t take anymore photos, okay?”
Blair still wasn’t making eye contact. He shrugged and turned away to put on his coat.
“It’s too dangerous, Chief. You’re on your own out there.”
Finally, Blair’s gaze met his, chilling him all the way to his toes. “I’ve been on my own most of my life, Jim. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Jim opened his mouth but no words came; he didn’t know what to say to so many loaded messages, both spoken and unspoken. Not that it mattered. Blair had picked up his pack and was already out the door.
**
Blair clamped his hard hat on his head and climbed out of his car into the teeming rain. Hunching his shoulders as he slogged through the ankle-deep mud, he tried to remember when they’d last had a sunny day; it felt as if it had been overcast and raining forever, the weather as depressed as his mood, as dark as his life had become. He’d left the newspaper he had picked up on the way to work in his car after a quick check of the job ads. There hadn’t been anything particularly appealing, but he really didn’t want to stay on the construction site for much longer. He just felt so torn about knowing he was going to blow the whistle. Sure, it was the right thing to do, no doubt about it. The building was going to be dangerous; hell, it already was. Oh, it might stand for a few years but there was no telling when the faulty wiring might lead to fires or the substandard construction could result in the whole condo coming down. Any number of people could be hurt or killed. But ... he couldn’t help feeling badly about the Mexicans working on the site, who would most likely get deported.
Chewing on his lip, he skirted around the big crane that had been brought in a few days before, to lift the heavy steel beams to the higher levels. Muddy water was rushing in small, shallow rivers around the building, run-off from the forested cliff at the back of the structure. The day before, he’d gone down to the sub-basements to get photos of the ‘swimming pool’ that had developed in the basement; the lowest level was completely flooded and now the water was rising in the upper parking level. The building would be a biohazard before it was ever even finished, given the molds that must already be growing in the open shafts. Rubbing his mouth, he thought fleetingly that the concrete down there was never going to dry out properly, especially as it seemed no effort was being made to pump out the water.
He had photos of frayed, used copper wire that would never pass inspection, and faulty wiring, rusted rebar that would snap under pressure, as well as of substandard welding — only about half the number of rivets required were being used to hold the metal ribs of the building together. He also had pictures of cracked drainage pipes that would inevitably leak and cause septic problems. The concrete was still being watered down, even before the rain thinned it further. About all he didn’t have were copies of the personnel records. Blair was pretty sure there were an insufficient number, if any, fully-qualified craftsmen on the site but there was no way for him to prove that. He doubted the personnel list in any way reflected the true workforce which, as far as he’d been able to determine, was primarily constituted of unskilled and illegal laborers. There really wasn’t much more he could do in the way of documentation, not without being caught. Taking a breath, and looking around the site before ducking inside to climb the stairs to the sixth floor, where he was framing the floor, he decided he’d give his notice at the end the of day. Working there was giving him the creeps.
All morning, as he hammered nails, he thought about the fight he’d had with Jim the evening before, and about how hard it was for him to know that Jim really didn’t need him anymore. Blair knew he should be glad about that, and very relieved. If he loved Jim as much as he thought he did, Jim’s needs and safety should always come first and it really was great news that Jim had moved beyond needing his backup. His partner had mastered his senses and that was ... that was what it was all supposed to have been about. But there was no reason now for him to keep hanging around. Blair couldn’t keep telling himself that love was enough. Not when the love went only one way. He wanted to believe that Jim did love him, that he just couldn’t say the words. But Jim’s anger, his outrage and desire to reject the sacrifices Blair had gladly made for him, made it only too clear that Jim resented what he’d done. And probably resented having him around. Probably didn’t want the reminder of those sacrifices in his face every damned day of his life.
So where did that leave him?
Blair only wished he knew.
Tossing his hammer down, he sat back on his haunches and covered his face with his hands. He did know. It left him nowhere. With nothing. At least, nothing that had any real meaning or value to him. He was hanging on to a chimera ... and he was going to have to let go. His gut twisted and if he’d eaten that morning, he’d’ve been sick right there. His chest was so tight he had to drag in air, and he felt like he might fly apart into pieces. He’d do anything — anything — to win Jim’s love but no matter what he did, what he gave, it was never enough. He wasn’t enough. He wasn’t what Jim wanted. He had to accept that, had to ... had to stop trying, stop hoping for what he was never going to have: a lifetime with the man he loved. It just wasn’t going to happen.
He lifted his face to the sky, closing his eyes against the sting of the rain. They’d had such a great friendship — like brothers, only closer. Blair had never known anything like it in his life. And ... and God the sex between them was the best. Hell, it was downright transcendental. But that alone wasn’t enough and, as time went on, there was less and less of it. Had becoming lovers ruined the friendship? Or was it all doomed from the beginning and he just hadn’t been able to see it?
The floor dropped from beneath him but even as he was falling behind it, yelping in surprise, it slammed back up, knocking the breath from his body as he sprawled onto his back. Earthquake! he thought, struggling to breathe. Looking up, he watched with sick helplessness as one of the high steel workers stumbled on a girder, his arms pinwheeling in a desperate, hopeless bid to regain his balance before he pitched backwards into space, dropping from Blair’s line of sight. He heard other men shouting, sharp guttural exclamations of shock and fear when the building lurched again, shaking violently, shifting toward the sea. Panting now, he scrabbled for purchase on the rough wood beneath him ... but then the shaking seemed to be over and he went still, waiting to see if anything more would happen. His gaze flashed around as he gingerly pushed himself to his feet, and he found Raoul and Paco. They seemed shaken but alright as they also cautiously clambered upright.
Then a low rumble began, like distant thunder, the sound growing, building, until it sounded like ten thousand freight trains were rushing toward them and his body thrummed with the vibrations. They all froze in consternation, fighting the atavistic panic of not knowing what was happening but knowing it was bad. The rumble sounded like another massive earthquake was approaching but there was only a weird kind of quivering tremble in the plywood and thin steel beneath their feet. The roar kept growing until it surrounded them, deafening in its power.
“What the hell?” Blair rasped, his gaze again raking the area — and he gasped when he looked toward the cliff behind them, his eyes widening in disbelieving horror. The trees were moving, sliding swiftly down and toward the building, falling en masse. He gaped, trying to take it in, make sense of it, not understanding at first — and then the leading edge of the landslide slammed into the building, rocking it. Concrete, too brittle to bear the load, groaned and cracked with ominous warning. Steel screeched as it twisted and pipes snapped. Plywood buckled, the flooring heaving beneath them, throwing them again to their knees. The building lurched and shifted, tilted sharply. Paco’s terrified shout, as he floundered and fell over the edge, mingled with other cries and screams of horror from below. Raoul was sobbing as he clung to a pillar, praying aloud to the Madonna, begging for mercy.
Scared nearly senseless, Blair began to slide toward the sea and he again madly reached out for something to hold onto. Trees pushed into the open side of the structure, rushing at him like a monstrous wave. He yelled with inarticulate, atavistic denial as he raised an arm to protect his head and face. Pain seared as a branch cut his cheek, and he was buffeted, pounded by branches, but he reached out blindly to grab hold, to halt his slide into oblivion. He was suddenly dangling in space and, looking down as he hung onto a thin branch for dear life, he realized the floor had collapsed onto the levels below. The tree, still moving, rolled to the side, inexorably toppling toward the ground ...
... and Blair felt himself falling with it.
**
The small quake rocked the bridge. Morning commuters slammed on their brakes and held tight to their steering wheels, while holding their collective breath. Would the bridge hold? Was there a stronger quake on the way? In seconds, brake lights went off as all the drivers accelerated, hoping to cross the span and get onto solid ground, just in case.
Chewing on his cigar, concentrating on the erratic traffic, Simon spared a quick glance at the construction site just across the bay from the bridge — and nearly choked when he saw the structure tilt toward the sea.
“My God,” he exclaimed, and tossed the bitten cigar out the window before reaching for the radio mike and punching on his flashers as he slowed to get a better look at what was happening. He was appalled to see distant figures of anonymous men falling off the incomplete building onto the rocky coastline at the bottom of the cliff. The suggestion of movement behind the building caught his attention, and he had to blink twice before he believed what he was seeing.
The forested cliff-face had sheered off and the massive landslide was slamming into and around the building. Even as he gaped, wide-eyed with terrible awe, the huge crane shifted and crashed over onto its side, slamming into the half-built sections of the condo.
“This is Banks,” he shouted into the mike. “The new condo on Hillcrest is collapsing and there’s a massive landslide down the cliff behind it. Send Fire and Rescue, EMTs, and lots of them. Alert the Coast Guard — workers are falling into the sea. And patch me through to Jim Ellison.” He listened briefly and snapped, “No, I don’t know where he is — probably in his vehicle on the way downtown. I’m on the Burrard Bridge and will head to the disaster site.”
A moment later, Dispatch alerted him to meet Ellison on tack two. “Jim!” he exclaimed. “The quake has brought down the condo Sandburg’s working on ... and has sheared off the cliff behind it. It’s a mess.”
For a moment, there was only static, and then Jim asked, his voice shaking, “Blair ... do you know ...?”
“I don’t know anything yet. I’m crossing the Burrard Bridge. I’ll meet you there.” When Jim acknowledged and cut contact, Simon got back to Dispatch. “Give me the highlights. How bad’s the damage in the city?”
“Minimal, sir,” Hank’s voice replied. “It was a pretty minor quake by the look of things. That condo is the worst damage I’ve heard of so far.”
“Fine. Keep me posted. And advise Major Crime that I’m en route to the site.”
Simon hit his siren. The bridge was so packed with rush hour traffic that it did little more than allow him to edge his way ahead slightly faster, but any improvement was welcomed. Worry ate at him and he felt hollow deep down when he wondered if one those he’d seen fall had been Blair. “God, I hope not,” he muttered, almost surprised to realize how fervently he meant it. His gaze flicked to the sky and he sent a silent prayer that the young former observer was alright, and would stay that way.
Finally, he was clear of the bridge and his siren opened up the traffic along the broad street in front of him. He hit the accelerator, speeding swiftly to the disaster.
**
Most of Blair’s life passed before his eyes before he stopped falling. He hit with an “Oomph,” and was so shocked to discover he was still alive that it took him a moment to get past the disorienting terror to figure out why he wasn’t dead.
Cautiously checking out his immediate environment, he discovered his landing had been cushioned by the thick branches of trees and the swamp of mud that had crushed through the structure on the lower floors, and he was still clinging for dear life to the branch he’d grabbed hold of minutes — probably only seconds — before. The hideous cacophony of collapsing building and cliff began to wane, and he could now clearly hear the screams and moans of injured men. The structure, or what was left of it still shuddered, but he dared hope the worst was over.
Breathing hard, he inventoried his body, wondering if he’d broken anything. But though he felt as if he’d gone way too many rounds with Godzilla, everything seemed to be in working order, and he was pretty sure he was only suffering from a multitude of bruises and scrapes. Carefully, he shifted, scared that if he moved too fast, he might dislodge the support beneath him and fall further or slip over the edge that wasn’t all that far away. Swiftly averting his gaze from his bird’s-eye view of the sea below, very gradually, he extricated himself from the branches of the tree and climbed over it in the direction the roughed-in staircase had been. In the distance, he heard sirens. The simple idea that help was coming and was already close flooded him with relief and brought him to the edge of tears. Blowing a long breath to get a grip, he tried to figure out if there was anyone nearby who needed his help, but he didn’t see anyone and all the moans and yells for help were coming from somewhere below him. He felt dazed and disoriented, as if the world had turned upside down, shaking everything loose and creating complete chaos.
“God, Jim,” he gasped as his gaze began to make some sense of the shattered trees and the remains of the building that filled the world around him. “I sure hope you’re coming. We’re gonna need you to find the injured guys in this mess.” He didn’t know where to even begin. No way did he have the strength to shift trees that weighed tons or to clear the depths of mud that crowded the little space that remained between the collapsed and broken ceiling above him and the floors below.
Horrible images, fragments of memory, flashed in his mind, of the guy falling from the scaffolding above, and Paco disappearing into the abyss. Blair had no idea what had happened to Raoul. Reeling from shock, sick at heart, he stumbled and crawled over the debris to the gaping hole that he desperately hoped still held something resembling stairs.
Driven by a sense of urgency to escape before more of the building collapsed, all he knew for sure was that he did not want to die here, like this, crushed like some bug under Nature’s heel. He wanted to live, dammit. He desperately wanted to live.
**
Simon drove as close as he could to the collapsed structure, and then abandoned his car to slog through the driving rain and sticky, sucking mud that was knee-deep in places to get a clear look at the wreckage. It didn’t take him long to see that extraordinary efforts were going to be needed to find anyone in the ruins. The entire structure was tilted out over the sea and the far half — including the foundation — jutted out from the edge of the cliff. How the hell had the whole building broken in half? It looked like the only thing holding the remains from pitching to the rocks below was the enormous weight of broken trees and mud. He hastened back to his sedan to call for more reinforcements with shovels, earth-movers, and at least one more crane to lift massive tree trunks and slabs of cement. Moments later, he was relieved to see workers staggering with shock — and who knew what injuries — begin to emerge from the edges of the nightmare scene. Part of him was astonished that anyone had survived this catastrophe.
Emergency vehicles began to arrive, sirens blaring. Soon, firemen, cops and emergency workers were assisting the first survivors and evaluating the unstable mass of twisted tangle of steel, cement, mud, trees and rock to determine how to proceed further.
**
Jim leapt out of the truck and hurried toward the throng of workers that toiled like ants around the edges of the collapsed condo and landslide. Hearing the distinctive boom of Simon’s voice, he soon reached his friend and grabbed his arm.
“Simon. Any sign of Sandburg?” he demanded, his eyes roving the entire scene in the desperate hope of locating his partner in the confusion.
“Not yet,” Banks rumbled. “Nobody seems to know how many people were working on the site ... so far, we only have ten survivors, and most of them are in shock. There are at least three bodies on the rocks below, and God only knows how many were pulled out to sea by the tide.”
Jim nodded numbly, and blinked the rain from his eyes. The more he saw, the more he feared that no one else could be left alive in all that rubble; but he couldn’t think that, couldn’t believe that. Somewhere in the midst of this disaster, Blair had to be alive and he’d find him. He had to find him.
“Jim — you might be the only hope for anyone who is trapped in that mess. Can you do this? Can you focus and find more survivors, guide the rescue workers?”
The muscles along his jaw flexed, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped, though it ripped him apart to not be able to put all his effort into finding Blair. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head and his brow furrowed in concentration as he strove to filter out the shouts and listened for moans, cries for help or just ragged breathing. “Over here!” he yelled to some of the fire and rescue team members. “Bring shovels!” And then he was moving forward, helping to dig out a man more than half buried by mud and hidden under a crooked slab of concrete.
**
The stairwell was no longer there. Hell, the whole side of the building wasn’t there. Broken trees, branches and trunks snapped as if a giant had ripped them apart, lay in a mangled, twisted mess of mud, rock and concrete.
And ... metal? His gaze narrowing with concentration, Blair cocked his head as he studied the confusing jumble of matter and gradually made out the mud-smeared arm of the crane, or at least part of it, angled into the pile of rubble as if the same giant had thrust his steel lance deep within the tangle of trees. Biting his lip, Blair considered his options and, short of jumping into the sea, he doubted there would be any clear route out of what was left of the structure. If he was careful, maybe he could use the steel beam to balance on the remains of the broken trees and gradually climb down to the ground. Providing the mud and wood didn’t shift suddenly, crushing him, or that he didn’t slip and fall into the morass, or....
He swallowed his fears. Like it or not, he had to get out of the unstable building. The section he was in could collapse without warning. He inhaled deeply and, unconsciously muttering to himself, he peered through the rain at what resembled a psychotic jumble of enormous pick-up sticks that had magically sprouted leaves. “You can do this. It’s like climbing around really complicated and scary monkey bars. Child’s play. Just keep thinking positive. Good thoughts. Only good thoughts. You get what you think, right? The universe listens and....”
Rolling his eyes, he decided he was stalling and edged forward, placing a boot on one of the tree trunks and testing it for stability before reaching out to tightly grip the stretch of steel with one hand and a branch with the other. Gritting his teeth, very afraid, he moved onto and into the twisted remains of the forest. There was no clear path. He had to weave his way around obstacles, duck low and practically crawl under others, shoving away branches to see where to step next. The beat of raindrops was blunted by the overarching branches above him, but the tree trunks beneath his boots were slick and slippery with damp and mud. Time and again, his way forward and down was blocked by an impassable barrier, and he had to work his way back and around another way.
Tree branches tugged at his jacket and jeans, and scratched his face and hands; more than once, he was afraid of getting an eye poked out as he threaded his way through the tumbled wreckage. He heard something rip but torn clothing was the least of his worries as he moved from one slippery, precarious perch to another. Time became meaningless and irrelevant. There was only the rain, the jungle of splintered trees, the solid length of steel, mud, and the consuming need to find his way back down to the distant ground.
“Shit!” he gusted, when his boots slipped on the uncertain footing of muddy bark, leaving him dangling from the remains of the crane until he got his feet under him again. For a moment, he held himself completely still except for the harsh, panting breaths straining his chest. He knew that help had to have arrived — the sirens had gotten close and then shut down what seemed a long time before. But there were no rescue workers within sight. He couldn’t see anything beyond jagged limbs and leaves except what was left of the cliff and the building. Blair figured that the rescue workers couldn’t get past the pile of splintered logs and branches and ... well, everything, really.
His breathing evened out and he resumed his hair-raising decent.
**
Simon’s coat and pants were filthy with mud and blood, and his shoes were ruined, but he was too busy helping to dig out survivors — and far too many bodies — to notice. Jim was amazing. Without him, they wouldn’t have known where to even start looking for people who could still be saved.
But they hadn’t found Blair, and Simon was increasingly afraid that when they did .... He couldn’t think it. Blair had to be here somewhere, alive if perhaps not whole.
He straightened his aching back and sucked in air. Fighting the mud and clearing the wreckage — one chunk of concrete, boulder or tree trunk at a time — the fear of it all coming crashing down, and his devastating pity for the victims, were exhausting. He had no idea what time it was or how long they’d been working. Simon scanned the busy hive of activity, searching for Jim. The last time he’d seen his friend, Jim had been climbing up into the collapsed building to work his way inside, searching for anyone who could still be helped. Turning, Simon looked toward the ugly scar of barren rock where the forest had been, and his gaze trailed down to the morass of mud and splintered trees that were piled several stories high on that side of the ruined building. He was about to turn away when he caught a glimpse of red moving in the mangle of green and brown. Someone was up there, picking their way down to the ground.
Anxious to see if the guy needed help, Simon gingerly worked his way around the body of the over-turned crane. Only when he got closer did he see that it was Sandburg, and his knees nearly gave way with relief. A smile played over his lips as he edged closer still. “Easy, kid, you’re nearly down,” he called in encouragement, keeping his tone low and confident so as not to startle Blair and cause him to lose his balance on the tricky terrain he was so carefully navigating.
At the sound of his voice, Blair risked a slight twist to look over his shoulder and down. “Thank God,” he gusted. “I feel like I’ve been climbing out of here for days.” A crooked grin showed a flash of white teeth against the grime of his face. “Good to see you, Simon.”
“Good to see you, too, Sandburg. Very good,” he replied with feeling as he held out a hand to steady Blair as he negotiated the last few feet to solid ground. And then Simon surprised himself by pulling Blair to him and wrapping the kid in a tight, grateful hug.
**
Isn’t that my guy? And isn’t that my best friend?
Aren’t they standing much too close together?
And it don’t look like they’re talking about the weather.
I must be seeing things, Oh no, it can’t be true.
I must be seeing things, and hearing things,
When I hear him say to Blair,
‘It’s over, forget him, it’s time now.’
Jim’s hearing was wide open, so he’d heard Simon’s words and Blair’s response. Closing his eyes, he gave a brief but utterly sincere prayer of thanksgiving, and eased his way to where he could look out and see Sandburg. He needed to know Blair was really okay.
He saw Blair wrapped in a bear-hug, and felt a pang of regret that those weren’t his arms around his partner. Shaking his head, he wondered how it was that he had the great senses, but it was Simon who had found the one person Jim most wanted to find. Relieved that Blair looked like he was basically okay, he was about to call out when the nearby rescue workers he was aiding called to him urgently, needing his help. He moved back from the edge and into the shadows reluctantly, but he could still see them with occasional glances, and couldn’t help listening when the two men below him began talking again. The sound of Blair’s voice soothed and settled him, made everything easier somehow; like cool silk on a hot rash, it always had.
“God, Simon — for awhile there, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, you know?” Blair sounded shaky, and Jim thought he was probably in shock.
“Quite a few didn’t,” Simon replied, his tone grim as he reached out to steady Sandburg with a strong grip on his arm.
“Yeah,” Blair said, his voice strained. “I saw ... I saw guys fall ...”
“You should never have been working here,” Simon growled. “Manual labor? Come on.”
“I know, I know,” Blair agreed, ragged and worn. “It was only temporary, you know? So I could be available if, well, if Jim needed me. And then I saw what was going on with the building and —”
“Going on? What are you talking about?”
Jim glanced down and saw Blair rub his dirty, scratched face with equally dirty and scratched hands, and then impatiently pulling off his hardhat, shove his heavy wet hair off his face. “I told Jim that I thought there were problems — you know, illegal and substandard work being done.” Blair glanced at what was left of the building and shook his head. “This place was a disaster waiting to happen. No telling how many people might have been killed if it had collapsed after it was finished and people were living here. Or if fires broke out from the faulty wiring —”
“Whoa, slow down. What are you talking about? This was an earthquake, a landslide. The building didn’t just fall down! You’re making a lot of serious accusations here, Sandburg.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Blair snapped. Obviously angry, he went on in a rush, “But that small quake shouldn’t have brought the building down ... and the landslide shouldn’t have knocked the whole thing damned near off the cliff. I’ve got photos, Simon, of shoddy wiring, improper and substandard welding and rotten materials. The foundation’s a joke. If there was anyone on this project with full craftsman qualifications, I never met him or her. At least half the workforce were illegals, being paid under the table.”
When Simon just stared at him, Blair shook his head and threw up his hands. “Why should you believe me? Jim didn’t. Nobody believes anything I say anymore. But I know construction, Simon. I’ve worked on lots of similar projects in the past. I know about welding and wiring. I know what cement is supposed to look like and a little about how deep pilings have to be driven for a structure as tall as this one was supposed to be.” Disgusted, he stepped back and away. “I need to see if I can help ...”
“No, you need to get checked out by the medics,” Simon retorted, catching him by the arm. “And, Blair? I’d like to see those photos. You can’t see it from here, but it’s clear the foundation cracked right in two and nothing much is holding the wreckage onto the cliff but the weight of trees and mud. The landslide was guaranteed to take out the upper structure, but the foundation, if it had been built to code, should have held.”
“You believe me?” Blair asked, sounding so absolutely astonished that Jim winced.
Simon didn’t immediately reply. Jim was listening so closely, he could hear his boss heave a deep breath. “Blair, look, I know you’re no fool. If you say something was hinky about this project, I’m at least going to look at what you have and run it by building inspectors. But I meant what I said, Blair. You shouldn’t have been working here in the first place. You deserve better than this.” Simon hesitated and rubbed his mouth. “I know what goes on between you and Jim is none of my business but, honest to God, if you’ve been holding on and hanging around for Jim’s sake, well, I think it’s time you started thinking more about what you need and less about what he needs. He’s doing okay. Hell, he’s doing great.” Looking down, Jim saw Simon gesture at the rescue workers. “He’s been finding the ones who are still alive in this mess.”
Blair nodded slowly, his head bowed. “I ... I know he doesn’t need me anymore. But I had to be sure, you know?”
“I know. I’ve never known anyone more loyal than you are to Jim. But it’s time for you to think about your own future, Blair. And, sorry as I am to say it, I don’t think it’s in Cascade.” When Blair didn’t reply, Simon went on, his voice so low and full of compassion that Jim had to strain to hear the words. “It’s over, kid. It’s time you moved on, for your sake, if not for Jim’s.”
“He told me that you’d talked to him, about relations with the other guys on the team,” Blair said, looking away as if he wasn’t willing to acknowledge what Simon had just said.
“Oh, he did, did he? Well, yes, I did. I’m worried about the split in the team between those who know the truth, and those who don’t.”
“So even if I’m not there, I’m still causing problems for you and Jim,” Blair murmured.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Blair looked up at Simon, a wan smile on his face. “I’m a smart guy, Simon. I can read between the lines, follow the dots ... whatever.” Blair’s voice broke, and his shoulders slumped as if he felt defeated. Turning away from Simon — inadvertently now directly facing Jim — crossing his arms, he lifted his head as if to study the broken building.
But the naked heartbreak on his lover’s face suggested Blair wasn’t seeing the building, or if he was, it was no more than a metaphor for all that had happened to them. Forces beyond their power to control had swept down upon them and wreaked havoc on their lives, destroying all that they’d had together, all that they’d treasured, and there was no way to put it all back together again. No way.
Jim could read his lover’s feelings in the tear-spangled eyes and quivering lips as clearly as if Blair had spoken them aloud. The kid was trembling and seemed barely able to speak, his words pitched low and raw with pain as he struggled for control, “It’s just ... it hurts, Simon. Hurts so bad. I love him. I’ve never loved anyone like I love him.”
Again Blair’s voice cracked, and he briefly covered his mouth with his hand, and then swiped at his eyes. Behind him, Simon grimaced, but remained mute; Jim was bleakly grateful that Banks hadn’t made some crack about it being too much information. There was no room for levity, not today, not now. Jim could see the effort Blair was making to pull himself together; just watching hurt so bad that Jim felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest. Blair took a deep breath as he straightened his shoulders, and when he spoke this time his voice was steadier, almost matter-of-fact; almost, but not quite. “But I’m not doing Jim any good at all, am I? And I guess maybe I’m doing him a lot of harm. This won’t just tear apart your team; it’ll tear him apart, too.”
Simon’s face was filled with compassion as he stepped forward to grip Blair’s shoulder. “From where I’m standing, you’re not doing yourself any good at all ... and you’ve done yourself a lot of harm already.”
Scowling heavily, his gut in knots, Jim tuned out the conversation and turned away. He couldn’t bear to listen to any more of it; couldn’t stand hearing Simon telling Blair that it was time — past time — that he moved on. It was always the same: love always came to this, always led to abject heartbreak and unbearable pain. Jim had learned that lesson a long, long time ago. But he wasn’t strong enough to see that pain on Blair’s face and know he’d put it there, when he’d give anything — anything — to never, ever hurt that kid, to only keep him safe.
Anger flared, that the two of them were talking about him, talking about things that affected his life and future as if what he wanted didn’t count — but the anger didn’t last. No, he couldn’t be angry. After all, Simon wasn’t saying anything more than he’d told himself too many times to count.
Feeling utterly devastated, Jim returned his attention fully to the job at hand. Work was the only way he’d ever found to keep pain in check, to mute it for awhile — to make it bearable.
**
Blair nodded slowly in agreement with Simon’s observations. He wasn’t doing himself any good at all, and he had pretty much destroyed a huge part of what had been his life; for good reason, sure, but that didn’t make the loss less painful. He just hadn’t thought he’d also destroyed every chance he and Jim might have for happiness. All of sudden, he felt totally exhausted, the effort of thinking too much to manage. Numbly, he looked around and, feeling dazed, said, “I guess we should be helping here, huh? How many ... how many survivors have you found so far? Do you know?”
“Counting you? Ten.”
“Oh, God,” Blair whispered. “There were over thirty guys working on the site full time and there were always a handful of day laborers.” He looked over his shoulder at Simon. “Did any of the bosses make it? They usually hung out in the temporary shed at the front of the site.”
“They wouldn’t have had a chance. The landslide rolled right over that area. There’s nothing left.”
“Poor bastards,” he muttered. “They were slime, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” Once again, he looked around. “What can I do?” he asked, feeling overwhelmed and not a little lost. “I’m not sure what to do. I wonder if Raoul made it?”
“Raoul?”
“One of the guys I worked with,” Blair explained distantly. “I’m hoping he’s okay.”
“You sure you don’t need to be checked out for injuries?” Simon asked, eying him narrowly.
“Nah.” He waved the concern away. He was just tired. Really, really tired. “I’m fine, really. Just banged up a little.”
“Then I want you to go home, get cleaned up and sleep if you can. You’re in shock, Sandburg. I’ll have someone drive you.”
“No, no!” he protested. “I don’t want to take anyone away who’s helping here. Seriously, I can drive. I’ll take it slow. But, uh, I think you’re right. I’m ... I don’t think I’d be good for much right now.”
“You survived, kid. That’s all that matters. I’ll make sure you get a list of names of the other survivors.” Simon looped an arm around his shoulders, and Blair was poignantly grateful for the support. “C’mon,” his friend said. “I’ll walk you to your car. And I’ll be over later, this evening sometime, to see what you’ve got about this work site.”
“Okay,” Blair agreed, not really listening as other concerns occurred to him. “You’ll tell Jim? Tell him I’m okay?”
“I’ll tell him, Sandburg. Don’t worry. I’ll tell him.”
“Don’t let him stay at it too long. It’s exhausting, you know? He, uh, he’ll need regular breaks, but he won’t take them on his own. He needs someone to watch, in case he overdoes it and zones.” Blair knew he was beginning to babble, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“I’ll go look for him as soon as you’re in your car and on your way home. I’ll make sure he’s fine.”
“Thanks, Simon,” Blair replied with fervent sincerity as they got close to the Volvo and the other vehicles in the small lot far enough from the construction site to have been missed by most of the landslide. “You’re a good friend. The best.”
Fumbling through his pockets in search of his keys, he didn’t think anything about Simon’s lack of response. Glad beyond words to discover the key chain hadn’t fallen out of his pocket, he slid in behind the wheel and switched on the ignition. With a small wave and as much of a smile as he could manage, he pulled out and, carefully steering around the crowd of rescue vehicles, headed home.
**
“Not nearly as a good a friend as you deserve,” Simon muttered anxiously, not entirely sure he should have allowed Blair to drive, as he watched until the little Volvo was out of sight. Marginally reassured that the kid had handled the gauntlet of rescue vehicles and workers well enough, he turned back to the center of destruction, intent upon finding Jim.
His gaze had barely lifted to what was left of the second, or was it the third, floor, when he spotted Jim looking down at him. Frowning, wondering how much the other man had heard, Simon waved with an imperious, not to be refused, gesture. “Time for break!” he called. “No argument.”
Jim hesitated but then waved back in acknowledgment before disappearing from view.
Satisfied that he’d attended to one of his immediate chores, Simon headed toward the rescue command post. “I’ll need a list of the names of all the survivors, and where they’re taken if they need treatment,” he told the EMT who was running the triage. “And I don’t mean tomorrow, or next week. I’ll need it by the end of the afternoon.” His gaze returning to the ruin, he added somberly, “If there are any others after that, well, we can always add their names later.”
Deep down, he doubted whether they’d find many more who were still breathing, not in that hell-hole. His gaze narrowed thoughtfully as he noted the girders tangled with trees and cement chunks scattered amongst boulders like a child’s building blocks. What had happened was truly terrible. But, if what Sandburg alleged was true, then maybe it hadn’t had to be this bad.
And maybe, he thought, as he imagined thirty stories crumbled into pieces, maybe we got off lucky.
Regardless, if the kid had enough to prove criminal negligence and fraud, then that changed everything. Was he looking at a tragic natural disaster or at a multiple murder crime scene? Simon’s mouth tightened into a grim line; he planned to find out which it was damned quick.
**
Blair felt numb, and the closer he got to the loft, the more the world seemed to be retreating from him. He didn’t want to think, and he sure didn’t want to feel. All he wanted to do was make it home with the hope that everything would make more sense later. Gripping the wheel as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded, he finally found himself in front of Colette’s. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to remember the drive home, but it was all a blur.
Leaving the car, he stumbled inside, drunk with exhaustion. Upstairs, he forced himself to take a shower, long and hot, to wash away the dirt and blood. Giving all his attention to soaping and rinsing his hair and body, he blanked on everything he didn’t want to remember, that he couldn’t deal with, at least not yet. Without bothering to dry himself off, he lurched into his room and collapsed on the futon, barely conscious enough to pull up the afghan before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Hours later, when he awoke, he was stiff and very sore, and it took him a moment to remember what had happened. When the memories crashed into him, he groaned, but forced himself to get up. Moving slowly in deference to his protesting, badly bruised body that, so far as he could see, was black and blue all over, he pulled on clean jeans and a heavy, warm sweatshirt. Raking his fingers through matted curls, he wandered out to the kitchen, and put on a kettle, to make tea. Feeling as dazed as if he’d partied for a week, he wondered when Jim would be home. The light in the loft was dim, so it must be getting late.
Jim.
No. No, he didn’t want to think about Jim. Couldn’t. Or he’d fly apart into pieces and, like the building, he didn’t think anyone would be able to put him back together again.
He’d just settled on the sofa, the hot mug cradled in his hands, and was inhaling the steam, seeking comfort in it, when the door opened. Blair had to quash an urge to run and hide that he didn’t fully understand, and lifted his gaze to see Jim and Simon walk inside. They both looked liked they’d been through a war.
“How’re you doing, Chief?”
“I just woke up,” he replied, evading the question. “Sorry. I didn’t make anything for dinner.”
“Don’t worry about it, Blair. Neither of us are very hungry, right, Simon?”
Banks nodded. “I wouldn’t say no to a beer, though.”
Jim hung up their filthy coats and went into the kitchen, while Simon moved into the living room, to sit on the love seat. Wordlessly, he passed a folded paper to Blair.
His brow furrowing in confusion, Blair unfolded the paper and, realizing what it was, quickly scanned the list — twenty names, ten more than he’d last heard. “You did good, Jim,” he murmured, and meant it, even though he felt like something was breaking inside. Most of the people on the list owed their lives to Jim — and if he’d ever doubted Jim could really function without him, manage at the top of his game without his help, he was holding the proof of his partner’s mastery of his senses in his hand. But Jim deserved the praise, deserved to know he was proud of him, so Blair gave him a look of clear and unequivocal approbation.
“Just doin’ what you taught me, Chief,” Jim said quietly, before averting his gaze to twist off the bottle caps.
Blair blinked at the affirmation, pleasure competing with an ache deep in his chest. Flustered, he went back to scanning the names, and then he went through the list again, more slowly. Though he wasn’t surprised not to find Paco’s name, he’d hoped ... he’d really, really hoped that Raoul had made it out alive.
But it seemed he hadn’t.
“Ah, Raoul,” he whispered on a breath of air, a sorrowful prayer. Pressing his eyes and mouth closed, he swallowed hard, determined to hold the grief — and guilt — inside. Looking up at Simon, he said with a not-quite-steady voice, “He was just a kid, trying to do a man’s job. His father died a few months ago, and, and he was doing his best to take care of his mother and the other six kids still at home. In Mexico. Maybe, maybe if I’d blown the whistle sooner —”
“Don’t go there, Sandburg,” Jim cut in, his voice rough. He handed a beer to Simon, and settled in his chair. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t bring him up here to work on that site. You didn’t cause the earthquake or the landslide.”
Blair flicked a look at him, and nodded, appreciative of the absolution, though he wasn’t sure he deserved it. “I didn’t want anybody to get hurt,” he said softly. “I only wanted to help. I would’ve done more for him and Paco, if I could’ve.”
“You always do, Chief,” Jim offered. “Since I first met you, you’ve done your best to help a whole lot of people. And you did; you do. You make a real difference.”
Blair ached at the words, both grateful for them and sad that no matter how hard he tried, it was never enough. Just wasn’t ever enough.
“So, what can you tell me about what was going on down there?” Simon asked gruffly, as if to get the conversation on more solid ground.
“I’ll get the file,” Blair replied and, still sore, eased up slowly to retrieve it from his room. For the next hour, he walked Simon through the photos, explaining what it all meant and what the pictures were illustrating from a safety or building code perspective. Wrapping it up, Blair concluded, “And, like I said, most of the workers were illegals who didn’t have any journeyman or master craftsman papers. Maybe the bosses did, but I never saw them do any work. Simon, you have to understand, I’ve worked a lot of similar projects. There’re always some shortcuts here and there to save money — and there’s been a severe shortage of skilled laborers for years because the average age of qualified craftsmen is fifty-six, so there are always some minor problems and mistakes, like reversed polarity in light circuits. But this, this,” he waved at the file, “this is way beyond anything I’ve ever seen before. This was wanton corruption.”
Simon pondered what he’d been told and then looked at Jim. “And you knew about all this?”
“I didn’t have any of this stuff when I first told Jim about my suspicions,” Blair jumped in, anxious that no blame be attached to Jim for what had happened. “There was no reason for him to believe me. And we haven’t seen each other since then until last evening.”
“I believed you,” Jim protested. “I decided to look into it the morning you told me.”
“Really? You did?” Blair replied, smiling in relieved surprise. “What did you find out? I couldn’t find anything on the developer except the publicity stuff about how great he is.”
“Well, I ... there was the stakeout and, this morning, I was going to ...”
“Oh,” Blair acknowledged, knowing his tone was flat and unable to sustain the smile. “Sure. I understand. You were busy, too busy.”
“Well, we’ll be looking into it now,” Simon intoned. “Blair, I need a complete, very detailed statement from you to go along with this file. Do you think you’re up to it tonight?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, I guess,” he agreed, though all he really wanted to do was go back to bed.
“Alright, then. Let’s go get it done.”
**
Jim needed to shower and get into clean clothing, so Simon took Blair downtown. Once there, Banks arranged for Taggart to take his statement, and he also called the City Superintendent of Works, insisting that the Chief Building Inspector come in immediately to review Blair’s allegations and the photos.
“I’m going to go home and clean up, but I’ll be back later,” he told Blair before leaving him with Joel. “Take your time, alright? And the Chief Inspector’ll have questions, too — Joel, I want you to tape both conversations. Blair, it might feel as if we’re challenging your word, but you’ve been around long enough to know that’s not what this is about. We need to know everything you know about that project.”
“I understand, Simon. It’s okay. More than okay, actually. I appreciate you being willing to look into this.”
“Sandburg, if you’re right, then by your count at least fifteen men died today because of criminal negligence and deliberate malfeasance and fraud. That means at least second degree murder charges,” Simon stated, his no-nonsense tone hard and uncompromising. “If there’s any gratitude to be handed out here, it’s us and their families who should be grateful to you. We can’t bring those men back to life, but we can get justice for their families — and if what you’re saying proves to be true in a court of law, then you can bet that some sharp lawyer will get those people more than justice. The civil suits for damages could go on for years.”
“Most of those workers were illegals, Simon.”
“You don’t have to be a citizen to sue for damages, Sandburg.”
Blair blinked at that, and dared hope that maybe Raoul’s family, and Paco’s, too, might somehow receive compensation for their loss.
Jim arrived as he was going through the photos with the Chief Building Inspector, Royce Hollins, explaining what he saw, elaborating as he went along and more and more details of what he’d witnessed surfaced in his mind. By the time Simon returned, they were reviewing it all for the fourth time, and Blair was getting hoarse and feeling as lively as a wet dishrag.
“I think we’ve got enough,” Joel finally said, his expression somber. Looking at the expert, he asked, “How about you? You think we’ve got enough to make a case?”
Hollins, a balding man in his mid-forties nodded soberly. “I’ll go out to the site in the morning. Even with all the damage, there should be some physical evidence that will support Mr. Sandburg’s statements. That foundation shouldn’t’ve cracked in half, the way Captain Banks described it — but we’ll need to verify that it couldn’t’ve been caused by the earthquake. Frankly, I don’t believe it was. The quake wasn’t that strong. If the structure had been built to code, it should have weathered it easily. Now, the landslide is another factor but, again, the sub-basement should not have given way like that, not if it had been properly anchored with pilings sunk deep into the bedrock. I’ll get back to you once I’ve had a good look.”
After Hollins had taken his leave, Simon said, “You know, if this gets to court and it well might, you’ll be the key witness.”
Blair had been thinking about that, and it worried him. “What about my credibility?” he asked uncertainly. “Will anyone believe me?”
“There’s a lot of hard physical evidence here, Blair,” Joel replied thoughtfully. “It’s not a matter of opinion. Hollins will also be a key expert witness. But before we get to that point, we need to figure out who was responsible ... and why. Could be the developer was greedy and trying to increase his profit margin. Could be the developer has enemies who bribed his site foreman to make sure things weren’t done right. This is going to be a complicated case and it’ll be a good long while before we’re in front of a jury.”
“We’ll start work on that tomorrow,” Jim added. “If and when we lay charges, you won’t be dangling out there in the wind on your own, Sandburg. The case will be solid.”
“Okay, well, then, I guess I’m done here, right? For now?”
“You look done in, Blair. And Jim, you don’t look any better. It’s been a long, hard day. Why don’t the two of you head on home?” Joel suggested, and Simon nodded in agreement.
Blair paused in the doorway of the interview room. “Simon, about being available for the trial,” he began, not making eye contact with anyone. “Does that mean I have to stay in town, or do I just let you know where I am, and come back when you call?”
The silence was so profound that he wouldn’t have needed Jim’s senses to hear a pin drop. He looked up and around, to find all three men staring at him. Joel looked dismayed. Simon looked sorry as hell. And Jim ... Jim had his mask on, so Blair couldn’t read him exactly — only that he was bothered enough to be doing his best to hide it.
“So long as you stay in touch and agree to return if there’s a trial, you can go anywhere,” Simon finally replied, his voice disturbingly gentle.
“Okay, thanks. I was just wondering, that’s all,” he said lamely, not having the energy to deal with anything more that night, let alone the anxious worries that had prompted the question in the first place.
Jim didn’t say anything as they walked down the hall or when they got into the elevator, and Blair thought that might be just as well. He felt as if he was walking along the edge of a cliff, the earth crumbling away beneath his feet. But what was really scary about the way he was feeling was that he knew that it wouldn’t take much to make him jump into the abyss. For better or worse, after all that had happened, he was no longer interested in holding on, regardless of what it cost him. Maybe it was almost dying again. Maybe it was just that Jim didn’t need him and his presence was a liability to his partner. Maybe it was because he wasn’t really sure Jim even wanted him around anymore. Maybe he was just too numb to care right now. Maybe it was a lot of things. He was too tired to sort it all out, and he really didn’t want to take a flying leap until he was sure, absolutely sure, that giving up was the right thing to do.
Because, if it came to that, he wasn’t sure he gave a damn where he landed.
And that was the scariest thought of all.
**
Unable to stand the silence in the truck, Jim clicked on the radio. When the Gene Pitney song started to play, he decided he could really learn to hate the crooner: the sad song hit too close to the mark and he could far too easily imagine him and Blair singing it to one another:
I can see, you’re turning away from me, And you’re so afraid I’ll plead with you to stay,
But I’m gonna be strong, and let you go your way. (Wasn’t that just what he’d been thinking?)
Our love is gone; there’s no sense in holding on, (That could be either of them.)
But your pity now would be too hard to bear. (Blair couldn’t stand being pitied; but then, neither could he.)
So I’m going to be strong, and pretend I don’t care. (Well, wasn’t that what he was doing?)
I’m going to be strong, and stand as tall as I can. (Definitely Blair, he thought with wan humor.)
I’m going to be strong, and let you run along,
And take it like a man. (And that’s exactly what he had to do, when the time finally came.)
When you say it’s the end, I’ll just hand you a line,
I’ll smile and say, ‘Don’t you want me? I’m fine.’ (Blair would do that, tell him not to worry.)
And you’ll never know that after I’ve kissed you good-bye
How I’ll break down and cry. (Jesus. This was too close to the mark.)
He didn’t want to listen all the way through, but he did, and then he savagely twisted off the sound.
“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” Blair asked bleakly into the empty silence between them. “At least, ‘the love is gone’ part. If you ever did love me,” he rambled on when Jim didn’t answer. His words and tone were distant and disjointed, as if he was compelled to speak but was disassociated from what he was saying, an academic observing a problem more than making a statement that was ripping Jim, and Jim figured Blair, too, apart. “I thought you did, but I’m not really sure. Guess it doesn’t matter. I do know that I don’t want you to hate me. And I think you will, if I stay.”
Jim didn’t want to have this discussion, even though he knew it was inevitable. What could he say? That he wanted Blair to stay? Because he did. He couldn’t imagine life anymore without Blair in it. But ... Blair needed to go, he really did. Sandburg had to find his own life; he’d given up too much and it was time for him to start getting at least some of it back. Simon had been right earlier, at the disaster site; with all that had happened, Blair wasn’t going to get a fair shot at finding a decent life, a career, in Cascade.
“Say something,” Blair pleaded, low and desperate.
“I’d never hate you,” he rasped, and then he added because he believed it was true, “More likely to be the other way around.”
Blair huffed a bitter laugh and turned away to stare out the window into the darkness. “Damn song,” he muttered. “I so didn’t want to get into this tonight.”
“Then don’t.” Please don’t. Not now. Not tonight. Not yet. “If this is going where I think it is, I’m in no hurry to get there.”
“I didn’t want it to end like this,” Blair said softly, as if it hurt to say the words. “Hell, I didn’t want it to end at all, ever. But ... it’s not working, is it? Nothing’s working anymore.”
His throat too thick to speak, barely able to swallow without choking, Jim could only shake his head.
“I’ll leave in the morning.”
The words felt like stones, bare and unvarnished, hard and wounding. Ah, no, no ... Jim mourned, and it took all he had to keep the truck from running off the road. He took a shuddering breath and asked, “Where will you go?”
Blair shrugged and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. Somewhere where I can think. Figure out who I am. Decide what to do next. Where to be.”
“Chief, I ...”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be okay,” Blair hurried to assure him. So typical. So damned typical, always putting him first. “And I’ll stay in touch, so you’ll always know where to reach me.”
“I’m sorry, Chief,” Jim grated as he pulled up in front of the loft. “You don’t know how sorry.”
“Ah, Jim,” Blair sighed and finally turned to face him, and to reach out to grip his arm. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I didn’t do much right, either, though, did I?
They climbed out of the truck and walked into the building, neither saying anything more. Maybe there just wasn’t anything else to say.
Or, maybe, Jim thought as they made their way up the stairs, it just hurts too damned much to keep talking about it.
He wanted to take Blair to his bed again, one last time. Wanted to express the love he couldn’t ever seem to say in any other way. But he didn’t protest when Blair went into the little room under the stairs and quietly closed the door.
Tears stung his eyes as he climbed up the steps, and he pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle the sob filling his chest. But he’d barely reached the top when the door below clicked open.
“Jim? I want ... could we ...” Blair began, tentative and painfully hesitant, as if he no longer had the right or, worse, wasn’t sure he was wanted.
“Yes,” he cut in, hoarse with need. “Please.”
Tomorrow, the real world
Will come crashing in on me.
I know I must lose you,
That’s the way things have to be.
But tonight, I feel no boundaries,
So I beg you before the chance is gone.
Will you be mine until tomorrow?
Will you be mine until tomorrow?
Give me one more night of your life,
Stay with me until the dawn
So I can go on ....
**
Blair hadn’t known he was going to end it so suddenly; the surprising words had just flowed out of his mouth of their own accord, as if they knew they had to be spoken and, like lancing a wound, had come quickly, to get it over with. Once they were spoken, he’d waited with bated breath for his lover’s reaction. Briefly, he’d thought Jim might argue with him — had hoped, anyway — and tell him not to go, or at least that he didn’t have to go. God, he’d felt gutted when Jim didn’t, and he’d thought, It’s true. He really doesn’t love me.
But that hoarse, desperate ‘please’ brought a lump to his throat. He could no longer doubt that Jim still wanted him and, in his way, Blair was now equally certain that Jim did still love him. It was just that love wasn’t enough for Jim to want him to stay. There were too many reasons why he really had to go. It still hurt, though, that Jim didn’t love him enough to want him to stay, hurt like a sonuvabitch, worse than anything he’d ever known. If things were reversed, he’d do anything — anything — to make Jim stay, and he could not understand why Jim ... but ... at least they wouldn’t be parting in anger, thank all the gods for that.
Detach with love, whispered in his mind as he mounted the stairs to Jim, who was waiting for him at the top, a beloved shadow against the silvery moonlight streaming in through the skylight. Guess Naomi had the right of it all along. Well, he could do that, would do that. Because the love he felt for Jim was the only thing left in his life that he was sure of, and harbored no doubts about. He loved Jim with everything that he was, and always would.
When he reached the top, they stood looking at one another for the space of a heartbeat, and then he tilted his head and leaned in to meet Jim’s lips with a kiss that was gentle, even a little shy given the awkwardness now between them. But Jim’s arms came around him and pulled him in close and tight, and their kiss deepened, their need flaring into white heat.
Clothing was discarded with urgent haste, and they tumbled onto the bed, arms and legs entwined as if they were trying to crawl into the refuge of one another’s skin. Passion pulsed with sweet demand and he groaned at the feel of Jim’s tongue and hands on his body. Desperate for one another, driven by the knowledge of looming loss, they surged together with hungry, even violent, need and want, each employing what they’d learned over the years to give the other exquisite pleasure. Again and again, they came to the brink but held back, wanting to prolong these moments as long as humanly possible.
Until it was too much, too beautiful, too necessary and they could hold back nothing more. With strangled cries of anguished bliss, they arced together, rapture spiraling beyond endurance to blinding, panting climax.
And then, sweaty and sated, they curled together, touching lightly, poignantly, each touch a caress filled with tenderness and aching sorrow as they drifted into sleep.
**
Blair woke to the scent of coffee and an empty bed. Sitting up slowly and stifling a low moan at the protest of stiff and aching muscles — noting in passing that the bruises were even more spectacular than they’d been the day before — he swung his legs over the side of the bed and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. Scratching a stubbled cheek, he looked around, expecting to see Jim in the kitchen below.
But it wasn’t only the bed that was empty.
Flooded with disappointment that Jim had already left for work without a final good-bye, and yet relieved to be spared a parting that he could scarcely bear to contemplate, he rose and made the bed. Gathering up his clothing, determinedly holding his emotions at bay, he headed downstairs to shower and pack, and it was then that he spotted the note on the table.
Blair,
I know I’m a coward for cutting out like this, without a decent ‘good-bye’, but I couldn’t face it. I want to remember you like this, asleep in our bed.
Take the key, so you can always let yourself back in. If you ever need anything, call me.
Chief, I hope you know what you mean to me. I hope you know that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and that I was never happier than I was with you. I wish things could be different. I know you love me more and better than anyone ever has, and that you don’t want to go, but you deserve so much more than what’s possible for you here. I want only the best for you.
You promised you’d stay in touch; make sure that’s a promise that you keep. I need to know you’re okay.
Jim
Blair blinked and sniffed away the tears that blurred his vision, and he caressed the words with his fingertips. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “I always will.” But he couldn’t help but notice with a pang of sorrow that even now, even with the distance of a written note between them, Jim still couldn’t or wouldn’t sign the note with ‘love’.
When he left, he took the note, a few precious photographs, the clothes and sundries he could fit into his bags, his laptop and cell phone, his sleeping bag and fishing gear, and nothing else. He hoped that leaving some of his things behind would convey the message that he desperately hoped to be back someday. Maybe it wasn’t fair; maybe he should have cleared everything out so that Jim could just forget him and get on with his life.
But he didn’t want Jim to forget him.
And he was even more a coward than Jim. He couldn’t face even writing ‘good-bye’. Besides, he rationalized, as he locked the door behind him, it’s not ‘good-bye’, can’t be. Not when he was also leaving his heart and half his soul behind.
**
Some guys would drown their sorrows in booze, Jim thought with no little chagrin as he strode purposefully into the bullpen. Me, I gotta work.
Once he’d settled behind his desk, he powered up his computer. An hour later, after reviewing financial reports and cruising back issues of the society pages — followed by a call to his father for more ‘back room’ old-boy gossip — he had a possible suspect. Sitting back, he thought about what he’d learned. Joseph Conroy, the developer who owned the Hillcrest project, was neck-deep in debt because of the downturn in the housing and financial markets that had eroded support for major capital projects, and he’d compounded the problem with some bad investments. On top of all that, his financial woes were exacerbated by his pending divorce. The society scuttlebutt was that his soon to be ex-wife was trying to take everything he had, including the shirt off his back. His father didn’t know what his wife had on him, but it had to be good, because apparently the guy was rolling over and playing dead, seemingly to get the divorce over with as quickly as he could. William wondered if Conroy’s taste for gambling had gone beyond casual play to a dangerous and costly obsession; apparently, he and his soon-to-be ex were both very fond of the ponies and Joe also enjoyed high stakes poker.
But ... it didn’t make any sense. Conroy had been a local leader of major development in Cascade for over twenty years. There’d never been a breath of scandal associated with him, and many of his buildings were local landmarks. Why would a guy like that risk his reputation by building something as fundamentally flawed as Hillcrest? Okay, fine, he was financially strapped, so cutting a few corners made a kind of scary sense. But why start something he obviously couldn’t afford to build? To generate a new cash flow when units in the building sold?
And, given his financial situation, where had the money come from to start that project in the first place?
Gambling. Jim mulled that over and stirred it into the mix. Maybe all his debt load wasn’t on the public record. Maybe he was in deep with guys who charged usury rates of interest — and who sent bully boys to collect. Maybe he’d worked a deal to ... launder dirty money?
Jim shook his head. That was a stretch ... but it was a possibility. Trouble was, links like that could be damned hard to pin down and prove.
“Morning, Jim. You’re in early.”
“Uh, yeah, hi, Joel,” he replied, distracted by his speculations. “Got a minute? I want to run some stuff by you, see what you think.”
“About our latest case?”
“What else?”
“Sure,” his new partner agreed with a genial smile. “I’m all ears.”
Jim laid it out for him, and Taggart nodded thoughtfully. “You could be on to something.” Joel’s smile widened. “Great — we’ve hardly started and we already have one plausible suspect on the list.”
“We?” Jim challenged sardonically, but his smile was teasing.
“Hey, this is a great partnership, man. I love sharing in your achievements.”
Jim chuckled, and pulled a pad of paper closer. Picking up a pen, he directed, “Okay, let’s do some brainstorming. Who else could make our ‘most likely villain’ list?”
Fifteen minutes later, they’d agreed that they needed to check out the site foreman and crew chiefs. All of them had been killed by the landslide, but that didn’t mean one or all of them hadn’t been involved in a scam to fill their pockets by hiring unskilled labor and purchasing substandard materials. They briefly considered major suppliers but discounted them — the corruption was too widespread and it was too improbable that all of the suppliers had been involved in a kind of conspiracy. Still, all that faulty material had had to come from somewhere. Conroy’s competitors went on the list — it was conceivable they’d paid off the site managers to ensure substandard work that would ruin Conroy’s reputation. In keeping with Jim’s initial theory, they added local crime lords who were particularly involved in gambling ventures.
It was quite a list and it was going to take one hell of a lot of time and effort to work through it and narrow down the possibilities.
“You know, we don’t have confirmation from Hollins that the structure wouldn’t’ve met code, and that corruption is a probability,” Jim observed.
Joel gave him a flat look. “Your point being?”
“Maybe we’re jumping the gun here.”
Sticking his tongue firmly in his cheek, Joel challenged, “You don’t think what Blair gave us is enough to know something stank to high heaven on that site?”
Jim gave him a crooked smile. God, he was glad he was teamed with Joel and not one of the bozos they worked with. “Let’s run our ideas past Simon. We’re gonna need official warrants to conduct parts of this investigation. Might as well see how far we can push the envelope.”
“Let’s do it.”
They were just finishing up their preliminary briefing when Hollins arrived.
Sitting back in his chair, Simon offered him a coffee and then asked what he’d found out at the site.
“The place looks like a bomb went off, but then you knew that already,” the Chief Inspector returned, sounding disgusted. “You have any idea how much it’s going to cost to do a forensic assessment out there?” Waving off the question, he took a sip and set his mug on the conference table. “I dug around a bit, and it didn’t take long to find faulty welding, evidence of frayed wiring, and I’m pretty sure from the way the remains are jutting over the edge of the cliff that the pilings weren’t properly installed. I’ve sent some samples of concrete for analysis — I’ll know if the composition meets code by tomorrow.”
He paused, his expression suggesting that he was ordering his thoughts. “I’ll check with Conroy Construction corporate headquarters to see if they have personnel records for the construction crew. Legally, they should, but a lot of these projects keep the records on site — and if that’s the case here, those documents and computer records are either buried under a ton of mud or are somewhere on the bottom of the ocean. Other than checking the papers of the survivors, and getting names from them of the ones who didn’t survive to crosscheck with state and union trade records, we won’t be able to find out exactly who was working on the site, and what their qualifications were.”
When he sat back, Simon asked, “So ... you think there’s substance to Sandburg’s allegations?”
Hollins nodded. “I’m convinced, but proving it might be iffy. What with the photos he took to back up what he said, and what I saw out there with only a cursory inspection, I’d have to say that building was doomed to come down, sooner rather than later, but the earthquake and landslide confuse the issue and Conroy Construction could make the case that whatever we find was a result of the natural disaster. Still, given the range of code violations I found in even a cursory examination, it’s pretty clear to me that it wasn’t happenstance, shoddy workmanship, or accidental. I think we can build a case of deliberate fraud and criminal negligence, but Sandburg’s eye witness testimony is going to be key to substantiating that the flaws we’re finding aren’t directly attributable to Mother Nature.”
“You think you’ll have enough to back Sandburg up in court?” Simon pushed.
Hollins inhaled deeply and, pursing his lips, blew out slowly as he weighed his response. “If and when you have one or more credible suspects, we can make book on the fact that they’ll claim ‘act of God’ and put the onus on us to prove the building was compromised regardless of the earthquake and landslide. We’ll have to use computer models, to show the implications of the faulty construction on structural integrity, but juries respond fairly well to ‘show and tell’.” Nodding to himself, and then looking around at each of them, he confirmed, “Yes, I think we’ll have enough to support criminal charges.”
“Thank you,” Simon said, and stood to shake the man’s hand as he took his leave. “Keep us posted as your investigation proceeds. Ellison and Taggart have the lead from our side.”
Hollins paused on his way out the door. Scratching his cheek, he observed, “Your Mr. Sandburg did a fine job of discerning the violations and in recording evidence. We might never have known what was going on otherwise, or taken a second look at why that structure came down. But ... I don’t understand why he didn’t come forward sooner, to report the violations and initiate a formal inspection.”
“Well ...” Simon began, but shrugged.
“He didn’t think anyone would believe him,” Jim stated abruptly, his voice louder and harsher than he’d intended, and far more bitter. He tightened his jaw and swiveled his chair to look out the window, lest his expression give away the pain and grief he was struggling so hard to suppress.
“Oh,” Hollins murmured. “Ah, well ... yes, I guess I can understand that given what happened a few weeks ... uh, yes, as I was saying,” he went on, now speaking hastily, as if anxious to escape the office, “he did a fine job. If he’s ever interested in a career in building inspection, tell him to give me a call.”
“I’ll give you the numbers where you can reach me and Jim, and our email coordinates before you go,” Joel said, following the man into the bullpen.
Also feeling the need to escape, Jim stood. “If there’s nothing else, Captain ...”
“Not so fast, Jim,” Simon broke in.
Jim looked up to meet his friend’s assessing gaze. “What?” he asked, doing his best to feign modest confusion about what could be concerning his boss.
“What’s going on?”
Frowning, Jim looked away.
“C’mon. Give me a little credit. You’re doing a pretty good job of ‘business as usual’ but you’re wound tighter than a drum. So you tell me, what’s going on?”
Jim hesitated a moment more as debated further avoidance versus just getting it over with. “He’s gone, Simon. Or he will be soon.”
“Gone? What do you mean, ‘he’s gone’?”
Giving Simon a stony look, Jim grated, “Don’t act so surprised, Captain. You’re the one who told him to go.”
Banks jerked back and his expression flattened for an instant before collapsing into regret. “So you did hear us talking yesterday.” Jim nodded stiffly and looked away. “Damn,” Simon sighed. “I didn’t want ... expect ... why the hell didn’t you talk him out of going?”
“Because you were right,” Jim snapped, feeling empty and tired. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and met Simon’s gaze. His brief flare of belligerence faded, and he knew none of this was Simon’s fault. “Brown called the loft the other night, to see if I was going to the game. Sandburg had just gotten home and he picked up the phone, so he knew who was calling. Didn’t take him long to figure out why — or to get on my case for not going.” Jim blew a long breath and his gaze dropped to the floor before rising again to meet the concern and sorrow in Simon’s eyes. “I blew it. I told him I didn’t need another lecture after the one you’d given me. And he figured out that things were ... not great here at work, and with typical Sandburgian logic, he decided it was all his fault that there’s tension on the team, and his responsibility to fix it.”
Silence fell between them for a long minute before Jim went on. “He left for my sake, so that his continued presence in my life wouldn’t be a source of friction. I didn’t try to stop him for his sake, because he deserves a better life than he had here.” His voice dangerously close to breaking, Jim cleared his throat and continued more briskly, “He promised he’d stay in touch. And he’ll be available if and when we need his testimony at a trial. But you and I both know that could be years down the road, if ever. One thing to know something shady was going on; another to prove who was behind it and why.”
“I’m sorry, Jim. Sorrier than I can say. You gonna be alright?”
Jim snorted and regarded his friend with bemusement. “I guess I’ll have to be.”
**
Blair didn’t know where he was going, and was in no particular hurry to get there. Before leaving the city, he stopped at Staples to purchase a car charger for his cell phone. That phone was his lifeline back to Jim, and the only way anyone could contact him about the case, so he was determined to ensure his battery never failed and that he’d keep his promise to stay in touch. He had money in his wallet and, for the first time in his adult memory, he didn’t have any debts, so there was nothing more to do except hit the road.
Flipping on the radio, he heard Gene Pitney singing, “Last exit to Brooklyn; last chance to turn around. Last exit to Brooklyn; gotta keep these wheels of mine covering ground.”
His mind only too easily substituted ‘Cascade’ for ‘Brooklyn’, and his throat thickened. Snapping off the radio, he followed the Mount Baker Highway out of town and into rural Washington. After twenty minutes, he decided to take a right onto State Highway 9, to drift south for a while, meandering through little villages, past farms and stands of timber. Though he was inclined to stay on the byways, he didn’t really relish the idea of following the narrow curving road up and over the Cascades, so an hour or so later when he came to the junction of I-90, he pulled onto it, heading east, and picking up speed.
He was surprised that his mind balked at thinking about Jim, about everything that had gone wrong, about Raoul and Paco, about ... well, about just about everything except the rain-slick road in front of him. He felt none of the sense of adventure or anticipation he’d experienced in years past when he was moving on to someplace new. Mostly, except for the physical ache of skin and muscles bruised, scraped, and strained the day before, he just felt numb.
Like getting shot, he thought. It doesn’t hurt at first, or not much. And then, WHAM! Mind-bending, excruciating, all-consuming pain — agony, really.
He wondered how far he’d get before the pain hit with a vengeance, and reflected that maybe he should be grateful for the numbness while it lasted.
**
When Jim got home that night, he expected it to be ... different. To feel or smell different. To look different. Empty. But the apartment wasn’t all that much different from the way he’d left it that morning, except the coffee pot had been rinsed out, and the bathroom didn’t have any of Blair’s gear in it. The place smelled like it always did, faintly astringent from being cleaned on a regular basis, with an overlay of softer fragrances: coffee, herbal shampoo, a still lingering trace of the scent of their love-making the night before. And he could still smell Blair’s weird teas, the scent so strong that he knew they were still there in the cupboard.
Prowling around, he saw that the note he’d left was gone, as was most of the clothing in Blair’s closet, as well as the laptop and Blair’s cell. A few photos were missing, notably the one of him and Sandburg fishing on the sun-kissed river, laughing ... happy. But so much of Blair’s stuff was still there, as if he’d only gone away for a journey but would be back.
Jim cleared his throat and sniffed. God ... he’d like to hope Blair would come back to him someday, but he couldn’t. Once Sandburg got settled into his new life, wherever that might be, got a job he loved and friends, his life here would be reduced to occasional memories and maybe the odd phone call to keep in touch.
Upstairs, Blair’s personal scent was still strong, and Jim inhaled deeply, holding his breath, holding it inside, savoring it while it lasted. Soon, too soon, that too would be gone.
There was no note anywhere in the loft, and Jim wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d thought he’d have a sense of closure when Blair left, and he truly didn’t believe the kid would ever be back unless he was needed in court. But ... but, what? But he didn’t know how do this, how to live, alone anymore? Didn’t know how he’d get through the empty hours without the sound of Blair’s voice, the warmth of his touch, and the stunning beauty of his smile?
Get over it, he told himself, stern and uncompromising.
Instead, he lay down on the bed and, trembling, buried his face in Blair’s pillow.
But he didn’t cry. He had learned a long, long time ago not to ever cry. Not that he thought men shouldn’t cry — that was his father’s view, not his. But he hated being vulnerable, showing vulnerability, feeling vulnerable, and nothing revealed more vulnerability than tears on a hard man’s face. Instead, he’d learned to react with anger, to fight back when he hurt.
Only, this time, anger wouldn’t help. He couldn’t fight this clawing anguish that was threatening to tear him apart.
Love was a bitch.
**
Blair had crossed the mountains and the dry high plain of Washington, stopping for the night in a rest area just across the Montana border.
That morning, he’d driven over rolling land, empty it seemed but for long waving grass and cattle. Needing more stimulation that the novelty of a wide, cloudless, blue sky, when he saw the sign for the turnoff toward Yellowstone, he left the interstate and headed south. He soon found himself surrounded by tall pines that only occasionally gave him a glimpse of distant majestic mountain peaks. With nothing better to do, he stopped at Old Faithful, and listened to a park ranger explain about the massive lake of magna under their feet, which could erupt at any time into a super volcano that would make the Mount Saint Helen’s eruption look like a water fountain beside Niagara Falls.
Not a happy image, and he thought it should have bothered him more, but he still wasn’t really registering, just going through the motions. Continuing south and east on a variety of state highways, he came into Cody, Wyoming and saw the billboard about the Buffalo Bill museum.
“What the hell; it’s not like I’m in a hurry to be somewhere,” he grunted. “Why not?” The place wasn’t all that big, and it didn’t take long to wander around. Still, by the time he finished admiring a fine collection of Remington bronzes, reflecting that based on her clothing, Calamity Jane must’ve been a tough woman ... a really tiny tough woman, and watching the short early film record of the Wild West Show, the day was drawing toward evening.
Blair squinted against the setting sun as he wondered whether to stop for the night or keep going. Unlocking his car, he slipped inside and checked the map. There didn’t look to be much between him and the Black Hills, and he didn’t feel like driving half the night. But he didn’t want to stop yet, either. After pulling out of the museum’s lot, he filled up his gas tank before leaving town, and headed east on Highway 16.
Two hours later, he was driving up the tight switchbacks of the Big Horn Mountains in the dark, very much wishing he’d stopped sooner. Around a curve, he spotted a sign for an upcoming viewpoint. Half a mile later, he parked in the empty lot. Not much to view in the dark, he thought sardonically. After eating the sandwich — only slightly stale — he’d bought at the gas station, and drinking half a bottle of water, he shook his sleeping bag open in the back seat and crawled into it.
Once his eyes adjusted to the utter darkness, he stared out the side window, up at the star-spangled sky. With the sun long down, it was cold — there was still snow in the hollows and gullies — but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was beginning to wonder if the numbness he felt was ever going to dissipate. Blair had suffered losses before and knew what grief felt like. This absence of feeling didn’t feel like that; didn’t feel like anything. His mind still flinched away from thinking about Jim, and everything behind him, the good and the bad. Nor could he seem to focus on the future. He felt as if he was trapped in an eternally empty now.
**
In the morning, Blair scarcely glanced at the view of the deep canyon and waterfall while he mechanically ate an apple and emptied the water bottle. After dumping his garbage in the lot’s waste container, he returned to the highway, and its challenging switchbacks. “God, who built this road?” he complained through gritted teeth as he slowed to a practical crawl for the umpteenth time. When he finally reached the high plateau, he heaved a sigh of relief that ended up short-lived when he had to tackle the equally scary twists on the way down the far side.
That’s one road I’ll never drive again, he promised himself as he turned left to follow signs for Devil’s Tower. A small voice in his head questioned whether he was deliberately trying to distract himself with every tourist trap on the way to wherever, but he silenced it. He didn’t want to think about motives.
Because that might lead his mind down the byways it was increasingly consciously avoiding.
The Tower was immediately recognizable from the class sci-fi movie, ‘Encounters of the Third Kind’. He stopped to read the information board, but a bizarrely dressed woman was standing directly in front of it, blocking his view. Either she was extremely short-sighted, or else she was just incredibly self-centered, totally oblivious to anyone else’s interest, and inconsiderate. He exchanged glances with a guy on a motorbike, who had also stopped to read the sign, and both of them rolled their eyes before deciding to move on without being enlightened. Clearly, it was an ancient volcanic site and Blair didn’t really care if he learned when it had last erupted or how the striations on its side were emblematic of its creation by molten lava.
All around the base of the Tower were casually dressed individuals and small groups who were evidently camped on the land. In front of their lawn chairs, cameras on tripods faced the Tower, and they all projected an earnest air of patiently waiting.
Blair’s eyes widened as he realized they were evidently waiting for the aliens to return.
Whistling the Twilight Zone theme to himself, he turned the car around to go back to the highway. “Crazy,” he observed with a slight shake of his head. Much as he embraced far-out notions, and didn’t at all discount the possibility of other life in a universe too vast to wrap his head around, he couldn’t see spending any significant time actually sitting around, waiting for the return of aliens created by special effects and Hollywood. “Definitely crazy.”
But that damned small voice piped up again, wanting to know whether it was any more sane to be driving to Anywhere, USA.
“Shut up,” he growled, not interested in pursuing a discussion with a stupid voice in his head. According to the map, he was pretty sure he’d have no trouble making it to Spearfish Canyon before dark.
**
That morning, Jim and Joel had listed and prioritized everything they currently knew they had to do to build the Hilltop Condo case; they’d add in other leads and possibilities that arose as they went along. There was a huge amount of work involved in simply determining the identities of those killed when the structure came down, as well as learning from the survivors whether there might be other, as yet not found, victims. Another mountain of work would revolve around who might have been involved in the construction fraud that had contributed to the collapse, which meant investigating the deceased site foreman and crew chiefs, as well as Joseph Conroy, his competitors, and even the suppliers to determine their involvement in the supply of faulty materials.
Jim was immensely grateful that Blair had left more than some personal effects at home. Sandburg had also left him a case that was going to occupy his every waking thought for months. Surely, all that work would enable him to master the anguish that ravaged him, exhaust him enough to sleep at night, and ... and give his life sufficient meaning to keep going.
**
Blair hadn’t counted on the narrow, winding cliff road, which didn’t, in his view, merit the designation of ‘highway’, leading into Spearfish Canyon. He studiously kept his eyes on the curving pavement ahead, so as not to be terrified by the sheer drop-off on his right to depths too far down to see more than the distant spires of very tall pines; half the time, there weren’t even little guard rails to give the illusion of safety on the edge of the narrow shoulders. The repeated signs informing motorists of runaway truck ramps ahead did nothing to reassure him. If a heavily loaded semi lost it on the steep curves, he didn’t want to be around to witness it.
But, when he got to the canyon floor and the wooded parkland on either side of the road, he decided the hair-raising journey to get there had been worth it. The aspen, shimmering in the golden light, against the pure brilliant greens and blues of the pines and spruce trees, were beautiful. Something inside eased a little as he admired the scenery. He felt the strangest sensation of having been there before. Of having been happy there.
Almost like coming home, the annoying voice whispered; which was ridiculous, because Blair knew he’d never been there before.
When he spotted a campground, he turned in and paid a site fee for the night. Following the map the park ranger had given him, he found that he’d been assigned a small clearing beside a rippling creek that glittered in the sunlight. Getting out of the car, he stretched and took a deep breath of clean air, and then stood with his eyes closed, listening to the soft, rustling sough of the wind through the trees. The tension in his neck and shoulders loosened as, again, that sense of having found safe refuge washed over him.
Snorting at his whimsy, he got his fishing gear out of his trunk, and set off to catch his dinner.
Later, after he’d grilled his catch over an open fire and eaten his fill, he took a deep breath and tried to call Jim. But, when he couldn’t get a signal, he was relieved because he didn’t have a clue about what he’d say. Blair still felt numb inside, unable to think ahead or reflect on the past; he was just living from moment to moment. At least here, surrounded by the big trees under a canopy of stars, he felt ... not peaceful, exactly, nor contented, but less disassociated from life.
He banked the fire and curled into his sleeping bag, where he lay staring at the night sky until sleep overcame him. That night, he dreamed of a sheriff that looked like Jim, and he thought he heard the haunting beat of war drums in the distance.
**
Jim and Joel were pouring themselves fresh mugs of coffee and taking a breather from the all-consuming case when Brown and Rafe sauntered into the breakroom, their unwelcome presence making the small room feel even more confining, even suffocating.
“Hey, Jimbo, you coming to the game tonight?” H asked, and though he wore a wide smile, Jim could detect an edge of hostility in his voice.
“Nope,” he replied without making eye contact as he shouldered his way past them toward the hall.
But Brown caught his arm, holding him back. “Aw, come on. Don’t you get tired of spending time with a guy who lied about you and used you for years just to get his jollies from hanging around with cops?”
“That’s enough,” Joel cut in, low and even. “Jim and I are buried by this case; neither of us’ll be playing cards for the foreseeable future.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” Brown protested and snorted in disparagement. “I can’t believe Simon has you guys wastin’ your time on what amounts to Sandburg’s word alone. There was an earthquake and a landslide and a building fell down. So what?”
Jim stared at the fist still gripping his arm, and then raised his gaze to glare at Brown. “You want to keep that hand, you’d better let go — now.”
Lifting his palms in a gesture for peace, snickering with amusement, H drawled, “Easy, babe. We’re on your side, remember?”
“I don’t need idiots like you on my side, thanks anyway,” he grated, flicking a cold look at Rafe before returning his attention to Brown. “And if I hear any more crap about Sandburg, and I’ll rip your tongues out.”
“Now you look here, Ellison,” Brown began, edgy cheerfulness turning surly, but Jim cut him off.
“No, you look — and you listen good. If you were half the detective you pretend to be, or even a quarter as good as Sandburg at this job, you’d’ve figured out things a long time ago. But you’ve both been too jealous of him, because he’s smarter than you and better than either of you in every way imaginable. I’m sick of your snide mutterings and gleeful snickering that he got what he deserved.”
“Hey, we’ve never said anything to you about it,” Rafe argued.
Giving him a narrow look, his lip curling with disgust, Jim retorted, “You need to think about just exactly how much I can hear ... and from how far away.”
“Jim,” Joel interjected with a cautionary tone.
“No,” he said flatly. “No, I’ve had it and I’m not putting up with the crap anymore. Blair deserves better than this.”
“So he’s still hangin’ around, huh? Leeching off you?” Brown taunted with a sneer. “Guess all the rumors are true.”
In a breathless moment of erupting rage, Jim had Brown against the wall, his forearm pressing into his colleague’s throat, and Brown’s eyes were wide with alarm. “He’s gone, you asshole. You and your damn poker game!” Still pinning Henri to the wall, he cut a look of loathing at Rafe. “And you, Mr. GQ, you think I don’t know you were jealous of him? You hated him because he was better than you, and you knew it and couldn’t stand it.” Leaning in close to Brown, he growled with anguished fury, “He’s gone because he thought staying would create problems for me with jerks like you. I wish to hell he was still here and you were long gone. Stay out of my way, Brown. Both of you just stay out of my way.”
Pulling back as suddenly as he’d attacked, Jim stormed from the room, but he couldn’t get far enough away fast enough not to hear Brown hacking hoarsely as he gasped for air. “The man’s looney tunes,” he rasped to Joel. “There was no call for that.”
“Jim’s right,” Joel snapped. “The two of you are damn fools who can’t pick up clues that are right in front of your face. I just hope you’re smart enough to take his warning to heart because if I hear either of you saying another disparaging word about Blair Sandburg, it won’t be just Jim on your case. If you don’t like it, I suggest the two of you put in for a transfer to another unit.”
With that, Joel followed his partner back to the bullpen.
Jim met Joel’s steady gaze and wearily shook his head. From the breakroom, he could still hear Brown complaining, “What got into the two of them?”
And Rafe muttered, “Who knows and who cares. The way they act, you’d think all that stuff about what was in Sandburg’s paper was true.”
There was a brief pause, and then Brown suggested in a hollow tone, “Geez ... what if it was?”
“Oh, get real. You don’t think he can hear —”
“Shhhhh!”
Jim smiled coldly at the brittle silence that followed.
“He’s gone?” Joel asked with evident concern as he sank heavily onto the chair behind his desk. “When? Where?”
Shrugging disconsolately, Jim shook his head and sighed. “A week ago. And I don’t know where.”
“Oh, man, I’m real sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Jim murmured, feeling as if he was drowning in the wave of loss that washed over him.
Blair had said he’d keep his cellphone charged, but he hadn’t called, and Jim hadn’t been able to bring himself to call Blair; hadn’t trusted himself not to beg Blair to return. Unable to talk about it, needing to distance the pain that flared with every thought of the man he loved with every fiber of his being, he turned to his computer to bury himself once again in work. That day, he was checking financial records of all the possible subjects to see if the numbers led anywhere.
Brown and Rafe entered the bullpen, their expressions belligerent, their stances wary. Jim met their glares with an expression of icy contempt but his tone was mild as he observed, “Well, at least you’re starting to ask the right questions, Brown. Might be hope for you yet.” He relished Brown’s flinch and Rafe’s stricken pallor before he turned his back on them.
**
Blair lingered in the Black Hills for days, going for long hikes along thickly forested slopes and fishing in one creek or another. He visited Mount Moriah just outside of Deadwood and the graves of Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane. Standing over her tombstone, he thought of the clothing he’d seen in the Cody Museum and the photos of her, both having revealed that she was tiny, a little spitfire, tough and yet with the heart of a woman who had loved Hickok so much she asked to be buried beside him. Man, he felt bad for her. Unrequited love hurt like hell. Sadness hung like a pall over the little graveyard and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been there before, though he knew he hadn’t.
Mostly, Blair avoided the towns that dotted the hills, villages that dated from the goldrush days and which now catered to tourists, not that there were many of those so early in the spring. On the few occasions when he stopped at a small grocery to pick up supplies for his campsite, he felt as though people were staring at him, some seeming startled when they first saw him. Though weeks had passed since his press conference, he supposed some might still remember his few minutes of infamy. Head down, avoiding eye contact, he’d pay for his purchases and return to the peace and silence of the countryside.
Blair wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t moved on and he had no clear idea of how long he’d remain in the area. The sense of refuge he’d felt when he’d first arrived had persisted. When he walked the hills, he felt as if peace emanated from the land itself, grounding him, holding him there. Perhaps he was healing, though he still felt apart from the world and himself, as if his psyche or soul was wrapped in muffling cotton. As well as that inexplicable sense of safety, he also felt a kind of anticipation flutter in his chest, as if he was waiting for something or expecting something to happen, though he had no idea what. He had the oddest sense when he was hiking the hills that he was looking for someone. That sense of looking and not finding only accentuated the loneliness he felt each night as he lay by his fire trying hard not to think of Jim.
The ache of being alone was always with him, more distant during the day, more persistent in the dark or at dawn, the ache of missing Jim, of needing his lover’s touch, of listening for a warm chuckle of laughter on the night wind. But he didn’t dare relieve the insipient arousal thoughts of Jim inspired because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from imagining Jim’s hands upon his body — and that muffling cotton that shrouded him, holding the full measure of anguish away, would be ripped and shredded and the torment that would erupt would be too much, too, too much to bear.
So he lingered in what he was coming to think of as a kind of twilight existence, too wounded to push forward, too fragile to confront a future that wouldn’t include Jim.
Until one morning, thirsty and tired after a long hike, he wandered into Keystone, a small goldrush village built along the floor of a ravine. Backpack over his shoulder, he ambled along the boardwalk, idly gazing into shop windows but he felt no temptation to enter. However, the gingham tablecloths and the enticing scent of fresh bread drew him into an ancient bake shop where he ordered a coffee and a cinnamon roll.
“See, I told you he wasn’t a ghost,” one kid said to another as they crowded into the doorway behind him. “Ghosts don’t need to eat.”
Blair glanced over his shoulder and saw two boys about nine or ten years old staring at him with wide eyes. When he quirked a brow in mute question, one of the lads boldly stepped forward. “Hey, mister,” he asked, “how come you look just like the Doc?”
Carrying his pastry and coffee to a table, Blair frowned in confusion. “Doc?”
“Yeah, he lived hereabouts more’n a hundred years ago, an’ you look just like him,” the other boy said as he too came further into the tiny restaurant.
Blair shrugged. “Just a coincidence, I guess,” he offered quietly, his attention more on fixing his coffee with cream and sugar than on the boys.
“Maybe you’re a relative?” the first lad suggested as he stepped closer. “‘Cause you sure do look like him. You could be twins. Some people really do think you’re his ghost.”
Reluctantly drawn into conversation by their avid curiosity, Blair took a small sip of coffee and then asked, “Doc who? What was his name?”
“Sandburg. Doc Blair Sandburg.”
Blair choked and coughed. “Wh-what?”
The boys laughed at his surprised confusion, not understanding, just amused by him for some reason he didn’t understand.
The young woman behind the counter had been listening to the discussion, and now she moved around the register to approach his table. Blair looked up at her, having already noted her glistening black hair and eyes and burnished complexion. He assumed she was of Sioux heritage, as that was the predominant community of indigenous people in the area.
Mutely, she looked at him, then jutted her jaw at the wall behind him. Confused, curious, he turned — and gaped at the framed oval sepia photograph he’d not noticed when he entered the shop. It was him. And Jim. Only ... it wasn’t. They looked liked they’d dressed up in old west period clothing — old, homespun cotton and leather — for one of those tourist photographs: Jim had a sheriff’s star on his vest and sixguns slung low on his hips, and both of them were wearing Stetsons. Icy fingers ran up Blair’s spine and he shivered in consternation.
“Sheriff Jim Ellison and Doc Blair Sandburg,” she said behind him. “There are local legends about them.”
Blair swiveled around to look at her but he didn’t know what to say. Part of him felt as if some elaborate and not very funny hoax was being played on him. But he was a stranger here; nobody here knew him. None of it made any sense.
“My grandfather always said you’d come back one day and that when you did, he would like to talk with you. He hopes you’ll be willing to visit with him,” she told him, her tone tentative, her gaze not quite meeting his.
Blair heard a rushing in his ears and felt suddenly queasy. Dizzy, he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. “This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?” he husked.
“No, no joke, unless you are playing a joke on us. You look exactly like a man who lived here more than a hundred and thirty years ago,” she replied as she reached out to lay a concerned hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright? You don’t look well.”
“I ... I’m fine. Just ... stunned, I guess.” Feeling chilled, wondering if he was hypoglycemic and just imagining everything that was happening, he gulped down some of his sweetened coffee. Warmth curled in his belly, but nothing around him changed. It wasn’t his imagination. This was real. Again he turned to stare at the old photograph. The same faces. The same names. This was a lot more than some weird coincidence or quirk of history. Goosebumps rippled on his arms. “Uh, yeah” he murmured hoarsely, afraid in an atavistic way that he’d tripped over something he suspected he was never meant to know, but badly needing answers nonetheless. “I’d like to meet your grandfather. Where can I find him?”
His thoughts were in such an uproar that he had difficulty concentrating on the directions she was giving him. His eyes kept straying back to the aged and fading picture. She seemed to realize he wasn’t really listening, so she drew a simple map on a napkin and tucked it into his hand.
“You can go to see him now,” she told him.
Dragging his gaze from the photographic portrait, he frowned at the soft paper crushed in his hand.
“The directions,” she said slowly. “To Grandfather’s cabin.”
“Oh ... oh, yeah, thanks,” Blair stammered, feeling dazed. He took a deep breath, hoping it would clear his mind, but he still felt muddled, overwhelmed by what couldn’t be real. “Um, your grandfather ... I should take him something.” He glanced at the glass shelves of pastry and then at her, feeling helpless and inarticulate.
She smiled as if she understood and moved back behind the counter. “He’s very partial to bear claws,” she told him, and slipped three into a bag.
Blair fumbled for his wallet and paid her. “Thank you, uh ... sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Matilde.”
“Thank you, Matilde,” he said breathlessly then, forgetting his own pastry and coffee, he lurched from the shop. Out on the boardwalk, he consulted the map she’d given him and realized the man lived along a path that began in the campground he’d booked into the evening before, just outside of town. He looked around to get his bearings, and set off in a loping run to find her grandfather’s house.
His heart was pounding hard and fast, and the breath was tight in his chest, so he’d barely crossed the campground to climb the narrow, winding path up the steep hill before he was panting, and sweat stood out on his brow. Gasping, he leaned against a tree and told himself to get a grip. His mind was whirling with fragments of thought, trying to process the meaning of that fading photograph but rioting emotions made it hard to think. Blair had never discounted the possibility of reincarnation; the idea of an immortal soul returning any number of times to live again and again, to learn and grow, to ... refine itself and be of some use to justify its own existence appealed to him, made sense to him. But, until now, he’d only considered the idea from an intellectual vantage point, never from any visceral sense that the theory could pertain to him personally.
“My God,” he breathed in awe and then with growing horror at the implications of how very wrong everything had gone in this lifetime, of just how badly he’d blown ... everything. He no longer felt numb, distanced from his emotion. Without warning, the new knowledge ripped away the suffocating but protective shock that had enveloped him for nearly two weeks, leaving him defenseless. Wild, desperate anguish rose to choke him and the blinding agony of a soul ruptured and torn asunder dropped him to his knees.
“NOOOOooooooo,” he screamed into the silence of the forest, his head thrown back to lift his face to the empty sky. “No, God, no,” he whispered in heartbroken protest, tears filling his eyes, the pain in his chest so great he wondered if he was dying — and he hoped that maybe he was because he didn’t think he could endure this, the enormity of it. Folding his arms across his chest, he doubled over his knees, curling into himself, making himself smaller, trying to hold in the agony, wishing he could disappear, cease to exist — anything to stop the crescendo of wild grief and guilt and rage and hideous despair.
“What have I done?” he moaned brokenly, rocking with the unconscious need to move, to run, to evade and avoid having to face the mess he’d made of his life — and, worse, infinitely worse, of Jim’s — but he was unable to stand, was scarcely able to breathe past the half-crazed sob filling his chest and rising up into his throat.
Gradually, as if from a great distance, he became aware that he was no longer alone. Someone was gripping his shoulder with firm support. He felt dirty, obscene, and couldn’t bear the idea of anyone being near him, let alone touching him. Instinctively, he tried to pull away. Instead, he felt himself being drawn with relentless gentleness into a solid embrace, strong arms wrapping around him, supporting him, his cheek pressed against soft flannel.
“Leave me,” he croaked, trembling with shame.
“No,” a low, resonant voice replied, firmly and with infinite kindness.
“I don’t deserve ... I failed, I failed him ... I can’t ... please, leave me.”
The stranger gripped his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. With an arm around his back to support him, he was drawn stumbling and blind along the steep dirt path. Blair didn’t have the strength or will to resist. Beyond caring what was happening around him or to him, his mind filled with all the memories of how badly he’d failed Jim, and how wretched was the wreck of his life. How had it all gone so wrong? But he knew; looking back, he could see how from the first moments that he’d been a fool, unconscionably selfish, self-centered. His thoughts conjured the image of Incacha and he felt sick with how badly he’d misunderstood, how completely he’d failed to fulfill his role, his mission. “I’m sorry,” he muttered over and over, shivering with misery. “So, so sorry.”
Time had no meaning; he had no idea of how far they walked or how high they climbed through the cool, shadowed forest. One moment he was walking and then hands were pressing him down upon a soft surface in a place that smelled of dusty dry herbs and pungent tang of woodsmoke. Warm, heavy blankets were drawn over him. A cool, firm palm rested on his brow. “Sleep, young one,” the stranger said.
He nearly laughed with bitterness as he twisted away and crooked an arm over his face. Sleep? How could he sleep? He didn’t deserve the respite, the refuge sleep offered. He ... he had to figure things out. He had to find a way to fix things, to make them right. He couldn’t live like this — didn’t deserve to live with everything so wrong, so twisted, so ...
He was lifted and the hot rim of a metal cup was pressed against his lips. Mechanically, he drank the potion, distantly knowing it was some kind of tea, the scent of it soothing, the taste slightly sweet. Then he was resettled under the blankets. Warmth curled within him, growing until it spread from his belly to his limbs, calming his trembling muscles.
“Sleep.”
The maelstrom of fractured thought and shattering emotion spiraled away into darkness.
**
Time passed. Locked within himself, his shattered soul mired in the fiery torment of missing half of itself, Blair was scarcely aware of the cycles of light and darkness that ruled the world beyond his being. Shudders rippled through clenched muscles that seized into waves of merciless cramps, and his broken heart thudded painfully as if lanced by shards of brittle glass. It hurt to breathe. “Jim,” he whispered to himself, a hoarse rasp of need and despair. He’d ruined everything. No matter that he’d tried to do his best, or thought he had, he’d screwed up massively, right from the beginning. He had nothing now to give, no way to make anything right. In a distant way, he thought he must be insane, irrevocably lost in the wilderness of a wasted life; he wished with hopeless despair that he’d stayed dead in the fountain, that this round was over so that maybe he could begin again and get it right next time.
He was ashamed that he was unable to break free of the wretched lethargy that engulfed him, most especially when the world fought to intrude with the scent of pungent herbs, and the taste of sweet tea on his tongue, when hands bathed him with consummate gentleness. Someone was giving him tender care that he in no way deserved and he should rise, walk away, remove the burden of himself. Only ... he had nowhere to go and no desire to be anywhere.
Except where he no longer had any right to be.
After a time, he heard distant whispers that he imagined were the fruitless attempts of what was left of his rational mind to impose order and discipline, to rouse him from the half-light of his netherworld of misery. He was not a child; he was a man, responsible for himself and he should ... should ... but his thoughts floundered, lost focus and rhythm. What was there to do? What was done could not be undone.
But the whispers grew more insistent, and he began to understand the voice was not his own. Despite himself, he found himself listening.
“There is much to do,” the voice insisted. “The pain is not an ending, but a beginning.”
Dully, he turned his face toward the voice, and squinted up at the stranger, seeing a weathered face as brown as aged leather, black hair streaked with gray, and deep-set dark eyes that held the wisdom of the ages.
“Who are you?” he rasped, his voice croaking with disuse.
“John WindTalker.”
Blair frowned with the effort of ordering his thoughts. His glance played around the room, and he saw he was in an old, one room log cabin. Light was streaming in the single dust-grimed window and through the open door. A pot steamed on the glowing coals in the fireplace, filling the air with the aromatic scent of herbs and simmering meat. There was an oil lamp on a wooden table and two wooden chairs, all scarred with age but scrubbed clean. Clothing hung on hooks next to the window, and plain metal shelves along one wall held crockery, bread, cans and jars. Looking again at John WindTalker, he asked, “Matilde’s grandfather?”
“Yes. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Why?”
“Because my great-grandfather told me you would come and that you would need help.”
His eyes stinging, Blair blinked and looked away. How could a man who must have died long before he’d been born possibly know that one day he’d be here? Bitterly, Blair reflected that if this was his destiny, then destiny sucked. He had to clear his throat before he answered, “Your great-grandfather was right, but I’m not sure anyone can help me.”
The old man chuckled, and the unexpected sound drew Blair’s gaze back to him. “The young,” he said, shaking his head with amusement as he turned to put a kettle on the fire, “feel the drama of life so keenly.” Looking back over his shoulder as he knelt to stir the coals into flame, he grinned. “Things are seldom as bad as they seem.”
“How can you be so sure?”
John didn’t answer. Instead, he set out plates, bread, cheese, and a bottle of pickles. Then he poured boiling water from the kettle into a chipped teapot. He placed two mugs on the table along with a handful of cutlery. Returning to Blair’s side, he held out a hand to help him up. “Come. You’ve rested and now it is time to eat. You’ll need strength for the work ahead of us, and it’s time to begin.”
Though he wasn’t hungry, Blair couldn’t bring himself to be so rude as to refuse to get up — especially as he had figured out that he was in John WindTalker’s bed and had been for who knew how long. Ashamed to have caused the man such trouble, feeling wobbly, he accepted the proffered hand and, when he was standing, he raked his hair back from his face. “Begin what?” Blair asked, his voice thin with the effort of focusing on the conversation. He didn’t care, not in the least, but civility to strangers, particularly when he was sleeping under their roof, was a habit ingrained from early childhood.
“The rest of your life.”
Blair’s disparaging response, half grunt of surprise, half snort of derision, was immediate and heartfelt. Bleakly, he gazed at the older man, wondering what to say, how to express how useless any such activity would be, but the mingled challenge and compassion he saw in the dark gaze defeated him. His gaze fell away and, sinking into the nearest chair at the table, he sat with his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. Blair knew he should be making more of an effort. WindTalker was showing him kindness and generosity in sharing his home, his food. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He kept thinking about that aging photograph and what it signified about how badly he’d screwed everything up in this life, how much he’d failed Jim and himself. The pain consumed him, so that he could scarcely breathe; he wished he could go to sleep and never wake up again.
John filled two clay bowls with fragrant soup from the pot on the fire, and carried them to the table. He placed one before Blair, then cut slices of bread, two for each of them. “You must eat,” he said, firm but not without kindness.
Blair shook his head, and made no move to pick up the spoon lying by the bowl.
John WindTalker sat on his own chair, then reached out to tilt Blair’s chin up, so their eyes met. “You are not a child and no longer a youth who has only to indulge himself. You are a man, with a man’s responsibilities. You made commitments you must honor, for others are depending upon you. Your pain is like a ravaging wolf, I understand that. But you must master that wolf, not defer to it, and you must not let it devour you.”
Blair drew a startled, shuddering breath. Wolf? Does he mean my spirit guide or was that just a metaphor for pain? Has my spirit animal turned against me? Oh, God, what next? Part of him wanted to rage that his life was none of the old man’s — or any wolf’s — business, but he lacked the energy to do more than wrench his face from the other’s man’s light grip. Briefly, he closed his eyes as he gathered what strength he had left. Then he picked up the spoon and, with stoic determination if not with appetite, he ate until the bowl was empty.
John pushed a mug of tea toward him. “Bring that,” he said as he moved to the doorway and, carrying his own mug of tea and a plate with bread, cheese and pickles, stepped outside. Over his shoulder, he added, “You need sunlight and fresh air. You’ve been in the dark too long.”
Blair huffed a weary, bitter laugh at the thought that simple sunlight would be able to pierce the darkness that consumed him, but he pushed himself to his feet. Reluctantly, he followed his host out of the cabin. Outside, WindTalker had settled in a rickety old wooden chair on the porch, beside a small wooden table that listed to one side. He put down the plate and waved Blair to the ancient chair on the other side of the table. Silently, Blair sat and sipped at his tea. His gaze wandered listlessly, taking in the tall pines that crowded close to the tiny clearing of beaten earth and what looked like a stone ring for campfires in front of the cabin. Through a break in the trees, he could see the roofs of Keystone, down in the valley. Above, the sky was so brilliantly blue it hurt to look at it. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back against the rough timber wall of the cabin and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. The air was redolent with the rich, clean scent of pine.
They sat in silence, listening to the wind whisper through the boughs, while WindTalker munched on bread and cheese, and drank his tea. Blair’s thoughts returned to the old photograph, the mystery of it; the impossible made manifest: he and Jim had lived before. Was that the only time? Or had they lived countless lives? Grief sliced into his chest at the immensity of his loss in no longer having Jim in his life. If they were meant to be together and now they weren’t, then why was he even still alive? Maybe ... maybe he should have stayed dead last year. Maybe coming back was where it all went off the rails. God, he really, really hoped Jim was coping better with the ending of their relationship than he was. He wouldn’t wish this pain and bleak despair on his worst enemy, let alone the one he loved best in the world.
Did that photograph mean he was wrong to have left? Should he have tried harder? But ... there was no place in Jim’s life for him now. Nor had Jim asked him to stay, which Blair thought was significant; in fact, he thought Jim was relieved by his decision to go. And why wouldn’t Jim be glad to see the last of him? His presence only created problems. Blair’s throat tightened convulsively. Unwilling to give way to useless, embarrassing emotion, he swallowed a gulp of tea to dislodge the lump of shame and remorse for all the mistakes he’d made.
After a time, WindTalker stood and went inside. He returned with two axes in his hands, and he gave one to Blair. Wordlessly, he gestured for Blair to follow him, and he led the way around the side of the cabin to a large stack of good-sized logs that needed to be cut into kindling and smaller pieces for the fire. Blair’s first swings were mechanical at best, action for the sake of action, chopping wood because it was there to be chopped. But after the first few swings, he could feel his anger surfacing, rage at all that had gone wrong and at the futility of his life, fury that no matter how hard he’d tried, it had never been enough. He swung harder and faster, his teeth gritted, his muscles taut. Ferocious emotion flowed from his hands into the handle of the ax as he lifted it and drove it down again and again; sweat soaked his brow and his shirt. Log after log splintered and broke under his onslaught of destructive fury.
Until, panting, feeling dazed, he blinked sweat from his eyes and saw the enormous stack of wood he’d hewn. Though the anger was still there, not so sharp but simmering, he no longer felt the all-consuming need to destroy. Stepping back, he looked around and found WindTalker sitting on a bench in the lengthening shadows under the trees, quietly smoking a pipe and watching him with a thoughtful expression on his weathered face. Squinting as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, Blair noticed the light was different — dusk was falling — and he realized he’d been chopping wood for hours.
WindTalker tapped his pipe against the bench, knocking out the ashes which he ground under his heel, and then he stood. Coming close, he stooped to gather an armful of wood. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “This will feed my fire for weeks to come.”
Blair was disconcerted by the gratitude and made no reply. Picking up his own armload of wood, he followed his host back into the cabin.
“There’s water in the basin on the table outside. While you wash, I’ll set out our meal,” WindTalker said after they’d stacked the kindling and small logs by the hearth.
Blair nodded in acknowledgement. While he scrubbed his hands and arms, and splashed water over his face, he was surprised to know that he felt hungry for the first time in days.
It was a simple meal of chicken roasted with sage and savory on a spit, boiled potatoes seasoned with salt, pepper and butter, and canned corn. By the time he’d eaten his fill, Blair was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. WindTalker motioned to the cot by the wall. “Go, sleep,” he said.
“No, I’ll help you clean up and I’ve put you out of your bed long enough,” Blair protested. Pointing at the stack of blankets in the corner, he said, “I’ll be fine on the floor.”
WindTalker grinned at him with evident approval. “Your bones are younger than mine, so I won’t protest that you are a guest. I will be glad to sleep in my bed tonight.”
Within half an hour, the old Indian had blown out the oil lamp on the table, and they had retired for the night. Curled in a nest of blankets between the table and the fireplace, his head supported by a feather pillow, too tired to think, Blair watched the dwindling flames until his eyelids grew too heavy and he let sleep claim him.
**
The next morning, after a breakfast of eggs and toast, they carried mugs of coffee out to the porch. The air, stirred by a balmy breeze, smelled fresh and clean, and Blair realized it must have rained sometime during the night, though he’d been so deeply asleep he’d heard nothing.
Again, they sat in silence, the tranquility somehow soothing to Blair’s raw emotions. John WindTalker seemed content to let him find his own way back to words. After a while, Blair got up to go to the well on the other side of the cabin, to draw water to make a new pot of coffee. When it was ready, he refilled their mugs and again sat in what he was coming to think of as his chair.
“That photograph in town, in Matilde’s café ... do you know their story?” he asked.
“I do,” John replied.
“Will you tell it to me?”
WindTalker cut him a sideways look and a slight smile played over his lips. “I will — if you will tell me a story in return. The story of how you came to be here now.”
Blair’s mouth tightened and he looked away. But it was a fair trade, after all, and he wanted to know about who they had been, what their lives had been like, so he nodded his agreement.
“Sheriff Jim Ellison had been a major in the army. My people knew him as Brave Star. He was a guardian, a sentinel. Doc Sandburg was known to us as Touch That Heals. He was a shaman and a guide to Ellison. Both of them had survived the Civil War, and they met in Kansas, in a small village called Bitterwood Creek about a year after that war ended. They came here to the Black Hills with their friends a few years later. One of those friends opened Maisie’s Bakeshop and Café, where Mattie works, and they lived down there, in Keystone. They were respected by my people, and they did much to heal the wounds between us and the whites, to bring peace to these hills.”
Cupping his mug in his hands, Blair leaned back in his chair. “Are ... are their graves near here?”
“No,” John said, his gaze lifting to the western horizon. “They stayed here about ten years, and then they headed further west, to the mountains and perhaps beyond. I do not know what happened to them — to you — after you left here.” He paused, and then asked, “Where is your sentinel now?”
Blair’s heart twisted at the ‘your sentinel’, and he sighed heavily. His reflexive denial of Jim’s special abilities seemed altogether pointless in the face of his companion’s certain knowledge, and so he admitted softly, “Jim’s in Cascade, on the northern coast of Washington, near the Canadian border.”
“Why are you not with him?”
Blair swallowed to moisten his bone dry mouth and bowed his head. Taking a breath, he said haltingly, “I failed him, and I failed myself. I have no place with him now. I have no place anywhere now.”
John shifted in his chair, not so much to turn more toward him with interest, but as if he was settling in and getting comfortable; his expression was patient as he waited for the story. Blair sipped the last of his coffee and then set the empty mug on the table between them. Clasping his hands together, his voice low, sometimes close to breaking, beginning with the day he met Jim Ellison, he told John WindTalker how he came to be in the Black Hills.
As he recounted the story, Blair did his best to give a balanced, unemotional recounting of the major events of his life over the past nearly four years though, even so, he didn’t admit they’d become lovers. He wasn’t yet ready to expose himself so completely. He’d never spoken before to anyone about Jim, not with such honesty, nor had he shared his own uncertainties and confusion about his role in Jim’s life. It was hard enough to be candid about Jim’s sentinel capabilities and his own role as a willing but unschooled and often uncertain guide.
In the telling, Blair saw certain patterns emerging for the first time, patterns he’d been dimly aware of but hadn’t given much credence, like the fact that he was the one who pushed their relationship, first finding Jim and doing his best to inveigle himself a place at Jim’s side at work, then in the man’s home, and finally in his bed. Jim, for his part, had accepted him because he needed help with his senses, and because under his flinty exterior, he was a generous and essentially kind man. But Jim ... Jim had only accepted him out of necessity. Jim had never said he loved Blair. And Jim, well, Jim was probably relieved he was gone.
The recounting of the story also helped Blair see himself more clearly and some of what he saw left him feeling a good deal of self-disgust. When he’d first met Jim, all he’d really been able to think about was ‘what’ Jim was and what finding a sentinel would do for him. Oh, sure, he’d been more than willing to help Jim get a grip on his senses, but a large measure of his motivation in doing so was to study the man and test his skills for research. He thought about Jim saying he felt like a lab rat up at Clayton Falls, and Blair cringed inside, knowing that was exactly what Jim had been to him in the beginning; a thing much more than a human being. Even at the end, Blair knew he’d been holding on because of how much he needed Jim, rather than standing back and taking a good look at whether or not he was a burden or danger by staying. God, he’d been callous and self-absorbed. No wonder Jim hadn’t ever gotten completely past being at least marginally wary and suspicious of him and his motives.
He stumbled and his voice caught when he talked about Alex, and dying — and being resurrected. And his voice broke when he recounted his horror when his paper had gotten out. He talked about the last weeks with a brittle tone, explaining about his construction job and the landslide. And finally, he shared his epiphany that Jim no longer had any need of him, and that his presence in Jim’s life was nothing more than inconvenience and potentially dangerous to the man. “I pushed him, every step of the way. I pushed him whether he wanted to go where I wanted or not. I was more concerned about me, about what I thought was right and necessary. And I hurt him,” he murmured with deep sorrow as he finished the telling. “God, I’ve hurt that man so much.”
“You have told me the events that happened, and that you believe you have hurt him. But why has leaving him hurt you so much?” John asked into the silence that had descended between them.
Blair swallowed against his desire to tell the man that it was none of his business. But there had been some purpose in him coming to this place, something he didn’t understand but, given the downward spiral of his life, he’d be a fool to turn away from whatever he was meant to do here. “Jim ... Jim had become my whole life. Everything revolved around him. I gave up who I am, my career, to protect him. I ... I don’t know who I am without him. I ... I feel as I’ve been ripped apart inside; as if half of me is missing and there’s this great gaping wound leaving me so raw and hollow it hurts to breathe.”
“You are who you’ve always been, and will always be,” John replied, his tone even. “What you’ve lost is a sense of purpose.”
Blair regarded the older man who was looking at the trees, the sky as if he was gazing at the canvas of eternity, and Blair wondered if it was as simple as that. He didn’t think so, but he lacked the will to argue. But when John turned to face him, there was compassion in his eyes as he continued, “You are a guide without a sentinel; you’ve left half your soul behind and that is what has left such a deep wound. But, from what you’ve told me, leaving was necessary. There was no balance between the two of you. Without balance, you would both be lost.”
Closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest to hold in the anguish that filled him, Blair bowed his head in unconscious submission. “I feel lost,” he admitted hoarsely. “I feel ... I feel like I don’t want to go on, that there’s no point to anything now.”
“Your duty is to find yourself,” WindTalker told him. “Perhaps, when you have, if it is right in this life that he should, your sentinel will come for you.”
Dully, Blair shook his head. “Oh, he’ll come alright,” he said quietly, “when it’s time for me to testify. But he’ll come as a detective because, as a sentinel, he has no more need of me.” He sighed and scrubbed his face; sat back and squared his shoulders. “And I guess that’s reason enough to go on, at least for now. I owe them all that, to be ready to testify when the case goes to court. After that ...” he shrugged and looked away, unwilling to voice the fact that he couldn’t imagine anything ‘after that’.
“Your duty remains,” WindTalker said sternly. “A guide is not simply an appendage of a sentinel, someone to be used. A guide has his own purpose and roles that flow from being a shaman both to the sentinel and to the tribe, the roles of counselor, healer, and often, teacher.”
“I’m no shaman,” Blair objected.
A wry smile quirked the corner of John’s mouth. “You don’t know what you are,” he scolded with gentle humor, “and that’s a big part of your problem.” Standing, the old Indian stretched. “I hear the creek calling to us,” he said, his smile widening as he reached just inside the door to snag two old fishing poles. “It’s time for us to catch our dinner.”
Emotionally exhausted, bemused by the abrupt change of subject and activity, Blair took the pole John handed him, and followed his host down a trail past the well and into the forest to the banks of a rushing creek. For about an hour, he let his mind drift with the water, aware of the sparkling glint of sunlight on the rippling surface but not consciously thinking about anything, just letting the tranquility soak into him and sooth him. Then, for the rest of that afternoon, while they continued to quietly fish the creek, he thought about duty and responsibility, about shamanism and who he’d been — in this life and in the one more than a hundred years before. He doubted the consuming pain or sense of immense loss would ever leave him, and he couldn’t imagine a future that held any real joy, but ... he couldn’t just quit. Couldn’t just curl up like a mortally wounded animal and die; at least, not yet.
For the first time since leaving Cascade, he wondered where the path he was treading might be leading.
For better or worse, there had to be a reason that he was still breathing, still taking up space on earth. There was so much he’d done wrong, so much he’d failed to do, and still so very much he had to learn. Blair glanced at John WindTalker and marveled again that the old man had been waiting for him to appear. So far, John had encouraged him to do all the talking but Blair suspected the older man would be very much worth listening to, and he suspected WindTalker had a great deal to teach him, if he was willing to learn.
**
Bone-tired, Jim trudged up the stairs and along the short corridor to his apartment. Leaning a shoulder against the wall, he yawned as he fumbled with his keys and unlocked the door to the dark loft. Since Blair had left, he only came home when he was just too tired to keep working and was in desperate need of sleep. Fortunately, the construction site case had so many possible leads to follow up, so much research that needed to be done, avoiding anything that resembled a personal life was easy. Sighing as he pushed the door open, he reflected that he was learning more about the construction business than he’d ever wanted to know.
In the darkness, the flashing red light signaling a message on the machine strobed the apartment like a beacon. Frowning, he dropped his keys in the basket on the table by the door and shrugged out of his jacket to hang it on a hook on the wall. For a moment, he just stared at the blinking light, wondering whether to he wanted to listen to the message or not. If it was work-related, he was too damned tired to care, but he couldn’t very well ignore it, either.
Briefly, he wondered if it might be from Blair but it had been more than two weeks since his partner had left, and he’d given up holding his breath and hoping that Blair would call anytime soon. Sandburg would know the case would take time to put together and that there was no hurry for him to be in touch. Though he ached to hear from his ex-lover, and badly needed to know that Blair was safe somewhere, Jim wasn’t surprised that Blair didn’t seem to be in any hurry to be in touch. In all honesty, he had to admit to himself that part of his hesitation in checking the machine was his fear that the call might be from Blair — he didn’t know how he was going to handle the sound of the man’s voice and was afraid that might be all it would take to strip him of the thin veneer of emotional control he was struggling to maintain.
With an impatient grimace at his dithering over something so straight-forward, he crossed the floor and hit the replay button.
“Hey, Jim ...”
The rich, warm tones of Blair’s voice washed over and through him, fueling the persistent ache deep in his chest. He gasped at the pain that erupted, searing with its intensity and, not sure he could stay on his feet, he stumbled to a chair and sank down upon it. “Ah, Chief,” he rasped as he crossed his arms and bowed forward, his eyes tightly closed.
“Guess you must’ve been wondering if I’d fallen off the edge of the world. Sorry for not calling sooner. I’m in the Black Hills in South Dakota, near a little town called Keystone. Pretty area. Good place to spend a little time and do some thinking about where I want to go next. And I’ve stumbled across an, uh, interesting historical artifact that I want to research; might lead to a new thesis topic. Not sure yet; too soon to tell, but worth exploring.”
The flow of words stopped and he could hear Blair breathing, hear his pounding heart, and knew that for all the breezy manner Sandburg was trying for, this call hadn’t been easy for him to make. Jim’s throat tightened with sorrow and regret, and he pressed his lips together to hold back a moan of longing.
“Maybe I should have called your cell, or tried to reach you at the office but ... God, I’m sorry, Jim, but I, I’m not sure I can handle talking to you yet. I ... I miss you, you know?” Blair’s voice sounded close to breaking and he cleared his throat before he went on, the tone once again an attempt at easy and casual, but Jim could hear the strain under the words. “Anyway, I wanted you to know I’m okay and ... and I hope you are, too, that everything’s fine at work and ... well, just that everything is fine. I’m keeping the phone charged so you can reach me if you need me for anything. I’ll let you know when I hit the road again, but it might be awhile.” There was another pause, and then, “I guess that’s it. Take care of yourself, man. I ... well, you know, just ... just be careful. ‘Bye, Jim.”
The machine clicked off. Stifling a groan, Jim shifted to lean his elbows on the table and press the heels of his fisted hands into his eyes. Shaking with his effort to contain his raging emotion, his jaw rigid, he wrestled with his need and despair. This was the way it had to be, the way it was. He had to learn to live without Blair; there was no choice.
But, God, he didn’t have to like it.
Heaving a deep breath, he fought to pull himself together. He couldn’t afford to lose it; his control, not just of his emotions but of his senses, was too tenuous. With a shiver of dread, he felt the numbness in his hands and, leaning back he opened his eyes to look around the apartment, to peer through the darkness and see it as he should be able to see it as clearly as if the lights were on. But he couldn’t penetrate the dark and his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton.
“Damn it,” he grated with frustration. He wanted to break something, and he slammed his fists against the table. But, trembling, he struggled to calm down. Losing control wouldn’t make anything better, and he’d learned enough over the years to know that he could bring his senses back under his mastery if he didn’t fight them — and didn’t fight himself. Didn’t get lost in self-loathing and fury.
Forcing himself to breathe deeply and slowly, he rubbed his numb hands together to get the circulation going and, gradually, the feeling came back. His sight and hearing would be fine. He just needed to lose himself in sleep. Needed to forget how bad it hurt, how much he wished he’d done things differently. How much he wished Blair was still there and would always be there. Sandburg was gone and that was just the way it was.
Pushing himself to his feet, he walked stiffly across the floor and slowly climbed the stairs to his bed. Without bothering to undress, he toed off his shoes, lay down and pulled up the blanket. Curling on his side on the edge of the bed, away from the space where Blair used to lie, he stared into the darkness and wished that, just once, just one fucking time, he’d told Blair he loved him. It was too late now. He’d lost the right.
Closing his eyes, he ruthlessly pushed his thoughts and his yearning for what would never be back into the box labeled ‘Regrets’ and buried the box deep within his mind. Refusing to think about anything at all, focusing only on slowing his breathing, desperate for the relief sleep would bring, he drew upon lessons he’d learned long ago to fall asleep anywhere, anytime.
The bittersweet truth was that the one place that Jim could count on Blair still being there for him was in his dreams.
And, in his dreams, he was man enough to confess the love he knew would never die.
In his dreams, he was happy, so happy that he’d had to start setting an alarm because, increasingly, he really, really didn’t want to wake up.
**
“I need to figure out who I am now,” Blair said the next morning. They’d just finished breakfast and had carried their second cups of coffee out onto the porch. “I have to find a purpose for my life.”
John set his cup on the old, weathered wooden table between them. Cocking a brow, a slight smile playing on the corners of his mouth, he asked with exaggerated solemnity, “Who do you think you are if you are not already yourself?”
Huffing a humorless bark of laughter, shaking his head, Blair retorted, “Give me a break, man. It’s not funny, at least not to me.” Tossing up his hands, he went on, “For years, I thought I was a researcher, a teacher, an observer of the human condition, a student of anthropology. And ... and, well, Jim’s partner. But I’m not any of those things anymore.”
John scratched his chin, and gazed off across the valley. “Did you enjoy what you were doing?”
“Yeah,” Blair breathed, sorrow clutching at his chest. “Yeah, I did.”
When John spoke, his voice was reflective and his gaze remained on the distant horizon. “We tell ourselves stories about who we are or are not, about what we can or cannot do, and we believe the stories we tell ourselves, as if they are the truth. But truth is not in the stories, and too often the stories are full of discouraging lies that convince us we’d be foolish to try. So we become afraid and we fail to achieve what we might have become because we never tried. Stories ... stories are created out of our past, out of what others have told us, and out of what we believe and remember, but they have no power over the future unless we give them power. The truth of who we are is in what we do or don’t do, in our actions and in our decisions not to act.”
Turning to Blair, giving him a considering look, he said sternly, “You have knowledge and ability that is there to be used, you have only to decide to use what you have. You have told me you are not a shaman but ... how do you know that’s true? Have you attempted to learn? What is a shaman in our world today? Do you still imagine a kind of medicine man who paints his face and body, chants to the spirits and dances around a fire?” He shook his head. “A shaman is someone who sees the spiritual in all things and knows our souls transcend this world we see around us. A shaman has lived — and died — and has wisdom to share with others. A shaman teaches the young about belief, tradition, ritual and life. A shaman heals troubled spirits and in the healing may also help make a body whole.”
Taking a deep breath, John settled back in his chair and his gaze roamed the forest, the sky. There was a hint of impatience in his tone as he continued, “I know you suffer, but the inescapable truth is that it is through suffering that we learn our most important lessons. It is suffering which has the power to move us and change us, to make us more than we might have been. You must choose whether you will remain stuck in your suffering, like a pig wallowing in the mud, or whether in this life you will be more than your suffering. Your spirit is strong, Blair Sandburg, and you have chosen to return to this world to be of help to others. To your soulmate and sentinel, of course, but also to those who are struggling and lost, who need support and guidance and whatever wisdom you have to share. You are more than your sentinel’s guide, and perhaps it is time that you fulfilled your larger role in this life.”
Blair considered John’s words. The old man hadn’t said anything he didn’t already know, and the blunt impatience aroused feelings of defensiveness and resentment — but he wondered if those feelings were just part of his ‘story’, part of his inclination to wallow in his misery because moving forward felt too hard, too exhausting. “You make it sound easy,” he complained.
“It is easy,” John countered, pinning him with a clear gaze that seemed to see all the way to his soul. “Have you lost all curiosity? Are you no longer interested in understanding the mysteries ... do they no longer intrigue you? Have you become so selfish that you have concerns now only for yourself? You say you’re a researcher — there is a library in town, there are people here who enjoy telling stories about ‘the old days’, so what is there to stop you from conducting research? You have been a teacher — there are schools seeking teachers all over this country — and in other countries around the world. You need to heal your spirit? You are surrounded by the strength, the peace of the forest and these ancient sacred hills —” John gestured at the world around them. “Where better to meditate, to seek the guidance of the old ones? You have only to begin, to take the first step, to act.”
Blair swallowed the excuses that rose to his lips, that he was tired, so tired, too tired to think. That no one would hire him now because of the lies he’d claimed to have told. John was right. He was behaving in an entirely selfish manner, so wrapped up in his grief and sorrow and, deeper, scarcely acknowledged, his anger, that he’d blocked off all possibility of anything different, of any other life than the one he’d known. But, God, he was sick of feeling like a piece of shit.
Inhaling deeply, Blair held his breath and let the clean, pine-scented air fill him, and then he exhaled slowly. Closing his eyes, he felt the warmth of the sun on his face and on his body. Listening, he heard wind rustling the trees, the cheerful warble of a bird, the chittering of a squirrel and the rattataptap of an industrious woodpecker. In the distance, he heard a dog barking and the high-pitched laughter of children. The world around him was blissfully indifferent to his pain and while that didn’t lessen the anguish he felt, it did force him to put it into perspective.
Was he still curious? Were there things he still wanted to know, or at least understand better — like the mystery of reincarnation, and the awesome wonder of having tripped over proof that he’d been this way before? Did he want to just give up and hide away, licking his wounds, or did he want his life to have meaning and purpose? A smile twitched on his lips at the sardonic thought that doing nothing got boring real fast. And he truly hated being bored. Slowly, he nodded to himself. John was right. He had only to choose and then act, taking one stumbling step at a time along the unknown path of his life’s journey.
When he opened his eyes, he found John watching him with something like approval in his eyes. “You are welcome to stay as long as you need to be here.”
“Thank you, I’d like to stay, at least for a while,” Blair replied, feeling both humbled and grateful for this stranger’s kindness and wisdom. He needed the purity of the forest to ground him, and John’s uncompromising insights to keep him honest, and he suspected that John knew and understood that, perhaps better than he did himself.
**
“Jim,” Simon called from the doorway of his office. “Got a minute?”
Jim knew the question was rhetorical when his boss turned away to return to his desk without waiting for an answer. With a sigh, he rolled his shoulders and got stiffly to his feet. Didn’t seem to matter how much sleep he got every night, with each day that passed he felt only more and more tired. When he entered the office, Simon handed him a cup of java and waved him to a seat.
“How’s the case going?” Simon asked as he lifted his own mug to his lips.
“We’re making progress,” he replied as he ordered the main points in his mind. “None of the project crew chiefs or the foreman had worked on any of Joseph Conroy’s previous projects and, from what we can find out, none had particularly good reputations for quality work — on the other hand, they all had some connection to the underworld, Vance Liberty in particular,” he went on, naming one of the crime lords they’d been trying to put away for a long time. Simon’s brow quirked with evident interest. “We’re nearly finished running the major suppliers — again, all new connections for Conroy Construction and all suspected of being companies backed by dirty money, but there’s never been solid enough evidence to close them down.”
“So Liberty has been putting the squeeze on Conroy, maybe to launder money or maybe to pay off bad debts?” Simon speculated.
Jim shrugged. Restless, impatient with their lack of solid progress, he got up to pace. “It’s beginning to look that way, but it’s all circumstantial and supposition. I’ve heard Conroy and his estranged wife like the ponies, but he’s never been in any trouble in the past. We’re looking into the financials to see if there’s any indication of major payoffs or pay-outs. It’s thin, though, mostly guesswork at this stage, and even if we find a paper trail, we both know juries need more than expert witnesses and accounting reports to hold their attention and convince them something rotten was going on. We’ll need concrete proof, witnesses, something a whole lot more than guesswork and suspicions before we can go after him. Conroy has a solid reputation throughout the state, socializes regularly with the Mayor, and the Governor stays at his place when she’s in town.” Forcing a thin smile, he added sardonically, “This is one of those cases when you usually order me to go easy because we wouldn’t want to offend one of Cascade’s leading citizens.”
Simon snorted and shook his head. “Like that’s ever stopped you in the past,” he groused, sounding more amused than aggrieved. “You think this is ever going to shape up into something we can take to the DA?”
“Yeah, I do,” Jim replied. “We’ve got lots of bits and pieces of the puzzle. It’s complicated, but the picture is being to take shape. Based on Blair’s testimony, we know the construction was faulty, that illegals were hired and that there was insufficient expertise on site to ensure a safe building was going up. Those are facts. And men died because of those facts. Sooner or later we’ll find the evidence we need to determine culpability. Whether or not that’s Conroy or someone below him in the chain of command remains to be seen.”
Simon nodded, but he seemed distracted, preoccupied by something else. His gaze fell away and he chewed on his lip as he carefully set his mug on the desk. Watching him, Jim felt an instinctive suspicion and defensiveness. “Tell me you didn’t call me in here to tell me the Mayor wants us to back off,” he growled.
Banks’ gaze jerked back to his and his boss shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that.” Frowning, his fingers beating a brief tattoo on the desk, he studied Jim. “I’m worried about you,” he blurted. “You look like shit.”
Startled by the unexpected turn in the conversation, Jim blinked and then let his gaze drift to the window. “I’m alright,” he asserted. “I can do my job.”
“I’m not suggesting you can’t, Jim,” Simon replied with asperity that he then seemed to regret. He hesitated, and then asked, “Why’d you let him go?”
Jim reflexively shifted, turning his face and body slightly away from Simon. His first and very strong inclination was to tell his boss to mind his own damned business, but Simon wasn’t asking as his boss; he was asking as a friend. Jim had to fight his desire to bolt from the office. Deliberately sitting down, he was conscious of gripping the arms of the chair tightly to hold himself in it.
“Come on, talk to me, Jim,” Simon coaxed. “I can see ....” He floundered, uncomfortable with probing what was private, and waved a hand in a helpless gesture. “You’re losing weight — hell, you look like you’re wasting away. Is it your senses?” When Jim still didn’t respond, Simon sighed heavily. “Jim, I have to know if your senses are acting up, you know that.”
Grudgingly, Jim admitted, “I’ve had a few problems but nothing major, and I can handle it. If there was reason to worry, I’d tell you. I owe you that.”
Only marginally relieved, Simon eyed him with concern. “You know,” he said reflectively, “I never really thought Sandburg would leave, not after everything that’s happened and particularly not given how he feels about you. And I guess I never thought you’d take it this hard. I know ... I know he became your best friend. But I always figured that after you got enough control to not need him around all the time that you’d be relieved, I guess, to have him out of the line of fire. Maybe even relieved to get your own space back.”
Desperate to keep his emotions under control, Jim bleached all feeling and expression from his face. “With all respect, sir, I don’t think this is any of your business.”
“Not as your boss, no. But as your friend? Jim, you’re hurting, I can see that all too clearly. Joel can see it. We’re worried about you. Maybe I was wrong to tell Blair it was time for him to move on. Maybe I should be tracking him down and bringing him back.”
“NO!” Jim exclaimed. Startled by his own vehemence, he flushed in embarrassment. “No,” he repeated, careful to modulate his tone. “He had to go. Being here ... it was killing him, Simon.” When Simon looked at him askance, he struggled to explain, “Oh, I don’t mean he complained — he didn’t. But ...” He looked away, seeking the words to express how necessary he’d felt it was for Blair to leave. “Remember what he was like in the beginning? Always brimming with ideas, full of enthusiasm and energy? Endlessly optimistic?”
“Sure I do,” Simon replied with a soft smile. He snorted to himself and muttered, “All that crap about the thin blue line.”
“Yeah,” Jim nodded fondly. But his throat tightened as more recent memories intruded, and he had to clear it before he continued. “In the last year, he lost all that. It wasn’t just about giving up his career and his reputation as a man of integrity to protect me. He ... he was losing himself.”
“Dying probably didn’t help, either,” Simon muttered.
Jim flinched and his gut burned with the nausea that always flared whenever he thought of that horrible morning at the fountain, and all that had gone before and after. His jaw clenched, and he had to forcibly wrench his mind away from the memories and back to the discussion at hand. Lifting his gaze to Simon’s, hoping his friend could understand, he stated, “He had to go, to find himself. To have a life. To ... to get back some of that enthusiasm and optimism. To know who he is inside. To be more than just a ... an adjunct to me. He’s better than that. He deserves more than that.”
“So you let him go for his own good,” Simon ruminated. “Even though it’s damned near killing you.”
Jim huffed at the unduly dramatic statement and grimaced. “I’m not dying, Simon. I just ... nothing’s the same without him. I ... the loft feels empty and I don’t enjoy being there. But I’m sure things’ll ... get better ... given time.”
Far from looking convinced, Simon shook his head. “I don’t disagree with anything you’ve said. I really don’t. I haven’t been happy with the sacrifices he made; it didn’t seem, I don’t know, fair? And I’ve never pretended to really understand this sentinel business or his role in your life — I just know that he was essential, that he could help you more and better than anyone else ever could. I don’t know where the sentinel thing ends and the friendship starts ....”
“Neither do I,” Jim admitted, uncomfortable with how close Simon was coming to his own doubts and worries about the relationship he and Blair had shared.
Simon flashed him a sharp, questioning look but Jim wasn’t inclined to explain anything more about his feelings or his erstwhile relationship with Blair.
“As I was saying,” Simon resumed, “I don’t know where the boundary lines are for you guys, or if there are boundaries or if there need to be or if it’s all the same thing, but if he’s missing you as much as you’re missing him, then I’d be worried about him, too.”
“He called. He says he’s okay.”
“Where is he? What’s he doing with himself?”
“He’s in the Black Hills. He says ... he says he’s thinking about where to go next.”
“Uh huh,” Simon grunted.
Jim sighed and, feeling every one of his forty years, pushed himself to his feet. “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I’ll be okay and I can do my job. Even if I was willing to risk myself, I won’t put Joel in jeopardy. As for Blair ... he has to do this; he has to find his own way. We can’t do it for him and he wouldn’t want us to.”
“Alright, Jim,” Simon returned, not sounding entirely convinced but willing to play along. “Keep me posted, okay? I care about that kid. Not to mention that he’s the key witness in the case you’re building and we’re gonna need to bring him back to testify, so we need to know where he is and where he goes next.”
Not trusting himself to speak, Jim gave him a thin smile of reassurance and nodded before turning away to let himself out of the office. On his way back to his desk, he fought to get his emotions in order. Talking about Blair, thinking about him, brought back all the hurt, the grief and guilt, the sorrow and regret, and the ache of need, as fresh and raw as the day Blair left. And he had such mixed feelings about knowing Blair would be coming back to testify, if and when they built the case. On the one hand, knowing he’d see Blair again created an upsurge of excitement and anticipation, even of joy ... and on the other hand, he felt such dread, such deep and abiding fear that he’d never be able to let the man go again, regardless of what was right for Blair. God, he missed him. Missed him with every breath he took.
“You okay?” Joel asked, eying him with concern.
“Yeah,” he rasped as he dropped into the chair behind his desk and reached for the latest pile of financial statements. “I just want to get this case nailed.”
**
Two Months Later
Blair ambled across the clearing to lean against the rough bark of a tall pine. Crossing his arms, he gazed across the valley to the thickly forested hills, but he barely registered the thin wisps of mist that still lingered in the cool dawn air and curled amongst the distant trees. Nor did he notice the light wind that riffled his wild mane of curls. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, his thoughts roamed back over the past weeks and he chewed absently on his lip as he reflected on what he’d learned, what he now knew about the past and what he’d decided for the immediate and foreseeable future.
His first month at John’s cabin had been devoted to putting himself back together as he tried to make sense both of his life now and what he’d learned about having lived before. He’d spent a lot of his time meditating, something he’d not done anywhere near enough of in the past year. At first, he’d had to work hard at finding his center and some degree of tranquility. The ever-present pain and his growing awareness of the anger that lurked under his other emotions had to be worked through, had to be accepted as opposed to resisted. Blair had come to realize that he was deeply angry with Jim and had been for months, reaching all the way back to Alex Barnes and all that had happened then. Gradually, he’d come to understand that his stupidity in putting Jim’s name in his paper had been an unconscious attempt to address that anger, to regain some of the wonder and awe he’d felt when he’d first met ‘his sentinel’. Only, that had all exploded and even more anger had resulted at the way Jim had treated him during that crisis. Given all the mistakes he’d made, all the ways he’d screwed up, Blair hadn’t felt his anger was legitimate, so he’d buried it. But he’d come to understand that emotions weren’t ‘legitimate’ or ‘illegitimate’; they just were.
He was also angry about the fact that after all they’d been through and all he felt he’d done and given Jim, Jim still couldn’t say, ‘I love you’. For a long time, Blair knew he’d wondered if it meant that Jim didn’t love him, or that he wasn’t worthy of Jim’s love, or if it was just that Jim wasn’t capable of love because he’d been hurt too badly by too many people who’d mattered deeply to the man. Or maybe Jim just couldn’t say the words, didn’t trust love to last ... and maybe Jim was right about that. As much as Blair loved him, that love hadn’t been enough to keep them together. Finally, he’d had to give up obsessing about what Jim felt or didn’t feel. Instead, he had to ask himself if he loved Jim as much as he thought he did, because if he did, then ... well, what Jim felt, or what he said or didn’t say about what he felt didn’t really matter, didn’t change how Blair felt about him. Jim had his own demons, and God knew, the man had reason to be wary, to resist trusting anyone completely, even to expect betrayal. Blair’s anger gradually faded but the love he felt remained, a flame that burned pure and true deep within.
When he wasn’t meditating during those first few weeks, he’d been down in the town, in the library, spending hours on the internet searching the past for references to Blair Sandburg and Jim Ellison. What he’d found had left him quaking inside. He found references in George Washington’s papers about his two trusted scouts, Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. He couldn’t find much about himself beyond tantalizing suggestions of having lived with the Cherokee and a sad note about an early, accidental death. But he’d found more about Jim because he’d been born into a rich and important colonial family ... and he was sorry to see that Jim had also died young, only a few years later when the war had essentially been won. There were some newspaper accounts about them in the last century, about Jim’s role as a Major in the Cavalry who blew the whistle on the massacre at Poplar Flats, and about his own role as a physician in the hellhole of the rebel prison at Masonville. They’d apparently come to these hills from a place called Bitterwood Creek in Kansas. Blair had checked a map but could find no reference to such a town now.
From what he could ascertain, they’d both still been relatively young when they’d left these hills to head further west, and he could find no other references to them in that life. He’d also come across references to them in World War I, and again in the ‘dirty thirties’ in New York City, where Jim had been a cop. Blair was saddened to note how often they must have both died prematurely and never of old age. One never seemed to live very long without the other, and that worried him, made him wonder what it meant for them to be separated now if they were really supposed to be together.
Blair thought a lot about what it meant that they’d lived a number of previous lives; it seemed pretty clear to him that they were destined to be together. Though he’d long believed in the possibility, maybe even the probability of reincarnation from the perspective of the soul being immortal, he’d been deeply shaken to find so much proof of it happening to him, to them — and not just once, but again and again. So he’d meditated on that, reaching out spiritually and asking for understanding.
Nothing had come to him during his meditation, but he’d had begun to have dreams of a black panther and a wolf, both regarding him steadily, confusion and worry in their eyes. They seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something of him or from him, but Blair didn’t know what — and he had nothing to give them. He’d awaken from those dreams feeling bereft and lost ... and guilty. Were they just dreams or were they visions of their spirit guides? He didn’t know, had no way of finding out, but he couldn’t shake that sense that they were waiting for him to do something ... to fix what was broken. But he didn’t know how. Worse, he didn’t think that whatever was broken could be fixed, and that left him feeling devastated. As for the previous lives he was now convinced he had shared with Jim, the meditation had given him no great insight, but he felt that their repeated incarnations must be by choice, that Jim probably came back to help his tribe ... and he came back to help Jim.
Once, Incacha had appeared in his dreams, the shaman stern and yet compassionate. Blair frowned and rubbed his temple as he tried again to dredge up a complete memory of that dream, but all he could remember were fragments. Incacha grasping his shoulders and gazing deep into his eyes. Incacha saying he could not go back, only forward, and something ... something about the future not yet being written, that when he found himself and was true to himself then the way would become clear.
Blair snorted softly and shook his head. Honestly, it was only so much mumbo-jumbo and as likely to be messages from his own subconscious as from the dead shaman. Nevertheless, he accepted the advice that he couldn’t go back, only forward. So he stopped delving into the past, and tried hard not to beat himself up about having screwed up so badly this time around that he and Jim were no longer together and probably wouldn’t ever be together again — at least not in this life. Lifting his gaze to the sky, he fervently hoped that he’d get another chance to get it right in some future incarnation.
For the past month, he’d concentrated on figuring out where he was going from here. While he didn’t fully accept John WindTalker’s belief that he was a shaman, he accepted that his strengths and skills were in teaching and counseling, in guiding the young and in trying to assist others to understand and accept belief systems and cultures different from their own. He gained considerable satisfaction from such work; not as much as he did from working with Jim, but if he couldn’t go back, he had to go forward. That took him back to the library in town, this time researching job possibilitie, and he’d found a teaching position in a small private prep school/junior college in Putnam, a small town in Connecticut. Before applying, he steeled himself to call Eli Stoddard, to ask if his former mentor would give him a reference ... and was deeply touched to learn that Eli still believed in him. Finding that out eased a sorrow he’d borne since the press conference; healed some of the hurt of having so badly let down people who had believed in him. Eli didn’t say much about those end days, just enough to let Blair know that he believed there was much more to the story than Blair had shared, and that he hoped that one day, when the issue of confidentiality was not so critical, Blair would feel free to tell him what it had really been about. Blair then called Jack Kelso, and was touched to learn that that man also still believed in him and would willingly provide him with references.
Massively relieved, Blair had submitted a formal application for the job. His Masters degree met the basic academic requirements and his experience as a teaching fellow had appealed to the school’s administrator. Though Blair didn’t know what their letters had said, the references Eli Stoddard and Jack Kelso had given him were apparently more than enough to offset any misgivings the administrator had about the fiasco at Rainier and, for that, Blair was immensely grateful. He was scheduled to start the summer semester in three weeks’ time.
Once he’d worked all that out, he’d been left with the question of what to do about whether or not to continue to pursue a PhD. On the one hand, he told himself it was just a piece of sheepskin, that he didn’t need it to live a full life. On the other hand, there was a need deep inside to complete what he’d worked so very many years to achieve, if only to gain his own sense of closure and validation. He’d done all the course work and only needed to write a dissertation ... providing he could get another school to accept the work he’d done so far, and accept him into their doctoral program. He’d thought about what he might write about., He couldn’t write about having found a sentinel, but maybe he could write about the incidence of heightened senses in society and what that meant both for the individuals and for society at large if such talent was more actively assessed and engaged. The idea was appealing, because Blair was convinced there might be any number of people suffering in institutions because they didn’t understand that they weren’t hearing imaginary voices, or seeing things that didn’t exist. But he finally decided the danger of resurrecting recent history was too great. Perhaps he might write such a paper in the future, but it was too soon to do so now.
He considered writing something about the law enforcement subculture, but that also came too close to the raw hurt he still felt, so he also set that idea aside as well, shelving it to become another paper for another time. One evening, in conversation with John, he found his answer. John had been ruminating about how the old ways were written off as so much folklore or primitive superstition, when in his view the mysteries, the roles of shaman, the realities of the spiritual world had as much relevance to the modern world as they had ever had when times were simpler. John mourned the fact that people were getting lost in the bombardment of media and the wealth of the material world that surrounded them; their spirits were starving for lack of nourishment. Blair decided then and there that he’d write his paper about the relevance of shamanism to modern civilization and, specifically, the applicability of the belief in reincarnation to understanding the spiritual journey of modern man. The ideas appealed to him because it would allow him to continue researching a subject that was of personal interest and which might, in time, impact upon how he lived his own life.
Blair worked up a thesis proposal and referenced his experience with the mystical during a case in Cascade as well as his findings from several of past field work in several countries — and he included a copy of the photo of the Blair Sandburg of the preceding century, as well as a short bio of the man’s life, with a photo of himself, posing the question of whether it was coincidental or indicative of previous lives. He submitted the documents with references and a cover letter of application to a number of schools. Most hadn’t responded but, just the day before, he’d received a letter from the Dean of Anthropology at Yale to discuss his proposed doctoral dissertation. Again, he was pretty sure a reference from Eli had gotten him in the door, at least for an interview. The wording of the letter was guarded and he’d have to meet a demanding schedule for producing acceptable work, but he was sure he could deliver if he could just get acceptance into the university.
In two months, from this secluded cabin in the sacred Black Hills, he’d covered a lot of ground. The deep hurt was still there and he imagined it always would be, but he could live with it and he could go on. Blair hadn’t forgiven himself for having messed up his life so completely, for having had to leave Jim, but he couldn’t undo what had been done; couldn’t go back so he had to go forward. He wasn’t sure he’d find any great joy in his future, but at least he’d be doing worthy work and making a contribution. For now, that was enough.
Whether he’d ever find his way back to Jim ...? Blair looked up at the sky. This time, he figured it wasn’t about him finding a way back to Jim. When he considered their shared past, he could see he’d always been the one to push, whether Jim was ready or interested or not. If they ever got together again, Jim would have to be the one to make the choice, would have to come and find him. Only then would he know it was right for him to go back. Whether that would ever happen he had no way of knowing. Still ... he could hope, and that hope had to be enough to sustain him.
When he smelled coffee from the cabin, he pushed away from the tree and turned away from the view. John came outside, carrying two mugs, and settled on his chair on the porch. Blair joined him and gratefully sipped at the rich, invigorating brew.
“So, today, you will leave this place,” John said.
Blair nodded slowly. “You’ve been a great gift in my life,” he murmured, hoarse with emotion. “I was lost when I came here. You helped me find a way forward.”
John smiled as he settled back in his chair. “My family owed you a debt. I’m glad to have had a chance to repay it.”
“I don’t remember any debt,” Blair replied, though he knew John was talking about a time when Doc Sandburg had saved his great-great-grandfather’s life. “That was ... someone else in another time.”
“My family remembers — and that, my friend, was you, in another time,” John returned with unassailable certainty. “Time is a wheel that brings us together again and again — because you were there then, I was able to be born to be here now. But the past is behind us, and we don’t know what the future will hold. I’ve been glad of the opportunity to know you, Blair Sandburg. I wish you well on the road ahead.”
Blair smiled at the old man, and wished he had the words to express how grateful he was for John’s calm wisdom, gentle patience and good-humored generosity. “I’ll miss you, John. And I plan to stay in touch — I’ll send letters to your granddaughter’s place. I expect there will be times when I’ll need your guidance again.”
“I’ll be here, young one, if you have need of me. I’ll be here.”
**
Jim rubbed dry, scratchy eyes made weary by hours of studying accounting statements and rows of numbers. Sitting back, rolling his shoulders and massaging the back of his stiff neck, he grimaced with frustration as he lifted his gaze to meet Joel’s, across the table in the small meeting room. The forensic accountant from the Fraud Squad caught their mute exchange and sighed.
“I’m sorry,” Stan Akins said, “but after weeks of chasing the money, this is all we’ve come up with.” Gesturing at the documents scattered on the table, he went on, “The large deposits in the accounts of the foreman and crew chiefs are clearly suspect, but the trail leads back to dummy corporations that only exist on paper and have never been officially registered. Looks like payoffs and probably are, but there’s no definite proof. The spouses all sniffle with grief and mumble about how their dear departed hubby liked to gamble and got lucky or had a friend pay off a personal loan or ... well, you get the picture. And Conroy’s records? Those new off-shore personal and corporate accounts in the Caymens that were opened nine months ago raise flags but ... how much is in them and where the money came from is unknown. Every which way we looked, we came up against roadblocks or dead ends.”
Jim shook his head as he began gathering the reports and putting them back into the file folder. “Lots of smoke,” he muttered. “Gotta be a fire someplace.”
Joel rubbed his chin and frowned. “Where’s he getting the money for the last three projects he started since Hillcrest collapsed? The insurance hasn’t paid off, pending our investigation ... and his company cashflow is tight. An’ his personal finances are a disaster; his ex-wife got just about everything.”
Akins gave them both meaningful looks. “Apparently, he’s lined up some silent partners who are funneling money into his company. We haven’t been able to get a lead on who they are.”
“Bingo,” Jim grunted. “A classic money-laundering tactic.”
The accountant shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. On the surface, there’s nothing to tie him to Liberty.” Standing, he waved at the papers and files littering the table. “Those are your copies. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”
“We appreciate your help,” Joel said, his cheerfulness sounding forced, as he watched Akins leave before turning back to Jim. “Now what?” he asked, heavy with discouragement. “We’ve covered every base I can think of, but we don’t have enough to take to the DA. The most likely suspects died in the landslide.”
Jim averted his face while he thought about what they knew, what they suspected, and the meaning of culpability. They knew Conroy knew Liberty — they’d seen the two men talking, if briefly, at the funerals of the management crew that had been killed at the Hillcrest site. There were enough links to Liberty to suggest the underworld kingpin was heavily involved in Conroy Construction, and enough questions about fluid finances to support their suspicions about the flow of money. Aside from all that, men had died when that construction site had collapsed and, as the developer, Conroy was ultimately responsible for the willfully and criminally negligent and fraudulent work practices that Blair had observed. Unwilling to toss in the towel, Jim stood and resolutely gathered up the files. “We need to have another chat with Joe Conroy.”
“We’ve got nothing on him that would hold up in court,” Joel cautioned.
“Not yet,” Jim agreed with a feral grin. “But we both know he’s in it up to his neck. We just have to shake him loose, make him nervous — give him something to think about; maybe a few choices and a chance to do his civic duty by confessing.”
Joel snorted and then chuckled as he stood to follow Jim from the boardroom. “We going to brief Simon first?” he asked with a hint of dubious concern. “He might not be too keen on us hassling the Mayor’s good friend.”
“Ah, now, you know what they say — better to beg forgiveness,” Jim chided with a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder that had Joel booming with laughter.
**
The first time they’d interviewed Joe Conroy after the collapse of the partially built residential tower, he’d been ready for them. Suavely decked out in a tailored suit that would have cost both their salaries for a month, Conroy had been suitably dismayed about the tragic deaths and vowed his support in their investigation — though he affected surprise that there was an investigation given the earthquake and landslide had been acts of God and, sorry, he didn’t have the day laborer employment files in the corporate office. Sadly, they’d been kept on site and had disappeared under tons of mud and broken trees when the site management office in the work trailer had been flattened. Jim had detected a fast heartbeat, the throb of blood through the vessels in Conroy’s temple that suggested heightened blood pressure, and the unconscious inability of the man to meet their eyes, which all suggested the developer was lying through his teeth. But he couldn’t be sure; the same signals could simply mean that Conroy really was upset by the deaths and the multimillion dollar loss.
When they brushed past his secretary and summarily entered his office this time around, Conroy looked more like the self-made man he was, big and burly in rolled-up shirtsleeves, open collar and jeans, his complexion ruddy and toughened by years of working outdoors, and his still thick but graying hair mussed from having unconsciously run his fingers through it. He and another man were leaning over blueprints that were spread out on one end of the massive oak conference table that filled nearly a third of his office. In another corner, there was a comfortable setting of burgundy leather furniture and a wet bar. His desk dominated the end of the office opposite the entry and, a few steps away, was a display case with architectural models of many of his most well-known buildings. The walls in the office were glass, giving a panoramic view of the sound and the Olympic Mountains, and the carpet was as thick as the well-tended grass around the holes on the best golf course in the city.
Annoyance flashed across his features when he looked up and saw them come through the door, but he’d mastered his expression by the time he’d straightened and turned fully toward them. “Detectives,” he acknowledged, waving his secretary off their tails, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“There are a few matters we need to discuss with you,” Jim replied, his gaze wandering over the opulent office before settling on Conroy. After barely flicking a look at the other man, he added, “Privately. Unless you’d like to call your lawyer and ask him to join us.”
Conroy blinked and his expression flattened, but he didn’t otherwise react overtly to the implied threat of pending arrest. When Jim heard the spike in the man’s heartrate, though, and smelled a burst of sweat, he couldn’t resist a small, smug smile that he knew very well was guaranteed to annoy Conroy. After a moment, the developer turned to the other man. “Steve, maybe we can pick this up later this afternoon.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Steve agreed, his manner nervous, and he seemed almost indecently eager to make his escape. Jim’s gaze followed the man from the office, and he wondered if this was someone else they should be looking at, at least to find out who he was and what work he did for Conroy.
Once the door had closed behind Steve, Joe Conroy demanded, his tone cold, “Why do you suggest I call my lawyer? Are you intending to charge me with something?”
“Why? Are you expecting to be charged?” Jim countered as he idly glanced at the blueprints before moving to the sofa to sit down. Joel remained standing by the door.
Conroy looked from Jim to Joel and back again. “I’m a busy man, Detective. What’s this about?”
“This may take a few minutes, so why don’t you get comfortable,” Jim suggested with a wave at one of the chairs.
The builder rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he went to his desk and buzzed his secretary. “Linda, would you bring in a pot of coffee and three cups. Thanks.” And then he ambled across the carpet to sit down, his posture open and relaxed. Looking at Joel, he said with no little sarcasm, “I don’t plan to make a run for it, Captain Taggart, so you don’t need to guard the door. Why don’t you join us?”
Linda came through the door, carrying a tray with the coffee pot, sugar, cream and porcelain mugs. Joel took it from her and carried it to the low oak coffee table between Jim and Conroy. While he made himself at home filling the mugs and passing them around, Jim leaned back and studied the developer. Once they all had coffee and Joel had settled in another of the chairs, he shifted forward, deliberately assuming an aggressive stance.
“We know you’re hoping we’re going to write off everything that happened as the result of actions taken by the project foreman and the crew chiefs on the Hillcrest site because they’re conveniently dead and can’t defend themselves. But that’s not going to happen. We’re going to lay those deaths squarely at your door, and you’re going to go to prison.”
Conroy glanced away and shook his head. “No one feels worse than I do about what happened,” he said, evidently opting for sincerity, “but I fail to see how I can be held responsible for an earthquake followed by a landslide.”
“We have eye-witness testimony and supporting evidence that demonstrates beyond question that the construction failed to meet standards; that makes you criminally negligent.”
The builder’s gaze came back to Jim, weighing him and his words. “What eye witness? What evidence?” he demanded, sounding interested more than worried.
“You a smart man, Mister Conroy, and you knew what was going down on that site, so I’m sure you can figure out the evidence,” Jim replied. He took a sip of coffee and then set the mug down. Clasping his hands together, projecting earnest concern, he said, “But you see, we think you may have been acting under duress. Up until now, you’ve worked hard to establish a very solid and well-earned reputation for quality workmanship, and you’re well respected as an ethical and honorable man both in Cascade and across the state. Before we take any formal steps, we wanted to give you a chance to tell us what’s really going on.”
“Duress?” Conroy echoed.
“Yeah, we think Vance Liberty is exerting pressure on you because of your gambling debts and that he’s coerced you into schemes to launder his ill-gotten gains.”
The builder snorted. “That’s pure speculation and you know it,” he drawled, but he got to his feet as if too restless to remain seated and moved to stand with his back to them while he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out the window. “I’ve spent two decades building my reputation in this town. If you impugn that reputation, or in any way suggest that I have links to organized crime, I’ll sue you, the Police Department and the City for far more than the taxpayers can afford.”
Though Conroy was doing a good job of acting righteously offended, Jim could hear the man’s heart racing, and the tainted smell of fear grew in the room. “We are going to pursue this,” he promised, though he kept his tone low and unthreatening. “You will face arrest and a trial. How do you think Liberty will react to that? How do you think he’ll like it when we subpoena your financial records to find out who your silent partners are? You think he’ll trust you to keep your mouth shut? Not likely ... the man doesn’t like loose ends. Cooperate, work with us, help us to bring him down, and we can talk to the prosecutor about a deal.”
“You’re way off base, Detective,” Conroy rasped, but he didn’t turn around and his posture tightened as if he was willfully holding himself still.
Jim’s gaze narrowed as he studied the man. “What’s he threatening you with?” he asked conversationally. “I can’t imagine you risking everything because of a few bad gambling debts. You’ve got more integrity than that.”
“We’re done talking,” Conroy grated. “Get out.”
Jim inhaled and exhaled noisily, mutely expressing regret at the bullheaded lack of cooperation, and nearly choked on the stink of fear in the room. He and Joel stood and moved toward the door but, before they left, Jim warned, “This isn’t over, and it’s going to get worse for you. You can’t trust Liberty — he’s a barracuda. Think about our offer. Help us bring him down and all your troubles could be over. Don’t help us, and they’re just beginning.”
Conroy took a shuddering breath, but he didn’t speak and didn’t turn around.
**
“What do you think Liberty is holding over him?” Joel asked as he climbed into the truck.
“I don’t know,” Jim replied as he clamped his seatbelt and cranked the ignition. “But it’s something big. That man was doing his best to hide it, but he’s terrified.” He pulled out of the visitor parking slot and wheeled down the drive to the street. Waiting for a break in traffic, he added, “I think we need to put him under surveillance. I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s going down here.”
“We don’t have enough to get a Judge to approve that,” Joel retorted, though his mouth twisted unhappily at the limitations of the system they worked within. “Poor bastard. If Liberty’s got him in a vise, he’ll just keep squeezing tighter and tighter.”
“I was thinking a little informal surveillance, just to get a feel for what’s really going on,” Jim explained, and waved at his ear and his eyes.
“Uh huh,” Joel grunted. “Okay, but we have got to tell Simon what we’re up to.”
“Yeah,” Jim agreed. “I know.” But he swung over to the side of the road and parked. “As soon as we get back to the office,” he said. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head and tried to filter out the rush of traffic and the muddle of scores of voices as he focused his hearing on the office ten stories above them.
Joel clicked his tongue in disapproval, but gripped his arm to ground him.
High above the street, Jim heard the fear-roughened voice but couldn’t make out who was on the other end of the phone conversation. “They were just here, and they made it pretty plain they’re not writing anything off as Act of God ... yeah, I know they don’t have anything but ... no, you listen. I’m calling you to tell you I’ll take the fall if that’s what it takes. Just, just please ... don’t hurt my kids. God, don’t hurt them.”
Jim sagged back against his seat. “Ah, shit,” he sighed and met Joel’s gaze. “Liberty is threatening to kill his kids.”
Joel’s lips thinned into a tight line. “We’ve got to bring Simon up to speed,” he said flatly. “And then we gotta work out how we’re going to protect these people.”
Jim checked the street before pulling into the flow of traffic. “Hard to protect someone who won’t admit there’s a problem.”
**
“Well, hell,” Simon sighed. “Why can’t it ever be simple?”
Ignoring the question, knowing his boss didn’t expect an answer, Jim said, “Joel and I talked it over on our way back here. We think we need to bring in the DA, and we need to push the case forward even though the evidence of willful malfeasance on Conroy’s part is slim to non-existent. When we bring Conroy in for formal questioning, we tell him we know what the threat is and offer him and his family protective custody.”
“And if he refuses?” Simon probed. “What then?”
“We go to his ex-wife and offer it to her and the kids, and we go ahead with the charges against Conroy. If we keep the heat on him, but he can see that his family is safe, then maybe we can get him to cooperate,” Joel answered.
Simon mulled it over, then shook his head. “Not good enough. Liberty would just take him out rather than give him a chance to turn state’s witness. When we pull him in, we need to also pick up the family, and we’ll need to keep them all in protective custody whether they want it or not. For that, we’ll need a court order.” Reaching for the phone, he punched in the number for the DA’s office. Looking up at Jim, he added, “You’re going to have to be clear about how you know this, or they’ll never go for it.”
“Yeah,” he sighed as he raked his palm over his head, “I know.”
**
“You mean to tell me that Sandburg’s paper about you was true?” Beverly Sanchez exclaimed, her dark eyes flashing with anger. “And you never told me?!”
Jim looked away and gave an abrupt nod. “Yep,” he admitted.
“Who else knows about this?” she demanded, her irate gaze swinging between the three men, and settling on Simon.
“I’ve known pretty much from the beginning, when Jim’s senses came online during the Switchman case four years ago, and he brought Sandburg in to help him. After the media circus over the leaked paper, we also informed the Chief and the Commissioner. And some of the members of my team know, like Joel, because now that Sandburg’s gone, Joel provides Jim’s backup and needs to know how to help him,” Simon replied, keeping it brisk. “If you’re worried about his cases, we’ve been careful every step of the way to ensure due process, especially after the Juno case when Jim realized his sensory abilities weren’t admissible in court.”
“Maybe they could have been, if Detective Ellison had ever deigned to share them with us,” she snarled, but lifted a hand to hold off any comeback. “We can pursue all that later. You are all going to come with me to Judge Henderson’s chambers to demonstrate these abilities and convince him that we’ve got enough to take a questionable case to court in order to maybe hook Vance Liberty. You do know this could all blow up in our faces? All Conroy has to do is keep his mouth shut and let his lawyer make mincemeat of us during the trial. And given the Court’s trial schedule, it could be months, maybe a year, before we can even get to trial. That’s a long time to keep someone, a whole family, under wraps.”
“We know all that,” Simon rumbled. “But this is the best shot we’ve had at nailing Liberty in years and I think it’s worth a try.”
Beverly stood and, moving out from behind her desk, gave him a sharp nod. “So do I. Let’s see if the Judge agrees.” But as she moved past them toward the door to lead the way down the hall, she pointed at Jim. “We’re not done about the senses, Detective. I want chapter and verse.”
Jim grimaced but merely nodded in acquiescence.
**
Three hours later, Joe Conroy was ensconced in one of MCU’s interview rooms, and he was not happy about it.
“When my lawyer gets here, I’m going to sue your asses off!” he shouted, his arms waving as he paced the floor. “You’ve got nothing on me and you damned well know it!”
“We know Vance Liberty is threatening the lives of your children,” Jim replied calmly.
Conroy froze and his face lost all color. “I’m not admitting to anything,” he rasped.
“We have your family in protective custody,” Jim assured him. “Liberty won’t be able to get to them.”
The builder snorted and raked his fingers through his hair. “You have no idea ...” he muttered, and then slumped into the chair on the other side of the table. “I have nothing to say.”
“We’ll also be keeping you in protective custody until the case comes to trial,” Jim informed him.
“What? Are you out of your mind? I’ll go bankrupt by then!” Conroy exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You can’t do this. You don’t have the right to keep me incarcerated —”
“Liberty will kill you rather than risk you turning state’s witness against him,” Jim cut in. “We can’t take that chance with your life.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you started this farce,” Conroy snarled.
There was a sharp rap on the door and his lawyer, Kenneth Bradley came into the room. Once the lawyer was clear on the charges and the issue of protective custody, he asked to meet alone with his client. Jim nodded and left them to it. A half hour later, Bradley called him back into the room.
“I want full disclosure of the evidence you have against my client,” Bradley stated.
“We’ll provide you with copies of the witness’s statement, the forensic findings reported by the Chief Building Inspector and our accountants, the daily worksheets posted by the Employment Center detailing the names of the men referred to work on the site ...”
The lawyer scrawled a few notes on a legal pad and looked up. “Who’s the witness?”
“We’re not prepared to release the witness’s name at this time,” Jim replied. “His safety depends upon confidentiality.”
The lawyer quirked a brow. “That’s not satisfactory. My client has a right to know —”
“We’ll provide the information in due course, just not now,” Jim interjected, his tone flat and uncompromising.
“You’re risking a mistrial.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You allege a conversation between my client and Vance Liberty,” the lawyer went on. “I want to see the documentation supporting the —”
“That will also be provided at a later time.”
Bradley sat back and frowned. “This is all highly irregular, Detective. I’ll be moving to have bail stipulated. My client is a longtime resident of Cascade and he enjoys a sterling reputation in the community. He’s not a flight risk and there is no justification for keeping him in custody.”
“I can’t stop you from fighting it, Counselor, but you wouldn’t be acting in your client’s best interest. You know as well as I do that the risk to his life is significant if he refuses protective custody.” Jim hesitated and then continued, “Look, we think your client is a victim here, but unless he cooperates, we have no choice but to pursue criminal charges of negligence, fraud, and second degree murder.”
The lawyer looked away and tapped his pen on the pad of paper. Reluctantly, he nodded. “I’ll discuss the matter further with my client.”
“Ken, I can’t afford —”
“We’ll discuss it further, Joe,” Bradley over-rode him sharply. “Your business won’t do you much good if you’re dead ... and if any of what the Detective is alleging is true, then the risk to your life is very real.” Turning to Jim, he said, “I’d like another few minutes with my client before you proceed with the formalities.”
“You got it,” Jim agreed as he again rose to leave the room.
Two hours later, the formal interrogation — such as it was, given that the builder refused to answer any questions or admit to anything — was finished, the charges laid, and Joseph Conroy was remanded into custody. Given the potential risk, he was transported to a nearby jurisdiction — as had been arranged by Sanchez — to be held by there, in isolation, under another name. Nobody wanted to take any chances that Liberty would pull out all the stops to find him and his family before the case came to trial in twelve months’ time.
**
Jim was tired by the time he got home that night, but not for physical reasons. With the mechanical habit of routine, he took off his shoulder harness, put his weapon on the counter and pulled a beer out of the fridge. Moving out onto the balcony, he stared up at the sky. Beverly wanted to see him the next day, to get the lowdown on his senses, and he had no illusions it would stop there. She was going to want to have them documented, so she could assess the risks and benefits of using them to make cases. Leaning against the brick wall, he reflected on how many people now knew — or were making good guesses — about his abilities. Rubbing his aching forehead, he wondered why he and Sandburg had tried so hard and sacrificed so much to keep it all under wraps.
“Guess I’m gonna have to get used to feeling like a freak,” he muttered before taking a long, deep sip of beer. Feeling defeated, his shoulders sagged and he sighed. God, what he wouldn’t give to have Blair there with him, to stand by him as the process of disclosure unfolded.
Blair. Jim frowned as his worries about the case surfaced. Maybe they were crazy to have pursued what was admittedly a pitifully weak case against Conroy in an effort to lever him into testifying against Liberty. The whole case rested on Sandburg’s testimony ... which made Jim feel queasy. Conroy’s lawyer would make mincemeat of Blair on the stand, calling his integrity into question in an effort to get his testimony either dismissed or discounted by the jury. Sandburg didn’t deserve the grief of that. Probing a molar with his tongue, Jim wondered if, by then, the knowledge about his senses would be so widespread that there’d be no point in maintaining a public silence. What would that mean for Blair? Oh, sure, his name and reputation would be cleared and he’d be able to publish but ... but it would also mean the man had gone through one hell of a lot of suffering and lost better than a year of his life for nothing.
“Damn it,” Jim cursed softly, feeling overwhelmed by it all and helpless in the face of events moving beyond his control.
But that wasn’t all that concerned him about Blair having to come back to testify. As the sole and critical witness, Liberty would most likely try to have him killed. Without Blair, there was no case. With no case, they had no leverage over Conroy.
“I won’t let him hurt you,” he whispered to the night. “You’ve been hurt enough because of me, because of my job.”
Jim felt the burn of futile desire curl within him. God, he missed the kid more than he’d thought it possible to miss anyone. He felt like half of himself had been brutally amputated. Even after months, he still found himself talking to Blair, looking for him, expecting him at any moment, thinking of things he wanted to tell the kid — only to realize once again that he wasn’t there. He ached to have Blair in his arms, and sometimes he could almost feel as if he was holding him, like the phantom pain that amputees described. It was scary and devastating, and he didn’t know what to do about it.
Jim had told Simon months before that losing Blair wouldn’t kill him; nor would it, not physically. He was managing his senses, doing his job, going through the motions of living. But inside? Inside he felt increasingly dead to everything except the pain of missing Blair, of needing him and wanting him desperately. Sometimes, he felt as if he could hardly breathe, as if the weight of the loss was crushing him. How the hell was he going to handle having Blair close again? How would ever be able to pretend that living without the kid was okay?
“Damn it,” he cursed again and, pressing his eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the burn. “I didn’t want to love you,” he rasped, struggling to regain control. “Not like this. Not this much. I didn’t want to need you more than I need air.”
He took a shuddering breath and looked to the east, toward the dark silhouette of the mountains and all that lay beyond. “I hope to God you’re not missing me like this.” He smiled crookedly with wan, bitter humor. “‘Cause I gotta tell ya, Chief, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
**
Knowing he’d be passing New Haven on his way to Putnam, Blair had made an appointment with the Dean of Anthropology to discuss the details of his PhD candidacy and to find out who his advisor would be, so that he could get to work on his dissertation. He also needed to stop into the student loan office to submit his application for the funds to cover his tuition. Yale was a terrific school and it blew his mind to have been accepted there, but it sure wasn’t cheap. If Eli hadn’t pushed him so assiduously to apply there, he’d never even have considered it.
When he found the right building, he parked and simply sat for a few minutes admiring the beautiful and stately grounds. With wry self-deprecation, he wondered how a Jewish bastard like him dared storm the walls of such a bastion of wealth and privilege. This was the sort of place where young men made the contacts that would later evolve into their old boys’ networks. But he knew his irreverent thoughts stemmed from being very nearly overwhelmed to find himself here. There was such solidity, such a sense of history permeating the air. Ancient trees shadowed the paths between the ivy-covered buildings and the few students around between terms wore their confidence as easily as their quality clothing. Oh, sure, it was just another university — and he’d spent half his life in a similar institution. But while Rainier was a good school and had its own beauty, it didn’t have the same history and nothing like the reputation. Being awarded his doctorate here would open more doors in academia than he could scarcely begin to imagine.
Glancing at his watch, he realized he needed to hurry if he was going to be on time for his appointment with the Dean of Anthropology, Ernest Mgambo, a colleague and old friend of Eli Stoddard. Blair knew a little of the man’s history, that he’d been born in Kenya and, a Rhodes Scholar, had obtained his first doctorate at Oxford. He’d seen the academic at conferences, a tall, elegant and seemingly austere man whose rare smile lit his face with bright humor, and had heard him speak, his accent almost British, but softer, with rounder tones, and slower, like a southern drawl. Mgambo was brilliant, and he stood with Eli at the pinnacle of their world. Being accorded ten minutes of the man’s time was a privilege, especially given the very public manner in which Blair had left the field not so many months before.
Less than five minutes later, he’d introduced himself to the Dean and, feeling self-conscious under the man’s sharp scrutiny, had nervously taken a seat in front of the distinguished and highly renowned scholar’s desk. “I appreciate you seeing me, sir — and I’m tremendously grateful that you’ve agreed to consider accepting me into your program.”
Dr. Mgambo quirked a brow, and continued to regard him with an expression that seemed both sardonic and wary. “Let me assure you, young man, you’re only here because Eli Stoddard and Jack Kelso both told me they’d stake their personal reputations on your integrity,” he stated with blunt candor, the tones of the colonial Africa of his childhood rich in his voice. “They’re convinced you would never have submitted a fraudulent document, regardless of what you said in that press conference.” But a slight smile softened his austere expression as he added, “Eli also told me you’re the most brilliant student he’s had the privilege to teach. He was quite insistent that I owed it to our profession to give you a place here — indeed, he made it plain that I couldn’t afford not to, as you would bring great distinction upon our school.”
Astonished, Blair gaped at him and then hurriedly closed his mouth. “I’m ... I’m overwhelmed,” he stammered.
“Hmm, as well you might be,” the Dean returned dryly. “They’ve given you a lot to live up to.” He reached for a file and, opening it, he drew out Blair’s application. Glancing through the resume, he mused, “However, I have to admit that it’s rare to see transcripts that report uniformly perfect scores, and you are inordinately well published for someone who has not yet obtained his doctorate. I’ve read a number of your articles and found them to be cogent.” Turning to the document Blair had written as a preliminary outline of his proposed dissertation, he frowned. “Your proposed subject of study is far too broad, as I’m sure you know. You’ll have to tighten it considerably before your formal proposal can be approved by your thesis committee.”
“Yes, I know,” Blair hastened to agree, hearing the implied acceptance and scarcely daring to believe his good luck. “I’ve thought about it a lot as I drove across the country and I’m prepared to discuss a more focused approach with whomever you assign as my advisor.”
“I’ll be your advisor,” Mgambo informed him. Drumming his long, lean fingers on the desk, the Dean said, “I have to admit to considerable curiosity about you ... and admittedly, accepting your candidacy has a considerable element of risk given your self-immolation several months ago. Your credibility rests solely upon the assurances Eli and Jack gave me. Much as I value those assurances, you can understand that I will want to make my own judgment about your worthiness to receive your doctorate from this institution.”
Swallowing hard, astounded to hear that the Dean was taking him on personally, and well aware of how incredibly lucky he was to get the chance to work so closely with such a respected scholar, Blair nodded. “Of course. It’s an honor to have the opportunity of working with you.”
“Mmm,” the older man murmured, as if weighing Blair’s words to judge their sincerity. “Yes, well then, tell me how you intend to approach this work and how long you think it will take you to complete it.”
Blair took a deep breath and blew it out while attempting to order thoughts that were currently all over the place, scattered to the winds by his astonishment at such unstinting praise from Eli and Jack, and the totally unexpected news that Mgambo would be supervising him personally. “Okay, well, at first I thought I might focus on the reincarnation aspect but the theory that souls return in groups is evidently true, and that complicates things for me. One of the things that convinced me of my own past incarnations was that there was more than coincidence between my name and appearance. But more than that, I found references to my current friends, also by name — which astounds me, to be frank — and, where there were photos, their appearance was the same as now. I don’t think my friends are ready to consider they’ve lived previous lives and I know they wouldn’t want the attendant publicity.”
Mgambo’s mouth thinned, and he said with some asperity, “Now that you’ve wasted my time and yours telling me what you’re not going to do, perhaps you could answer my question about how you intend to proceed.”
“Ah, right, sorry,” Blair apologized while he swiftly sorted through a thousand different ideas about the paper and how he might approach it, quickly ordering his thoughts with the hope of being at least halfway coherent. “My thesis is that shamanism is about a search for wisdom and the sharing of that wisdom, about understanding human beings and our relationship to one another and our world, about healing — of the spirit as much or more than of the body, and about a seeking of harmony in our relationships. I contend that in our modern culture, our worship of youth, change for its own sake, and the acquisition of personal wealth — which has led to a modern reverence for greed — we’ve lost our balance and our sense of self as well as of community.”
Blair leaned forward, his hands unconsciously dancing in the air, and confidence filled his voice as he continued with more enthusiasm than he’d felt in a long time, “I want to illustrate my thesis through a focus on the entrenched poverty, violence and hopelessness of inner cities (which often have racial overtones and cultural displacement) and contrast that cultural malaise with the cultures of the Hopi and Navaho in New Mexico, to illustrate that a people who retain pride in their heritage are healthier both as individuals and in communities. I’ll also draw on examples from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, which is considered the largest ‘urban reserve’ in North America, and show how integrated and cooperative efforts amongst community elders and both voluntary sector and governmental service providers has helped the people there regain a sense of their heritage as well as hope for their future. I’ll be using health statistics that clearly demonstrate that people who have pride in their culture, in their heritage, are far healthier physically, as well as less likely to engage in violence or go to prison.”
Taking a breath, he wondered if he was giving too much detail, so he hastened to wrap up his thoughts as quickly and succinctly as he could. “By illuminating and contrasting the elements of these communities, I hope to show that where shamanism plays an active and overt role, for example shaman as teachers, counselors, spiritual healers, and even as disciplinarians in the context of fundamental cultural tenets and principles, the communities are stronger, healthier and more productive. I then want to extrapolate those findings to our culture at large: our growing fixation on violence, on material things, our greed, and so on, matched against the decline of any spiritual or overt cultural interveners in our society, to make a case that our whole society is on the road to the inner city level of violence, pervasive poverty and hopelessness. But I will contend that we could reverse this negative trend toward social despair if we more actively involved shamans and listened to their counsel — in other words, the wisdom these spiritual leaders have to share isn’t only relevant to tribal, pre-modern communities.” Leaning back in his chair, he held his breath as he waited for Dr. Mgambo’s reaction.
The Dean had tented his thin, elegant fingers in front of his chest as he listened. “This study is substantially different from the area to which you’ve directed your research and energy over the past several years. How long do you intend to take to research and write this new dissertation?”
“Three to five months,” Blair replied, and hurriedly explained, “I’ve been studying anthropology for fifteen years and I’ve been on at least a dozen field studies, including with the Hopi and with other cultures which still revere shamanism. Over the past four years, I’ve worked extensively in the inner city communities of a major urban center. I’ve found that where these micro-communities retain a sense of their heritage, tradition and ritual, they are much stronger and healthier. I have most of the data and observations I need for this dissertation already recorded, in large measure because I’ve long been fascinated by shamanistic traditions and, for personal reasons, I’ve done a considerable amount of research into shamanism this past year.”
Mgambo studied him for a long moment, and then nodded. “Well, your summary is more coherent than the notes you sent, but it still needs considerable refinement, and will require a definition of shamanism that fits the various modern contexts you hope to illuminate. Provide me with a clear and concise proposal and I’ll pull together a committee to review it.”
Relief washed through Blair and, at the same time, he felt a surge of excitement. Working with these ideas would be fun and, who knew, maybe they’d even make a difference someday.
The scholar riffled through the rest of the papers in the file. “I see you’re applying for a student loan?”
“Yes. I’ll be going over to the loan office when I leave here.”
Closing the file, Mgambo said, “There won’t be any problem. The Putnam Science Academy is very well respected and your position as a teacher there speaks to your reliability. Nor does it hurt that you seem to be currently debt-free.” He glanced at the file folder and added, “Frankly, I was surprised to see that you have no other outstanding student loans. Even with scholarships, most doctoral students have considerable debt loads when they graduate.”
Blair’s gaze skittered away. “My, uh, my best friend is very generous and he ... he wanted to clear off those debts for me. I plan to pay him back.”
Silence stretched between them until Blair, thinking he’d missed his cue to leave, looked back at the Dean as he came to his feet. Mgamgo was regarding him with what looked like barely restrained curiosity. “You do plan to write about sentinels again, do you not?”
Surprised by the question, not having expected it and uneasy about Mgambo’s clear interest in the subject, Blair flushed. “Uh, maybe, someday ... articles for journals about enhanced sensory acuity and the implications of such senses for individuals and the possibilities they offer to society. But, but not for a few years.”
“Was your press conference true? Was the document a lie?”
Blair knew he should have expected the question, been ready for it, but he wasn’t. He stared at Mgambo, then blinked and looked away. Was this it? Had he gotten so close only to have the opportunity snatched away by a lie he wasn’t prepared to discount? “I thought my press conference was clear about the mistakes I made,” he offered quietly.
“It was,” Mgambo agreed, his voice dry and clipped. “But I’m having difficulty reconciling your public statements with the confidence that Eli Stoddard and Jack Kelso have in you. I want to be assured that the man I’m accepting into this school is the one they describe, and not the self-proclaimed fraud I saw on the news.”
Blair lifted his eyes to steadily return the scholar’s uncompromising gaze. “Ethically, I felt I had no choice but to give that press conference,” he said with all truth, though he hadn’t answered the question and they both knew it. When the Dean didn’t respond, Blair made the only offer he could, and he hoped it would be enough. “I promise you that I won’t cause you to regret giving me this chance.”
Blair could hear the ticking of the antique brass clock on Mgambo’s desk in the silence that stretched between them while the older man studied him thoughtfully. Finally, nodding, the Dean stood and offered his hand across the breadth of his elegant desk. “Welcome to Yale, Mr. Sandburg. I expect to find working with you an interesting experience.”
Relieved that the interview was over, Blair smiled and shook the man’s hand. With a murmured, “Thank you,” he quickly turned away, glad to escape before the Dean could think of any more questions to pose, particularly questions about why Eli and Jack were so convinced of his integrity despite his public admission of fraud. He especially dreaded questions about the magnanimous generosity of a best friend who Blair was certain Mgambo suspected was a certain Jim Ellison, a possible — even probable, given his glowing references — sentinel. Again, he felt the heat of an embarrassed flush fill his face; no doubt, Dr. Mgambo thought Jim had paid him off for having closed the lid on Pandora’s box. God, how humiliating was that? It wasn’t a pay-off ... was it?
Biting his lip as he hurried to his car, Blair vowed to pay Jim back just as soon as he possibly could.
**
The drive from New Haven along I-95 and then along I-395 to the north wound through gently rolling hills, some with small stands of broad leafy deciduous trees banding dairy farms, apple orchards, fields of sprouting corn on one side and endless stretches of berry shrubs on the other; he was looking forward to the lush new strawberries and raspberries the summer promised. The rural countryside, filled with placid yet ordered life, was oddly comforting, less remote and indifferent than the wild, rugged mountains and endless tall forests of the northeast. Blair had the strangest feeling that he knew these low hills well, had been here before, though so far as he knew he’d never been in Connecticut before. A memory flashed, and he recalled the few lines he’d read in Washington’s journal about his most trusted scouts. His mouth went dry as he wondered if he was experiencing a kind of déjŕ vu, a genetic or soul memory of the time more than two hundreds years before when he and Jim had walked these hills. Blair smiled sadly at the thought that, once, a long time ago, he and Jim had been here together. Not that he could ever know that for sure, or even that it mattered now; that was then, this was now, and in the here and now he was traveling alone.
It was mid-afternoon when he turned off the highway to follow the wide, winding Quinebaugh River into town. When Blair had first seen the advertisement for the one-year assignment at the Science Academy, he’d checked out Putnam, Connecticut, a small town of seven thousand, on the internet and had thought the place looked charming. But he soon discovered that the photos really didn’t do the town justice.
As he followed the paved road into the heart of the town, he felt as if he’d entered a postcard that recalled the idyllic world of small town America in the fifties. With little effort, he could imagine Donna Reed clones preparing supper in one cleanly painted and trimmed clapboard two- and three-story house after another, each bordered by immaculate lawns and flowering shrubs and gardens. The stately houses looked like they might well date back at least to the twenties, if not all the way to the last century. The center of town could have been everyone’s Main Street, with attractive shops and cafes. As he drove slowly through town, he recalled that Putnam prided itself on being the capital of antiques in the northeast. Slowing at a stoplight, he glanced across the street at the life-size bronze statue of a cowboy on a plunging, bucking bronc and couldn’t resist smiling at how incongruous it appeared standing before the very elegant Victoria Station coffee house. The town had been an wealthy milltown in the eighteen hundreds. He wasn’t sure how the people here made their money now, but the affluence was still evident.
Blair spotted the real estate office he was looking for; after a brief meeting with the agent, he took possession of the key to the furnished house he’d rented and directions on where to find it. Ten minutes after that, he reached the far edge of town and found the small, brown stone cottage across the roadway from the river and the park that wound along its shore. The house was set back under the shade of spreading maple trees that he hoped would turn a fiery crimson in the fall. Cheerful daisies and impatiens grew in the narrow gardens along the walkway and on either side of the covered entry. Hollyhocks climbed up one wall around the casement leaded windows. The place had to be at least a hundred years old, and he loved it at first sight.
After parking in the shaded drive, he grabbed his bags from the trunk and let himself into the house. Sunlight streamed through the windows, leaving patterns on the polished plank floor. There was a fireplace with mantel in the sitting room to the right. The unpretentious furniture looked solid and comfortable — and the sound system looked as if no expense had been spared. To the left of the entry, he found the large, bright, eat-in kitchen with gleaming, if slightly rustic, pine cabinetry, table and four chairs, and a malachite countertop. In the back, past the bathroom and closets for coats and linens, he found a spacious bedroom on one side and a cozy study on the other. The house seemed to wrap an aura of welcome and warmth around him, and he felt himself relax in its ambience.
He dropped his bags on the cannonball bed and went back outside to look at the broad river and the short stretch of rapids just east of the house. Across the broad expanse, he saw one of the old mills, but whether it had produced cotton cloth or whiskey, he didn’t know. The healthy patch of grass in front of the house looked like it needed to be cut, so he wandered around the back and found a large shed under a tall oak tree, that contained both a lawn mower and a snowblower — mute reminder that the winter here would be a lot colder and snowier than Cascade. Glancing around the backyard, he saw that he had his own raspberry bushes lining the tall wooden fence that enclosed the yard and gave him plenty of privacy, without blocking out the views of the hills that rose behind the town.
Taking a deep breath, he told himself that, if he gave the place a chance, he could enjoy living here. If he allowed himself, if only he wasn’t hollow inside, a man simply going through the motions of living ... if only Jim was here, too ... if only he could be with Jim, wherever that was.
The familiar ache in his chest surged into white hot flame, threatening to consume him. He pressed his eyes closed and took several shuddering breaths to force the pain back to manageable levels. Once he had his emotions back under control, he returned to the shed and dragged out the mower to cut the grass.
**
“Hey, man, thought I should let you know I’ve landed in Connecticut, and give you my new phone number.”
Jim closed his eyes, savoring the warm, vibrant tones of the beloved voice, and leaned his shoulder against the wall to lend support to knees suddenly grown weak. “It’s good to hear from you, Chief,” he murmured. “How does the place look?”
“You’d love the house, well, cottage really, near the river on the edge of town,” Blair assured him. “I’m going to check out the school tomorrow — I’ve got two weeks to get my lesson plans ready before the semester starts, and buy some decent clothes. Oh, and I had a great meeting with the Dean at Yale. He confirmed my admission to their doctoral program, so I’m good to go.” Blair paused, and then added with a softer tone, “I gather Eli and Jack pulled out all the stops in their references. The Dean said they both staked their personal reputations on me...”
His voice fell away and Jim couldn’t tell whether it was awe that anyone would give him such unstinting support or whether it just meant so damned much that there really were no words to express what he felt. Jim’s chest tightened with the realization that if anyone should be staking their reputations on Blair, it should have been him, but he’d been too much of a coward, too selfish ... too afraid. Clearing his throat, he said with as much good cheer as he could muster, “That’s great, Sandburg. And no more than you deserve. I’m really glad your life is back on track.”
“Yeah, well ... uh, how’s the case going?”
“Joe Conroy and his family are now guests of the city and will remain in protective custody until the trial is over.” Jim spent the next few minutes bringing Blair up to speed on what had happened. “You know how these things work — it’ll probably be a year before the trial comes up on the docket.”
“So, it’s basically a scam to get Conroy to roll over on Liberty,” Blair replied, cutting to the chase. “And if he doesn’t, my testimony won’t really be enough, will it? To get a conviction?”
Jim grimaced. “We’ve got a lot of forensic results to back up your testimony, Chief. No telling which way a jury will jump.”
“Yeah, sure,” Blair murmured, and Jim just knew the kid was thinking about his supreme lack of credibility in Cascade. “But he’s really just another victim, isn’t he? Not someone we’d really want to send up the river. It’s just that ... those guys who were killed. They didn’t deserve that.”
“I know and someone, whether it’s Conroy or Liberty, is going to be held responsible for that, Blair.” When Sandburg didn’t reply, Jim broached the subject that had been concerning him since they’d brought in Conroy. “Look ... I’m a little worried that Liberty may send someone after you, to take the heat off Conroy — you know, to make sure the developer doesn’t fold. So keep an eye out. If you see anyone watching you, you let me know.”
Blair’s chuckle sounded off, almost bitter. “Jim, man, I didn’t see one other guy with long hair this afternoon when I drove through this rinky-dink ‘Father Knows Best,’ ‘Lost in the Fifties Tonight’ town. And if there’s a synagogue here, I didn’t see it. Believe me, a whole lot of people are going to be watching me over the next year.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah ... yeah, I know. If I see any gangsters or hitmen, I’ll definitely give you a call.”
“Sandburg, this is no joke.”
“Whoa, chill, man. Relax. I’ll be careful, I promise. But I seriously doubt Liberty will come after me, at least not until he’s exhausted every effort to find where you’ve stashed Conroy.”
Heaving a sigh, Jim nodded. “You’re probably right about that.” When silence fell between them, Blair filled it by telling him more about his brown stone cottage, giving him the new phone number and address, and then Blair hastened to say that — with the three hour time difference — it was late there and he should probably call it a night.
“Okay, Chief. Thanks for staying in touch. G’night.”
“Night, Jim. And, uh ... well, just take care, okay?”
“I will.”
“Okay, well, good-bye.”
Jim listened to the dial tone for a long time before he could make himself hang up the phone. Impatiently, he sniffed and swiped at his stinging eyes. Stupid to miss him so much. Stupid to ... to feel so broken just because he was so far away, building a new life...
Wasn’t like he hadn’t lost people he cared about before. Wasn’t as if ... as if...
“Ah, damn it all to hell.”
**
Summer passed. Blair appreciated the assiduous efforts of his students to do their best work, though he wished they did so out of real interest in learning and not simply as a ticket-punching exercise to gain entry to some prestigious college. He found himself falling into his tried and true observer mode with his colleagues, once again playing the chameleon to fit in — though he didn’t cut his hair. Oh, he knew the Principal, Chase Reynolds didn’t approve, but so long as he tied it back and dressed in the ‘uniform’ of neatly-pressed pants, shirt, tie and sports coat, and did his job, Reynolds couldn’t hassle him, especially as the job was only for a one year term. Still, Blair found it mildly amusing that the faculty were so self-conscious about their appearance when their jobs were really about preparing the kids for college — where the professors wore whatever they felt like and usually what was most comfortable. It was like they were trying to instill a last bit of structure and discipline by example into kids who probably couldn’t care less about what their teachers were wearing.
He spent every moment of free time working on his dissertation. Though he was making good progress, he could see that his estimate of three months had been wildly hopeful — between preparing lesson plans, contributing to extracurricular activity supervision, and attending various and sundry staff meetings, he didn’t have as much time as he’d hoped to devote to his thesis. He found that having a house with grounds to maintain also took more time than he’d expected — not that he minded. The quiet times of physical activity allowed his mind to roam and he did some of his best thinking while weeding the garden. Blair also took time to enjoy the river walk and keep in shape at the same time by jogging early in the morning before the heat and humidity built to uncomfortable levels. He came to appreciate nature’s sound and light shows when thunderstorms blew through — lightning and crashing thunder were fairly rare in northwest — clearing the air, at least for a while. Before summer was over, he was very glad he lived in a shaded stone house that stayed reasonably cool, and he welcomed the crisper temperatures as the days grew shorter in September.
By the time the trees donned their glorious autumn foliage and the air had taken on the pungent scent of woodsmoke, people in town were getting used to seeing him, and he didn’t occasion quite so many suspicious stares. A waitress at the Victoria Station flirted with him whenever he went in for an espresso, and another woman who jogged the same trail in the mornings made a point of giving him a dazzling smile each day. But he didn’t pick up on their signals, nor on those given by the stud at the garage where he took the Volvo for routine maintenance. He wasn’t interested; didn’t have anything inside to give anyone. Just couldn’t bring himself to care.
Besides, he didn’t have time. He had to finish his dissertation.
Though why he had to finish sooner rather than later was something he didn’t think about. He only knew he wanted it done and over with. Mgambo was a demanding adviser and Blair found the man’s incisive — and occasionally biting — commentary both challenging and very helpful in keeping his analysis and argument sharp. But the only thing he was really enjoying about the process was the learning and thinking about shamanism and how the role applied in the modern world ... and that wouldn’t end with the submission of the paper. Blair suspected it was a subject that would occupy his thoughts for the rest of his life.
Dry, powdery snow dusted the air on Thanksgiving, but didn’t last. Still, it had gotten a lot colder and he had to buy a couple of thick sweaters to augment his wardrobe. Night fell early and he spent the evenings by the fire in the living room working on his laptop, rather than in the chilly den in the back of the house. Finally, on the tenth of December, he submitted his finished dissertation. It was too late to schedule his defense before Christmas, but he was given a date early in January.
On his way back to Putnam after submitting the document, driving past snow-shrouded fields, Blair realized that he was now going to have a lot of unoccupied hours to fill, and he didn’t have a clue as to how he was going to do that. He had to keep busy — if he didn’t, he knew he’d flounder, get lost in the ever-present anguish that dogged his days and haunted his nights. Despite the passage of months, the pain of loss hadn’t diminished. He still missed Jim with every single breath he took.
That night, gazing into the flames and sipping at a decadent hot chocolate that he very well knew was self-indulgence for the sake of psychic comfort, he steeled himself to do some serious thinking about the future. God, it hurt to even imagine years unfolding without Jim in his life. So ... he gave in, and imagined how a future might include Jim, if he prepared for it, if he made sure he was ready if the opportunity ever arose. Of course, it wouldn’t, he knew that intellectually — Jim really didn’t want him as a permanent partner. He’d known that ever since he’d turned Simon’s offer down and Jim had accepted his decision not only with no fight but with what looked a lot like relief. But, still ... dreams were free and didn’t really hurt anyone, right? And he had to do something with his free time.
If he joined the local gun club, he could learn how to handle weapons, how to hit what he aimed at.
The local Y offered various self-defense/fitness courses.
Maybe he could take the post-doctoral seminar in forensic anthropology; Mgambo would like that as it was his particular specialty and the only course he personally taught.
Then, when the trial rolled around, he’d have different skills, useful skills, just in case ... well, it didn’t hurt to dream.
And even if it did hurt — even if it just prolonged the pain and anguish and only temporarily obscured the inevitability of an empty, lonely future — he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t ever stop hoping that maybe, someday, there’d be a way for him to go home.
**
Jim shivered in the chill morning air on the balcony as he sipped his coffee and fulfilled what had become a ritual for beginning each day, this practice of facing east as the sun climbed over the mountains, and thinking of the brown stone house so damned far away. Thinking and wishing that somehow — somehow — there’d be a way. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself it was impossible, or even castigated himself for wanting to impose himself back into Blair’s life. He couldn’t help hoping the love that just wouldn’t die no matter how hard he tried to deny it, could find a way to be more than this perpetual ache in his heart.
East is east and west is west
And never the twain shall meet.
But each morning I face that window
And pray that our love can be,
‘Cause that brownstone house where my baby lives
Is Mecca, Mecca, to me.
Usually, he finished his coffee and headed downtown. But not that morning. That morning was special, because it gave him a perfectly legitimate reason to call Blair and listen to his voice for a while.
Making that call was his long-promised Christmas gift to himself.
**
“Jim! Hey, man, it’s great to hear from you! Merry Christmas to you, too!”
Naomi heard the sudden of infusion of delight in Blair’s voice.
“Sure I’ve got time to talk; always, man. Mom and I just finished breakfast and your timing is excellent — you’re getting me out of the dreaded clean-up duties!”
She poked him in the ribs and, laughing, he whirled around, one hand up to playfully fend her off. His face was luminous — smile wide, eyes sparkling — with pure and simple happiness. “Say ‘hi’ to him for me,” she managed to say before turning away to busy herself at the sink — and hide the sudden tears that had sprung to her eyes.
“Jim says ‘hi’ back,” Blair told her, reminding her that Jim would have heard her greeting without Blair having to repeat it, and her throat tightened. Without turning, she waved a hand in acknowledgement and turned on the taps to fill the sink. As she’d hoped, Blair moved into the sitting room to get away from the noise.
One hand covering her mouth to hold back her sob, lest Jim hear and send Blair scurrying back into the room, she stumbled to a chair. Blair had never told her straight-out, but she’d long sensed that her baby loved the tall, handsome cop. She could well understand why, most especially after she found out that Jim was also a sentinel, something Blair had talked about and looked for since he’d been a little boy. If she’d ever doubted her instincts, Blair’s reaction to hearing from Jim today certainly made his feelings clear. Oh, he tried, said he was doing great, welcomed her warmly and made her feel special, showed her the town and the school, but his eyes had had no light in them, and she hadn’t seen a real smile, let alone heard him laugh, until just now.
She heard Blair enthusing to Jim about the way the sunlight glittered on the frozen landscape like billions of diamonds, and how the snow made everything so clean, making up for having to endure the bitter cold. Blair told him about submitting his paper, and then asked about the gang in Major Crimes, Simon, Megan, and Joel. And was Darryl doing okay?
Tears glazed her eyes. They’d be together if not for her, and Blair wouldn’t have to ask how his friends were doing. In how many different ways did she mess everything up for her son by trying to help him? How could it all have gone so wrong when all she wanted was for him to be happy? But she determinedly brushed the tears from her eyes and cleared the table. Blair could walk back into the kitchen at any time and there was no way she would mar any of that fragile and probably fleeting happiness by letting him find her crying.
**
“How did Sandburg’s oral defense go?” Simon asked.
“He said he felt good about it,” Jim replied with a shrug. “I’m sure he did fine.”
“So what happens next? Does he have to wait until graduation to get his PhD?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Jim said, sounding uncertain. “I’m not sure.”
“You don’t think so? You’re not sure?” Simon repeated, both irritated and incredulous. “Don’t you think you should find out? I need a bit of advance notice, you know, to clear the schedule so some of us can be there to help him celebrate.”
When he saw the flash of surprise on his friend’s face, Simon felt a wave of sorrow wash through him. What? Did Jim, and probably Blair, too, think that nobody cared about the kid anymore? That nobody would want to be there to celebrate such a momentous achievement with him? Did either of them honestly think that he would have forgotten that Blair had been there, in Peru, to help rescue him and his son, or that Blair had trekked through the wilderness with Jim to save him from that stone killer Dawson Quinn and his psycho girlfriend? And what was with Ellison, anyway? Surely, he planned to go? Or was he so all-fired determined about letting Sandburg get on with his life that he didn’t understand what his being there would mean to Blair? Sometimes, the man was as thick as a brick.
“What do you think?” Simon asked then, to make it clear they were going. “Should we tell him we’re coming or surprise him?”
**
Blair had seen more than one ice storm that winter. Days and nights when the wind howled with a low moan and sleety rain pellets slashed against the house, rattling on the windows as if trying to break in, and transforming the world with a coating of slippery glass that glittered blindingly under the next day’s sun. The ice was heavy and did considerable damage to the trees as, with an ear-splitting crack, limbs gave way under the weight and crashed to the ground, often dragging electric wires down, too. Once, the power had gone off for two days and the only light and heat he’d had was from the fireplace, his flashlight, and a Coleman lantern he’d found in the shed; school had been cancelled because the roads and sidewalks were too slippery to negotiate safely. He’d been glad of his tendency to stock granola bars and bagels, fruit and vegetables that could be eaten raw, and he did manage to boil water for tea, and make a vegetable stew, by setting a pan in the fireplace.
But he’d never seen what the weather channel called a hoar frost until that morning. Instead of cold, transparent ice, the spindly bare branches of trees and the rolling fields along either side of the highway were covered with a softer, fuzzier-looking coating of bluish-white frozen fog, transforming the barren trees into ethereal creations, and the landscape into a magical wonderland. He wondered if the frost would last until he was driving back from New Haven, or if the ephemeral delicacy would have melted under the sun, leaving the countryside once more bleak and dreary.
Returning his attention to the highway, Blair thought about the reason for this trip to New Haven. He was grateful to Dr. Mgambo for arranging to give him his sheepskin in a small, private ceremony in the Dean’s office early that afternoon rather than simply shipping it to him in the mail. After so many years of chasing his academic dreams, he wanted the closure of a presentation, however small and innocuous — receiving a package in the mail would have been far too anti-climatic.
Blair wished ... but he pushed away the futile desire to share his achievement with people he cared about. His mother was on a retreat in the Alps, and he could hardly expect anyone from Washington to fly across the whole country for something that would scarcely take ten minutes. Maybe Jim would call later, to hear how it had gone and to congratulate him. He felt the flutter in his chest that always accompanied his thoughts about Jim, and the raw hunger to touch and be touched that had never diminished but had only grown stronger in the year since he’d left Cascade.
When he parked and climbed out of the Volvo, his breath billowed in a cloud and he pulled up his collar against the chill before jogging along the path and up the steps into the limestone building. His glasses fogged and he had to whip them off to see where he was going as soon as he stepped inside. Ducking into the men’s washroom by the entrance, he took a moment to slip off his coat, ensure his suit jacket was hanging smoothly, his tie straight and his hair neatly tied back with a leather thong.
This was it. In a few more minutes, he’d be Doctor Blair Sandburg. After all the years and ... and heartbreak, after all the research and field work and thousands of hours spent in classes and writing papers, in debating ideas in seminars, he was finally here. He licked lips that were dry with nervous anticipation, drew in a deep, steadying breath, and nodded to himself in the mirror. Then he returned to the hall and made his way to Dr. Mgambo’s corner office on the fourth floor.
The office door was closed and Blair wondered if he was early or if the Dean was occupied with other business. But a glance at his watch showed he was right on time, so he knocked and, when he heard Dr. Mgambo call to come in, he entered.
Just inside the door, he came to an abrupt stop when he realized the Dean wasn’t alone. “Oh, sorry, I thought ...” but his apology for intruding died when he took in who was there. “Oh, my God,” he exclaimed, and lifted a hand to cover his heart, very nearly overcome by shock and surprise and the sheer overpowering joy at seeing Jim and Simon and Joel and Eli and Jack. “I can’t believe you’re all here,” he gasped, looking from one to another and then holding out his arms to hug each and every one of them. “Thank you,” he said, over and over. “Man, I can’t believe ... thank you!”
They thumped him on the back and told him they wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world, and Simon scolded him for being so surprised, as if he might have thought they didn’t care. The last man in line was Jim. Blair hesitated for a heartbeat, unsure, his arms lifted, his heart in his eyes. Jim’s mouth quirked in that rare, vulnerable, sweet smile as he reached out and took Blair in a crushing embrace which he returned with all the love he felt, too moved to do more than whisper hoarsely, “I’ve missed you ... so much.”
“Me, too,” Jim rasped, and held him for an extra beat, his grip tightening for just a moment more as if he couldn’t bear to let go.
Dr. Mgambo cleared his throat, bringing the gathering to order. “I’m very pleased that you were all able to come from Cascade, to be here to witness this very auspicious moment. Doctor Blair Sandburg, you’ve worked long and hard to achieve this distinction, and I’m honored to welcome you to the ranks of our doctoral community, both here at Yale and our larger anthropological community around the world. It’s my very great pleasure to present to you your sheepskin. Congratulations.” He handed the scroll to Blair and shook his hand. And then he stepped aside to reveal bottles of champagne and plates of delicacies on the desk behind him. “May I pour you a glass, Doctor, to celebrate?” he offered with one of his rare and beautiful smiles.
“Yes, please,” Blair agreed as he fingered the scroll and then couldn’t resist unrolling it to look at the antique lettering that proclaimed his degree. “Wow,” he murmured, scarcely aware of the others crowding close to see it, too. He felt dazed as they again thumped his back and he accepted the glass of bubbling elixir. Tears stung his eyes and he had to blink hard lest he embarrass himself — he couldn’t believe how much this meant to him, how very much, both the doctorate itself and that the men he respected and loved best in the world were there to celebrate with him.
“To Doctor Sandburg!” Dr. Mgambo toasted and the others all cheered, “Hear! Hear!” and chorused, “Doctor Sandburg!” before clinking glasses and swallowing healthy sips.
“Megan wanted to come, too,” Simon told him, “but someone had to stay back to keep H and Rafe in line. But she sent this card, and Rhonda sent one, too.” He handed the envelopes to Blair, who slipped them into his inside jacket pocket, to read later.
“Which reminds me,” Dr. Mgambo interjected, “your Mother asked me to be sure to give you this.” And he, too, gave Blair a card.
Blair smiled as he took it and fingered it for a moment, pleased that his mother had made the effort to mark the day.
“I’ve read your thesis,” Eli said then, sidling close. “It’s a brilliant piece of work and I think it may well attract considerable attention from a number of quarters. Simon, you may want to read it — there’s a great deal there that’s relevant to large urban and inner-city environments.” Smiling widely, he teased, “Who knows, Cascade PD might decide they need their own shaman.”
“Shaman?” Simon echoed. “Is that what your dissertation is about?”
“Yeah,” Blair grinned. “I thought about writing it on the thin blue line, but ... well, I wasn’t sure you guys were ready to hear all my observations about you.”
Simon and Joel laughed. “You mean, there are some you haven’t already shared with us?” Joel teased.
“So, what are your plans now?” Jack asked. “You’re not planning to remain a prep school teacher forever, I hope.”
“No,” Blair shook his head. “That contract terminates in early June. I’m not sure yet what I’ll do next.”
“I’d be glad to recommend you for a position here,” Mgambo said. “With your degree and the extra forensic credits you’re earning, I can imagine that any number of institutions will be interested in you.”
“Forensic?” Simon repeated, turning to look at Blair.
“Well, you know me — if I’m not taking a class in something, learning something new, I get twitchy,” Blair returned, not making a big deal of it but hoping, desperately hoping that he hadn’t imagined the flash of interest he’d seen on Simon’s face, or the meaning in the look he’d quickly exchanged with Joel.
When he glanced at Jim, to gauge his reaction, he found his former partner staring at the bubbles in his glass as if they held answers to all the secrets of the universe. Oh, God, not here, not now, Blair thought as he moved as unobtrusively as possible to Jim’s side and placed a hand on his back, while still talking to keep the attention of the others focused on him and not on Jim. “I’ve found the forensic post-doctoral seminar really challenging and it’s amazing what bones can reveal.” Grimacing, he added with chagrin, “I have to admit, though, that I’m a bit too squeamish to handle in-depth work with the bones, uh, in-situ, if you know what I mean. But when it’s just the skeleton? Yeah, it’s actually very cool learning how to read the story that bones can tell.” He felt Jim start under his hand, heard the quick intake of breath, and he rubbed gently before pulling away slightly. “But I think I’ll always be more of a cultural anthropologist.”
Blair glanced at Joel and saw from his expression that the older man had just realized that he’d missed his sentinel’s zone. No, not ‘his’ sentinel, Blair thought with sudden anger, Mine! But when he recognized the distress on Joel’s kind face, the fury abated and he just felt sad and tired. Stepping closer, Blair reached up to loop his hand over the big man’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I’m really glad to know that he ... that you ... well, you know.”
Joel looked down, as if evading Blair’s gaze, and he gave a short jerky nod. “It doesn’t happen often,” he murmured. “I didn’t expect ... sorry.”
“No, don’t,” Blair insisted and flicked a glance at Jim, who was flushed and remote, ignoring both of them. Unable to help himself, Blair smiled fondly, knowing his sentinel so well, knowing Jim was embarrassed and angry with himself for having lost control. “Nice to know I still have the touch,” he whispered, just loudly enough for Joel, beside him, and Jim, several steps away, to hear. Jim’s gaze flashed to his, and Blair ached at the confusion and sorrow he saw there. But, perhaps in response to his smile, Jim smiled, too, easing his expression and bringing light and warmth back into his eyes.
When Blair looked away, he found Mgambo’s gaze upon him, the deep, black eyes bright with intelligence. The Dean’s glance shifted to Jim and back again, sharp and sudden understanding softening with mingled respect and compassion, and his thin lips tightened with austere approval. Blair’s gaze fell, and he cursed to himself that even here, even now, he was a threat to Jim’s secret and yet another person knew, or thought he knew, that damned paper was true.
Jim’s voice, low and supportive, murmured in his ear as a strong arm came around his shoulders, “It’s okay, Chief. It’s okay.”
He shook his head in brief negation, but there was little he could do to change what had just happened.
“Come on,” Jim urged, giving him a little shake, “we’re here to celebrate, right? We’re all proud of you, Sandburg. Real proud.”
A smile twitched at that and he looked up through his lashes. “Thanks, Jim,” he said. “I mean that. Thanks so much for being here. Means more than you can imagine.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got a pretty good imagination,” Jim retorted playfully. Reaching out, he plucked the scroll from Blair’s hand. “I’d like to see this up close,” he murmured, unrolling it and studying it for a long moment, a tender smile on his lips. “Doctor Blair Sandburg,” he read aloud, and his smile broadened. “Has a real nice ring to it.”
Blair snorted and then laughed. “Yeah,” he agreed, reclaiming his prize, “it does.”
The small celebration swirled around him, the Dean playing a gracious host until the delicacies and the champagne were but a fond memory. As the reception drew to a close a half hour later, Blair shook Dr. Mgambo’s hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said, emotion thick in his voice, “for giving me a chance, and for helping me achieve my doctorate. And ... and for hosting this celebration. This was very generous of you.”
“You’re welcome, Blair,” Mgambo assured him, gripping his shoulder. “It’s I who am grateful,” he went on, nodding to Eli and Jack. “It’s been a pleasure to work with you — and I was serious, Blair. I’d be very pleased to have you on our faculty. Think about it.”
“I will,” Blair replied, feeling the heat of pleased embarrassment at the praise.
“Well, Sandburg, we’re here until the flight home tomorrow afternoon,” Simon told him. “Thought you might show us your place and we’ll take you out to dinner in that little town — Putnam, is it?”
Blair looked at the big men and shook his head. “I’d be glad to but I’m not sure you’ll all fit in my car,” he protested.
“Jack and I are flying back this evening,” Eli told him, “so you don’t need to worry about us.”
“And we’ve rented a sedan,” Joel added with a grin. “Jim can go with you, and Simon and I will follow you. We’ve booked rooms at the Country Hearth Inn in Putnam.”
“Oh, well, then, yeah, great ... follow me. I’m parked in the lot next to the building,” Blair agreed, this latest surprise making him almost giddy with excitement. He thanked Mgambo, Eli and Jack once more before leading the others into the hall. And all the while, he was thinking: Jim? Alone in the car with me? For the two hour drive? His mouth went dry at the same time that a thrill of pure joy spiraled in his chest. God, I’m a wreck, he thought, telling himself sternly to get it together. Jim’s staying in Putnam tonight?!
But Blair couldn’t help fantasizing, as he led the way to his car, about what the night could bring.
**
Jim followed a half-step behind Blair. Though he’d known for days that the plan was for them to stay over in Putnam, he still had no idea what to say to the kid — or what to do. When Blair had first walked into the office that afternoon, Jim had felt weak with the simple of joy of seeing him again, and didn’t dare speak for fear his voice would betray him. But when the kid had hesitated, had looked so uncertain about hugging him, Jim couldn’t help himself. He needed to hold Blair, hold him close, even if only for a moment. He’d needed that like he needed air. God, Blair had felt good in his arms — he could still feel the sense memory tingling on his skin, in his muscle and bone; Blair’s scent had filled him, more intoxicating than the champagne. And to hear the sound of his heart pounding so hard, so strong was like music; the only sound better was the sound of Blair’s voice, whispering how much he’d missed him. Letting go had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.
He hadn’t zoned on the champagne. He’d been concentrating on blocking out all the other sounds in the room to zero in on Blair’s heartbeat, to feel it resonate through him until the steady drumming had filled him up. But Blair’s touch, like a brand on his back, the proximity of his scent and the warm cadences of his voice had snapped him back, just as they always had ... always would.
And now, for the first time in nearly a year, they were going to be alone together. Jim’s palms were damp, and his gut twisted as he fought to keep how he felt hidden. Nothing had changed except that Blair had more choices now, had his life back on track. But Jim had noticed that though Mgambo had offered Blair a job, Eli and Jack had looked away, helpless frustration on their faces. There was no job at Rainier and wouldn’t be, even though Sandburg had won his doctorate from Yale. Blair wouldn’t be coming home. There was nothing there for him, and Jim knew he had to accept that.
He had to keep it light, a reunion of sorts between former partners, one-time lovers and longtime friends. He had to, for Blair’s sake and for the sake of his own sanity.
But, dear God, it was going to be so hard, so very hard, not to touch, especially in that cramped wreck Blair
called a classic. Going to hard not to blurt out how much he needed the man.
How much he loved him.
They reached the car and Blair unlocked it while Simon and Joel kept going to their sedan, just two lanes over. Jim slid into the passenger seat and tried to act nonchalant when Blair climbed in behind the wheel and cranked on the ignition. The silence between them crackled with tension.
“This is ridiculous,” Blair murmured. “You’d think we were two horny adolescents who didn’t know how to behave with one another.”
Jim choked and then laughed so hard tears blurred his eyes. God, he’d forgotten how much he loved that directness, that irreverence.
Blair was looking at him like he’d lost his mind, and maybe he had. Swiping at his eyes with one hand, he gripped Blair’s shoulder with the other. “I missed you, Chief. God help me, I’ve really missed you,” he admitted when he could talk.
The sight of Blair’s incandescent smile made his heart do flips, but all he said was, “Simon and Joel are pulling up — time to put this buggy into gear and get this show on the road.”
Chuckling, Blair backed out of the slot and led the way off the university grounds.
“Anything new on the case? Conroy turned state’s evidence yet?” Blair asked, and that was all it took to get them talking about something safe as they drove through the city and onto the interstate. The problem was that conversation about relatively impersonal matters petered out in less than an hour and silence once again fell between them.
Finally, Blair sighed and asked, “You’re not really going to stay in a hotel room tonight, are you?”
Jim had trouble replying. He knew what the answer should be ... but that wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. When he didn’t reply, Blair glanced at him, a crooked smile on his lips. “Let me guess ... you don’t think it would be a good idea to stay at my place.”
“I ... I don’t want to take advantage of you,” Jim muttered, looking away.
Blair snorted. “I’m thirty years old and I’ve just received my PhD. I’m all grown up, Jim — it’s not taking advantage of me if it’s what I want.” He hesitated, and then asked, “Is it that you don’t want Simon and Joel to guess that our partnership was more than at work? ‘Cause I can understand that. You have to go back home with them and ... and keep working with them. I can see that you wouldn’t want to rock the boat or compromise your relationships with them.”
“You really think they’d care?” Jim challenged, offended on their behalf. “These guys know something about what it’s like to be judged for superficial shit and discriminated against.”
Blair shrugged. “They’re still men who have been socialized most of their lives by our culture to believe same sex relationships are wrong. Even if they don’t want it to make a difference to them, it could change how they look at you.”
Jim grunted and shook his head. “Nothing is ever simple with you.”
“Right. Blame me for society’s foibles,” Blair muttered, sounding irritated. “So you are going to spend the night in the hotel.”
“I ... didn’t say that.”
“So far, man, you’re not saying much of anything,” he complained. “But then, that’s pretty much par for the course.”
Jim resented that and felt himself stiffen defensively, but he couldn’t refute it. Why was it so damned hard to just say what he wanted? Why did it have to be such a big deal? But it was a big deal. He’d spent months trying to get over his addiction to Sandburg, and it sounded as if Blair was having as much trouble getting over him. Jumping back into something they couldn’t ever continue didn’t feel like a good idea.
Unfortunately, passing up the chance to be together felt like an even worse idea.
Blair tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and then said more evenly, “Okay, here’s where I’m at. We’re two consenting adults and if we want to have a one night stand, then there’s nobody to stop us but ourselves — it’s even legal in this state. And, yes, I know it might be a mistake but ... but I really want to hold you in my arms and make love to you. If it’s only one night, then, that’s the way it is. But it’s one night that I won’t be missing you like crazy.” He hesitated and then added more tentatively, “After you zoned on me back there, I was kinda hoping you wanted to be with me as much I as want to be with you.”
“How did you know?” Jim exclaimed, astonished.
“When I got closer, I could see that you weren’t looking at the glass but past it, and your head was cocked a little toward where I’d been standing. I was worried that if you were zoned on me that I might not be able to bring you out of it, but I hoped touch and maybe scent might break through your fixation on sound. But all that’s beside the point. Will you or will you not come home with me tonight?”
Jim wrestled with himself a moment more and then pulled his cellphone from his jacket pocket. He called information to get the hotel’s number, and then called to cancel his room. He watched Blair while he made the calls and was gratified to see the tension ease from Blair’s body and the smile that blossomed, and he felt his own excitement rise in anticipation.
When he finished canceling the room, Blair said, “Good choice, man. We’ll tell the others that there didn’t seem to be any point in paying for a room when you and I would be talking all night, catching up. I’ll tell them you’ll crash on the sofabed in my living room.”
“You really have a sofabed?”
Blair shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never checked.” His right hand slipped from the steering wheel to settle on Jim’s thigh. “I wish ... I wish Eli had been as quick as Mgambo to offer me a position on the faculty. But I guess that’s not ever going to happen.”
Jim covered Blair’s hand with his own, threading their fingers together to feel as much of Blair’s skin and body heat as he could. When they touched, he felt a frisson of energy tremble under his skin, and a warmth fill him that he’d badly missed. “I know,” he replied, feeling helpless to make things right. God, how he hated to feel helpless. “You haven’t asked me if there’s been anyone else.”
“I don’t want to know if there has been,” Blair said bluntly. “There hasn’t been for me.”
“Too busy teaching and getting your diss done?”
The look Blair turned on him was stony and cold. “That what you really think?”
“No,” Jim admitted, feeling another of his walls crash in the face of Blair’s directness. “I don’t want to be with anyone else either. Not yet, anyway.” Oh, what the hell, tell him the truth. “Maybe not ever.” Okay, wimp out. But what’s the point of telling him I love him now? When we can’t ever be together? What would be the good of that?
Blair just nodded as if he understood, and maybe he did. He always did seem to understand more than Jim ever thought he’d revealed. The silence that fell between them then wasn’t fraught with tension but comfortable and yet filled with the exhilaration of anticipation. Beneath them, another mile hummed past under the wheels; and then Blair started talking, sharing stories about his days in the classroom, making Jim laugh at some of the absurdities of life and Jim felt joy for the first time since Blair had left him. Looking out at the landscape, the trees and hills coated with glistening frost, listening to the cadences of Blair’s warm, rich voice, Jim tightened his grip on Blair’s hand and had the strangest feeling that he’d just come home.
When they reached Putnam, Blair drove to the hotel that was just off the highway on its own acreage of treed land. He told Simon and Joel that he’d talked Jim into coming home with him because they’d probably end up talking all night anyway, and said he was just sorry the place wasn’t big enough to offer them all a bed. Simon and Joel seemed to think the new arrangement only made sense. After they’d checked in, Blair led the way to his stone cottage by the river on the other side of town.
**
“Nice place,” Simon remarked, standing in the entry hall of the little cottage and looking first at the sitting room and then at the bright kitchen, though he felt as if the ceiling was just a little low and the rooms a bit small for his comfort. He felt a little too much like Gandalf in Bilbo Baggins’ house; though he knew there was sufficient clearance — if only just barely — he had the sensation of having to duck a little to keep from hitting his head on the dark wooden beams holding up the white plaster ceiling.
Beside him, Jim sniffed and then stiffened, putting out a hand to quiet them while he reached behind his back for his pistol. “I smell gun oil,” he rasped, tilting his head to listen for any intruder that might be hiding further back in the cottage.
“Uh, that’s mine,” Blair replied, seeming embarrassed when they all looked at him with amazement. “I joined the local rod and gun club,” he explained with unusual brevity, then hastily changed the subject. “Make yourselves at home and I’ll get us some beer.”
Jim disappeared down the hall with his overnight bag, and Joel found the bathroom. Thinking about the fact that Sandburg was learning to handle weapons, Simon followed Blair into the kitchen. On a message board pegged to the wall by the phone, he noticed a schedule for a martial arts course at the local YMCA. An advanced seminar in forensic anthropology, martial arts and weapons training — wasn’t hard for him to figure out why Sandburg had chosen such pursuits, all of them more than slightly foreign to his nature.
“Beer?”
He turned to take the proffered bottle and, lifting a brow in enquiry, gestured at the workout schedule. Blair looked up at him with those big wide eyes, his expression open and almost painfully sincere as he made no effort at avoidance. “I thought, well ... you know, just in case there was a chance ...”
“I wish there was,” Simon replied with somber regret. “But —”
“That’s okay. I understand,” Blair hastened to interject, his gaze falling away and, from the sound of his voice, making every effort to pretend it didn’t matter when it did, very much. “C’mon into the living room, and I’ll put on a fire.” Turning away, he asked with a hearty cheerfulness that only someone who knew him well could tell was slightly forced, “How’s Darryl doing? Enjoying his first year at Rainier? What’s his major?”
Following close behind, Simon gripped his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. Blair didn’t look at him, just gave a short, tight nod of understanding. “Darryl seems to be enjoying himself,” he said, respecting the kid’s need to change the subject, then added with a forced laugh of his own, “He’s majoring in coeds, just like most of us did.”
Blair rewarded his effort at normalcy with a chuckle, and by then Joel had joined them and Jim was coming back down the hall. Watching Blair entertain them all, Simon marveled at the kid’s ability to hide in plain sight. Sandburg looked like he didn’t have a care in the world and not at all like someone whose hopes had just been shot down in flames. Simon studied Jim, and couldn’t help but see that the man looked fully alive again, not just going through the motions like he had been for nearly a year now — hell, he was laughing. When he glanced at Joel beside him, and Joel met his eyes, he could see that his old friend had noticed the same thing and was no doubt as aware as Simon was that not only would Blair give anything to be able to return to Cascade, Jim would give just about anything to have him there. God, who would’ve ever thought the kid would voluntarily learn how to handle a gun?
But then, it probably shouldn’t be so surprising. Sandburg had always been ready to do anything for Jim.
Settling back on the sofa — which he and Joel could both damned well tell lacked the firmness to be hiding a bed — nursing his beer, Simon began to think about ways that he might make the impossible possible. After all, when Joel retired in the fall, Jim was going to need a new partner and Simon really couldn’t see him and Megan working well together on a regular basis. Nor was there anyone else currently in the unit who Simon could imagine giving half-decent backup to a sentinel. Good thing they’ve always been so discreet about their relationship, he thought. Simon despised the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ unspoken rule, hated the way it made life partners deny or at least hide the importance of their relationship publicly, but sometimes, regrettably, it still made sense, and this was one of those times. It would be damned hard, probably impossible, to get past the ‘life partners can’t work together’ regulation, even if he could somehow manage to get the funds to pay a PhD’s salary.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Wouldn’t hurt to at least try to convince the Commissioner, the Chief and his colleagues of the value of having an anthropologist on staff.
**
Given the three-hour time difference between the coasts and that it was still early by Cascade time, Blair was surprised when Simon and Joel suggested an early dinner because they were tired from the trip and would be glad to get back to their rooms. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were trying to give him and Jim a chance to be alone as much as possible before they all had to head back home. Not for the first time, he wondered what the two very astute and experienced detectives had deduced about him and Jim. Despite what he’d said earlier to Jim, he’d like to think they did know, or at least had guessed, and that it didn’t matter a damn to them.
Regardless, he was grateful when they didn’t linger over dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. He and Jim walked out to the lobby with them, and confirmed when they’d meet for a late breakfast.
“Don’t let Sandburg talk your ear off,” Simon joked, as they took their leave.
Jim just grinned and shook his head as he looped an arm around Blair’s shoulders and steered him outside to the car.
Unable to wait until they got home, as soon as they were concealed by the dark shadows under the trees shading the parking lot, Blair turned into Jim’s embrace, and reached up to draw his head down for a deep, lingering kiss. God, he’d missed this, the taste and scent of Jim, the feel of his arms and his hard body. Drawing back, shaky with the depth of his need and the fervency of Jim’s response, he hastily unlocked the car and said, “C’mon, let’s take this back to my place before I completely lose it.”
Jim chuckled, the sound low and seductive, and tremulous joy filled Blair’s chest. For months, he’d feared they’d never be together again. He needed this, needed Jim, so damned much — without the man, he was only half alive. Refusing to think about how hard it would be to see Jim leave the next day, Blair possessively caressed his lover’s thigh and struggled to keep at least half his mind on the road as he drove as fast as was safe back to his cottage.
Didn’t help his focus any to have Jim nuzzling his ear and fumbling with the buttons of his shirt to get to his skin. “Oh, God, man,” he half-moaned. “Unless you want to end up in a ditch or wrapped around a telephone pole, maybe slow down just a little, okay?”
“Mmm,” Jim agreed, sounding reluctant as he moved away. Capturing Blair’s hand, he began kissing each knuckle of every finger, pausing now and then to draw one into his mouth to suckle and nip lightly. Blair drew shuddering breaths and thanked the gods that the town was so small that he didn’t have far to drive.
When they got to the house, they hastened inside. Without stopping to even turn on a light, they hurried to shrug out of their jackets, kick off their shoes and, touching and kissing every step of the way, they littered the hall to the bedroom with clothing. Blair pulled back the covers on the bed and guided Jim down upon its pristine surface. Then, with shaking hands, he lit a candle on the bedside table so that he could see Jim as well as Jim could see him. Looking down at his lover, Blair was struck once again by Jim’s physical perfection. His heart pounded in his chest and his breathing was heavy with desire. Climbing onto the bed, he straddled Jim’s body and leaned down to kiss him, light and chaste at first to tease, and then with deep longing. He felt tears burn his eyes. This was life to him, just this, being together, being able to hold Jim in the safety of his arms, and love him.
Though it had been nearly a year, their hands and mouths moved with sure knowledge of how to pleasure the other. Blair wanted to take it slow, make it last, make it good, so good for Jim, and he could tell from Jim’s touches and his low moans of desire that his lover wanted the same thing. So he took his time, and drew upon all of his considerable knowledge of Jim’s senses to lavish love upon him, to cherish him as no one else ever could.
The candle burned low before they arced together in a heat of need and desire that could no longer be held back from completion. Beyond thought, lost in sensation, Blair breathed Jim’s name as his orgasm shuddered through him, and he felt blinding joy infuse him when he heard Jim call his name as his lover trembled and, clinging to him, lost all vestige of control.
Slick with sweat, sated, they curled together in a tangle of limbs and, with soft murmurs of endearment, Blair held Jim until his lover’s breathing slowed into sleep. Blair kissed his brow and whispered, “Whatever the future holds, for all of forever, I’ll always love you, always.” Holding Jim in his arms, his lover’s cheek on his chest, Blair felt immense gratitude to have had this time, and prayed with all that he was that it wouldn’t be the last in this lifetime. He didn’t know how he could bear to live without Jim in his life and in his bed. The prospect of such loneliness was so devastating that he couldn’t stand to think about it, and his grip around Jim tightened as if to hold on for dear life.
Somewhere between one breath and the next, sleep came to claim him, too.
**
The barest hint of dawn’s early light was seeping through the window when Jim woke to an empty bed. For a moment, he was confused by surroundings he didn’t recognize but then he heard Blair puttering in the kitchen and scented the rich fragrance of brewing coffee. Closing his eyes, he savored a lingering sense of wellbeing and an uncomplicated feeling of happiness that he hadn’t felt in a long time. When had he last slept so well or awakened feeling so rested? His hands moved idly over the smooth sheets, and it gradually registered that they were made of silk. The room was filled with the scent of Blair and their lovemaking, mingled with the light lavender fragrance of the candle, and the herbal potions Blair used in the shower to wash himself and his hair. The place also smelled of books, and the pungent tang of woodsmoke from the fireplace. Aside from the sounds Blair was making, it was profoundly quiet, and Jim wondered if it had snowed during the night so that sound outside was muffled by a thick white blanket.
He heard Blair pad down the hall. Pushing up to lean his back against the pine headboard, he relished the sight of his naked lover coming through the doorway with mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. The faint, silvery winter light caressed Blair’s skin, creating planes of shadow, burnishing the soft curls that framed his face and the dark hair that graced his body, and illuminating the deep, mysterious blue of his eyes.
“Morning,” Blair greeted him, perching on the side of the bed and giving him a kiss before handing over a mug of coffee.
“Morning,” he replied with a smile. “Silk sheets?”
Blair’s smile was sheepish, and he lowered his eyes as if embarrassed. “I don’t usually ..,” he admitted. “But I had this fantasy of how I wished yesterday would go, so I bought the sheets and put them on the bed before I left for New Haven.” Looking up to meet Jim’s gaze, he drawled, “Imagine my surprise when my fantasy came true.”
Jim wasn’t sure whether to feel smug about being Blair’s fantasy or to be beguiled by the vulnerability and trust of the endearing confession. He took a sip of coffee and then, deciding he wanted something else more, he set the mug on the table beside him. Reaching out to caress Blair’s bare arm, he husked, “Come here. I want to hold you.”
Once Blair was stretched out beside him, Jim set about loving the man the way he deserved to be loved, with tenderness and passion. Jim wanted to make it as good as he possibly could ... because he didn’t know if he’d ever have this chance again.
Later, they showered together and Jim took great pleasure in washing that mane of curls. Though he’d often teased Blair about it, Jim loved the kid’s hair, loved the feel of it, the way it smelled and the way it shone in the light.
After they’d finally gotten dressed, Blair suggested a stroll along the river walk before they left to meet Simon and Joel. When they stepped outside, Jim was gratified to see that he’d been right about an overnight snowfall. The world was white, pure and pristine, untouched, and he took a deep breath of bracingly cold air. For a while, they walked through the ankle-deep fresh snow without words, content in one another’s company, Jim’s arm around Blair’s shoulders holding him close to his side.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the glisten and glare of light sparkling on the snow was very nearly blinding. Jim thought it must’ve been a trick of the light when, for but an instant, it was as though the old mills on the other side of the river disappeared, leaving only rolling hills and forest — and beside him, Blair was dressed in buckskin and looked impossibly young. Jim stumbled to a halt and rubbed at his eyes to clear them.
“Light too bright?” Blair asked as he dug into a pocket and then held out a pair of sunglasses. “Here, I brought these along just in case.”
Grateful, Jim slipped them on, and the world seemed just as it had been when they’d started along the walk. “Weird,” he murmured, torn between keeping the brief vision to himself or sharing it — but he’d learned too often and too well that not sharing could result in disaster. “For a minute there, it was like, I don’t know, hundreds of years ago ... there were no buildings, only hills and trees. And, and you were dressed in leather, like Davy Crockett or something.”
“You’re kidding,” Blair breathed, a soft smile of amazement lighting his face. “I wondered if you’d ...” But he stopped himself and looked away.
“If I’d what?”
Reaching out to grip his arm, Blair said, low and uncertainly, “I’m not sure you’d want to know.”
“Know what?”
Lifting wide eyes that implored him to believe, Blair said, “Well, when I was in South Dakota, I came across a photo of two men who’d been prominent in the area more than a hundred years ago: Doc Sandburg and Sheriff Ellison, Jim Ellison, former Cavalry Major. It was us, man. It was us.”
“You’re not serious,” Jim scoffed, but a chill rippled up his spine.
Blair’s brows quirked and he shrugged. “I swear, it was us. I did some research and, well, I discovered that we may have lived several different times ... and one of those times was as scouts in this general area for General George Washington during the Revolution.”
Jim held up his hands and shook his head. “I don’t think I want to know this.”
“I’m not surprised,” Blair replied, though he sounded disappointed.
Anxious to change the subject, Jim started walking again and said, “You said yesterday you wished Rainier would make you an offer, but we both know that’s not going to happen. Why haven’t you ever asked me if I’d leave Cascade to be with you?”
Blair didn’t answer right away. He moved in close and, matching Jim’s stride, he slipped his arm around Jim’s waist. “Because I don’t think you can leave Cascade. I don’t think it would be right for you to even try,” he finally said quietly.
“Why? Why do you think you have to bend your life to mine, but never expect me to bend to accommodate your needs?”
“It’s not that,” Blair said, lifting his head to look across the river. “If we ever make this work between us, it has to be as equals, each one respectful of the other. But ... Cascade is your tribe. More than that, you’re safe there — you have a support system with Simon and Joel and Megan that you wouldn’t have anywhere else. You need that to be able to do your best.” Blair paused and then went on, “Trust is hard for you, Jim. I can’t imagine you trying to start over somewhere else and having to develop the kind of trust you have in Simon with a new boss; I don’t think it would happen. And I think you’d be miserable.”
Though he’d never thought about it, Jim knew Blair was right. Change wasn’t easy for him and trust ... well, yeah, that came hard. He heaved a sigh and looped an arm around Blair’s shoulders. “I don’t see how this ever going to work, Chief. Much as I want it to, and I do ... I just don’t see how.”
“I know,” Blair murmured, sounding so lost that it scared Jim.
Turning Blair to face him, he said, “You’ll be okay without me, you know. You’re brilliant, and you’ve got the whole world at your feet.”
“The whole world with the exception of Cascade,” Blair corrected. Jim could see the effort he made to pull himself back together and to paste the semblance of a smile on his face. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay, Jim? I just want to enjoy the time I still have with you. And ... and well, I guess if Conroy doesn’t fold, we’ll at least see each other again when I go back for the trial, right? You said it’s scheduled for late September.”
Six months away. Six long months. But it was something to look forward to, so Jim nodded. “Yeah, we can get together then, Chief,” he agreed.
The clock tower in the center of town began to toll out the hour, the sound loud and clear on the frozen air. Jim saw a kaleidoscope of emotion flicker across Blair’s face: regret, sorrow, dull acceptance — before he got his expression back under control. “Guess it’s time we turned back,” Blair said, his gaze skating away. “It’s nearly time to meet Simon and Joel.”
Nearly time to say ‘good-bye’, Jim thought, his throat tightening with his own regret that their time together was so fleeting.
**
Blair didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice cracking all during the walk back and the drive to the hotel. But when he parked in the lot, he was out of time ... these were the last few moments he’d have with Jim for months, at least. And if the case never went to trial, he didn’t know when they might see one another again. Jim was reaching for the door handle when Blair rested a hand on his arm, holding him in place. Swallowing to moisten his dry mouth and taking a breath to steady himself, he said, “I love you, Jim. That hasn’t changed. Won’t ever change.”
Jim looked at him, eyes searching his face, and then replied with a tone of wonder, “It’s so easy for you to say it. It’s always been so easy for you.”
“Easy?” Blair exclaimed, half in challenge, half in disbelief. What? Didn’t Jim believe him? Did Jim think he said that to just anyone ... or everyone? Looking away, he shook his head. “Maybe ... I guess from your perspective, maybe it is easier for me to say the words,” he said softly, staring sightlessly at the hotel entrance. “When you grow up in one place, live in the same house and same neighborhood, go to the same school year after year, live with the same guys in your unit in the military for years at a time, work with the same people for a whole career, I guess you can afford to take your time to decide how you feel, and maybe you never have to say it, can just assume people know how you feel. But when you spend only a few months, sometimes only weeks in one place, if you don’t learn how to make connections — friends — life can be pretty damned lonely. So I had to learn, a long time ago, how to say what I feel, or nobody would ever have known they mattered to me because I’d’ve been long gone and easily forgotten.”
Turning back to Jim, he said, “But that doesn’t mean my feelings aren’t real, Jim. Or that ... that it doesn’t hurt every time I lose someone I love. Doesn’t mean, doesn’t mean I won’t miss you with every damned breath I take.”
Before Jim could answer, he was out of the car and jogging across the lot. Jim called his name, but he didn’t stop or look back. He was too close to losing it, his emotions too raw to handle. Inside, he went to the reception desk and settled Simon and Joel’s accounts. By then, Jim was beside him, a hand on his arm, but he drew away and strode into the restaurant, Jim on his heels. He plastered a bright smile on his face, something else he’d learned how to do a long time ago, to fit in, to hide behind, and waved at the two men waiting for them at a table by the window. Sliding into a chair, he wished them both a good morning and said he hoped they’d slept well. And then he picked up the menu to have something to focus on while he pulled himself together.
“I slept just fine,” Simon replied. “Nice place, comfortable.” Turning to Jim, he asked playfully, “Did Sandburg ever let you get to sleep?”
“Oh, eventually,” Jim drawled, also apparently taking refuge in his menu. “You guys ordered yet?”
“No, we just got here,” Joel told him, as the waitress appeared and filled all their cups with coffee. She took their orders and sped off to serve other customers.
“So, Blair, what’s next for you now that you’ve got your doctorate?” Joel asked.
Raking back his hair, Blair shrugged. “I’m not sure, to be honest. Jim says the trial is scheduled for late September, so I might agree to do another summer session at the school — the Principal has asked me to stay on at least that long. And I can get an extension on my lease on the cottage, so I might just keep it until the new year. That way, I’d be free for the trial but, even if it doesn’t happen, I’ve still got a place to write some articles I’ve been thinking about ... you know,” he waggled his brows, “about the law enforcement sub-culture and the thin blue line.”
Both older men snorted at that and then laughed. “I’d like to read those articles,” Joel told him.
“I’m not sure that I would,” Simon rumbled as if he was worried about what the articles might say, but then grinned and winked at Blair to show he didn’t mean it.
“Anyway, the possibilities after that are almost infinite,” Blair went on. “I’ll send out some resumes in the fall, put out some feelers ... I think I might like to do more field work before I settle down as a professor somewhere. With my graduate level courses on forensic anthropology and now this senior post-doctoral seminar with Doctor Mgambo, I’ll be fully accredited for that work as well as for my main specialty of cultural anthropology. I guess I just want to keep my options open for a while, see what comes along.”
Blair got them talking about the gang back home, so he could sit back and listen and didn’t have to make an effort to keep the conversation going. He kept his attention focused on Simon and Joel, or his food, because he couldn’t trust himself to look at Jim. God, it was so hard to face having to say ‘good-bye’. Neither one of them had been able to say it when he left Cascade, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to say it now.
When they finished, he insisted upon picking up the check. “Hey, it’s more than enough that you guys flew all the way here and rented the car to come to Putnam. I can’t ever tell you how much it meant to me to have you there yesterday. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life. The least I can do is pay for your breakfast.”
“And your rooms,” Jim interjected. “Blair paid for them, too, when we arrived.”
“Sandburg, you didn’t have to do that,” Simon protested.
“I know, but I’m glad to — and, hey, I’m earning a good salary now, so I can finally afford to be a little generous!” he replied with a smile that wasn’t feigned. These men were as important to him as anyone in his life had ever been. Joel was the father he’d never had. Simon was like a favorite uncle or even older brother. And Jim ... well, Jim was everything. It wasn’t going to be easy to say ‘good-bye’ to any of them.
But, finally, it was time for them to load their bags into their sedan. He hugged each of them really tight as he struggled to swallow the massive lump in his throat. Drawing back, he looked up at them and desperately hoped his voice wouldn’t crack as he said, “You guys ... you drive safely, okay? And have a good trip home.” Taking a shuddering breath, he added in a rush, “And you all be careful. I don’t want anything to ever happen to any of you, you hear?” Stepping back, he finished, “Give my best to everyone in Cascade.”
“We will,” Simon assured him as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“You stay in touch, Blair,” Joel told him, before sliding into the passenger seat. “And congratulations, again, son. I’m proud of you.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Jim assured him, and hugged him once more — lips just brushing his brow — before crawling into the back seat.
Blair nodded and, taking another step back, he waved as they pulled out of the parking lot.
Standing and watching until the car disappeared from view, tears glazing his eyes, he thought, We never can seem to say ‘good-bye’. Maybe ... maybe if we never say it, there’ll always be a next time. And, and it’s really something that they came, that they wanted to be here for me. Really amazing. Lifting his gaze to the sky, he prayed, Please keep them safe — all of them. Just ... keep them safe.
He sniffed and scrubbed one hand over his eyes. And then, achingly lonely, he got into his own car and drove home. Once there, he made a pot of tea and built a fire. Sitting near the warmth, craving it, he finally opened the cards he’d received the day before. Rhonda’s was a formal note of congratulations. Megan’s sported a kangaroo wearing a mortarboard and lifting a glass of champagne, and the greeting read, ‘Cheers, mate. Good on ya!’ It made him smile wistfully, wishing she could have been there, too.
And then he opened his mother’s card, which had, ‘I’m so proud of you,’ written in scrolled gold lettering on the mortarboard embossed on the white front and inside, ‘I always have been and always will be.’ Beneath it, she’d written, ‘You are the joy of my life. All I want for you is to be happy. I mean that, sweetie, with all my heart. Do whatever you need to do to be happy. Love always, Mom’.
“I would,” he said, fingering the writing on the card. “I’d do anything — if I only knew what it was that I had to do, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Setting the cards on the coffee table, he leaned back and stared at the flames. They’d come to be with him, to see him receive his doctorate, and that was ... amazing. And Jim had been there. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift over the memories of their too brief time together. He didn’t always know what Jim felt for him, but he was absolutely certain that, in his way, Jim cared deeply for him. It was crazy, but he had to believe that somehow, by some miracle, they’d find a way to make it work. He just had to believe that and keep hoping.
**
“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Simon observed about an hour into the trip back to New Haven. “You worn out from Sandburg keeping you up at least half the night?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Jim replied. When Joel barked a laugh and Simon snickered, Jim frowned, wondering what they found so funny, but he didn’t really care. He was too caught up in thinking about what Blair had said just before getting out of the car at the hotel — and about what an ass he was for never really getting it, never realizing how precious relationships were to Blair. His mind flashed to that moment when Blair had walked into Mgambo’s office the day before. There could be no doubt he’d been utterly shocked, absolutely astonished to see them there ... and then he was almost deliriously happy. Jim closed his eyes and thought about how Blair had thought nobody would be there, and remembered the sweet confession of Blair’s fantasy that he would be there. Blair had wanted that so much. It wasn’t fair, just wasn’t fair that a man like Blair, who was always ready to give so much of himself to others, should have imagined nobody would be there for him, that nobody cared about him or remembered him. Thank God Simon had just assumed they’d be there because Jim was sick to know that, left to himself, he might have convinced himself not to go. Now, he couldn’t bear to imagine Blair walking into that office and not finding them there.
And damn it ... he should have said the words, because Sandburg needed to hear them, deserved to hear them. He should have said it long ago. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t just say it?
Sighing, he looked out at the passing countryside. Blair had said they’d been here before, in another time. God — could that really be true? And what did it mean if it was? Did it mean anything at all? Jim hadn’t ever believed in destiny, and he thought the idea of reincarnation was a bunch of hokum, a panacea for those who couldn’t wrap their heads around the idea of only getting one chance to get it right. But, now, he wasn’t so sure of anything anymore. Biting his lip, he decided it didn’t matter if they’d gone around before in a past he couldn’t remember, or even if they’d go around again in some distant and unknowable future. What mattered was getting it right in the here and now.
Scrubbing his face, he figured he couldn’t get it much more wrong, so things pretty much had to get better at some point, right? He should be so lucky. Six months, he thought. I’ll see him in six months. And I’ll tell him then. I don’t know what the hell good it will do, but I swear I’ll tell him then.
March winds howled across the land, bringing rain storms that swiftly melted the snow and broke up the ice in the river. The days grew warmer as April approached, delicate green fuzz softening the stark branches of the trees and then the tender clear green of new leaves appeared; spring flowers popped out of the earth, bright tulips, cheerful daffodils and stately irises. Before long, the apple orchards were massive clouds of delicate white blossoms, their light scent perfuming the air. Other trees blossomed, too — crabapple, cherry, peach and pear — and green vines began to climb the berry frames in the fields. The rich, dark loam of the corn fields was tilled and made ready for planting.
Blair marveled at the beauty that surrounded him. Sure, spring came to the northwest, too, but the persistent dull skies and nearly constant drizzling rain somehow obscured its glory. Here, the sun was almost always shining, the skies a clear blue. Though he still missed Jim with a deep need that he was certain would never go away, he found it hard to be utterly miserable when the earth was so wonderfully alive. He was surprised to find himself whistling when he went out in the morning, more light-hearted than he’d felt in a long, long time. Despite himself, despite knowing his hopes were crazy, he felt a growing sense of anticipation, a belief that this year was going to be good.
Sardonically, trying to settle himself down, to not hope for too much, he told himself that it wouldn’t be hard for any year to be a whole lot better than the last one. Hard to top dying, being brought back and then ultimately losing everything that mattered anyway. But ... he hadn’t lost everything, had he? He had won his doctorate, and Jim ... Jim still cared about him, Blair knew he did. And, hey, he hadn’t been forgotten by the gang in MCU, or even by those at Rainier who counted. He remembered John WindTalker saying that things were seldom as bad as they seemed. Blair hadn’t believed him then but maybe the old man was right after all.
School was going fine. The kids continued to work hard and it was gratifying to see them learn, though Blair found some of the budding Lolitas a bit overwhelming. He knew it was natural for young girls to develop crushes on some of their teachers, and someday those young ladies were going to be truly breathtaking but ... but, man, they made him feel old. It had been different at Rainier — he’d never messed around with any of his students but they were at least, mostly, legal age and not so much younger than him, and sometimes he’d been sorely tempted. But these girls were nearly young enough to be his daughters, and that gave him pause. The years were rolling by, nothing stood still. He’d thought, when he was younger, that he’d really like to be a father someday, to be the father he had never had. Now, now he was hoping for a different kind of life; he probably never would have any children of his own and that had worried him a bit in the last few years. But, working with all of these kids, he found he could fulfill his need to guide the young, to support and help them along the way, through being a teacher and offering counseling based on his knowledge, and life experience. So, he was careful with the Lolitas, made sure he was never alone with one behind any closed door; but he was kind to them, too, and tried to act like a father might in gently redirecting their attentions in more appropriate directions.
Blair wasn’t sorry he’d given up teaching as well as everything else to protect Jim’s secret, but he was finding that he was very, very glad that he’d had the opportunity to find his way back. He really enjoyed working with the kids; it fulfilled a need inside of himself to share knowledge, to encourage learning, to guide the innocent. One way or another, whether as a paid teacher or as a volunteer working with youth, he was going to have build these kinds of activities into his life as the years rolled on.
The Principal was glad to extend his contract into the summer. Having a PhD on staff gave the school a certain cachet. And there’d been no problem getting his lease extended to the first of January. Blair wouldn’t let himself look too far beyond that, at least, not yet. Eventually, if his hopes all proved fruitless, he was going to have to make plans for the future, but they could wait a while longer.
Much to his surprise, his dissertation caused quite a stir. Blair had thought it would simply molder and gather dust on a library shelf. But once it was published in early May, the document proved to be astonishingly popular in some quarters and utterly reviled by others. Tribal leaders and elders, as well as the community of inner city youth and social workers hailed it as a landmark piece of work, a roadmap for action. Traditional Christian church leaders were outraged and some went so far as to call it the Devil’s handiwork. Worst of all, because of the wide publicity the book was getting, the media had resurrected his press conference and he felt sick every time he saw the previous fiasco mentioned in articles or replayed in short clips on news and talk show programs. Recalling his promise that he’d never do anything to cause the Dean to regret giving him a chance, Blair called Dr. Mgambo to apologize for the publicity. To his everlasting relief, the scholar was philosophical about it all.
“Science, Academia, and the Church have often been at loggerheads through the centuries. This certainly isn’t the first time nor will it be the last,” Mgambo reflected. “As for last year’s brouhaha, your success now serves as a fine example that individuals may make mistakes, even very big ones, and still recover to go on to great things and make a difference for the good. Don’t worry so much, Blair — at least, don’t worry about the impact all the publicity is having on this institution. Your work is compelling and you have no need to ever apologize for it.”
Blair was grateful for the Dean’s support, but he didn’t miss the qualification and he knew exactly what Mgambo meant. Resurrecting the past didn’t just impact on him.
“I’m so sorry, man,” he said when he called Jim. “I swear I had no idea my new dissertation would get such attention. It never occurred to me that ... that I’d end up bringing it all back on you.”
His gut clenched when Jim didn’t immediately reply and all he heard over the line was a tired sigh. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he murmured, low and sorrowful. “I guess I should have left well enough alone and just let the idea of a doctorate go. If I’d had any clue this would happen, I would never have —”
“Just stop right there, Chief,” Jim cut in. “You made enough sacrifices for me along the line and I don’t want you to ever regret the work you’ve done or what you’ve achieved. You deserve that PhD and I’m glad you’ve got it. As for the rest ...” he hesitated, and Blair heard another sigh that twisted his heart. “The thing is, the DA wants me to use my senses openly. She’s been pushing hard for that for months now and the recent news reports are just fueling her fire.”
“Sanchez knows? When did she find out?”
“I had to tell her how I knew Liberty was threatening the lives of Conroy’s kids.”
Blair closed his eyes and shook his head. “Dammit,” he cursed. “If I’d just kept my mouth shut about that building ...”
“You were right to blow the whistle. Don’t ever think you weren’t. At least we’ve got the family, and Conroy, too, for that matter, in protective custody. If not for you, Liberty would still be leaning on him and who knows what other substandard buildings would have gone up.”
“I know, I know. I just ... I’m sorry, Jim. I’m sorry that even when I’m not there anymore I seem to create problems for you. What are you going to do about Beverly?”
“I’m holding the line for now,” Jim replied, sounding tired. “But I keep thinking that if I did come clean, then you could publish —”
“NO!” Blair shouted, appalled by the idea. “No, I’d never publish that paper ... it wasn’t ever meant to be published widely. And if people knew you were a sentinel, then ... there’s too much in that paper that reveals your sensory vulnerabilities. I’ll never, ever publish any version of it. Never.”
“But you’ve always said that there are others out there who might benefit,” Jim protested, revealing that he’d been giving the idea a lot of thought.
Taking a breath, Blair replied as calmly as he could, “Yes, I believe there are. But I won’t help the hypothetical and unknown ‘them’ if there would be any conceivable risk to you. I won’t. If you keep the lid on it, then someday I may write some general articles about the phenomenon of enhanced sensory abilities, about how to recognize them and manage them. But such articles would inevitably have to deal with things like zone-outs and sensory spikes so if it becomes known that you’re a sentinel, then I won’t write them. Period.”
“Still watching my back, huh, Chief?” Jim observed, his tone soft.
“Always, man. Always. In any way I still can.”
“Okay, Chief, okay. I’ll keep fending her off,” Jim said, sounding relieved. “As for other reactions here, well ... what can I say? Some know, some guess, some never believed it in the first place and that’s pretty much the way it still is. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Blair hoped that was true. “There’s something else,” he said then. “My current paper has gotten so hyped in the popular media that I’ve been invited to appear on Oprah in a couple weeks. She’s bound to raise what happened last year. Maybe I’ll be able to deflect it all and put an end to any and all speculation.”
“Don’t crucify yourself, Sandburg. I mean it,” Jim growled fiercely. “If you ever do that to yourself again because of me, I swear I’ll blow it all wide open.”
“Hey, hey, calm down. No, no, I was just thinking the old ‘lessons learned and life goes on, one mistake doesn’t define a lifetime’, kind of thing,” Blair hastened to assure him.
There was a short silence while Blair waited with bated breath for Jim to mull that over. Then, “Okay, but you can bet I’ll see it, so make sure you don’t do yourself any damage.”
“Still protecting me, huh?” Blair said, soft, only half teasing.
“Always,” Jim replied, echoing his earlier words, sounding heart-stoppingly sincere. “In any way I still can.”
“Aw, shit, man, don’t go getting mushy on me,” Blair replied with a watery chuckle, earning a small laugh in return from Jim. Sniffing and clearing his throat, thinking how much different it was to hear the words rather than say them, he fought to recover his equilibrium. “Look, I better go. Got the finals to grade.”
“Okay, Chief. Take care.”
“You, too, man. You, too.”
**
Two weeks later, Blair was very glad he’d anticipated the reference to last year’s debacle and was ready with his answer.
“Well, you know, Oprah,” he replied to her observation that he’d admitted to fraud and to being a liar just over a year before, lowering his voice and leaning in a little closer to her as if to imply intimate confidentiality, “nobody goes through life without making mistakes they regret, and some mistakes are bigger than others — but not many get to say ‘mea culpa’ on national television.” He gave her a small smile of embarrassed chagrin and shrugged, hoping to look like the kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar — and won the laugh he’d hoped for from the audience.
Sobering, he straightened and went on, “I was young and I did something foolish, and I was sorry. Still am, especially for the difficulty and hurt it caused to someone who is and always has been a very decent man, an outstanding detective and a really good friend to me. But, if anything good could can come from that mess, I hope picking myself up and carrying on to finish my doctorate is an example that one mistake, however bad it is, doesn’t have to spell the end. People can go on and, and do good things, make a difference. I hope that’s what this book will do — help make a positive difference, particularly in our inner cities, but also in our society in general.”
“I’m sure it will — or at least, I very much hope it will,” she replied with enthusiasm and a warm smile of approval, maybe even of admiration, as she held up the book to show the cover to the camera. “There are some who say this book is the work of the Devil,” she said then, lobbing the ball back to him.
Leaning toward her again, he smiled playfully and said, “Well, I can honestly say, the Devil didn’t make me do it.” After another laugh from the audience, he continued, “Seriously, though, I understand why Church leaders may be concerned. Fundamentalists in every religion believe there is one, and only one, way to find God, to worship Him and to live a good, moral life — their way. I don’t happen to agree. I think God is more generous than that, more kind and loving, and has given us many, many different paths to find Him.” He paused at the smattering of applause and murmurs of approbation, and smiled at the audience. When the crowd quieted, he directed his words toward them and, unconsciously, toward the camera.
“Even so, let’s be clear, when I speak of shamans in the book, I don’t discount that pastors, ministers, priests, rabbis, and imans can be and very definitely are shamans in the context of being spiritual leaders of their people. My concern is that a narrow, exclusionary approach, one that preaches hellfire and damnation, judging others harshly and condemning their souls for eternity, does more harm than good, and misses the point of spiritual enlightenment, healing and growth. For me, God and this creation, this magnificent creation of the world and the universe, of everything and everyone, is about love, the incredible, sweeping creative power of love that informs and transforms our existence every single day.”
“So you do believe in God,” she probed, drawing his attention back to her.
He nodded slowly, reflectively. “Yes, Oprah, yes, I do.”
And that was it. The rest of the interview focused on the ideas in his book and there was no more said about sentinels, no speculation about whether they existed or not, and no more talk of the Devil. By the time the interview was over, Blair felt like he’d run a marathon and was totally wrung out, but he was pleased with how it went. He hoped Jim would be, too.
**
Jim sat down to watch the program with a feeling a trepidation. But he couldn’t help smiling as he watched his partner’s deft responses to the first, tough questions. “Smooth, Sandburg, very smooth,” he murmured, proud of the kid. And then he relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the show. When it was over, he called Blair to congratulate him and tell him he’d like to read the book. “And given how famous you’re getting, I want an autographed copy.”
Blair laughed and sounded so downright pleased by his call that Jim was still smiling and feeling pretty damned good much later when he went to bed.
The next morning, Megan, Joel and Simon were all effusive in their praise for how well Sandburg had handled himself in the interview. Simon also noted, with no little satisfaction, that Sandburg’s doctorate from Yale, the current good press and the growing interest in his dissertation wouldn’t do his credibility any harm when it came time for him to testify.
Good thing, Jim thought, because it looked like that testimony was going to be necessary; Conroy was continuing to stonewall them. They still hadn’t revealed the name of the key witness to his lawyer but, come September, that would be necessary or they really would end up with a mistrial. Jim was hoping that once the lawyer found out Blair was the witness and given the upswing in his credibility, the lawyer might persuade Conroy to work with them. If not, and if Blair’s name was revealed to the press, Liberty would have a new and prominent target. Whether Blair liked it or not, at that point he was also going to have to go into protective custody. Jim did not look forward to breaking that to him.
Brown and Rafe didn’t say anything at all about Oprah or Sandburg that morning, but they seemed subdued, thoughtful, and Jim was sure they’d seen it, too. He was proved right when Henri approached him later in the day.
“Uh, Jim, I ... well, I wanted to say that I think I was wrong about Hairboy. Wrong about a lot of things. And I’m sorry. It’s ... it’s good to see he’s doing so well and that new book of his sounds like it might even be interesting. Anyway, I hope we can kinda put it all behind us and start over, no hard feelings.”
Jim nodded soberly, then stood and held out his hand for Brown to shake. “No hard feelings,” he said, and would do his best to mean it, mostly because it would mean a lot to Blair — and Simon, too, for that matter — to know the rifts were healing.
**
Summer arrived, bringing the best weather Cascade had seen in months ... which inevitably meant an upswing in the incidence of crime. Summer also meant the advent of holiday season, and being short-handed required those few left on duty to work a lot of overtime. By the end of August, Jim was feeling the strain of lost sleep, too much caffeine, and the need to actively manage his senses during far too many hours of surveillance and stake-outs. Fighting the headache from hell and a queasy stomach, he tried to listen into a conversation between two guys in a warehouse more than half a block away, who might or might not be planning a major arms heist in the near future. He was having a problem hearing one of the guys, who not only had a thick Brazilian accent but also had a regrettable tendency to mumble. Frowning with effort, he struggled to increase his range but he still couldn’t seem to focus well enough to hear....
“Jim! Jim!”
Jerking out of the fog, he winced at Joel shouting in his ear and stiffened against being shook by the big man. “Okay,” he rasped, holding up his hands, his brow furrowed against the headache that raged in his skull. God, it felt like the top of his head was going to blow off. “Okay. I’m back.”
“Geez, Jim, you were out of it for over five minutes!” Joel exclaimed, worry ringing in his voice. “This is happening too much, man. Maybe you better give those senses a rest.”
Rubbing his temples, his eyes pressed closed to block out the annoying flickering of the street light on the corner, Jim thought Joel might be right about that. “Yeah,” he agreed with a frustrated sigh when Joel gripped his arm to make sure he was still present and listening.
“You don’t look too good, Jim.”
He wanted to deny it, but the sad truth was that he felt like hell. His gut was roiling and the nausea was sour in the back of his throat. He could smell the stench of the garbage bins at the other end of the ally as if he was standing in the middle of them, and he couldn’t seem to get a good enough grip on the dial to turn the sense down.
“You think you’re coming down with the ‘flu?”
Swallowing against the burning bile, trying not to gag, he muttered, “No. No, it’s just hard when I’m tired.”
“I don’t remember you having this hard a time when you were working with Blair,” Joel said, sounding troubled. “Am I doin’ somethin’ wrong here?”
“No, no, nothing wrong,” Jim assured him wearily. Leaning his aching head back against the headrest, he squinted into the night. “It was ... it was just easier with Sandburg. Don’t know why. Just was.” Carefully, he tilted his splitting head to look at his very concerned partner. “Honest, Joel. You’re doing everything right. It’s me. I ... it’s just been getting harder to concentrate, that’s all. I think I’m just tired.”
Joel harrumphed. “Maybe,” he allowed, sounding skeptical. “Or maybe you just need him.” He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about it, especially since, well, since you started zoning more, an’ having more spikes. I mean, that paper he wrote was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’d almost be willing to bet that he understands your senses better than you do.”
A sad, wistful smile flitted over Jim’s lips as he remembered how Blair had always been coming up with new ideas to help him focus, to keep him grounded — all stuff he had to remember or think of on his own now. Joel did okay, but he wasn’t able to anticipate what Jim was going to need before he needed it. “You’re right,” he admitted quietly. “You’d win that bet.”
Joel heaved a long breath. Shaking his head, he said, “I’m doing my best, you know that. But ... but I don’t think just anyone can do this, can do what Blair did for you.” Turning to Jim, frowning in concern, he asked, “What’re you gonna do when I retire this fall? I may not be as good as him, but I’m better’n nothin’. Have you talked to Simon yet about who you want to work with next?”
Jim could feel his jaw tighten and his lips thin in resistance — he hated talking about his senses, about the problems they caused, about what to do about them. And he really hated the idea of breaking in a new partner. So he tried real hard not to think about it. “No,” he replied, knowing he sounded pissed off and that Joel didn’t deserve it, but unable to completely hide his aversion to the whole conversation. “No, I haven’t talked to Simon. No need. You’re not retiring for months, yet.”
Joel didn’t look happy with his response, but he let it go. Grateful, Jim tried to return his attention to the warehouse they were monitoring for illicit activity, but his headache pounded and pounded and the nausea increased until he broke out in a cold sweat and had to breathe shallowly in an effort to control it. All of sudden, he realized he wasn’t going to win the battle. Abruptly, he shoved his door open and stumbled to the ground, where he doubled over and vomited.
Joel was beside him in the space between one retch and another, supporting him. “That’s it,” his partner muttered, passing him a bottle of water to rinse his mouth. “I’m calling in to book us off duty.”
“No. I need ... we need to get backup to tail them both,” he grated between teeth clenched against the urge to retch again, still doubled over just in case he lost that battle, too. “I think the deal might be going down in the next few days. Couldn’t ... couldn’t get enough to be sure.”
“That’s okay, Jim; that’s okay. That’s a whole lot more than we had,” Joel reassured him. “We’re done here, at least for tonight. I’m taking you home.”
Mortified, disgusted with his inability to control his own damned senses, to manage the effect they had on his body, Jim wanted to protest, but there was no point. He couldn’t work like this. God, he hoped once he’d gotten some sleep that he’d be a whole lot better. If he wasn’t ... if he wasn’t....
His gut rolled again at the thought that he didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t have a damned clue what he was going to do.
**
“Jim, got a minute?” Simon called from his office doorway the next day.
Jim looked at Joel, whose expression was somewhere between defiant and sheepish. “I had to say something to him,” Joel admitted. “I’m worried about you.”
Jim nodded and, with a wave to Simon who was waiting for him, pushed himself up from his desk.
“You want me to come with you?” Joel offered.
“No, no, that’s alright,” he said.
Simon didn’t like the weary pallor or the way Jim moved with such stiff deliberation, as if he was teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Standing aside as Jim passed him, he waved his friend to a chair at the table and closed the door. Choosing a chair across the conference table from Jim, rather than going back behind his desk, he hoped Jim would understand that this conversation wasn’t exactly off the record, but at least was motivated by concern.
“You said you’d let me know if you had trouble with your senses,” he began, knowing it was blunt but there was no point in beating around the bush.
Jim grimaced and looked away, shaking his head. “It’s been a long stretch,” he said. “I’m just tired.”
“Really? Is that all that’s going on here?”
Turning back to him with a look of exasperation, Jim countered, “What do you want me to say? That ... that it’s getting harder as time goes on? That I don’t know if I can keep using them? I thought I could manage, and I was doing okay.”
“But?”
His shoulders slumping, Jim sighed. “But I don’t know if I can. Not all the time. Not ... not with the hours we’ve been working lately.”
“Can you just turn them down? Give yourself a break? At least for a while? Because I can’t do anything about the schedule. We’re short-handed, you know that.”
Jim nodded, and he stared out the window behind Simon. “I can try that,” he said, his gaze drifting back to Simon’s. “But I have to tell you, I’ve been having trouble keeping them where I put them.”
Simon frowned at that, wishing he understood better what Jim had to do to deal with his senses.
Perhaps in response to his evident confusion, Jim went on, “I ... I imagine these dials in my head; one for each sense. I should be able to turn them down to normal or even lower. But last night ... last night, that wasn’t working.” He hesitated then, sounding a little desperate, said in rush, “I’m sure it’s just because I’m bushed, Simon. I ... I can still do my job. I know I can do my job.”
Simon lifted a calming hand. “I’m not suggesting you can’t,” he said, low and reassuring, but increasingly concerned. “With or without your senses, you’re one hell of a detective.” Jim looked gratified by that and seemed to relax, at least marginally. “Okay, let’s try this. I want you to turn them down to at least ‘normal’, unless absolutely necessary, like an immediate threat to life or when you’re going over a crime scene. Even then, if you think it’s too much to risk until things ease up and you can get more rest, don’t use them.”
Jim took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay,” he agreed, but he didn’t look happy.
“Maybe give Blair a call, see if he’s got any ideas,” Simon ventured.
“No,” Jim replied, tight and tough, lifting his gaze in a glare. “No, I don’t want him to know about this — it’s not his concern anymore and he’d only worry. I have to deal with this on my own.”
Simon studied him, and then nodded. Involving Sandburg wasn’t something he could order Jim to do. “Alright, it’s your call,” he agreed, if reluctantly. “But keep me posted, okay? I need to know how you’re doing.”
Jim nodded tightly and got up to leave the office.
Watching him walk slowly, heavily to the door, worried about him, Simon was more determined than ever to win his campaign of attrition with his boss and his colleagues, to hire a cultural anthropologist with accreditation in forensic anthropology — preferably one with a PhD from a highly respected university ... oh, like Yale, for example. So far, he’d encountered only resistance to the idea, but he was convinced of the need and he had no intention of giving up. Eventually, he was sure he’d wear them down — and his ace in the hole was that he’d throw in the salary dollars that would come free when Joel retired, which made the increase he’d need in his budget marginal. Smiling wolfishly to himself, he figured there was no point in tossing in that sweetener just yet. God knew, he could use another detective as well as his own anthropologist.
His smile faded as he reflected that he just hoped Jim could last another few months without Sandburg.
“Jim,” he called. His detective — his friend — turned in the doorway, and Simon was struck again by how pale and exhausted he looked. “Take the rest of the day. Get some sleep.”
Scowling, abruptly deciding that he didn’t have time to play the usual politics, he waited until he was sure Ellison was out of the building and then punched in the numbers on his phone that would take the game to a whole new level. His colleagues and the Chief might be pissed off, but Simon was convinced he was right and that what he wanted — what Jim needed — was absolutely necessary. “Commissioner? Simon Banks. Sir, I need to see you about our sentinel.” He listened, and nodded. “Uh huh. Right away, sir.”
On his way out, Simon smiled cynically. Okay, so maybe the Chief and his colleagues weren’t convinced that they needed a certain anthropologist on staff. But they’d come around once they saw what Sandburg could do now that he was fully qualified and would have a real position, not just be an observer trying to keep his head down so nobody would start watching too closely and wondering why he was there one year after another. And he knew damned well the Commissioner didn’t want to lose the edge their sentinel gave them. Jim wouldn’t be happy about him using his problems with his senses as leverage, but Simon figured he’d be thrilled with the outcome.
Punching the elevator button, he tried not to feel too guilty about pushing Jim to the limit over the past more than two months. Bottom line, he’d needed to know the limits of what Jim could handle on his own, or at least with the support of a willing — but not the perfect — partner. Well, now he knew. In the last five years, he’d seen Jim in a lot of moods, in dangerous and enervating situations, and sometimes in pretty bad shape. But he’d never seen him as exhausted, as worn down by the sheer effort of trying to manage his senses as he was now. Simon had no doubt, not anymore, that Jim needed Sandburg to work at the peak of his skill.
Sandburg had done his part. He’d restored his credibility and, what with writing a dissertation that had direct implications for inner city communities of major urban centers, obtaining certification in forensics, learning to use weapons and acquiring self-defense skills, the man had obtained qualifications nobody could question.
So now it was up to him.
Unfortunately, he thought as he stepped into the elevator, moving heaven and earth would probably be easier than getting a damned budget increase.
Grimacing, he hit the button for the top floor. “And let the games begin,” he muttered as he squared his shoulders and prepared to do battle.
**
Unable to reach either Captain Simon Banks or Detective Jim Ellison at their office numbers, Beverly Sanchez smacked her desk in frustration. The trial of the State versus Joseph Conroy was less than a month away, but she’d hoped she’d have at least another week before the last crucial bit of information would have to be given away. However, she’d just been advised by the Court that she had to release Sandburg’s name to Conroy’s attorney before the end of the day — less than five hours away — or risk the Judge throwing the whole thing out and ordering Conroy’s release. Her suspicious mind wondered who had put pressure on whom to put her in such a tight box.
Sanchez had no illusions that once the information was no longer sealed, someone, somewhere along the chain of communication, would get the name to Vance Liberty. Without Sandburg, she didn’t have a case — and, with no case, they would have no leverage on Conroy. Sighing, she knew it was no small miracle that they’d kept Sandburg’s name out of it this long, and that had only been possible because the group who knew was made up only of herself, Banks, Ellison, Taggart, and the Chief Building Inspector, Royce Hollins. Even Conroy himself didn’t know who had been working on that site and, because he hadn’t been injured, they’d managed to keep Blair’s name off the list of survivors. Biting her lip, she frowned ... okay, so maybe a few others in the Major Crime Unit knew, but they were a tight team, their integrity obviously beyond question or Blair would probably already be dead.
The time had definitely come to get Sandburg into protective custody. Hell, it was past time. Long past time.
Calling her secretary into her office, she directed that an air ticket be arranged for Blair Sandburg, from New Haven, Connecticut, to Cascade, as close to immediately as possible. Glancing at her watch, she quickly calculated the time it would take for the man to travel from his home to the airport. “The first flight available no less and no more than three hours from now,” she instructed.
Flipping through her personal notes, she found his number and picked up the phone. “God, I hope you’re home,” she muttered as she listened to the connection click and the ringing start on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Blair? It’s Beverly Sanchez.”
“Hey, Beverly, how’s it going?”
“Blair, things are heating up here and I don’t have time to explain right now. I need you to pack for an unknown amount of time, and get to the New Haven airport within the next three hours. Will you do that?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, if you say it’s necessary. What flight?”
“Hold on a minute.” Beverly went to the doorway and looked impatiently at her secretary, who finished speaking on the phone and then relayed the airline and flight number. She nodded sharply and wheeled back to her desk. “Delta flight four twenty-one, leaving at three-fifteen this afternoon your time, from New Haven. You can pick up the ticket at the check-in desk.”
“Got it,” Blair replied. “But I thought the trial wasn’t until the end of September.”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Someone you recognize will meet you at the airport. Probably Jim.”
“Good, thanks. See you soon.”
Terminating the call, she sat back, pleased that Blair was willing to move so fast. She’d delay transmitting the information until the last possible moment, and he’d be halfway across the continent before his name got out; safe more than thirty thousand feet above the earth, until he landed in Cascade. Her secretary didn’t know he was a key witness, and Beverly would relay the information to the defendant’s lawyer personally. Hopefully, by moving so fast, she’d confuse the opposition long enough that they wouldn’t find out he was already on his way until they had him locked down in a safehouse. Not that she didn’t trust her staff to be discreet, but she’d learned the hard way that anybody could be pressured into revealing what they knew. Of even more risk was idle gossip around in the breakroom. Tomorrow would be soon enough for her secretary to find out why she’d had to arrange the flight so urgently.
Pushing her hair back from her face, she again called Banks and left a message that it was urgent that he get back to her before the end of the day.
**
Blair was glad to see Jim waiting for him when he came off of the ramp and into the arrival lounge. God, he looked good, even in a casual summer shirt and pants, with a Jags cap pulled down over his brow. But one look at Jim’s stormy countenance caused him to slow down, and was more than enough to let him know that there was trouble brewing.
“Hey, man,” he asked immediately, “what’s going on? Why did Beverly want me here so fast?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No, she just said things were ‘heating up’.”
Jim nodded and, his gaze sweeping the terminal, took Blair by the arm to hasten him toward the baggage claim area. “She was ordered to give your name to Conroy’s lawyer today ... so that means Vance Liberty is probably already looking for you.”
“Oh, man,” Blair breathed. “You really think he’ll come after me?”
“Does it rain in Cascade?”
“Right,” Blair grunted. “So now what? We go home and batten down the hatches?”
Jim glanced at him, his lips thin and his jaw tight. “I’m taking you to a safehouse.”
Blair blinked in surprise and then dug in his heels, refusing to be hustled another step further. “No,” he said, bringing his arms down in a gesture of finality. “I won’t be locked away for the next month.”
“Sandburg, I don’t have time to argue with you. If Liberty managed to find out you were on that plane —”
“No,” Blair insisted, gripping Jim’s arm and holding his gaze. “You and I both know that I’m safer with you than anywhere else. So unless you’re going to hole up with me, then, no.”
“Let’s discuss this someplace a little more secure, okay?” Jim growled.
Blair was about to protest further when his cellphone started ringing in his backpack. Jim put an arm around his shoulder, propelling him forward, while he dug out the phone and, rolling his eyes, stated, “Sandburg.”
“Doctor Sandburg. You don’t know me but I have Darryl Banks. I’m prepared to trade him for you.”
Blair stumbled and might have fallen except Jim had stopped just as suddenly and his steel grip kept Blair on his feet. “W-what?” he stammered, twisting to look up in appalled horror at Jim, who was reaching for his own cell.
“You heard me. I want to you to be in Cascade no later than ten tomorrow morning for the exchange. You’ll rent a car and come alone to Cascade Storage on state highway five forty-seven. Park outside locker fifty-one. Young Mister Banks can drive your vehicle back to the city — you won’t be needing it anymore. And I hear you’re a smart man, so you know if I even sniff a cop, the kid is dead.”
Jim was making gestures for him to keep the conversation going.
“Wait, slow down. I need to write that down.”
“Ten AM tomorrow. Cascade Storage. Highway five forty-seven. Locker fifty-one. No cops. You’d better remember or nobody will see this kid again.”
“I ... I need to talk to him. To know he’s okay.”
There was a pause, and then, “Blair?” The voice had deepened in the past year, but Blair recognized his young friend immediately. The kid sounded badly shaken.
“It’s okay, Darryl. Are you hurt? Have you seen any of their faces?”
“No, ski-masks. They just grabbed me at school and —”
“I’ll get you out of this. I promise. You’re going to be okay.”
“Tell my Dad —”
But the words stopped and then the first voice spoke with silky confidence, “See you tomorrow, Doctor Sandburg.”
“Wait. Just wait a minute! I’ll want to talk to him again tomorrow before I go out there. Otherwise, I won’t show.”
“As you wish. I’ll call you precisely at ten — you’d better be off the plane and able to answer your phone.”
And the line went dead.
Jim snapped into his phone, “Did you get a trace?” He grimaced and shook his head at Blair.
“Oh, God,” Blair breathed. His hands trembling, he shoved his phone into his jacket pocket.
Jim had terminated his call and was punching in another number. He held up a hand to signal Blair to wait, and then said into the phone, “Simon? We’ve got a problem. Meet us at the safehouse as soon as you can. Be careful — you’ll probably need to lose a tail.” He listened, his expression drawn and impatient. “Yes, I’ve got him. But Liberty just called him. I’ll give you the details when I see you — I need to get him out of this air terminal. It’s not safe.” He nodded, closed the phone and grabbed Blair’s arm. “Come on, we need to get your bag and get out of here.”
“But ...”
“He doesn’t know you’re already here and we have to keep it that way. My place might be watched.”
Numbly, Blair nodded and allowed Jim to pull him along.
Ski-masks, he thought, struggling to get past the shock and horror and reaching for hope. That means they really might let him go.
Jim remained on high alert while he retrieved his bag from the carrousel, and on the way to the truck, which was parked just outside the sliding doors. Feeling stunned, needing to think, too staggered by what was happening to put his feelings into words, Blair felt chilled to the bone and shivered as he clamped the seatbelt. But once Jim had pulled away from the curb, he said firmly, “We’re going to make the trade.”
Jim didn’t say anything; just shook his head.
“I mean it, Jim. I promised Darryl I’d get him out of this. If he hasn’t seen their faces, there’s no reason for them not to let him go.”
The muscle along Jim’s jaw flexed. “I know,” he rasped. “I heard you.” Cutting Blair a hard look, he added, “There’re no guarantees he’ll keep his word. Liberty doesn’t leave loose ends.”
Blair shivered again and crossed his arms to hold himself together. Taking a shuddering breath, he said, “If there’s even a chance ... I have to make the trade. C’mon, he’s a cop’s kid; even Liberty will think twice about killing him.”
Jim inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. Reaching across the cab, he gripped Blair’s shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, Chief,” he vowed quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “I don’t intend to lose either one of you.”
Blair met his eyes and, reassured by the determination he read there — and his unshakeable belief in Jim — he managed a wobbly smile and nodded. “I’m counting on that, man,” he said, and lifted a hand to cover Jim’s.
**
Jim had barely gotten Blair inside the condo apartment they’d selected for his safekeeping when he smelled Simon’s cigars. Opening his senses, he scanned the place to be certain there was no one else there, as there shouldn’t be because Jim had volunteered for the first shift. Satisfied, waving Blair back out of sight, he returned to the door and opened it just as Simon was about to knock.
“I hate it when you do that,” Simon groused as he moved past Jim. “Okay, I’m here,” he went on as he led the way into the living room where he nodded at Blair. “So what did Liberty say?”
Jim exchanged a quick look with Blair and dearly wished there was an easy way to do this, but there wasn’t. “Simon, he’s got Darryl and he wants to do an exchange to get Blair tomorrow.”
Simon gaped at him, his eyes widening with stunned disbelief. Then he blanched and staggered a step back, as if he’d just been slugged, hard. Jim reached out to steady him and gently pushed him down into a chair. Blair hurried into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. Going down on one knee, he offered the glass with one hand and gripped Simon’s forearm with the other. “I’m so sorry, Simon,” Blair said, then hastened to add, “I talked to Darryl, and he’s okay. They’re wearing ski-masks and he hasn’t seen any faces. I promised him I’d get him out of there.”
Simon slowly turned his head to look at Blair. “We don’t make trades,” he said, his voice hollow, his expression devastated.
“Well, screw that,” Blair retorted. “Here,” he said, urging the glass on Simon. “Maybe there’s something stronger here, but I haven’t had time to look.”
His hands trembling, Simon took the glass between them and managed to drink some of the cool liquid. Then he looked up at Jim. “You sure it was Liberty?”
“Yeah, I recognized his voice. Darryl said they snatched him at school. Must’ve been just before they called. Otherwise, Dispatch would have called you; somebody must’ve seen it, reported it.”
Simon nodded stiffly and Jim could see he was trying hard to keep together, to make sense of what he was hearing. He wished he could pull the man into his arms but he knew any display of emotion or support at this point might well shatter the control Simon was managing to maintain ... and that wouldn’t help anything. Pulling up a chair, he sat so close to his friend that their knees were almost touching. “Simon, he doesn’t know Blair is already in Cascade, so the trade is set for tomorrow, mid-morning. We’ve got time to figure out how to get Darryl out of danger.”
“If he’s still alive,” Simon muttered, sounding like something vital had broken inside.
“He’s alive. They won’t hurt him at least until they’ve got me,” Blair stated, firm and sure. “Otherwise, they don’t have any leverage on me.”
Simon swallowed hard and, slumping back in the chair, wiped a still shaking hand over his face. “I ... I can’t let you —”
“You can’t stop me,” Blair cut in. “So we better come up with a plan that’s better than me just walking in there and handing Darryl the keys to my rental car.”
Simon looked at Blair for a long time; Jim could see tears glimmering in his eyes, and Simon’s jaw was working as he fought for control. Then he swallowed, nodded slowly, and cleared his throat. “Okay,” he rasped, sounding breathless but determined. “Okay, what do we know? Where’s this supposed to go down?”
Blair rewarded him with a smile and, standing, gripped his shoulder reassuringly as he looked at Jim to take over.
Jim wished he couldn’t hear Blair’s heart pounding a mile a minute. However confident he was trying to appear, Blair was scared stiff.
And so was he. Whatever plan they came up with, Blair was going to have to walk into the lion’s den for them to have any hope of them letting Darryl go. Meeting Simon’s eyes, he could see that his friend had already grasped that salient point ... and Jim nearly lost it when he saw compassion warring with the terror for his boy’s life. He had to clear the lump from his own throat before he could report, “Blair insisted that he talk to Darryl again tomorrow morning, and that will happen at ten, presumably at the airport because Liberty thinks he’ll have just arrived and he might have people watching. Blair’s supposed to drive a rental car to the exchange, which will happen at Cascade Storage, out on the state highway.” He frowned and bit his lip. “There’s something ... the name of the place is familiar.”
Simon nodded. “I know the place and you probably do, too — out on the edge of town. Been there about five years. There’s not much cover, just fields around it.” He scratched his cheek and glanced up at Blair. “How good are you with a handgun?”
“I hit what I aim at,” Blair said, his eyes going wide and his heart tripping in an even faster beat. “But, uh, I’ve never aimed it at anything alive.”
“Well, you might get your chance tomorrow,” Simon rumbled. “You up for it?” When Blair nodded solemnly, Simon looked from him to Jim and said, “Okay, we’ll need to flesh this out, but here’s how I think we can play it.”
**
From out of the east a stranger came, a law book in his hand.
A man, the kind of man the west would need to tame a troubled land.
But the point of a gun was the only law that Liberty understood,
And when it came to shooting straight and fast — he was mighty good.
Blair was fading fast. Though he’d actively participated in at least the first five or six scenarios the other two men discussed at length, the violent rush of adrenaline had long since passed. It was well after midnight — which for him meant it was edging toward dawn — and he was having trouble concentrating. They’d gone over it and over it, bouncing around ideas for how they might get SWAT involved versus handling it all themselves. They’d talked about the risks, about mitigating them by getting Blair to wear a vest, but it was summer and hot and there was no way he could hide such a garment, so he adamantly refused to do so. His initial bravado, that he’d do whatever was necessary to save Darryl, was gone. Oh, he was still determined, that hadn’t changed, but the enormity of what he was proposing to do had set in and he knew, without doubt, that there was a good chance he was going to die in a few hours.
He needed to wrap his head around that. Needed to think about dying. About losing everything he had, everything he knew and, looking at Jim, everything he’d hoped for so much. As Simon and Jim came to the conclusion that they had to have SWAT support because they couldn’t risk Liberty getting away after killing all of them, Blair looked around the room, taking it in for the first time. The apartment was very comfortably furnished and the massive window looked out over the city, a panorama of lights. He knew he’d be able to see the channel islands in the distance when the sun came up. He was in a ‘safehouse’. Not home, in the loft, but here, because Jim had wanted him here.
Jim hadn’t wanted him staying at the loft for what might amount to months, until the trial was over. Okay, right, he said he wanted him safe, but he would be safe with Jim and they both knew it. And ... and except for those few moments in the truck, Jim hadn’t protested him going in alone to face certain death, not like he would have two years ago. Nor had Jim kissed him or hugged him since he’d arrived. Okay, okay, so things had gone bad very fast and there were other much more important things on his mind, like saving Darryl and getting Liberty but ...
Face it, Blair thought, it’s over. It’s been over for a long time and you just never wanted to face it. Jim hadn’t planned to stay with you last February, either, but you pushed it. Just like you always push it.
Heartsick, scared of impending death, Blair shifted a few feet away from the others and slumped down in the corner of the sofa. His mind drifted from the intense discussion and the room around him, back to the last time he’d died. Jim had been pulling away from him for weeks, maybe months, before Alex blew into town, but she’d ended it. Nothing had been the same since. Nothing. He’d hung on, hoping and hoping they’d somehow find their way back to the easy relationship they’d had before...
Frowning, he tried to remember the last time things had been really good between him and Jim, uncomplicated, fun, when they found simple enjoyment just in being together. But he couldn’t remember when that had been. Two years ago? Longer? Blair scrubbed his face, trying to stay awake, to pay attention to what was going on. But all he could think about was Jim bringing him back from the blue jungle, and he wondered now as he’d wondered then and often since, why? Why had he been granted another chance to live?
Maybe this was why. So he’d be here. So he could save one innocent life. Because, in a karmic way, what was happening now was all his responsibility. These moments, this whole horrible nightmare wouldn’t be happening at all if he hadn’t searched all his life for a sentinel; if he hadn’t forced himself into Jim’s life and world. If he hadn’t written that damned dissertation ... and then, instead of leaving, which he should have done immediately, he’d hung around, gotten that job at the construction site, recorded the illegalities and set things in motion for the upcoming trial. That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? The trial?
Wearily, he raked his hair back and rested his head on the back of the sofa. Crossing his arms against the chill he’d felt ever since he’d learned Darryl was in deadly danger, he wondered if he’d ever feel warm again. Was it warm on the other side? He couldn’t help a small, wry, smile. Not too warm, I hope. Surely my sins aren’t as bad as that.
But his smile faded. The more he thought about it, the more Blair was certain that his life since the fountain had led to this. That he’d been allowed to come back in order to save Darryl’s life and, in doing so, restore some of his karmic balance before he left this incarnation. He felt sadness well up to fill him, but he told himself it wouldn’t be so bad to die now — because he couldn’t really picture a life without Jim, anyway. Nor did he want to. Better that he should finish now, doing something right and good and decent. Better that it should all just be over with.
“Sandburg? You okay?”
Jim’s voice brought him back from where he’d been, deep inside his head. “Yeah,” he murmured. Unable to look at Jim because it just hurt too much to know Jim didn’t want him anymore, not even for the sex, he dropped his eyes. “Just tired.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
He lifted his gaze then to meet Jim’s. “Yes,” he said. “I do. Darryl’s not going to die because of me.”
“Blair,” Simon intervened. “You shouldn’t think that. This isn’t your fault or your responsibility. It’s because he’s my son and because Liberty is a killer by nature. Jim’s right. You do not have to do this. You’re ... you’re not a cop.”
Poor Simon, trying so damned hard to do the right thing, to be fair, even though it must just be killing him to know Darryl’s in such danger. Aloud, he forced a chuckle and said, “Simon, if you remind me that I’m not a cop one more time, I’ll throw something at you.” But he softened his tone to add, “It’s okay, Simon. I want to do this — couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. And ...” he hesitated but forged on, “if something goes wrong, if ... well, you guys are good but I understand the risks.”
“You’re not going to die, Sandburg,” Jim growled, sounding angry. “You need to pay attention to the discussion, so you’ll know what to do tomorrow.”
“You mean later today,” he replied dryly. Shrugging, he went on, dully laying out what had been clear for hours. “What’s to know? I’ll drive in; Simon will be in the trunk. Basically, in every possible scenario, my job is to present myself to them and get them to let Darryl go — and if I can’t, to cover him until you guys can rescue him. You’ll have gotten there earlier, and be hiding in some innocuous sedan around the corner. You’ll listen to figure out how many we’re up against and relay that by radio to Simon, who will pass it along to the cops on backup, who will appear as soon as Darryl is clear. Simon will sneak out of the trunk and pull Darryl back to safety behind the car. You’ll come around the corner to try to bail me out. By then, I’ll be inside the storage locker with the bad guys and I’ll have a weapon. I’ll toss my overnight bag at them to create a distraction, drop, roll and, if necessary, shoot any I can. And we’ll see where the chips fall. No matter what other ideas you guys have talked to death tonight, they all have those core elements. That’s it, that’s all.”
“And rescue you, too, Chief,” Jim reminded him, his voice tight, even cold.
“Yeah, and rescue me, too,” Blair agreed, looking away. If you can.
Simon looked at his watch. “Blair’s right. We need to make the necessary arrangements. Jim, you need to get down to the station to pick up a car from impound, one that there’s no way they’ll identify as an undercover vehicle, and get your communication gear. We need you out there, on site, before Liberty and his men get there. I’ll arrange for backup — I think having SWAT come in, hidden in a transport truck, is the best option we came up with to get them on-site without raising any suspicions. I’ll take Blair back to the airport no later than nine, and make the arrangements with the rental car company to be in the trunk before he claims it, just in case he’s followed. You carrying your extra piece?”
Mutely, Jim bent to remove his ankle holster that held his snub-nose revolver, and put it on the coffee table. Standing, he looked at Blair. Glancing up at him, Blair was struck by how uncomfortable Jim looked, how uncertain and uneasy. Finally, Jim said, “It’s gonna be alright, Chief. Everything’s gonna be alright.”
His mouth dry, his throat tight, Blair couldn’t look at him and nod like he knew he should. “Things work out the way they should,” he said before turning his face away and curling into the back of the sofa. “It’s nearly dawn by my clock and I’m beat. I’m gonna try to get some sleep while you guys take care of the details.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jim agreed, still sounding off-balance. “I’ll see you later.”
Blair nodded at that. Alive or dead, Jim would definitely be seeing him later.
He was surprised to feel a blanket being draped over him and looked up, startled to see Jim bending over him. Jim briefly gripped his shoulder hard. “I’ll get you out of there,” he promised, low and intense.
“I know you’ll do your best,” Blair replied, his confidence and belief in that truth real. “You always do.”
Jim studied him and seemed about to say something more, but didn’t. Instead, his fingers lightly combed through Blair’s hair, pushing the tangled curls back from his brow; a caress of sorts that Blair found confusing. And then Jim straightened, settled his ballcap on his head, and turned to leave the apartment. Simon was on the phone, so Blair turned his face back to the sofa and closed his eyes to push the world away.
**
Jim signed a late sixties muscle car out of impound. Dusty, slightly dented and with evident rust spots, the black and brown Impala would pass under even the most sensitive ‘cop-radar’. More importantly for his purposes, it had a large trunk with a latch that could be opened from the inside. Having already signed out the necessary communication transmitter and earpiece, he drove out to Cascade Storage, which rented garage-like lockers to both individuals and small businesses.
There wasn’t much traffic on the streets or the small secondary highway at that time of night, which left him free to think and, less positively in his view, to worry. Something was off about Sandburg, but he couldn’t figure out what. No, that wasn’t right. The ‘what’ was that the kid had hastened up the ramp from the plane with something approximating his usual energy and had looked really glad to see him but, over the course of the time since, he’d become increasingly remote and ... seemed upset and very unhappy. Grimacing, Jim tried to explain it away as only natural given how worried they all were about Darryl, and how scary it was to contemplate Blair walking into a nest of vipers whose single interest in those moments was to kill him. That was bound to make anyone unhappy. But ... it was more than that. It was the way Blair looked at him, or didn’t look at him. What he didn’t say as much as he what he did say.
Jim couldn’t figure out what had changed between them in the time they’d left the airport and when he’d left Blair in the apartment. Or, more accurately, why it had changed. His mind worried at it like a dog with a bone, going over and over the conversations. In the truck at the airport, when he’d said he didn’t want to lose either Darryl or Blair, Blair had responded warmly, indicating confidence in his ability to save the day. God, he hoped ... but that led straight to his own sick fears and he shut down the line of thought.
Just before he’d left the apartment, he’d again assured Blair things would work out, and he’d meant it. He wasn’t going to let those bastards kill Sandburg. That wasn’t going to happen. But Blair’s response had been off — what had he said? ‘I know you’ll do your best.’ Jim’s stomach plummeted as he realized what had been nagging at him and, once he had the thread, he could track it back through the earlier discussion.
Blair didn’t think he was going to get out of this alive. He really believed he was going to die!
How could Blair think that Jim — or Simon for that matter — would allow him to go into a situation where there was no hope of coming out alive? Sure, it was dicey, but if he distracted them, dropped and rolled, started shooting to confuse them further so they’d be ducking and looking for shelter where there probably wouldn’t be much, with Jim and Simon coming straight in behind him and SWAT backing them up, the odds were damned good that Blair wouldn’t be hurt, let alone killed. Otherwise, hard as it would have been, they’d gone with a straight hostage situation and takedown. Liberty might bluff about killing Darryl, and he might even do it for spite, or one of his loose cannons could lose it and shoot Darryl, so it was preferable to get him out of there, but Blair was probably right; it wasn’t likely that Liberty would deliberately enflame every cop in the city — hell, country — by taking out another cop’s kid.
But none of that changed the fact that Blair seemed to believe he had gone along with a plan that was going to get Blair killed.
How could he think that? Believe that?
Would you have gone along with this plan a year ago? Well, no. But that was different. Blair had been his responsibility then and ... and ... and what? The man was still a civilian, was still untrained, was still someone Jim never, ever, wanted to see hurt.
So why had he gone along with putting Blair in such danger that Jim’s guts curdled when he allowed himself to really think about it?
I respect him more now than I did then. I respect his right to choose to be involved. And I respect his ability to handle himself in a dangerous situation. Jim’s thoughts startled him because he hadn’t been conscious of them or of the change they represented in how he looked at and thought about Blair.
And if he hadn’t been aware of the change or the reason for the change in his attitude, then how could Blair know why he hadn’t done his usual raving and protesting that it was too dangerous and that he forbade it?
God, so what did Blair think? That he didn’t care? “Ah, shit,” he cursed and thumped the steering wheel. “You tell him you don’t want him to come home, and then you don’t look like you give a damn that he’s going to walk into hell — and you wonder why he looked so unhappy? Why he thinks you don’t care? Idiot. You’re an idiot, Ellison. Shit!”
This was bad, very bad. If Blair thought he was dead before he even walked into the meet, then he wouldn’t be as sharp, wouldn’t be fighting to give them seconds they needed to get into the action, too. He really could end up dead.
This was why civilians weren’t supposed to be involved in situations like this. They didn’t understand. They came to the wrong conclusions — and too often, it got them killed. Sure, Blair had hung around with cops and done a lot of the work for years. But they’d told him so damned often that he wasn’t a cop, that he was an outsider, he’d evidently come to believe them. And, as an outsider, someone not a cop but not quite a civilian anymore, at least not with them and not in this situation, he figured he was expendable.
His fingers drumming the steering wheel, Jim wondered if maybe he was over-reacting, reading stuff into signals that might not even have been there. But his instincts were screaming at him and he decided he couldn’t afford to not pay attention to them. Pulling out his cellphone, he hit the speed dial for Simon’s cell.
“Banks.”
“Simon. Jim. I’m on my way out to Cascade Storage. Look, I may be off-base here, but I’ve been thinking about Sandburg’s behaviors just before I left. I think ... I think he thinks he’s expendable. I think he thinks he’s going to die.”
“What? How could he —”
“Sir, we’re talking about Darryl’s life. You know Sandburg. Of course he’d think Darryl’s life was more important than his. And he’s a civilian. He doesn’t understand that this isn’t a desperate action just to save Darryl. That if we didn’t think it had a very good chance of success, we’d’ve gone straight into a hostage situation, even ... even given that the hostage is your son.”
Jim listened to the silence as Simon wrapped his head around what he was saying. “Simon, make sure he understands before he walks into the middle of this. Make sure he knows we’re counting on him to do his part so we can save his life, too. That that’s the plan. To save him, too. Because if we don’t get Liberty now, he’ll just come after Blair another way, and next time we might not have the lead time we do now to decide how to play it.”
He could hear the weary strain in Simon’s voice when the man answered, “Okay. I can see why you might think he’s confused. I’ll explain it to him, make it clear.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“No, thank you. If you’re right, and he went in there with those ideas, well ... I wouldn’t let him do this if I didn’t think we could get him out. If it goes bad, I ... I want Darryl back, but ...”
“I know, Simon. We all do. And neither of us wants to lose Blair, either. I know that, too.”
Feeling marginally better, refusing to think about everything that could go wrong, Jim determinedly brought his focus back to the job at hand. Slowing and parking on the edge of the highway within in view of the Cascade Storage facility, he reached out with his vision and his hearing. A chain-link fence surrounded the property and Simon had been right, there wasn’t much but farmland around it. There were a few security lights illuminating the dark paved parking areas in front of the storage lockers, the requisite security cameras, and a few vehicles parked here and there; a semi’s trailer was also parked near the back.
Frowning, wondering where their owners were, he cocked his head and listened but all he could hear were crickets and the rustlings of small creatures in the adjoining fields, and the slight humming buzz of a flickering overhead light. It was probable that the vehicles’ owners had stored camping equipment in the lockers, or a recreational vehicle, and were off pursuing their weekend fun, having left the day to day vehicle behind. And the trailer was probably loaded with stuff that was to be moved into one of the lockers. So far, so good, because he hoped his vehicle and the truck bringing the SWAT team would seem equally innocuous. But, not entirely satisfied, he slowly cruised past the entrance drive, and scanned the lockers along the back. Again, nothing: no footsteps, no moving shadows, no burning end of a cigarette, no soft talking or snoring, no heartbeats.
Pulling a U-turn, he went back to enter the lot and drive slowly along the lockers, taking note of the numbers. As he drifted past one locker after another, his nose occasionally twitched at the scents of chemicals — or was it medicinal supplies? Fifty-one was at the far end on the front, which suited his purposes well. There was no sign of life. But ... something was nagging him.
He pulled around the building and was going to park in front of the locker backing onto fifty-one, but decided to slowly cruise past all the lockers on that side, too, while he tried to figure out what was bugging him about the place. Weird place for the exchange, he thought, gnawing on his inner lip. Doesn’t make a lot of sense for Liberty to choose a public place where witnesses could happen by at any time, just because they wanted to put something in, or take something out of their lockers.
He was halfway down the back side when he caught a powerful scent of gun oil emanating from one of the lockers. Too much to be just a few hunters’ rifles.
Mindful of the security cameras, he kept going, and then snapped to attention as it all clicked into place. Cascade Storage had been on one of the endless forensic audit lists — it was owned by Joe Conroy. That’s why the name had been bugging him so much! Dammit, they’d been so focused on how to stop Liberty, they had failed to ask one vital question: why had he chosen such a public place in the middle of the day? Answer: because Conroy was probably acting as a front and this was really Liberty’s property. And Liberty probably used all the lockers for his illicit businesses — he’d smelled drugs and guns. He’d bet other lockers held stolen goods and who knew what else. Hot cars, maybe? Liberty had chosen the place because he knew nobody else would be around ... and it was far enough out of town that he could bet there’d be few potential witnesses even driving by. And the best part of it for Liberty was that if anyone did see anything, even if Blair’s body was found on the site, the murder would be laid at Conroy’s door.
Shit! He couldn’t park on the site. Any unknown vehicle would immediately raise Liberty’s suspicions. And SWAT couldn’t come in undercover in a trailer hauled by a semi for the same reason. Pulling back onto the highway, he accelerated away, hoping that anyone who might be monitoring the cameras had put him down as a potential thief casing the joint. Once again, he hauled out his cellphone and punched in Simon’s number.
“Banks.”
“Simon, I think we’ve got a really big problem here. I just remembered that Cascade Storage is owned by Joe Conroy. It’s probably a front for Liberty, and he probably uses all the lockers. Any vehicle he can’t account for will immediately raise his suspicions — oh, and I caught the scent of drugs and what smelled like a damned big weapons cache.”
He heard a muffled curse, and then a weary, “Good catch, Jim. We could have blown everything before it even got started.” He paused, then, “Is there anywhere nearby where you can be close, see what’s happening, and get there fast? All I remember are fields, and more fields.”
“I don’t ... hold on, let me swing around. I think I did see something that might work.” Less than a minute later, he spotted the stand of trees he’d only barely noticed before. Pulling onto the shoulder, he studied the cluster of what looked like elms and then the vantage point he’d have from them to locker fifty-one. “I think I have something,” he told Simon. “There are trees in the field, about thirty so yards from the property line and they’d give me a line of sight right into the locker.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a semi-automatic rifle in your back pocket?” Simon asked with worried sarcasm.
“Nope, didn’t think to bring one along,” he admitted, then smiled wolfishly. “But I can manage without one at that range. Just tell Blair not to block the entrance with the car and to stay as close to one of the walls as he can when he goes in. When he drops, tell him to stay down. And the same thing goes for you — stay low. I ... I won’t be able to get any closer in time to do any good.”
“I don’t know, Jim,” Simon muttered. “This is starting to sound iffy.”
“I can do it, Simon, especially with you backing me up on the ground. Tell SWAT and the backup patrol cars to come in sirens blaring when you give them the word — that’ll throw Liberty and whoever’s with him into confusion, even if they’ll probably be too late for anything but cleanup.”
“Jim, you sure about this? I know I don’t have to point out that even if they let Darryl go, Sandburg’s life is on the line.”
“I trust him to do his part — together, we can get it done, Simon. Liberty thinks he’s safe out here. We’ve got surprise on our side. And ... we don’t have a whole lot of other options here.”
There was another pause. “Okay. It’s a go.”
“Good. I’ll just ditch this car and go climb a tree. I want to be out of sight by dawn. See you later.”
Jim closed the connection and sat for a minute, thinking it through, imagining how it would play out. God, he hoped he was right ... if he was wrong, he wouldn’t be the one to pay the price. If Blair ... he couldn’t think it. Didn’t dare imagine it or he’d end up with the shakes.
It would work. It had to.
**
Simon put his phone down and pushed his fingertips up under his glasses to rub his eyes, trying to drive away the cobwebs of exhaustion before he rested his head on the back of the chair and stared up at the ceiling. His son was in deadly danger. God, please, please let me get my Darryl back, he prayed, even as he fisted his hands and fought to remain calm, to think, to not disintegrate into panic.
Sighing heavily, he sat up and called the Captain of the SWAT squad. “Reg,” he said, “sorry to bother you again at this ungodly hour, but I’ve got more intel. Looks like Liberty owns Cascade Storage, using Joe Conroy as a front — so any truck pulling into the lot that he wasn’t expecting would ... well, I don’t have to spell it out for you. I’m going in with Sandburg, and Ellison will be in sniper position. Might as well come in with sirens blaring, so these guys will know they’ve only got two choices: dead or alive. Sandburg’s fast and he knows what to do. The distraction may go a long way in helping us to get him out of the line of fire.” He listened and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll give you the word on when to move. Uh huh, I’m gonna call the Chief and the DA first thing in the morning. Thanks, Reg.”
Terminating the call, he rubbed his forehead. What else? He’d called and left a message for Rhonda to check early flights from New Haven arriving before or by ten AM, so he could tell Sandburg when to show up at the rental car counter as if he’d just arrived. And he’d called the rental company to make all the necessary arrangements, most particularly to have a mechanic ensure the trunk of the car they’d be getting could be unlatched from the inside. The man had wanted to know why the damage to the vehicle was necessary but Simon had snapped, “Police business. Just do it.”
He hadn’t called Taggart yet, but would in a few hours, to let him know what was going down. Joel would coordinate everything with SWAT and Patrol, and get the communication gear and extra ammo he needed delivered to the safehouse.
There was something else.... Oh, yeah. Call his boss and Sanchez in the morning and tell them what was going down. He knew he was going to be ordered to stay out of it, that with Darryl involved, he was too close, too likely to let emotions get in the way. Well, as Sandburg had so aptly put it earlier, ‘screw that’. And the DA was not going to be happy about her star witness handing himself over to the bad guys. While she’d no doubt be all sympathetic about Darryl, she’d demand Sandburg be kept locked up in the safehouse under police protection. But Simon had seen and heard Blair’s determination to be part of this, and knew no power on earth would keep him in this apartment against his will.
Simon tilted his head to regard his charge for the night; with Ellison out doing reconnaissance, guard duty had fallen to him. Oh, he could call in someone else, but he didn’t want to. Couldn’t imagine going back to the empty house when Darryl ...
His gut rolled and his throat spasmed. Couldn’t think too much about Darryl or he really would lose it. Tough cop or not, that was his kid and it near killed him to know his son was being held by cold-blooded murderers. Thank God Sandburg had thought to insist on talking to him tomorrow, to make sure he was okay. At least Simon wasn’t tormenting himself with thoughts of them hurting Darryl or ... or that he might already be dead. He was alive and, so far at least, he was as safe as he could be in the circumstances. Blair had made sure of that, made sure they needed to take good care of Darryl to get what they wanted.
No, Simon most certainly did not want to hand off the watch over Sandburg to anyone else. If ... when he got Darryl back tomorrow, he knew he’d have Blair to thank for his son’s life. And that was a gratitude that would never end, so long as he drew breath. The least he could do for someone who was willing to put his life on the line for his son was to stand guard while he slept ... if he was sleeping. Simon wasn’t sure, but he hoped Blair was at least getting some rest. He’d need to be sharp when it all went down.
For a long time, he simply sat and contemplated Blair, thinking about the years he’d known the man and how his perceptions of him had changed. He’d been so sure the kid was a flake when they’d first met — just went to show how wrong first impressions could be. Well, in fairness, Sandburg had been more than a bit off the wall, and the way he grinned and bounced with boundless enthusiasm and energy, without the five o’clock shadow first thing in the morning he could have been about twelve. But later that day, he’d shown his mettle when Kincaid and his godless Patriots had taken over the building. Simon couldn’t help smiling when he thought about how Sandburg had taken out one of them with a vending machine. And he’d saved Jim’s bacon, too, pushing Kincaid out of the chopper, and with his quick bravado about Desert Storm and saying he’d be willing to blow the helicopter pilot away with a flare gun. He might have looked like a cream puff with all that hair and jewelry, but he was no pushover ... and he was as brave as any man Simon had ever known.
Brave, and as smart as they come. And loyal? Good God, Sandburg was the poster kid for that word. Simon didn’t know anyone else who would give so much of himself — or give up so much — to protect a friend. There’d been a lot of times when Simon had wondered if Jim fully realized just how lucky he was because, most of the time, he sure seemed to take Sandburg’s devotion to him for granted. Or maybe he’d had to; maybe having someone so devoted was just a little too overwhelming if you paid attention to it everyday. Simon figured he wouldn’t know about that — he’d never had to deal with the experience, though there were times when he was just a little envious. But in all honesty, Jim hadn’t been the only one to take Sandburg for granted. Simon winced with some of his memories of happily drawing upon Blair for computer help and he’d really loved those pristine, perfect reports; he’d known as well as anyone that Sandburg was doing it all for free. But, mostly, he’d underestimated Sandburg, was too surprised too often when the kid came through, when he exhibited courage, when he came up with breakthrough ideas, and when he got angry at being treated like an annoying hanger-on or, worse, like a puppy dog, when he was an integral part of their team.
Not that Blair was perfect. He did have a tendency to talk a whole lot and a peculiar need to share what seemed like every little tidbit he knew about some esoteric place or exotic tribe, and all with the innocence of someone who honestly thought others would be interested in what he found so fascinating. And back then, he’d lacked a solid confidence in himself; but, then, he was young. He hadn’t always showed the deference or respect expected to superiors — probably the result of spending half his life at college, where you earned points if you argued cogently with the professor. Simon huffed a little in poignant amusement. The kid had been brilliant, excelled at burning the candle at both ends, a real super-achiever ... but he hadn’t known how to cast a line into a river. Hadn’t ever had anyone to show him how, or he would have known because Sandburg absorbed knowledge, learning, and new skills like a sponge. Never had a father. Simon could almost feel sorry for that fool, wandering around the world, not knowing this special, brilliant, brave man who would have no doubt been the greatest joy in his life.
Thinking back to earlier in the day, well, yesterday now, he was real glad he’d pitched such a strong case to the Commissioner, and had emphasized the urgency of getting Blair back on his team. Now, he just had to wait to see if he’d get the approval he needed to make Blair an offer, one that this time he would have no difficulty accepting. He’d like to tell Blair about it, and Jim, too, but he didn’t dare raise their hopes until he knew with no doubt that he could deliver.
Jim. Simon shook his head. Now there was a man who had a tough row to hoe. Simon sure wouldn’t want to be saddled with those senses, and all the trouble they caused; that was the God’s own truth. Jim did his best to handle it all on his own, to not make a big deal out of his vulnerabilities — wouldn’t admit to having issues at all if he was the only one at risk. He was a proud, proud man who deeply resented having to ask for any kind of personal help.
Over the years, Simon had come to gauge just how important something was to Jim by how stiffly he held himself at attention, and how rigidly empty his face, eyes and voice were of any expression ... and when that muscle along the man’s jaw started to flex, well, then he knew for sure that he’d damned well better pay attention to what was going on. Simon didn’t have a clue how Sandburg had managed to inveigle his way under all of Jim’s rock-solid defenses, but he was sure it couldn’t’ve been easy. Now, there was no one on this earth as important to that man as Blair; no one Jim trusted ... or loved ... more. No one else he needed. The fact that he’d entrusted Sandburg’s safekeeping to Simon when they all knew the dangers was very nearly astonishing — and an awesome responsibility.
I really hope Sandburg is sleeping, not lying there thinking about dying, Simon thought, but didn’t want to risk waking him up to find out.
I wonder if Darryl is getting any sleep? Poor kid, he must be terrified. God, Dear God, don’t let anything bad happen to my boy!
Simon grimly hoped Liberty would resist arrest and fight back, because he badly wanted to kill the sonofabitch. Oh, he wouldn’t unless he really had to, but he wanted to so bad he could taste it. Giving up on his efforts to think about something other than the horror Darryl was experiencing, Simon pulled off his glasses and leaned forward. Succumbing to emotional meltdown, he braced his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his trembling hands. Teeth gritted to hold back the urge to sob, lips quivering with misery, he wept hot, silent, helpless tears.
**
Blair strapped on the ankle holster and looked up to see Simon finish loading his weapon and slide it home behind his back. Joel was watching them both, frowning with worry.
“Simon, maybe I should go with Blair,” he offered. “The Chief —”
Banks held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “Save it,” he said, looking as formidable as Blair had ever seen him. “I don’t care if they take my badge. I’m going to bring my son home.”
Joel grimaced. “Just try not to kill him, okay?” he urged, and Blair assumed he meant Liberty.
A smile played across Simon’s mouth, and he looped an arm around Joel’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. I haven’t lost my mind — but I would go crazy waiting, leaving this to someone else. Besides,” he gestured at Blair, “Jim’s entrusted me with Boy Wonder over there. Now, I can’t let Jim down, now can I?”
Joel snorted, and then chuckled as he shook his head, though Blair couldn’t see what either of them found to joke about.
Simon sobered and turned to him, as if reading his mind. “Humor takes off the edge,” he said, sounding impatient. “After hanging around cops so long, I’d’ve thought you understood that.”
Chastened, Blair grimaced ruefully. “It’s been a while,” he retorted with feigned aggravation. “Give me a break.”
Giving him a smile of approval, Simon replied, “You’ll do.” He reached for his jacket and as he put it on, he said, “Jim called last night. He wanted me to be sure you understood something.”
“Yeah?” Blair asked, standing and reaching for his backpack, to sling it over his shoulder. Simon’s searching gaze made him feel uneasy. “What?” he prompted.
“Jim’s a little concerned that, for understandable reasons, you might think that this is only about getting Darryl back, and God knows, I’m grateful to you for being willing to do this. But even though he’s my son ...” Simon’s voice cracked and he had to take a breath before continuing, “if Jim and I didn’t think we could pull this off safely, we wouldn’t be risking your life. We’d handle it as a standard hostage situation. You need to be very clear that you’re not expendable, Blair.”
Blair blinked in surprise, wondering how Jim had known that was exactly what he’d been thinking. “Jim wanted me to know that?” But ... it wasn’t so surprising, really, that Jim wouldn’t willingly risk his life on a gamble he didn’t think they could win. It wasn’t like Jim wanted him dead or anything, just out of his life. Hell, Jim had brought him back at the fountain, but that hadn’t really meant anything, either.
Turning toward the door, waving to Joel to move out ahead of them, Simon said over his shoulder, “Yeah. He was worried that since you don’t have the training or experience, you might not understand this is about getting you out, too. And getting Liberty, before he can take another run at you.”
Following along, Blair rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe it; ‘don’t have the training or experience’,” he muttered in disgust. “He called to make the point that I’m not a cop?”
Simon snorted, then laughed as they moved into the hall. “Maybe,” he allowed, then draped a hand over Blair’s shoulder as they walked to the elevator. “But I think he was more concerned that you be clear that we intend to get you out alive. He said he trusts you to do your part. Stick to one side of the locker, as close to a wall as you can. When you drop and roll, stay down. Shoot if you have to.”
“You sure you’re okay with all this?” Joel asked him, sounding concerned as they stepped into the elevator. “I mean, the gun an’ all?”
Blair had to laugh at that and, for the first time, he really believed they all expected him to walk away from this. He was walking into a pit of vipers who intended to kill him, and Joel was worried about how he felt about carrying a weapon? Slapping the big man on the back, he nodded. “I’m fine with it,” he assured him. Looking up to include Simon, he added, “All of it.”
Well, maybe he was a little shaky about the possibility of shooting someone, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t ever shot at people before in self-defense, albeit not since leaving Jim. But these guys were threatening Darryl, and really did want to kill him, so yeah, he’d shoot and if ... well, he’d deal with it.
If he was still around to deal with anything.
Despite all their reassurances, Blair couldn’t shake the feeling that this was it. This was why he’d been brought back at the fountain, to save one innocent life who was only in danger because of him. Of course, if he’d stayed dead at the fountain, none of this would have happened but ....
Tired, wired, afraid that he might fail, that Darryl might still be hurt, Blair gave up trying to make sense of the karmic balance of it all. All he knew was, deep down, he really didn’t think he was going to survive. They rode the elevator down to the parking garage and Joel headed to his own vehicle. As Blair followed Simon to his sedan, he thought about that, and about how remote he felt, distant, as if he was already gone. And how it didn’t seem to matter to him as much as he thought it should. But ... this past year had been an exercise in discipline, of going through the motions of life as if it mattered, and he was exhausted by the effort of it all. There didn’t seem to be any real point to his life, not when he knew what he was supposed to be doing, where he was supposed to be; where he’d never be again, not in this life anyway. It was almost a relief of sorts, to know this fatally flawed round was over and he could let it all go ... with the fervent hope that he’d get it right the next time around.
They got into the car, and Simon cranked on the ignition. But he didn’t pull out of the slot. Turning to Sandburg, again studying him intently, he asked, “You sure you’re alright with this?”
“Sure, why?”
Simon frowned. “You’re not usually this quiet. In fact, you’re never this quiet.” Looking away, staring out the windshield, he muttered to himself, “Maybe we should call it off, go the hostage route.”
“NO! No, Simon,” Blair urged, reaching out to grip his arm. “Really, I can do this. We can get Darryl back. Seriously, I’m okay with what we’re doing. I ... I’m not even really scared, except for Darryl, to get him to safety as fast as we can.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” Simon told him, finally putting the car into gear and backing out. “Even cops get scared, Sandburg. It’s only fools who don’t know when to be afraid.” He cut a quick glance at Blair before steering up the ramp. “And you’re no fool.”
“Sometimes, I’m not so sure about that,” Blair murmured, as he watched them pull onto the street. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. A lot of mistakes.”
“Everyone does, Blair,” Simon replied. “The important thing is to learn from them. And you’re just about the fastest learner I’ve ever known.”
Surprised by the affirmation, Blair stared at him and then, confused, said, “Thanks. I think.”
Giving him a weary smile, Simon assured him, “Everything’s gonna be alright, you’ll see. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”
Settling back in his seat, Blair thought about how Simon had just unknowingly echoed Jim’s last words to him. God, he wished he could believe they were right.
**
Blair glanced around the terminal, wondering if he was being watched, as he waited for the agent to finish the paperwork on the rental and give him the keys. Rhonda had given them the times and flight numbers for the first plane out of New Haven to Cascade, with a connection in Pittsburgh. Liberty had either checked flight times himself, or had taken the time difference into consideration because the first flight landed at 9:45 — and how cold was that? Blair just didn’t understand, and never would, the kind of mind that could be so coolly rational about plotting murder.
His cell rang, and he quickly answered. “Yeah?”
“Blair?”
“Darryl! You okay? They haven’t hurt you?”
“I’m fine, just ...”
“I know. I’m on my way. This’ll all be over soon,” he said in a rush, worried that they’d be cut off. “Let me talk to the man holding you.”
“Welcome to Cascade, Doctor Sandburg.” The tone was mocking, rich with self-satisfaction, sparking Blair’s anger.
“Yeah, yeah. Listen. I’m gonna want to talk to him again, one more time, before I drive in there. I’m gonna park just outside the entrance. If I don’t know he’s okay, I’ll be outta there like a shot.”
“You’re a cautious man.”
“You can have me but you can’t have him.”
“I’ll be watching for you.” And the call ended.
That hadn’t been part of the plan, but Blair wanted to be sure that they brought Darryl to the meet, and that he was definitely okay at that point. Jim was already out there, and would be watching everything, in a position to act if they tried anything just before the switch was made. It was the best he could do to ensure Darryl’s continued safety.
A few minutes later, he was in the rental and driving out of the airport. Mindful of Simon scrunched in the trunk, he took care to go slowly and gently over the speed bumps. Half an hour after that, he slowed on the highway at the entrance to Cascade Storage and peered down the lane in front of the lockers. A man at the far end stepped into view and, a second later, so did Darryl. The kid has sure grown, but his posture was hunched and, even from this distance, Blair could see he was scared. His cell rang and when he answered, the man asked, “Satisfied?”
Blair didn’t bother to answer, just turned in and drove slowly down to the end. Darryl was pushed back out of sight, which bothered him but there was nothing more he could do except get down there and make the exchange. Stopping just before the open locker, its garage-type door rolled back, he put the gear into ‘park’. Leaving the keys in the ignition, the engine running, he gripped his backpack and, taking a breath to force down his fear and steady himself, climbed out of the vehicle. The man waiting for him was wearing a mask and holding a gun, which he waved toward the locker, gesturing Blair inside.
With a slight nod of acquiescence, Blair moved inside out of the bright sunlight into the dim interior of the grungy locker. The gunman moved in behind him. Squinting a little, staying to one side, he walked straight to Darryl. “Hey,” he greeted softly, and gripped the tall youth’s arm. “I’m sorry you had to go through this.” Turning to face the three masked men inside, he deliberately positioned himself in front of Darryl, his movement edging his young friend closer to the wall. “Okay, I’m here. He can go now. The keys are in the car.” Over his shoulder, he said, “Go on, Darryl.”
“But, Blair —”
“Please, Darryl,” he cut in sharply. “Just go. Now!” He felt Darryl grip his shoulder briefly, then heard the scuffle of his footsteps on the concrete floor. Glancing back, he watched Darryl disappear and breathed a sigh of relief.
“What now?” he asked the men around him. “Anybody gonna tell me why this is happening?”
One of the men, the one in the center, snorted disparagingly as he lifted his gun. “Really, Sandburg,” he drawled with such cold deliberation that chills crawled up Blair’s spine. “I figured you were smart enough to figure that out.”
He heard the car engine rev and the sound of it backing away. Darryl was clear and it was time to make his move.
**
Simon had pressed his hand over his son’s mouth as soon as Darryl cleared the opening. Darryl’s eyes had widened in surprise, but Simon just pointed to the car and then to the entrance. As soon as Darryl was on his way to the car, Simon slid his back down the wall to a crouch and carefully edged over to peer quickly into the locker to place everyone’s positions.
Pulling back before he was seen, just as Darryl began backing the car toward the entrance, he said softly into the mike attached to his ear-piece. “GO. NOW!”
Sirens erupted and he swung into the doorway, down on one knee. “POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”
**
“What the ...!” one of the masked men shouted, and raised his gun toward Simon.
Blair threw his backpack hard, knocking the weapon aside, then immediately dropped and rolled, bowling over the guy who had been close behind him. Scrambling for his own weapon, he heard shots ring out. Concrete splintered from the wall near his face and somebody yelled. The sirens were deafening. He brought the snub-nosed revolver up in both hands, but something punched him in the arm and he sprawled back.
**
It was all happening so fast. Simon had already taken one down, and Blair had knocked another off his feet when he rolled. Jim’s eyesight focused on the masked men still standing inside the locker, squinting a little to make out the details in the dark interior. His pistol steady in both hands, Jim squeezed off one shot at the center man as soon as it looked like he was leveling his weapon down toward Sandburg, and Jim saw his target fall back. But he also saw Blair slam back onto the ground, and knew the other guy had gotten off his shot, too.
His jaw clenched, hardly able to breathe, he adjusted his aim and shot again, wounding the guy Blair had knocked down but who was coming up, his weapon aimed at Simon.
The SWAT team swarmed into his view and he pulled up his weapon. Dropping down from the limb he was perched on, he raced toward the locker, leaping up onto the chain-link fence and climbing over it, scarcely even noticing it was in his way.
It was all over by the time he pushed his way past the SWAT guys who were milling around in the open doorway. He dropped to one knee beside Blair, who was sitting up against the wall, gripping his upper arm with a bloodied hand.
“Here, let me see that,” Jim demanded. “How bad is it?”
Blair seemed dazed, but gave him a wobbly grin and, mimicking the Duke, drawled, “Ah, hell, Pilgrim, take it easy. It’s just a scratch.” His grin faded, and he dropped the drawl. “Somebody shot him,” he nodded his head at the masked man Simon was approaching, “just as he was pulling the trigger — wrecked his aim. Now I wonder who that could have been?”
Needing the reassurance of touch, Jim’s hand slipped up to grip the back of Blair’s neck. “I saw you get hit....”
“I’m okay, Jim. I’m okay.”
Simon pulled the facemask off the last of the wounded men the patrol officers were cuffing. “Ah, Vance Liberty, in the flesh; was beginning to think you weren’t here. But you just couldn’t resist doing this one yourself, could you, huh?” Looking past the sullen mobster to the officer behind him, he directed coldly, “Read him his rights, and book him and the rest of them for kidnapping and attempted murder.” Returning his gaze to Liberty’s, he smiled with chilling threat, and added, “That’ll do for a start. We’ll add more down at the station.”
“I want a doctor,” Liberty grated. “I’ve been shot.”
Simon gave a cursory glance to the blood darkening the man’s shirt over his right shoulder. “Yes, so I see.” Shrugging, he turned away. “Don’t worry, you’ll live to spend the rest of your sorry life in jail.”
Looking around, he called to Taggart, who’d just arrived on the scene. “Joel, call for a warrant to check out all these storage lockers, and get a forensic team down here. Those brown stains on the floor look like old blood. Might be related to a few unsolved murders we have on the books.”
“Dad!”
Simon wheeled around and, striding to his son, grabbed him. Heedless of all the other cops milling around in the small space, he pulled Darryl into a tight hug.
Jim looked back down at Blair, and cupped his cheek. “You did good today. You did real good.”
“Me? I didn’t get off a shot!” Blair groused, grimacing as he glanced at his wounded arm. “All I did was drive here and walk inside.” Lifting his eyes to Jim’s, he added, “It was you and Simon — you guys did all the work.”
Jim just rolled his eyes and smiled at him, but Simon, still holding Darryl, looked down at Blair. “No, you didn’t do much, Sandburg,” he said, heavily sarcastic. “Just saved my boy, is all.”
**
Jim had wanted to take him to the hospital, but his car was stashed off the road a mile away. Blair insisted he was fine, and getting a lift from a uniform who would then take him down to the station only made sense. There were a ton of things Jim needed to be doing, from turning his weapon in to Internal Affairs to meeting with Joe Conroy and his lawyer to inform the man of what had gone down that morning, and what it meant for him.
“Go, do your job,” Blair urged him. “Seriously, I’m fine.”
But the truth was, he wasn’t fine. He was staggered by the fact that he was still alive and, even more, by how flat and discouraged he felt when he should be elated, pumped by the adrenaline, thrilled to still be breathing. The only real feeling he had was an almost desperate urge to get away from Jim, Simon and Joel, so he could think about all that had happened and figure out what was wrong with him.
Obviously reluctant, Jim had given him a penetrating look, but had taken him at his word and let it go at helping him into the squad car.
Now, sitting shirtless on the treatment table getting the gouge in his arm stitched up, Blair was still boggled by the fact that he was alive. Not only alive, but barely hurt. He’d been so sure that he’d never walk away from the exchange, so ready for his life to be over, that he didn’t know what to think or feel.
Suicide by felon. Was that what I was hoping for? he asked himself, shaken by the thought. Sure, he’d found life hard and empty without Jim, and he didn’t care if he lived or died, really didn’t — but had he spun himself a lot of bunk about karma to hide his motivations and real hopes from himself? Actively seeking death was a hell of a lot different than being miserable and wishing the misery would end. Did he crave annihilation that much?
Shivering, he told himself he really did have to get his act together. As bad as he’d ever felt in his life, as down as he’d ever been — and he could have some spectacular mood swings — suicide had never been an option for him. He refused, adamantly refused, to give up on life that much, to turn away from the unknown possibilities of the future or reject his responsibilities as a contributing human being. Whether or not he was happy didn’t change the fact that he could still make a difference, still have impact for the good in other lives.
God, John WindTalker would be so pissed at him. Talk about being self-absorbed and selfish — how would Simon have felt, or Darryl, or even Jim, for that matter, if he’d been killed out there that morning? Had he really wanted to visit such grief on them? Was he still that angry? Regardless, that was no excuse. The Universe had just given him a humongous wake-up call. It was time to stop acting and thinking like an irresponsible child who was pissed off that life wasn’t turning out the way he wanted. So, sometimes life sucked; that was no reason to stop living. His mind flicked back to Raoul, who really hadn’t had a chance to live, and Paco, who had loved his family so much. Blair’s throat thickened. He needed to be grateful for the great gifts he had in this life ... and for what he had already had that was so much better than most ever got to experience. But it was time to give up on that past becoming his future, too; time to move forward.
It was time to grow up and get on with his life. It might not be the one he wanted, but it could be a life that mattered.
The doctor finished up and told him to keep the wound clean. The stitches would dissolve in ten days, and he should be fine. He was given a preventative shot of antibiotics and handed a prescription, told to take Tylenol for discomfort, and was given a booster Tetanus shot for good measure. When they were finished with him, he was glad to pull on his bloody shirt and go out to find the cop who’d take him downtown; he needed to go to the apartment first, where he could change and collect the rest of his gear, and then to the precinct to give his statement.
While he was at the apartment, Blair called the airline to book his return ticket to New Haven on the last flight out that evening. Now that Liberty was in custody, there didn’t seem to be much point in hanging around Cascade in an impersonal and lonely safehouse, not when he could be lonely in comfortable and familiar surroundings back East.
**
“Do you hear what I’m saying? Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Jim thundered to Conroy and his lawyer. “That bastard was going to kill Sandburg — he ruthlessly held another man’s child hostage to lure Sandburg to him. He was going to do it on a site you own, to implicate you, make it look like you ordered the hit of the key witness against you. He was going to leave the body there to be found, along with a stash of drugs and illegal arms — you’d go down for a lot more than manslaughter and criminal negligence. You’d go down for life! And he’d’ve held the lives of your family over you, to make sure you stayed silent forever.”
Lowering his voice, Jim leaned closer. “But we’ve got him now. He can’t hurt your kids or anyone else’s kids. You don’t need to be afraid of him anymore. Talk to me. Tell me the truth!”
Conroy stared at him, and then turned to his lawyer, who nodded solemnly.
Swallowing, licking his lips, Joe Conroy clasped his hands together to stop their shaking. Moisture glimmered in his eyes, and he nodded jerkily. “Thank you,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “Thank you for keeping my family safe. My ... my ex-wife got in too deep, terrible gambling debts. L-Liberty ... Liberty said he could make them go away, if I did him some favors. H-he said he’d make my family go away if I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t know what he kept out at the storage site — I didn’t want to know.” He covered his face with his hands. “I’m so sorry about the men who died. So sorry. I’ll ... I’ll find a way. A way to help their families. I swear I’ll find a way.”
Jim blew a long breath and nodded. He got up and walked around the table to briefly grip Conroy’s shoulder in mute support. “I’ll give you a few minutes and go get us some coffee. And then I’ll be back to take your formal statement.”
**
Blair left his bags with the duty sergeant on the desk in the lobby, and then took the elevator up to the sixth floor. He’d just gone into Major Crime when Jim came in through the doorway from the back hall and the interrogation rooms, on his way to the breakroom.
“Sandburg!” he called. “How’s the arm?”
“Like I told you, it’s fine,” Blair replied with as much macho nonchalance as he could muster. “Only needed a few stitches.”
A smile lit Jim’s face, so warm and bright it took Blair’s breath away. “I’ve got great news, Chief! Conroy has just agreed to turn state’s evidence. I’m about to take his statement now. The DA’ll grant him immunity in return for the goods on Liberty, so you won’t have to worry about testifying. And — I know you’ll be glad to hear this — Conroy says he’ll find a way to help the families of the men — of your friends — who died when that building came down.”
Blair’s smile was real — he was so glad to hear the news that Paco and Raoul’s families would receive some relief. It could never make up for their loss, but he knew his friends would be relieved, would rest easier, knowing their families would be alright. “That’s really great news, Jim,” he enthused. “I know there’s information in my original statement that should help him track down their families in Mexico.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Jim assured him. Moving past, he said, “I’ve got to get back to him. Talk to you later.”
“Yeah, sure,” Blair agreed, though he didn’t know when ‘later’ might be. Now that there wouldn’t be a trial, there was no reason for him to come back to Cascade at all. Ruthlessly, he quashed the sorrow that welled within him, telling himself that it was selfish and stupid, ordering himself to damned well let go. With a shuddering breath, he walked over to Jim’s desk and booted up the computer, to type in his statement about all that had happened in the last not quite twenty-four hours.
Since it was Saturday, the office was quiet. Detectives worked weekends when they were following up leads, taking stakeout duty, and writing pressingly urgent reports, but only a skeleton crew manned the Unit on shift and weekend duty. Joel was evidently interrogating Liberty or the other three they’d arrested that morning. Simon’s office lights were on, but he wasn’t there; Blair figured he was home, with Darryl. Brown and Rafe came in, laughing about something — until they saw him. He looked up and gave them an uncertain smile and half-wave, not really expecting any greeting in return, and was surprised when Henri made a beeline straight toward him.
“Hairboy! We heard what went down! Man, you do find a way to be in the thick of things!”
“Yeah, well, I guess some things don’t change,” he allowed. “I’m just glad Darryl’s okay. Wish he hadn’t had to go through that in the first place.”
Brown nodded in sober agreement. “Look,” he said, seeming uncomfortably earnest, “I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re doing so well, y’know? With your new book and your doctorate an’ everything. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Henri,” he said, meaning it. “I really appreciate that.”
“Yeah, well, once things calm down, maybe we can all go out to get a drink, to celebrate the bust this morning. You know, like old times.”
“Uh, sorry. I... I’d like that, but I’ve got a plane to catch once I finish up here.”
“Oh, well, okay, then, maybe next time,” Brown offered as he moved away.
Blair just nodded. Next time. As if there’d be a next time.
He was just finishing up his report when Simon arrived with Beverly Sanchez, and called to him to follow them into his office. Saving the statement and printing it, he took one last look at Jim’s desk from this side of it, from the side where he’d sat for so many hours of his life, and then he walked into Simon’s office. Sanchez greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, an apology for what he’d been through, and asked how his wound was.
“Fine,” he answered, as he and Beverly sat down at the conference table and Simon moved behind his desk. “I’ve just finished up my statement,” he added both to her and Simon.
Simon gave him a wide smile. “Gotta love a witness who helps take down the bad guys, writes his own statement and prints it in triplicate, just like we need.”
Blair managed to laugh in response before telling them Jim’s news. “So I guess that means no trial and I can go back to Putnam,” he concluded.
“No trial now for Conroy, but I will need you back for Liberty’s trial,” she told him. “But that won’t be for months. I’ll have my office arrange your flight. When did you want to leave?”
“That’s okay. I’ve made the arrangements. I’ll send the air ticket to you for reimbursement,” Blair replied, as casually as he could. He’d forgotten about having to testify at Liberty’s trial and had to quash the bright flare of hope that news sparked. The past was over. Over.
“Well, I better see how Jim’s doing with Conroy, and have a discussion with his lawyer,” Beverly said as she rose to her feet. “Thanks for dropping everything and coming when I called, Blair. And thanks for your help in bringing down Liberty. Again, I’m sorry you were hurt.”
He waved off her apology and watched her leave before asking, “Is Darryl okay?”
“He’s fine, Blair. Might have a few nightmares — might need to talk to someone about it all — but he’s fine,” Simon assured him. “We’ll get together for dinner before you head back East.”
Blair shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m flying back early this evening, as soon as I finish here.”
“What?” Simon exclaimed, looking astonished. “Why so soon? I thought you’d stick around for a few days, visit awhile. Does Jim know you’re going?”
“No, not yet. He’s busy with Conroy; there might not be a chance to see him again before I leave.” He shrugged as if that was no big deal and looked away to hide what a big deal it was, at least for him. He thought Jim would most likely be relieved — because it could be awkward if he didn’t want Blair back in the loft, and by implication, his bed, now that there was no need for Blair to be in the safehouse. “I, uh, I just figured there was no point in hanging around now that Liberty is in custody.” Before Simon could say anything, he jumped to his feet and was hurrying out of the office even as he said, “My statement should be finished printing. I’ll just get it so you can review it — see if you need anything more, or if I missed anything. Be right back.”
When he returned with the copies, giving one to Simon to review while keeping the other two, to read the substance again before signing it, Blair thought Simon was regarding him with an odd expression of confusion. Not wanting to pursue the discussion of his departure, he sat down half-turned away from Simon and began to read. Or pretended to read until he could get his concentration back.
Simon grunted, “Huh,” but also began reading. When he was finished, he looked up and observed, “Very complete, as usual. I don’t see any need for changes.”
Blair nodded and signed his copies, rose to hand them to Simon and signed the one on the desk. Taking a breath, he looked up and straightened. “I’m really glad Darryl’s okay — and really sorry he had to go through that in the first place.”
“I know,” Simon said quietly.
“So ... well, I guess that’s it, huh? I’ll be on my way.”
“Not so fast,” Simon retorted, waving him back to his chair. “I wasn’t going to say anything yet, but I thought you’d be here until next week.” Drumming his fingertips on the desk as if still thinking about whatever it was, Simon hesitated, and Blair tensed, wondering what was coming. Finally, Simon sat back and said, “I got the impression last February that you might consider coming back to work with Jim — the forensic anthropology certification, weapons training and self-defense training all seemed to add up to that for me.”
Stunned, Blair felt almost violently sick that he’d caused Simon to feel that he had to spell out how impossible that was, as if he didn’t already know. Desperately not wanting to hear it, wanting only to leave with some dignity intact, Blair gaped at him and stammered in confusion, “Oh, Simon, I didn’t mean ... that is, I didn’t want you ... I just ...”
“Would you just let me finish!” Simon cut in.
“Uh, sorry,” Blair desisted and readied himself to say it didn’t matter, that he was headed in other directions now, but he appreciated — Simon’s voice intruded and drew back his thoughts.
“What I was trying to say is that I want you back,” Simon said, sending Blair’s thoughts reeling and his emotions erupted in unexpected, unbridled joy. “I’ve made a strong pitch to the Commissioner and I expect to get the budget authority and approval on Monday to offer you a position in Major Crime, as Jim’s official partner.”
“Wh-what?” Blair gasped as he tried to assimilate it all. Never having expected this however badly he’d wanted it, dreamed of it, he was incapable of coherent words. For a moment, elation filled him and he could feel his face stretch with a wide, ecstatic smile — but then he caught himself, and remembered — Jim didn’t want him as his official partner, never really had and certainly didn’t now ... did he? His chest cramped, his breath caught between wild hope and certain desolation. God, it hurt. Hurt so bad to think he’d gotten this close ... this close ... and .... Finally, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer and how hard it was going to be to hear it, he managed to ask, “Does Jim know about this?”
“No, I haven’t wanted to say anything until I got the go-ahead,” Simon replied, frowning at him. “Blair — what’s wrong? You know Jim will be thrilled to get you back.”
“Uh, no, I don’t think he will be,” Blair replied with tight control, feeling as if the world was pressing in on him and finding it hard to breathe. “I don’t think he ever really wanted me as his permanent partner. Uh ... he was relieved, I could see it, when I turned you down the last time.” His throat rapidly closing, he forced out the words as quickly as his breath allowed, “I ... I really appreciate this, Simon. You don’t know how much. But ... but I can’t impose myself on him. Not again. I ... I forced it, every step of the way, the last time. I won’t ever do that again.” Standing, shifting toward the door, he blurted, “It was good to see you — everyone — really good. But, but I really have to go. My flight —”
He had to go, had to get out of there before he lost it. So, feeling like the worst kind of fool, he practically bolted from the office before Simon could say anything more.
He heard Simon call out after him, but he kept going. Didn’t dare stop. He hit the stairs running, the only thought in his head as he plummeted down flight after flight was to escape before he imploded. When he reached the lobby, he collected his bags and hastened out to the street to flag down a cab.
When he was inside the vehicle, panting for air, and on the way to the airport, he fisted his hands and crossed his arms over his chest, holding it in, the disappointment, the deep wounding knowledge that the life he longed for with everything he was, was truly over and would never be. His eyes burned. Rigidly holding himself together, staring blindly out the window, trembling with the effort of not losing it, he blinked away the tears he refused to let fall.
So close ... when he’d wished so much, hoped so hard but thought it would forever be impossible; so damned close ... but it was over.
**
Simon was flummoxed — and furious. He’d been tickled pink by the delight that had spread over Sandburg’s face when he’d first heard that an offer would be forthcoming, only to see shattering disappointment and despair flood the kid’s eyes and kill his smile. When Blair said he didn’t think Jim wanted him as a partner, hadn’t ever wanted what they’d had made official, Simon was so astonished that by the time he’d gathered his wits, Blair was out the door and making a fast escape.
What in God’s name did he mean that Jim had been relieved when he’d turned the job down last year? Simon knew for a fact that Jim had wanted Blair to be his official partner, even though he’d thought the kid could do better, and was at the time still mired in guilt over the press conference. And what in tarnation had Jim said or done since that left the kid believing so firmly that Jim never wanted him back? That had him racing out of town without even letting Jim know he was going, like the hounds of hell were on his tail?
Or, more likely, what hadn’t Jim said? No doubt Jim had been so busy playing the martyr, and letting Sandburg get on with his own life, the way Jim thought he should, that he’d not said anything at all about how he’d like to see the future unfold. Thoroughly disgusted and supremely pissed off, Simon wiped a hand over his mouth and then thumped his fist on the desk. “Dammit,” he cursed viciously.
Steaming, he stared out the window as he thought about his next steps. Realistically, there was nothing to be done until he received official approval of his request, no matter how much he wanted to shake Ellison until his teeth rattled. Stupid, proud ... dumbass....
Well, he’d be damned if he’d give up on reuniting the best and most effective team he’d ever seen, especially when he knew they both not only very much wanted to be partners again, but that Jim very badly needed Sandburg back to help him manage his senses. Rolling his eyes, he prayed for patience. For two highly intelligent men who had no difficulty with the English language, they sure in hell didn’t make good use of it when it came to talking to one another. Both of them, so infernally noble, trying so hard to do what was right for the other one, to do what they thought the other one wanted or needed. Well, one of them was going to have come off the very high horse he was riding — and given what Blair had stuttered about not ever forcing things again, Jim was the one who was going to have to go to him.
Simon grabbed a cigar from his humidor, tore off the cellophane wrapper, and savagely bit off the tip. Spitting it out into his trash can, he lit a match and puffed the stogie into life. Inhaling deeply, needing the calm it gave him, he leaned back in his chair. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, when he realized it was going to fall to him to break it to Jim that Blair had taken off without a word. Well, fine, he thought with a grim smile. It’ll make a fine lead into the conversation the detective and I going to have just as soon as he’s finished with Conroy.
**
Finally finished with Conroy’s preliminary statement — and what a statement it was — Jim hurried back to his desk to get it typed up. Beverly wanted it signed and dated as soon as humanly possible so they could add the appropriate charges to the sheet on Liberty before his arraignment came up and his lawyer did the usual dance to obtain bail. Liberty was a serious flight risk and no one, least of all Jim, wanted him to escape due process. Between what had gone down that day, and what Conroy had given him, Liberty was never going to be ‘at liberty’ ever again.
He was so focused on getting the statement recorded that, at first, he didn’t notice Blair wasn’t there. When he did become aware, puzzled, he reached out with his senses, figuring Blair was in the breakroom, but ... no. Shrugging, still focused on his work, he decided Blair must’ve gone to get his stuff from the apartment and gone home. He had to be pretty wiped out by everything that had happened. Jim smiled to himself at the thought of finding Blair in the loft when he got home that night. Blair wasn’t teaching this semester, didn’t have any other job lined up, so there’d be no hurry for him to go back East. Hell, maybe he’d stay until he figured out what he was going to do next. Jim wouldn’t mind having him around for the rest of the year, not one bit.
Once he had Conroy’s signature, he sent a copy by courier to the DA’s office, amended the charge sheet, and then wrote his report on the takedown that morning. It was getting late by the time he finished, so he made a quick call to the loft, to let Blair know he’d soon be home and to suggest they go out to dinner. Though he would normally have been tired after a night without any sleep and the intense activity of the day, he was feeling damned good, and he knew it was all because Blair would be waiting for him.
But there was no answer at the loft. When the answering machine clicked on, he hung up, frowning in confusion. Where could he be? Surely not still at the safehouse? But, to be sure, Jim checked there. No answer. Pondering the mystery of his partner’s whereabouts, he gathered up the pages from the printer and carried them into Simon’s office.
“Here’s my report from today, and a copy of Conroy’s preliminary statement. We’ve got Liberty nailed,” he said, then asked as he set the files on Simon’s desk, “You have any idea where Sandburg is? He’s not answering at the loft or the safehouse.”
Simon laid down the pen he’d been writing with and slowly leaned back to look up at him. There was something in Simon’s expression that had him already stiffening into attention before he heard the words, “He’s gone.”
“Gone?” Jim echoed, his incipient happiness sucked into the hollow now filling his gut. “Gone where?”
“Back East.”
“But —” Jim caught himself and swallowed the words that Blair hadn’t said good-bye, the question about why he’d go so suddenly. He was gone. That was all, pure and simple. Gone. Schooling the emotion from his face, he squared his shoulders, and his gaze drifted to the window, lest his eyes convey the hurt he felt.
“Damn it, Jim, do you have any idea how sick I am of your stoic, ‘good soldier’ crap? At ease, Ellison,” Simon snapped. “Take a seat. We need to have a little talk.”
“Sir, with all due respect —”
“SIT!”
He sat. “Talk about what?” he demanded, stiffly resentful of Simon’s tone.
Simon sighed. “I wasn’t going to tell either one of you this until I get the approval I expect next week. But when Blair said he was leaving, I decided to go ahead, thinking he’d stay.”
Guessing what Simon was about to tell him, Jim’s mouth went dry and he felt a surge of elation. “You think you’ll get approval to offer him a permanent position,” he said. “Simon, that’s —”
“He turned me down.”
“He — what?” Jim felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. “But ... but the last time, he was concerned about credibility and ... and people making too many guesses. But he’s got his PhD and —” The hot knife of reason cut through his confusion, silencing him. Things had changed alright. Blair had other options now, other choices; another life that didn’t include him. Despair rolled over him, drowning him. He couldn’t let Simon see it, couldn’t. His gaze fell and he nodded, preparing to stand, to get the hell out and go home where he could lick his wounds in private.
“Blair thinks you don’t want him as your permanent partner. Said he’d always forced things between you and he wasn’t going to do that again. Said you were relieved when he turned down the badge the last time I offered it to him. You want to explain to me why he thinks all that, Detective?”
Shocked, Jim lifted disbelieving eyes to stare in total confusion at Simon. Blair didn’t think he wanted him? How could he possibly .... Why would he think otherwise? a voice inside his head challenged with bitter self-disgust. Slumping in his chair, he looked sightlessly around the office as he recalled all the many reasons why Blair might think exactly that. But, maybe Simon had got it wrong.
“Simon, he’s got other choices now. Maybe he just didn’t want to say he didn’t want —”
“Will you give it a rest?” Simon snapped and, holding up his hands, ticked off a finger as he made each point. “Certification in Forensic Anthropology, weapons training, self-defense training.” Placing his palms flat on the desk and leaning forward, he continued, “This morning, he wore your weapon into a takedown and was prepared to shoot it. I’m beginning to wonder if you deserve to be called a detective! What else does he have to do to show you he wants to come back? Huh?”
Jim clamped his mouth shut and looked away. What could he say? What the hell could he say? That he was an idiot? Simon already seemed to know that.
“When I first told him, he lit up like a Roman candle,” Simon said bluntly. “Trust me, that kid wants to come back so badly that ...” He shook his head in exasperation. “You want him? You’re going to have to go get him. I expect to receive approval from the Commissioner on Monday, Tuesday at the latest. You can deliver the official offer personally. If he still says ‘no’, well, then ... but I firmly believe he’ll accept once he knows you like the idea. So, you go home, and you think about it, about whether or not you want him back, and whether you want him enough for you to go after him.”
Numb, sick to his soul that he’d let Blair believe he wasn’t wanted, Jim nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “Yes, sir,” he rasped.
Simon’s expression softened. “You just need to talk to him, Jim. That’s all you have to do and everything will work out just fine.”
Almost afraid to hope that was true, Jim didn’t say anything. Just left the office and went home.
Just talk to him. Simon made it sound so easy.
But if it was so damned easy, he would have done it years ago.
Plucking a beer from the fridge, going to stand by the balcony door to stare into the night, Jim felt overwhelmed by all there was to say ... and how unequal he felt to saying it.
**
It was late by the time Blair had dragged himself home Saturday night, and he’d gone straight to bed with the vain hope that sleep would bring some measure of peace. No such luck; he’d tossed and turned all damned night. Sunday, he’d sat himself down at the kitchen table to make a list of what he could be doing with his life, and what jobs he might pursue, intending to then to assess the pros and cons of each option. How hard could it be? Professorships? Field work? What did he most want to do?
The problem was, he couldn’t seem to come up with any options that held any particular appeal. By noon, ricocheting between frustration, fury and hollow despair, he’d flung his pen against the wall and left the house to run along the river walk, hoping to exhaust himself. His plan worked so well that, dead on his feet, he barely managed to stagger home hours later and into his bed. He was asleep when his head hit the pillow.
Monday, he couldn’t manage to wake up enough to do more than stumble to the bathroom and back to bed.
Tuesday, feeling as if he’d been drugged or beaten into submission, or maybe both, he took a long shower, shaved, and then after dressing in jeans and a flannel shirt, he made himself eat breakfast. The blank page of paper on the kitchen table and the pen still lying on the floor mocked him.
“Get a grip,” he told himself sternly, and dutifully chewed another bite of bagel thoroughly before forcing himself to swallow.
Dammit! Why didn’t Jim want him? What was so wrong with him that ... that....
“Don’t do this to yourself,” he ordered, and got up to pour himself a mug of coffee. On the way back to the table, he picked up the pen, determined to make another stab at the list. Hell, to come up with one single idea that held a modicum of interest would be a major breakthrough of gargantuan proportion.
“What about ... teaching at the University of Mexico and spending your breaks doing field work at the Temple?” Rolling his eyes, he shook his head. “Like that would help you get over missing your sentinel! Great idea. Really great.” Heaving a sigh, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Arrggghhh!” he yelled and again threw the pen against the wall.
This wasn’t working. Maybe going for another long run would help clear his hopelessly muddled mind. He was getting to his feet to do just that when the doorbell rang. Frowning, not expecting anyone, he told himself that if it was a Girl Scout selling cookies that he really, really had to be polite. Anyone else could take a flying leap.
“Yes?!” he snapped as he flung open the door — and gaped at Jim. Who looked ... absolutely gorgeous in what must be a new summer-weight dark blue suit, crisp light blue shirt, and red tie with blues of varying colors flecked through it. Jim, looking uncertain and shy and, God, good enough to eat. Was he hallucinating now? Blair closed his eyes and opened them, but Jim was still standing there, the late morning light gleaming softly in his hair. Blair leaned against the doorframe and moaned softly. He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep —
“Can I come in?” Jim asked, sounding as if he was terrified Blair would say ‘no’.
Wordlessly, Blair backed up and Jim edged past him. Only then did Blair notice that he was carrying an overnight bag. What the hell was going on? Had ... had something happened? Was Jim here to give him some kind of bad news? God, he really, really didn’t need any more bad news. Not ever. Not in this lifetime.
Jim moved into the living room and set the bag on the floor.
Taking an unsteady breath, Blair closed the door and followed him into the room. Get it together. Get it together, hummed like a mantra in his head. “Uh, do you want some coffee? A beer?”
Jim shook his head. Straightening up, his shoulders back and his face giving nothing away he said, “We need to talk.”
Oh, great. “About what?” Ah, now that’s very smooth, Sandburg. Think you could be less hospitable? More hostile? Maybe just ripping that beautiful suit off his body would be a better, more congenial welcome.
“A lot of things,” Jim replied. His gaze fell away and he reached into the breast pocket of his suit, drawing out two envelopes. “I ... I never seem to get it right. So ... I wrote some of it down. To, uh, help get things started.”
Well, this was new. “Okay,” Blair allowed, and held out his hand. He doubted Jim had written anything he hadn’t already figured out, and he was damned sure he didn’t want to read it all in black and white, but ... but Jim looked so earnest and, well, like it mattered as much as breathing, so he couldn’t refuse. Just ... couldn’t.
Jim handed him one of the envelopes. Before Blair had opened the flap, Jim had dropped into a chair and sat there, staring up at him. As he drew two sheets of handwritten notes out of the envelope, Blair decided that sitting down before he started to read was probably a really good idea. He held the folded sheets with shaky hands, reluctant to open them. But when he glanced up at Jim, Jim gestured at him to go ahead, and there was something in his face that held an unspoken and poignantly vulnerable, ‘please’.
Blair’s gaze dropped to the first page, and he noted first that it was a list of point-form bullets. Trust Jim to be short and to the point. Then his eyes focused and, squinting a little to make out Jim’s large, angular and unusually erratic writing, he started to read.
And went very still as he read through the first page and then the other:
1. I love you. I’ve loved you for years.
2. I want you to be my partner in every meaning of that word. For the rest of our lives.
3. I was and still am afraid that you love the sentinel more than the man. But I’ve decided I can live with that, because I don’t want to live without you.
4. Big news here — I have problems with trust. I always believed you’d leave me eventually, that it was just a matter of time; hell, everyone else always has. Why should you be any different? But you are different. I pushed you away by not giving you reasons to stay.
5. I think you deserve better than me. I think you have the whole world at your feet. But I hope you’ll choose me.
6. I screwed up so damned many times. So many times it would take a book to list them all. You know the what and when of all of them, but maybe not the why. I was afraid. See points number 3, 4 and 5. I hope you can forgive me.
7. I was NOT relieved by your decision to reject the badge. I was angry, angry that you’d given up so much for a schmuck like me, and I hoped that you’d find something better, someone who deserves the best man, the best friend, the best partner in the world. And I was angry because I knew I was losing you but also knew you had to leave, that you deserved a whole lot more than being an adjunct to the sentinel. You’re so much better than that. See point number 5.
8. I’m sorry, sorry for all the times I hurt you and let you down. More sorry than it’s possible to say with only words. See point 6.
9. I hope, with all my heart, that you’ll give me another chance. I want you to come home.
Blair blew out a long breath, and then went back to read the list again, mostly because he thought he really had to be dreaming but it was too good a dream to let end. When he finished, he looked up to see Jim watching him and looking so uncertain that Blair wanted to smack him. This was everything he could have possibly wanted to hear, needed to hear — but it felt way too easy, and he couldn’t afford to get it all messed up again.
“You’re right,” he said. “We really need to talk. What the hell do you mean that I love the sentinel more than the man?”
Jim shrugged; his gaze drifted away. “You were so excited about finding me and all your attention seemed to be on the senses. I figured ... I figured that without the senses, you wouldn’t...”
“Uh huh. You know we’re going to have to do something about this schizoid thing you’ve got going here.”
Jim’s gaze jerked back to his, fragile hope blooming in his eyes. “We are?”
“Yes. Because it’s so beyond ridiculous that I want to shake you till your teeth rattle. What have I been saying all these years, huh? I love ... the sentinel? You really are a schmuck. I’ve told you over and over and over that I love you.”
A small smile twitched over Jim’s mouth. “I hear that,” he said solemnly, but there was the beginning of a twinkle in his eye.
“Smart ass. Don’t think I’m done with you yet,” Blair growled, but his heart was singing, and he thought it might burst right out of his chest to boogey around the room. “What’s this crap about me deserving someone better than you? There is no one better than you — and I do not just mean that you have hyperactive senses. Jim, you’re the best person I’ve ever known: the bravest, most ethical, most decent —”
Jim held up a hand. “Ethical?” he echoed with a bitter laugh. “I let you destroy yourself for me because I’m too cowardly to tell the truth. I’m a liar, as well as a freak.”
“Stop!” Blair shouted. “I won’t let anyone say such disparaging and manifestly untrue things about the man I love — not even you. You are most certainly not a coward — and, God, Jim, you’re a miracle. It kills me that you see yourself as something ... still feel so uncomfortable and alienated from a part of you that is so wonderful. You are not some Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde, not some kind of monster. What is it going to take for you to feel good — hell, great — about yourself? What?”
Jim rubbed a hand over his mouth. “It’s getting better — I’m getting better,” he said quietly, but he wasn’t making eye contact, so Blair could tell there was still a long way to go. Jim looked up then. “You ... you make me feel better about what I am. You always have.”
“Except when I’ve made you feel like a lab rat,” Blair muttered.
“No, Chief, don’t ... that’s not true. Everything you did, you did to help me. I do know that. And you’ve done so much — Chief, you don’t even know how much — to help me manage my senses, to use them, to ... to even sometimes enjoy them. And, well, most of the time now, they’re a great asset on the job.” He grimaced and massaged the back of his neck. “It’s just that I ... I’ve been living a lie so long that I’m not sure how to stop. But I’m trying to be more open about them. A little at a time, I’m trying. Only ... only I ... I need you there to do it. I can’t face the circus alone. I ... can’t.”
Blair really didn’t think full disclosure was the way to go for a whole bushel of reasons, but he didn’t want to get into that discussion until they got the rest of it solid. “That’s something we’re going to have to talk about more later. Right now, I want you to promise me that you won’t tell any more people anything until we have discussed and decided just how far to go.”
“Okay, I can do that. You’ve got my word.”
Blair eyed him to be sure he meant it, then looked down at the list. “This point six — it gets canceled out by all the times I screwed up. I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive me, and I mean really forgive me.”
“I forgive you.”
“Uh, uh, not so fast there, good buddy. If there is anything, anything at all, that keeps nagging at you, that you can’t let go, you have to talk to me about it so we can work it out. No more blindsiding. No more assumptions. No more ‘it’s not important’ or any of this ‘I’m afraid’ crap or, even worse, ‘I don’t want to think about it’ garbage. I know trust is a problem for you, but if you can’t or won’t trust me, this will never work.”
“Okay, but you have to stop putting me first all the damned time. You have to say and do what’s good for you. I need to trust that you’re telling me the truth, too.”
That’s a tough one, because you’ll always come first, Blair thought. “I’ll ... try. You may need to call me on it if you think I’m sliding off the line.”
“Oh, you can make book that I’ll call you on it.”
Blair eyed him narrowly. “Soooo ... you trust me?”
“More than I trust myself. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Anyone.”
“I’m not sure that says a lot, Jim,” Blair challenged. This was just too important to not get clear.
Jim studied him, eyes searching his face, and he looked so damned vulnerable that it was all Blair could do to keep from lunging across the room to hold him, just hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay. But Jim had to do this, had to wrestle this demon into submission on his own. Finally, “Yeah,” Jim breathed, “I trust you.” And, as if a huge weight had been lifted off Jim’s shoulders, his body eased and he smiled. “I really do. I trust you. I know you want the best for me — just like that’s what I want for you. And I know you’d never willfully hurt me; that you ... well, you protect me. That’s not always easy for me to accept, you know that. But you also need to know I count on that, rely on you. Have since we met.”
Blair let out the breath he’d been holding. Though it was hard, so hard, to keep a rein on his emotions, to not let his rising joy burst free, he needed to keep going, needed to work it all through. Once more, he scanned the two hand-written pages but it was getting damned hard to concentrate. “What’s in the other envelope?” he asked, not lifting his head.
“A formal offer from Captain Simon Banks for the position of Civilian Consultant in the Major Crime Unit, to be teamed with Detective James Ellison. And I have to say, the salary is substantial.”
Blair nodded, still not looking up. “Why haven’t you ever been able to say it, Jim?”
Jim took a deep, deep breath. “Because, if I did and you left me, I ... I don’t know, I don’t think ... ah, hell, it’s all there, points three through eight.”
“Why didn’t you want me to stay with you when I got there last week?”
“I told you at the time. I was scared that Liberty would look there first, and I ... I wanted you safe.”
“You wanted me safe? But you let me walk into ...?”
“Chief, look at me, please,” Jim asked.
When Blair lifted his gaze, Jim was sitting forward, his hands clasped between his knees, and when he spoke, it was slowly and thoughtfully. “I know it doesn’t sound like it makes any sense. But ... I really did want you in a safe place. But I also knew that, together, we could pull off the takedown. I trusted you to do what you had to do, and I trusted Simon and myself to do what we had to do. In that sense, it was as safe a situation as we could have, given the circumstances. And, aside from getting Darryl back, I wanted to have it finished, to have Liberty locked up for so many more reasons than the Conroy case that there’d be no point in him going after you again. And ... and it’s not like when you were an observer and I was responsible for you. I was thinking about you as the partner I respect, that I have to respect for us to do our jobs. I ... I hope that makes sense.”
Jim hesitated, and then demanded, his tone sharper, “You thought you were going to die, didn’t you? How could you think I’d let you go into it, if that’s what you really believed? I don’t understand that, Blair. I really don’t. And you know what? That you could believe that, even for one second, pisses me right off.” Getting up to pace, he carried on, his tone angrier with each word. “And, while we’re on subjects that piss me off — why did you take off like that on Saturday before talking to me? You really, honestly, believed that I wouldn’t give a damn? C’mon, you gotta know me better than that.”
“Ah, well, now, here’s the Jim Ellison I know and love — when upset, go on the attack, right? For a minute there, I was seriously thinking you might be a pod person,” Blair slammed back, his incipient anger flaring hotly. Surging to his feet, he yelled back, “Yes, dammit, I did think I was going to die. And you know what, I was ready for it — I wanted it.”
Jim’s eyes widened in horror, but Blair was too mad to stop. “And you know why? Because I ... I was tired of trying to make it without you, and I really didn’t think you wanted me back — ever. It was like, like half my soul had been ripped away! For more than a year, I’ve believed that I screwed up so badly that ... that ... that there was no salvaging this life, and I wanted out. So that maybe it could just be over and I could do better next time around.”
Blair stopped for breath, and Jim quickly interjected, “Other lives don’t matter, Chief. Just this one. If we can’t remember the others, and don’t know if there’ll be more, this is the only one we’ve got.”
Blair raked his hand through his hair. “I know that,” he admitted. “And when I didn’t die, and I realized that I’d deluded myself with a lot of karmic shit to obscure the fact that I just wanted it over, I ... well, I was ashamed of myself. I was being childish and irresponsible. I told myself that I have a responsibility to keep going, to live a life that matters, even if it can’t be the one I want. So I came back here, determined to make a list of the sorts of positions I could look for, ones that I might have some hope of getting at least some enjoyment from.”
“Must be a long list.”
Blair laughed bitterly. “Oh, yeah, right. I couldn’t think of a single thing. Not one single damned thing.”
“Ah, Chief ...” Jim sighed. “I didn’t know ....”
Blair nodded. “Neither of us has been worth a damn in the ‘coming clean’ department. That’s gotta stop, Jim. We’ve got to do better than we’ve done, or we’ll tear each other apart.”
“Blair, I can’t promise to turn into some other human being — but I’ll give it my best shot. I want it to work. I ... I need it to work. I need you.” He hesitated and a flush crept up his face. “What you said about your soul?” he rasped, his voice close to cracking, “I ... me, too, Chief. Me, too.”
“Jesus, we’ve got to stop hurting each other,” Blair gusted. He swallowed and took a deep breath, then held out his hand. “Hi. My name’s Blair Sandburg. I hear you’ve got a letter for me that says I’m gonna be your new partner, which means I’ll also be your guide, your best friend, and your lover, even if the letter doesn’t say all that. I promise to be the best partner I know how to be and I promise to never leave you.”
Jim reached out to clasp his hand, and held on with a firm grip. “I’m Jim Ellison, and I’m real glad to have this letter for you. I’ll be your sentinel, your partner, your friend, and your lover from now on. I promise to trust you and ... and I’ll try damned hard not to ever hurt you again.”
“Deal. Give me the letter.” When Jim passed it over, Blair gestured for Jim to follow him into the kitchen, where he retrieved his pen from the floor for the second time that day. He drew the letter out of the envelope and made himself read it over slowly ... his eyes widened and he blew a long, low whistle when he saw the salary being offered. It was everything — and more — that he’d ever dreamed of having. A smile of delight grew until he thought his face might crack. He picked up the pen and bent forward to poise it over the acceptance signature block. Pausing, he looked up over his shoulder at Jim, who looked so happy he was positively radiant.
“There’s just one thing, Jim,” Blair said, low and slow. “I’d like to hear you say it. You don’t have to, but I’d really like to hear it.”
Stepping closer to slide his arms around Blair’s waist, Jim leaned into him and murmured hoarsely into his ear, “I love you, Blair Sandburg, and I want you to come home.”
Blair felt like a first-class wimp when the tears filled his eyes but, God, he’d never heard anything so beautiful in his life, and he thought he just might burst with sheer joy. Sniffing, he signed the document with a flourish and tossed the pen aside. Sliding around in Jim’s embrace, he lifted his hands to cup Jim’s face and draw his head down. “I love you,” he whispered just before he claimed Jim’s lips and kissed him with all the tenderness in his heart. Time seemed to stand still so that all that there was this, being together, loving one another. Blair slid his arms around Jim, and they pressed closer together, the kiss deepening as the heat between them built. Until, breathless with hungry desire, hugging Jim hard, drawing back just enough to murmur against his lips, Blair said with raw need, “I really like the new suit, man, and it was nice of you to dress up for me ... but if you don’t take it off right now, I’ll shred it from your body.”
Jim’s chuckle started low and built into delighted laughter as he loosened and slid off his tie. “Now, that’s what I call communication,” he approved, dipping his head to claim another quick kiss as he slipped off his jacket. “Keep it up and we should do just fine.”
“Oh, it’s up, man, no doubt about that,” Blair teased with a wicked smile as he unbuttoned Jim’s shirt and unclasped his belt.
With another burst of carefree laughter, Jim turned him toward the kitchen doorway and, an arm around his shoulders, walked him down the hall toward the bedroom. God, Blair loved the sound of that laughter, and how he’d missed it ... missed it so much. In seconds, they’d stripped off their clothing, Blair’s landing haphazardly on the floor, while Jim managed to fold his neatly. Blair snickered fondly at the familiar precision of motion and admired the long, clean lines of his lover’s body that never failed to take his breath away. When Jim looked at him, clearly not understanding what had provoked his amusement, he shook his head and pressed Jim down on the bed, then climbed onto it to straddle him. Melding himself to Jim, skin to skin, nuzzling the soft spot on Jim’s throat, just over the pulse point, while Jim’s hands roamed his body with sure knowledge, he briefly thought, This is where I belong, where I’ve always belonged, and his soul sang with unbridled joy.
In the distance, he thought he could hear a wolf’s yipping bark and a panther’s yeowl.
Jim whispered, “I love you,” and he was lost, all thought swept away by the power of the love that defined who they were and bound them together through all of time.
The next morning, after sharing a shower that very nearly blew their plans for the rest of the day off the rails, they cleaned the house, did the laundry, and Blair packed up his gear. Jim called Simon to report his mission was a complete success, and they’d be reporting for duty the following Monday. To his surprise and delight, Simon reminded him of his mountain of accumulated leave, and suggested they take their time and really enjoy the cross-country road trip. The summer holidays and staff short-falls were over, so Simon could afford to give him the time now. Reporting in a week from the next Monday would be just fine, and would give the administration folks time to get Blair’s desk, computer and all the other necessary accoutrements and arrangements for his arrival done. Besides, Simon pointed out, as an new employee, it would take Blair awhile to accumulate his own bank of leave, so they might as well take a holiday while they could.
“Hey, Chief,” Jim called, leaving the kitchen and striding to the bedroom, where Blair was just finishing his packing. “Simon’s granted me some leave. We’ve got nearly two weeks before we have to report.”
Straightening, Blair brushed back his hair. “Simon’s the best boss in the whole world. You know that, don’t you?”
Jim grinned. “And a damned good friend, too.”
“To both of us,” Blair agreed. Glancing out the open window as he set his suitcase under it, Blair noticed the weather outside was glorious, with that first crisp feel of autumn on the light wind that lightly billowed the curtains and rustled through leaves that would soon turn from infinite shades of green to flaming crimson, bright gold and warm orange in a wild, rich display of nature’s finery. Deciding they’d done more than enough chores for the day, Blair suggested they celebrate the first day of their impromptu vacations by taking a last walk along the river.
The current was fast and strong along this stretch, which was what had made the river such a ready source of power for the mills that had enriched Putnam in the previous two centuries. The short set of falls near Blair’s cottage plunged with surprising force and threw up droplets of cool water that sparkled in the sunlight. Jim put an arm around his shoulders and drew him close, and Blair put a proud, possessive hand in the small of his lover’s back. Slowly, they sauntered along, in no rush to be anywhere, simply enjoying being together on a perfect day.
“This is a really pretty town,” Jim observed. Inhaling deeply, he added with appreciation, “And clean. Smells good.”
“Mmm,” Blair agreed as his gaze roamed the water and the strip of parkland along the banks. “In different circumstances, I could have been happy here. It’s like ... I don’t know, going back in time, to when things weren’t so rushed and complicated, simpler somehow, safer. Man, you should see when the leaves turn — you’d really love the colors and the scents.”
Jim craned his neck to look up at the old, spreading trees with their sturdy branches and canopy of leaves, and then past them to the heart of town. The architecture was part-Colonial, part-Victorian, and was very easy on the eyes. The place felt ... peaceful.
“You know, Chief, I don’t plan to work forever, not in the kind of job I’ve got now — and I don’t want to get into management, with all the political bullshit that Simon puts up with,” Jim mused. “Maybe we should think about coming back here someday. Would be great if we could buy that little cottage of yours. And Yale isn’t so far away — you could take senior seminars, maybe; you know, work part-time and maybe write the rest of the time. What do you think?”
“And while I’m working part-time and writing the rest of the time, what do you think you’d be doing?” Blair challenged gently. “Don’t you think you’d be bored?”
Jim shrugged. “I don’t know. I like making things with my hands, you know, like wooden cabinets. And ... I’ve never tried it, but I think I’d like to do some painting — not of walls,” he hastened to add before Blair could object that that sort of work would be hard with his senses. “Pictures. Maybe of this river and the old mills.”
Blair regarded him pensively. “I think that’s a really great idea,” he encouraged. “I bet you’d be a fine artist. We could build you a studio, with lots of glass to catch the north light.”
Jim nodded as he looked around, that soft, sweet vulnerable expression on his face that turned Blair’s heart to mush, especially because it was so rare. The smile widened and when he looked down at Blair, his eyes were alight. “You know, being the local law around here might be fun. Small staff, tiny little law-abiding town. Perfect for an old cop who can’t take the heat or the pace of big city law enforcement anymore.”
Blair patted his back fondly. He’d wondered how Jim would take the natural process of aging, and what would it mean in terms of the conflict between a body that was slowing down and his sentinel need to protect. “Does sound perfect,” he murmured. “I think we’d both be very happy here.”
“So do I, partner,” Jim replied. “Sounds like we’ve got a plan.”
Early the next morning, they loaded up the Volvo and, after dropping off the keys to the house at the realtor’s office, they hit the back roads through rolling farmland and then the Appalachian mountains. As the days blended one into another, Blair did most of the driving and, when Jim objected, he just grinned and shook his head as he held up and shook the keys. “My wheels, my keys, I drive,” he insisted, then with a taunting grin he added, “If you want equal time with my baby, then you’re gonna have to give me equal time behind the wheel of your truck.”
Jim scratched his cheek and then simply climbed in on the passenger side. “Your wheels, your keys,” he agreed.
“Oh, man, you’re never gonna let me drive that truck except when you’re blind or half-dead — so, like, probably never again, right?” Blair whined as he cranked on the ignition their third morning on the road.
“Well, maybe not ‘never’,” Jim drawled with a wicked grin.
“You are so bad,” Blair laughed as he pulled out onto the narrow, winding highway.
Though they avoided the major interstates and so weren’t retracing his exact route across the country, Blair took them through South Dakota and the Black Hills. He really wanted Jim to meet John WindTalker, and he couldn’t wait to show Jim the old, faded photograph. Blair wasn’t the least bit surprised when John and Jim hit it off so well — especially given their mutual love of fishing.
“He kinda reminds me of Incacha,” Jim said on their way back to their motel just outside of Keystone. “He’s restful to be around and yet you get the feeling he doesn’t miss a thing.”
“Trust me, he doesn’t,” Blair told him. “And he doesn’t mince words, either, when he thinks you need to hear them.” Looking up at the hill toward where the cabin was hidden by trees, he said softly, “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t met him when I did. I was in pretty bad shape, all of it really hitting me, everything crashing in — and I’d just seen the picture I’m going to show you tomorrow. He found me on the mountain trail and took me to his cabin. I stayed there with him for two months, getting my head back together. He’s a good man.”
Jim drew him close and nuzzled his brow. Leaning into him, returning the hug, Blair murmured, “It’s okay, Jim. It was rough, but I think I had to go through it. I think you were right to ... to make it okay, even necessary, for me to leave. John said the same thing you did, just before I left, that there has to be balance between us. I had to find my balance, my place as myself and not just as your partner. I couldn’t even be the partner you needed until I did. Now ... now I can be and I can do my thing, too.”
**
The next morning, Blair took Jim to the little bakery café for breakfast. As they’d arranged the day before, John met them there, to tell Jim the stories about Sheriff Ellison and Doc Sandburg. All the while that John talked, Jim stared at the photograph, occasionally shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe the proof of his own eyes.
“Blows you away, huh?” Blair observed, still feeling the awe of it himself.
“Yeah,” Jim agreed, looking just a little shaken. “I ... I never really believed in all that reincarnation stuff before, but this ... this is incredible. And Simon and Joel were here, too?”
“According to the stories. And Megan ran the hotel up in Lead.”
“Jesus,” Jim breathed. “Why? What brings us back?”
“To learn, to serve, to do what we were created to do?” Blair suggested. “I don’t really know, Jim. But I think it’s kinda neat. I like the idea of getting more than one ride.”
Jim laughed and ruffled his hair. “I’m sure you do, Chief. With your limitless curiosity, I bet you drag us back over and over and over again, just to see what’s going on.”
**
They stayed in the Black Hills for nearly a week, fishing and hiking the hills. Jim noticed the sense of refuge, too, the feeling of having been there before, of knowing these hills and being happy wandering them. “I wonder why we left?” he mused one day.
“I don’t know — all anyone knows now is that we headed west. Which is what I guess we’d better do again, tomorrow.”
Throughout all the days of their journey, neither of them seemed to be able to stop smiling like mad fools. Just being together was a big part of the fun they were having, and their nights were truly awesome. But it was more than that; something deeper, something that settled them and filled them with a sense of rightness, of being whole. At first, they thought it was because finally, finally, Blair was returning home, every mile that rolled under the wheels bringing them closer to where they wanted to be. And this time, so happy they could hardly stand it, they both knew that he would be home for good.
But, as the miles passed, they also came to understand that it really didn’t matter so much where they were, so long as they were there together. Only then, were either of them truly ‘home’.
Just one touch, and the pain’s all gone.
Just one kiss makes my life worth living,
And is all I need to build my dreams upon.