I would like to thank Michelle and Cindy for all their
*hard* work - without them there would be a lot less commas and some hilarious
and unintentional gaffs. Who knew that, in
Angie - who put the match to the touch paper and
catalysed this whole story.... one innocent little comment and see what
results.
Last, but not least.... Everyone wave to Seah - who
puts up with the most abstruse and weird questions fairly regularly, she also
adds insight and betas.
Warnings:
1) PG-15 with a horror content. This is a follow on to
‘Our Unconquerable Soul’, but if I have done this correctly you shouldn’t have
to read the prequel.
2) Original characters
3) Whilst not a crossover, per se, Father Philip
Callaghan and the Legacy concept play a role.
4) Smarm, h/c, (what a surprise)
5) Summary... far to complicated. <rolls eyes
heavenward> Okay. the guys get involved with a kidnapper of children who is
far more than what he seems. This has important repercussions on the
Sentinel/Guide relationship.
6) specific spoilers for the episodes ‘Cypher’ and
‘Warriors’
Disclaimers.
‘The Sentinel’ and ‘Poltergeist: The Legacy’ don’t
belong to me they belong to other people.
Death in the Family
Chapter One - Death in the Family:
Walking with the Dead
Introduction -
~mumble~ ~mumble~
James Ellison, detective of the
Cascade Police department, and Sentinel - possessor of hyperactive senses -
opened one eye, suddenly and abruptly awake. He had had a really, really bad
day... a day that had spanned into the night. He had been using his enhanced
senses throughout the day. A crime scene had initially provided no clues. After
fine focusing his sight, he had managed to find a long, dark hair under the
murder victim’s clothes. The hair had born a distinct chemical odour that had
led him to a hair stylist in the same building and ultimately the murderer. The
leg work between finding the hair and finding the killer had been tedious, time
consuming and straining as he had brought sight, smell, touch and hearing in
his attempt to stop the murderer before he struck again. He had succeeded with
his partner’s help.
What every functioning Sentinel
needed, and had been driven home to him today, was that he really needed his
partner. Archaic old text books called his partner a Guide, mainly Jim guessed,
because he guided him on how to best utilise his senses. His partner, Blair
Sandburg, also had any uncanny ability to focus the Sentinel’s concentration on
matters at hand, preventing him segueing in to a fugue type state. Jim
Ellison’s thoughts wandered sleepily; calling Blair a shaman was another name.
The second time he had met his soon-to-be-guide he had called him a witch
doctor. He was fairly sure if he likened a witch doctor to a shaman Blair would
lecture at him on the correct appellations of... His thoughts wandered again.
Sleep calling him.
~mutter~ ~mumble~
‘I’m going to kill him.'
They had had such a long day. He
wanted to go to sleep. When they had finally escaped from the precinct, they
had driven straight home. As tired as each other, they had weaved into the
loft. Neither had had the energy to eat. They had merely separated, heading to
their respective bedrooms.
Now it was two hours later and said
Guide was talking on the telephone to someone keeping him awake. Jim reached
under his pillow and pulled out his gun - tempted for one second to fire it at
the ceiling - that would certainly shut up the kid. Then again the neighbours
would be calling the police in a heartbeat. Reluctantly, Jim put the gun back,
not really considering using it to scare his Guide talking ceaselessly below
him.
He threw back his heavy quilt and
climbed out of bed. One hand on the wall, he padded down the stairs. His
sentinel eyesight easily picked out the shapes of furniture in the loft as he
made his way unerringly to his Guide’s bedroom. The glass doors were open. Jim
began to creep; tickling was the order of the day. Then he saw their cell
phones on the large wooden table. If the kid wasn’t talking on the phone, to
whom was he talking? He couldn’t hear anyone else in the loft. Intrigued, and
slightly worried, he poked his head around the doorway. The throw pillows,
which usually lay on the kid’s bed, were dumped on the floor with his discarded
jeans and flannel shirt. His guide was flat on his back, the blankets draped
over his chest. His arms were flung over his head, in a surrender position of
total relaxation. He was soundly asleep. The kid couldn’t fool a sentinel; he
was indeed sound asleep; breathing regular and deep.
~mumble~
He moved his head to the side and
his lips moved.
~mumble~
Blair Sandburg was talking in his
sleep.
‘I wonder if he’ll wake up if I
gag him?’
"No ~ Nah ~ not really. A
sentinel is a protector..."
Jim leaned against the door jamb and
crossed his arms. This could, possibly, prove to be illuminating.
"... interesting point.
Territoriality. Umm, have to remember that."
Abruptly his Guide sat up, reached
for a notebook set conveniently beside his bed and began to scribble furiously.
"Cross reference territoriality
and the occurrence of sentinels. Null hypothesis: number of sentinels in a
population constant. Test hypothesis: changes in number of sentinels in areas
of conflict. Gotta test it. Something missing there," he said absently,
still quite asleep. "I guess conflict in an area for territory will
concentrate sentinels in a given area, not necessarily increase the number of
sentinels in a population or populations. What do you think?"
Jim started, automatically looking
behind him. There was no one there. As he turned, Blair was burrowing under the
blankets. The notebook had been discarded onto the pile on the floor. Blair
snuffled innocently into his pillow.
‘Damn, he doesn’t even stop working
when he’s asleep,’ Jim reflected. He shook his head
and slowly made his way back up the stairs to the bed that was calling him.
Perhaps now that he knew that Blair was simply sleeptalking, he’d be able to
sleep.
He pulled his allergy-free down
quilt over his head, finding his own burrow under the sheets. The kid often
talked in his sleep, muttering to himself, but it had never disturbed him
before. Why had it woken him up tonight even though he was bone weary? Sleep
claimed him before he could finish the thought.
A Year and a day later....
The cyclist dodged in between the
trucks and cars. There was a squeal of brakes, a deft twitch of the handlebars,
and the bike crossed the street avoiding a large truck. Distantly, Blair was
aware that the driver was flashing a gesture; he ignored it.
Turning down a side street, the
cyclist left the manic traffic behind him. The trees on either side of the
street brought a sense of calm to the suburb. His hair flying out from under
the cycling helmet, the rider enthusiastically cycled up the road leaving the
noisy city behind him. The old houses in well appointed gardens seemed to greet
him. At the end of the road was a rambling house. When he had met the occupant
during an investigation, he had quickly discovered a kindred soul willing to
share a host of stories and had since visited regularly.
Waiting on the drive, an old woman
pruned her beloved roses. Although she appeared to be working, she was, in
reality, waiting for her guest. Simon’s Aunt was impeccably dressed, her
elegant dress protected by a flowery apron. Despite the unseasonably warm
autumnal weather her hair was ordered and coiffured whereas the cyclist’s stuck
this way and that.
The mountain bike coasted to a halt
and, lightly, Blair dismounted.
"Hi, Zoë," he said
brightly.
"Blair, how are you?" She
was always the essence of politeness.
"Excellent." Blair tucked
his bike behind the gatepost. He yanked off his sweaty helmet and balanced it
on the seat. "You look well."
"I blossom in this heat,"
Zoë responded, putting an artificial Southern twang into her voice.
Blair grinned at her ebullience as
he shook his head, working out the matted hair into a frenzy of curls. He was
practically vibrating with energy.
"Jim, Simon and me found the
little boy, who was kidnapped the other day, in the Cascade Woods this morning,
safe and well."
Executing a dance and a spin, he
caught Zoë by her hands and swung her around. The old lady joined in. Blair
carefully spun once more and then stilled.
"You know, it makes it all
worthwhile when this happens." His eyes gleamed.
"So why aren’t you out
celebrating with Simon and Jim instead of coming to see an old woman?" she
chided gently.
Blair blinked, a tad confused.
"I told you I was coming last week, when I met you after seeing
Philip." He shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and began to rummage.
"Look, I found that book that you mentioned." He held out ‘The God of
the Witches’ by M.A.Murray.
"Aren’t you the sweetest."
Blair stubbed his foot against the
ground pretending to be shy. "Gee, shucks."
She aimed a swat at his head, then
reached up and ruffled his curls. "Coffee?"
"Hot chocolate?" Blair
tried.
"With marshmallows and
cream?"
"But of course."
Arm in arm, they wandered up the
path.
"The reference you were after
is on page six. It states, and I quote: that Theodore of Tarsus, with the aid
of Hadrian, the Negro, organised the Church in England in the seventh
century."
Flipping the pages of the book, Zoë
found the reference that Blair had underlined with a post-it note.
"Well, I’ll be, just as I
remember." She ran her fingers over the text.
"I skimmed the rest of the
text. The dialogue isn’t what you would call politically correct but it’s an
interesting treatise."
"Political correctness is a
recent innovation, Blair," Zoë reminded gently. "I’ve been called
worse names to be offended by a book which is over eighty years old and by a
writer who didn’t intend any insult, any rate."
"Yeah, but..." Blair
hedged.
"But nothing. I’ll add this
reference to my essay on the advent of the Christian Church. And discuss it,
thoroughly."
"Oh, boy. Bet you will."
Zoë squeezed his arm. "So tell
me all about finding this little boy."
Blair told her the edited version
with extra Simon highlights.
~*~
One and half-hours later, Blair
reluctantly took his leave of Simon’s aunt, since he wanted to avoid the heavy
traffic of rush hour. The sugar rush of double strength hot chocolate with
extra cream and sugar would get him back to the precinct in half the time it
normally took.
Retrieving his mountain bike from
the bushes he heard a quiet cough. Startled, he spun on his heel. The priest
from the rectory, next door, stood beside the gatepost.
"Philip. What are you trying to
do? Give me a coronary?"
"I’m sorry." The young
Catholic priest bowed his head apologetically.
"It’s okay." Blair flapped
his hand, casually, in the man’s direction before his doelike eyes became too
sad.
The priest was as reserved as ever.
After two years of friendship, Blair was slightly better at reading the man’s
body language than the average member of his congregation. He still hoped that
one day Philip Callaghan would relax enough to laugh out loud, and at length,
in his presence. The priest was still the temporary and reluctant preceptor at
the Cascade Legacy House. The Sentinel and Guide had uncovered the secret of
the philanthropic organisation known as the Luna Foundation that acted as a
front for the secret society of the Legacy. In reality, the Legacy strove to
protect the innocent from the forces of evil and the supernatural. Simon’s Aunt
Zoë, living next door, had seen something suspicious one evening in the Legacy
House gardens. She had asked her nephew to investigate. He had responded by
sending his detective/observer team to see what had happened. It had led to
shocking events and a redefining of their belief systems - battling both
daemons and horrors was suddenly very much part and parcel of their lives.
Initially, Blair had thought that he would have no further interaction with the
priest. That was until....
~*~
A memory:
Curious, Blair ran his thumb over
the parcel that Jim had brought into the apartment, drawing out the
anticipation. He liked receiving packages, especially when they were a
surprise. There was no sender’s address. He had many friends and relatives over
the world but this was posted locally. Why deliver if you lived locally? His
friends would have visited the loft.
Curiosity gave way to action and he
ripped the cardboard - no careful unwrapping, allowing for re-use - Naomi had
brought him up to be excited about presents. One layer of cardboard gave way to
another and then another. His burnt fingers were starting to hurt so he
obtained a pair of scissors. Beneath the cardboard was a layer of bubblewrap,
and beneath that, a layer of acid free paper. Blair was intrigued; a
professional had wrapped this package. The final layer yielded to his scissors.
Three books were revealed: a small
monograph; a large leather bound text and a flimsy collection of parchments
bound by what looked like intestines. A shudder stopped him dead as he
recognised the introductory text he had ‘borrowed’ from the Legacy house. The
other book was a copy of the Burton thesis on which he had based his Sentinel
studies. Hands shaking, Blair rested his bandaged fingers on modern paper.
Sticking out from between the pages was a small booklet of old parchment.
Carefully, Blair pulled the pages free. Archaic, but understandable, English
writing greeted him. He was robbed of breath as he realised that he held the
chronicles of David the Mad - detailing the adventures of a sentinel and guide.
"Oh, shit." Blair cast a
furtive glance at the bathroom, making sure that his Sentinel had not been
disturbed by his outburst. Nothing moved.
Almost frantic, he rifled through
the books. Interleaved between the acid free paper and the bubblewrap was a
letter.
Dear Blair,
I hope this letter finds you well. I
attempted to find you at the University, but I was informed that you had taken
a few days sick leave and they would not give me your home address. The head
librarian at the University mailed this package to you on my behalf. I realise
that both you and Detective Ellison have been subjected to a horrific
experience - if you feel you need to talk to someone, I can lend an ear.
No doubt you are wondering about the
books? While searching for your identity on the internet, I came across the
title of your Master’s thesis - the Sentinels are an intriguing concept. I
noticed that you had looked up the reference whilst visiting the rectory. In
addition I found the Burton monograph in the Dahlia flowerbeds, where it had
landed after your escape. I requested the third book from the San Francisco
branch. As you had displayed such interest in the texts, I thought you might
wish to consult them for your research.
If you would be so kind to return
the books at your leisure.
Yours faithfully,
Philip.
Blair’s thoughts ran wild for a
moment, fermenting every possible extrapolation of the words in the letter. He
breathed rapidly, trying to calm his heart rate before Jim came barrelling out
of the bathroom. Nothing in the letter said that the Legacy priest had figured
out that Jim was a Sentinel. It was merely one scientist helping another.
However, it did not bode well for the future.
"Chief, what’s the
matter?" Jim stood in the bathroom doorway, a towel was wrapped around
hips. Steam billowing behind him. The Sentinel did not, impressively, sound
bored or resigned to his Guide’s continuing fluctuating emotional state during
the aftermath of their demonic experience.
"Callaghan’s lent me the
Sentinel books I found in the Legacy Library," Blair explained.
"I crashed the computer!"
"The search history must have
been saved."
~*~
Blair had eventually, and
reluctantly, returned the books to the Legacy house several weeks later. His
feet had dragged down the drive and up the steep steps to the porch entrance.
Warring with fear and memory, he had rang the doorbell and waited for
retribution. He had expected a few sharp words from the priest - for all
intents and purposes he had stolen the books from the Legacy library. Stolen
was such a harsh word, borrowed without permission sounded much better. Father
Callaghan didn’t broach the subject. He was simply pleased to see the young
student was hale and healthy after a shocking experience. A friendship had been
born. After several meetings, Philip had carefully, and tentatively, introduced
the subject of Sentinels. It hadn’t taken very long for the talkative Guide to
confirm that the priest had correctly identified the subject of his thesis.
"I saw your picture in the
afternoon edition of the ‘Cascade Times’." Philip held up the front page
before his eyes, breaking his reverie. In colour, a photograph of Blair
carrying a small dark haired child graced the front cover. "I wanted to
make sure that you were all right."
"Wow." Blair took the
page. The child, running away from his kidnapper, had hidden in a sewer on the
edge of the Cascade forest. Jim, utilising his sentinel abilities with his
observer’s help, had found the child. As the least threatening member of the
party, Blair had had the dubious honour of crawling into, and retrieving, a
very scared little boy from the pipe.
"Jim did it, Philip. He was
great. He scented out the kid’s candy. There wasn’t a mark on him. Yeah, he was
scared but the creep who took him hadn’t had the time to do anything, you
know."
"Thank God. Have you caught the
kidnapper?"
Blair shook his head sadly.
"Nah, the guy... or lady... is as slippery as an eel. The ransom note was
really weird - the guy wants the mother."
The catholic priest shook from his
head to heels. "That’s disconcerting. And unusual?"
Fumbling with his cycling helmet,
the grad student considered his words before speaking. "The F.B.I. are on
the case, of course, it is a kidnapping and that’s a federal offence. The
profiler with the agents told us that this guy asks for the mother - if the
family goes through with what they think is an exchange - neither is seen
again. The first family he attacked did not call the authorities, neither did
the second - the moms and kids have never been found. That was the last time
they heard anything until this kidnapping. The profiler says that he’s probably
left the state."
"How’s Jim handling that?"
Philip asked wisely.
"Oh, boy." The grad
student let out a whistle. "Going postal. As my mom would say, he’s going
to have to ‘let it go’. Marcus doesn’t remember anything about his kidnapper -
there are no clues. I can’t hang around, Philip. The department’s heading down
to the bar to celebrate finding the kid after the shift. But I was going to
come ‘round and ask you if you want to go and see ‘Kudun’ at the Campus cinema
next weekend?"
In his customary manner, Philip
paused considering the invitation. He nodded gravely. "Yes, Blair."
"Cool." He jammed his
cycling helmet on top of his curls. "I’ll get the tickets when they’re
available and email you. Okay?"
A smile graced Philip’s solemn face.
"Looking forward to it."
"Excellent." Grinning
happily, and exuberant with the success of the morning’s investigation, Blair
cycled off, one hand on the handle bars and the other waving to both Father
Callaghan and Zoë Banks at her living room window.
~*~
After dumping his mountain bike in
the back of Jim’s truck, Blair took advantage of the showers before the current
shift finished. The detectives of both Major Crime and the other departments
had, and Blair given it much consideration, a juvenile sense of humour when
they were using the bathroom facilities. Intellectually, Blair knew it was
their collective way of ‘burning off steam’. Since he was the butt of most of
the jokes and towel flicking he preferred to pick his moments when he showered.
One on one he could handle, perhaps even two on one but when there were ten
intent on ‘amusing’ themselves it reminded Blair too much of high school.
Discretion was the better part of valour. He picked his fights carefully. He
shaved quickly and surely and then dug out some clean clothes he had stowed at
the bottom of Jim’s locker.
Ten minutes before the end of the
shift he was situated in front Jim’s computer surfing the web. His partner and
friend, James Ellison, was occupied in one of the interview rooms interrogating
a potential suspect in the morning’s kidnapping. If they had caught the
kidnapper, who they had assumed had left the state, the day would continue to
get better.
"Sandburg," a familiar
bass voice interrupted his thoughts.
Blair lifted his head. "Yeah,
Simon?"
The seriously tall captain of Major
Crime loomed over him.
"Jim should be finished
interviewing a suspect. Can you take this file down to him in room four?"
"No problem."
Blair left Simon shaking his head at
his energetic departure. Since Simon was always bemoaning his excess energy,
Blair didn’t let it bother him.
He waited outside interview room
four. Walking in on an interrogation in progress was never a sensible
occupation. Occasionally he sat in on the stranger of Jim’s cases, but in
general he stayed outside.
The door slammed open and a pissed
detective stormed out, slamming the door behind him. An annoyed Jim Ellison was
a vision to behold. The muscle in his square jaw was pulsating. Blair jumped
forward, raised both hands and planted them on Jim’s chest. The papers, which
Simon had given him, floated to the floor.
"Hey, hey, calm down."
"Damn nutballs," Jim
huffed. "Wasting my time."
"What happened?" Blair
asked. He could tell that the ex-ranger was indulging himself in a fit of
temper.
"One of the newbies brought in
a witness to the kid’s kidnapping. A witness who *seemed* to know more than was
good for him. The man has a perfect alibi; he was with his psychiatrist while
the kid was being kidnapped. He just made some lucky guesses." Jim’s anger
seemed to deflate as quickly as it rose. He bent and picked up the file.
Flicking through the reports, he noted, "Seems that our ‘suspect’ has made
a habit of knowing more than he should and seeing aliens. Normally he sticks to
the smaller precinct on the west-side."
Blair quickly scanned the reports as
Jim looked at them. Stowe Craig was well known to the detectives of the
west-side for either accepting responsibility for crimes he didn’t commit or
having ‘important’ information.
"Poor guy," Blair said
sympathetically.
"Whatever. Now we know him. We
can ignore him."
The door opened and a stocky
uniformed police officer conducted a short, frenetic looking brown haired man
out of the interview room. His eyes flashed warily at the tall detective and he
almost ducked behind the officer.
‘Mr Empathic strikes again,’
Blair thought waspishly.
"Thank you for your help, Mr
Craig. In future don't bother," Jim snapped.
Blair clamped his teeth on his
bottom lip rather then yell at his partner.
‘That wouldn’t be professional,’
he told himself. ‘That wouldn’t be professional.’
Blair smiled tactfully at the
nervous man, who immediately latched onto him. He dodged past Jim, giving him a
wide berth, and moved into Blair’s personal space.
"You have to believe me,"
he implored. "It’ll try it again. You have to stop him. I don't always
know. You can try; you can know." He made the mistake of grabbing Blair’s
arm painfully hard.
Blair winced and Jim reacted. The
man was wrenched away and literally thrown at the police officer.
"You okay, Chief?" He
didn’t wait for any acknowledgement before turning on the terrified little man.
"Take him to his psychiatrist - she’s waiting outside for him."
Without further ado, the young
policewoman escorted the psychiatric patient from Jim’s presence.
Jim actually growled under his
breath. "What a waste of time."
"The kidnapper’s probably left
the state. The F.B.I. said that that was his m.o.."
Jim trudged down the corridor.
"Is that supposed to make me happy, Chief? No, don’t answer that question.
I just thought that we had something, instead of listening to some nutball’s
fantasies."
He breathed out hard, once.
Impressively, he regained control.
"Did he hurt you, Chief?"
"Nah." Blair rubbed his
bicep. "Are we still going to Tarantino’s?"
~*~
Tarantino’s was rocking. A haze of
smoke hovered in the centre of the action, where Captain Banks sat regally
directing some obscure party game. The jukebox was thumping out an old and
familiar tune. Blair made a little shimmy and then danced his way across to the
bar.
"Jim, my man." Henri waved
him over.
A general shifting of chairs ensued
until a space was made for the detective. Smiling, Jim joined them.
"What’s the game?"
Rafe pointed at the television in
the corner of the bar. An episode of ‘Star Trek: the Next Generation’ was
playing.
"Rules are simple," Henri
interjected. "If Picard tugs on his tunic you have a drink. If Deanna
‘senses strong emotion’. If Riker..."
"I get the picture." Jim
said quellingly. He rocked back on his chair following Blair’s progress to the
bar. The kid had been intercepted four young-things en route, three of whom
were probably seniors at Rainier University. They had been directed
elsewhere... with a smile. The fourth was older, she stood at about six foot
and probably weighed about one hundred pounds. Naturally curly, white blond
hair tumbled down one side of her face. Blair was enthralled. The kid was
always fond of rock climbing.
Cassie entered the bar. Jim sat back
to enjoy the show. He found Cassie irritating, mainly because she tried so
hard. In Sandburg it could be endearing. Cassie wore a banner on her chest
proclaiming ‘look at me I’m so good’. She didn’t approach challenges with
enthusiasm, she approached them to blow them out of the water for all to see
and admire. With Sandburg’s attention firmly taken by a Nordic goddess, Jim was
intrigued to see how her ‘let’s be friends’ shenanigans would survive.
Picard pulled down his tunic and
everyone took a drink. Cassie, her hips swinging, honed in on Blair.
"Heh heh," Simon leaned
over. "This could be fun."
As one the entire cast of the Major
Crime department turned to watch the new entertainment.
Cassie suddenly blushed as red as
her curls. Her hand flashed out, slapping Blair soundly across the cheek and
then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the bar. Lifting his hand to his
flaming cheek, Blair asked the world at large, "what did I do?"
The gang of Major Crime rolled on
the floor laughing.
The blonde woman leaned over Blair,
kissing him soundly - with tongue, bending him backwards, to hoots of applause
from the crowd.
She released him with a caress.
"Give me a call, sweetie."
Blair watched her walk out with a
befuddled smile on his face. The applause took on a mocking measured quality.
Irrepressibly, Blair made an elegant bow.
Jim shook his head slowly from side
to side. That kid. Blair grinned and then continued onto the bar. He returned
with a pitcher of beer and a bottle of Jim’s favourite mineral water. Everyone
inched up in the booth and Blair wriggled in.
"Does anyone mind explaining?
What did I do?" Blair asked, snagging himself a tall glass.
"That, my boy, was jealousy.
Plain and simple green eyed monster time." Simon peered down at him over
his glasses.
"Cassie?" A toothy grin
flickered over his face. "But she said that she just wanted to be
friends."
"The more *they* protest the
more they’re saying chase me," Henri said with what was possibly the voice
of experience.
"This comes under the heading
of ‘who understands women’ doesn’t it?"
Henri flung his arm around his
shoulders and pulled him in tight. "Perhaps you should change your Ph.D."
"Nah, man." Blair shrugged
him off. "I wanna finish someday. I start delving into the female psyche
and I’ll never come up for air and finish."
"So you gonna chase
Cassie?" Rafe leered.
All eyes turned to the blushing
observer. He appeared to weigh the question. "I dunno. Trine kissed
*really* well. She gave me her phone number..."
"When?" Henri said around
a mouthful of nuts.
"You weren’t looking very
close, detective," Jim admonished. He leaned over the table reaching to
delve into the neck of Blair’s red shirt. With the flair of a magician he
pulled out a slip of paper. "Voila!"
"Hey, hey," Blair grabbed
for and missed the paper. "That’s mine."
"I’ll keep it in protective
custody, buddy."
Striving for maturity, Blair
resisted the temptation to climb over the table and wrestle back his phone
number as Jim secreted it in his wallet.
~*~
"Roll a silver dollar down the
street and it’ll roll-oo-ll because it’s rou-ou-ond." Blair regaled the
members of Tarantino’s to a surprisingly melodic tenor version of the old song.
Simon and Henri joined in the chorus. As designated driver, Jim sat back and
enjoyed the show.
"There’s a worm at the bottom
of my garden and his name is Wiggly Woo." Blair warbled another song.
Rafe laughed so hard he snorted beer
out of his nose.
"There’s a worm at the bottom
of my garden and all that he can do, is wiggle all night and wiggle all day,
the folks around here all do say: There’s a worm at the bottom of my garden and
his name is Wiggly Woo."
It proved an instant success and
everyone joined in.
~*~
"Bye bye, Simon." Blair
waved enthusiastically at the Captain of Major Crime as he let himself into his
two-storey home. Simon saluted and firmly closed the door. "That’s the
last one, Jim. We gonna go home now?"
Jim was fairly sure that he had
contravened a couple of traffic laws when the majority of the Major Crime
department had piled into the back of his truck. Houston’s significant other
and David’s wife had driven to the bar and picked up their partners. A couple
of other members of the department had scrounged lifts off them.
"I like going out, Jim. But why
do people have to smoke?" he asked seriously. He sniffed at his jacket.
"Don’t they realise how yucky it smells."
Jim let him ramble in peace.
Once inside the apartment, Blair
headed straight to the sink and proceeded to chug down several glasses of
water.
"How drunk are you?" Jim
asked as he hung up their coats.
"I wouldn’t drive. But I’m just
happy. Look." He closed his eyes and brought his finger up to his nose.
"I’m gonna have a shower and wash this smoke right out of my hair."
Once again he broke into song and danced his way to the bathroom.
Shaking his head, Jim checked the
doors and windows and then made his way up to his bed.
~*~
~mumble~ ~mumble~
Sighing deeply, Jim lifted his head
up from his pillow. Why was it that sometimes the kid’s sleeptalking woke him?
His sentinel abilities aside, he usually could tune out the majority of his
partner’s daily noises after living together for over two years. Then out of
the blue the kid would sneeze or grunt and he would immediately focus on the
sounds.
"No, we didn’t catch him. Jim
tried." Blair’s voice came clearly. Too clearly.
Jim flipped onto his stomach and
peered over his pillows into the living area.
A figure, bathed in moonlight, paced
back and forth between the couch and the television. His hands flashed out,
underscoring tension.
"No, Jim tried. The stench from
the storm overflow was overpowering. Oh, come on, there has to be limitations.
He’s a human being not a god. Despite his tendency towards megalomania."
Blair changed track and headed over
to the balcony windows. He stopped and rested his palms against the glass.
"Evil? No, I didn’t sense any
evil. I crawled into the pipe and I saw a frightened little child. The boy,
Marcus? Jet black curly hair, brown eyes, dark skin, round cherubic face. ...
Like what?... Noooo, he didn’t have red glowing eyes or speak in tongues. What
are you on?"
Jim had had enough. This passed the
boundaries of Blair’s normal sleeptalking sessions and sleepwalking was a
first. He clambered out of bed and padded down the stairs to Blair’s side.
"Hey, kid." He gently took
his arm. "Back to bed."
Docilely, Blair allowed him to guide
him back to his bedroom. The covers were pushed back, half on the floor, half
on the bed. Without any direction he stumbled towards his bed and fell into the
sheets. Jim hovered a moment listening to his breathing slowing as he slipped
into deeper sleep. Blair’s face was turned to the wall. Placing his hand
against the woodwork, Jim leaned over to better watch the student’s eyes. The
lids were closed and the eyes were still; no rapid eye movement heralding
dreams with sleeptalking and walking. Reassured that he was deeply asleep, Jim
pulled the covers up, tucking him in securely. He then paused; at a quandary.
While he was fairly sure that if Sandburg went walkabout again he would hear
him, he didn’t want to take any chances. Sandburg would probably go ballistic
He found his handcuffs and manacled the kid’s wrist to the headboard. Quietly,
he closed the bedroom door.
Yup, Sandburg would go ballistic.
~*~
Sleepily, Blair turned over. Dull
pin and needles laced up his arm. He tried to shift, but his arm felt dead. A
metallic click confused him enough to open his eyes. He saw a band of metal
around his wrist. A handcuff.
"JIM! JIM!" He jerked
upright pulling at the handcuff. The metal bruised his wrist as he flailed.
‘Oh, God. NO. Someone’s been in
here! IS Jim all right?’ His mind spun. He hadn’t drank that
much, only enough to make him merry; he must have been drugged. Metal,
manacles, cold terror, all linked to Lash, a waking nightmare.
"JIM!"
The glass door slammed open and the
detective appeared, gun in hand.
"Jim, thank god. Someone’s tied
me up. Check the loft!" His voice rose stridently.
"No, no, no." Anguish
crossed Jim’s face.
Mindlessly, Blair yanked at the
cuff, cutting his skin. Suddenly Jim straddled him, catching him in a hold that
contained his struggles.
"Relax, relax," Jim
crooned, as he fumbled with the lock. It opened with a silent snick, releasing
Blair. Jim held him tightly, he seemed to have more arms than an octopus. A
subtle shift and the hold became an embrace.
"No one has been here,"
Jim whispered into his ear, soothingly. "I’m sorry. You were sleepwalking
last night. I am sorry. I didn’t think it through properly; I thought you might
sleepwalk and hurt yourself, I forgot about Lash."
A hollow, fear filled void in his
stomach flipped, Jim had tied him up. He felt nauseous. He had completely and
totally lost control. Jim was rocking him like a child.
"Fuck, you tied me up,
man." He hated the tears in his voice. A flame of anger was filling the
void.
"... Steven sleepwalked,"
Jim was explaining. "He fell down the stairs when he was seven. He broke
his leg. I didn’t hear him. I only just remembered. When I found you last night
by the window. I just needed to make sure that you didn’t hurt yourself."
The flame died with a little puff of
smoke.
Jim started again, a different
thread of words, the same story.
"It’s okay," Blair
croaked. "I just flashed, you know. Waking up; tied up." His voice fractured.
"I’m sorry, Chief."
"It’s all right." Blair
pushed away from Jim’s chest. His arm twinged angrily, bruises were already
forming a lurid bracelet around his wrist.
"Shit," Jim hissed.
"We have to get some ice on that before it swells up."
In an instant he was gone, the
curtains on the glass door wafting in the force of his passage. Blair pushed up
against the wall, resting his head on the woodwork. His heart was beating like
a trip hammer. Jim reappeared holding two bags of frozen peas and a tea towel.
He laid one bag on Blair’s lap upon a tea towel.
"Rest your wrist on the
bag."
Blair did as directed and Jim laid
the other bag on top.
"I’m sorry, Blair."
"Stop saying that," Blair
snapped. "I know, you’re sorry. "
Jim disappeared again, returning with
the loft’s first aid kit from under the bathroom sink. Gingerly he sat next to
Blair on the bed.
"Can I check your wrist?"
he asked quietly.
Carefully, Jim assessed the bruises,
manipulating the hand. Cajoling Blair into moving his fingers and then cleaning
the cuts that marred the bruising skin.
Blair sat silently as he dressed the
wrist.
"I don't think it’s broken or
sprained. Keep it on the frozen vegetables, it’ll keep the swelling down."
Jim raised his eyes and looked at
Blair directly.
"Don’t apologise again,"
Blair said. "I was sleepwalking, yeah? Stephen used to?"
Jim nodded. "After he broke his
leg, Dad put him back in the nursery. There were bars on the windows of the
nursery and the door locked."
"You’re kidding," Blair
said horrified. "Your nursery had bars? Hang on, you had a nursery?"
A faint tinge of a blush touched
Jim’s cheekbones. "Yeah, well..." he hedged. "Hmm, you want
breakfast?"
Muttering under his breath he stood
up and escaped into the living area. Cradling his throbbing wrist in the frozen
vegetables, Blair chased after him. Jim was directing his energy into making a
cordon bleu breakfast, a rare occurrence and best enjoyed; so Blair let him off
the hook.
"I was sleepwalking? I don't
think I’ve ever done that before."
"You talk in your sleep,"
Jim said introspectively, "all the time."
Blair’s eyes widened, horrified.
"I talk in my sleep?"
An evil smile crossed Jim’s face.
"At length, not loudly, but that’s okay."
"Shit," Blair swore. The
ramifications appalled him. God knew what his over-active brain churned out in
the dead of night. "What do I say?"
"This an’ that. Some topics
come up more that others. Sam, Jessica.... Cassie."
"No," Blair denied, then
he saw the glint in Jim’s eye. "You’re teasing me, aren’t you?"
Jim concentrated on frying the
dipped eggy bread, keeping out of his direct line of sight. "I don’t
really listen," he admitted eventually. "Once I make sure you’re all
right, I turn over and go back to sleep. Usually you’re just rehashing your day
or talking about sentinel stuff."
"And last night? When I was
sleepwalking?"
"You were discussing the
kidnapping case. I came down and steered you back to bed when you wandered over
to the big windows. "
Blair lost himself in thought,
considering the implications of uncensored chatting when he was asleep. The
beeping of Jim’s cell phone interrupted his contemplation.
"Ellison. Hey, Simon. Damn.
We’ll be down in half an hour."
Jim shut the cell phone and placed
it very carefully on the counter. No doubt resisting the temptation to shoot
the messenger.
"There’s been another
kidnapping."
~*~
Distraught mothers were never high
on Jim’s list of favourite things. He squashed the uncharitable thought. The
father was going for stoic, and he was succeeding, except for his hand that
alternatively clenched and released his wife’s shoulder.
The F.B.I. were running ramshod over
the whole scene. Jim couldn’t be charitable as they, sentinel and guide, were
more than capable of conducting the investigation. Rule, regulations and minutiae
insisted that they take a back seat in the investigation.
The child had disappeared from the
play ground during recess. No monetary ransom note had been left. A note had
been stapled to the main door of the nursery school. The simple request for the
mother had told them that Marcus’ kidnapper had not left the state. The hunt
was on.
The ransom note had been bagged and
taken to the state of the art F.B.I. forensics department in Seattle. Only the
teacher who had found the message, profiler and the agent in charge had seen
the note, a shroud of secrecy seemed to hang over its contents. Jim was
intrigued; what was so unusual and disturbing about the note that necessitated
it being spirited away? To say that Cassie was frothing at the mouth was
something of an understatement.
Meanwhile, Jim held Charlton
‘Charlie’ Hawke’s favourite, well-loved toy dog against his chest. Inhaling and
exhaling he took in the scent; preparing himself. Suddenly, he set the toy
aside. Making a single, abrupt nod he left the principle’s office with Blair at
his heels. All the other players were occupied so they slipped out unnoticed.
Blair bounced forwards so he could scurry along at the detective’s side.
"Have you imprinted on his base
scent?" he demanded.
"Young children don’t have a
base scent like adults. It’s more ephemeral; harder to track. Babies aren’t
territorial."
He collared a young detective and
obtained directions to the pre-schoolers’ play-ground; the last place Charlie
had been spotted.
Jim stopped in the middle of the
corridor and flared his nostrils.
"Do you have it?" Blair
whispered, his voice weaving his magic.
"Yes," Jim hissed. His
head came up resembling a hunting pointer dog. "I sense the mother’s
overlaying the father’s scent and beneath it - the child’s."
"Follow." Blair hummed
under his breath, a cadence of relaxation.
Jim twisted this way and that
tracking the path of a four year old boy. Selecting the old movements from the
new. The labyrinthine corridors were plastered with mosaics and children’s
paintings. They cut through to the assembly hall and emerged from the school on
the play-ground. Gaily coloured climbing frames and swings mocked the gravity
of their search. A handful of uniformed officers and a couple of F.B.I. agents
searched the grass. Jim bypassed them, tracking a trail half scent-half colour.
He had explained the visual manifestations of tracking to his Guide on several
occasions. Blair could only imagine the interplay of colour and scent that
called to a Sentinel on the hunt. Scent drifted, moved with the play of the
wind, but somehow it could cling to the soil, to the earth, to the ground.
Blair could describe degradation of aromatic compounds and reduction of
intensity of volatile substances over time, but Jim saw the changes, he could
pick and choose the scent to follow. What he didn’t do, though, was see the
flow of scent with his eyes; he saw them in his mind’s eye.
A brighter scent drew him around the
back of the nursery school. A prefabricated building was tucked in a corner
behind the stately old building. They gingerly climbed up a low rickety wooden
staircase and picked their way to a door with peeling paintwork. Tacked to the
door was a crude note that stated that they were outside the caretaker’s
office.
"Wouldn’t they have looked
here?" Blair ventured. He raised his hands. "Yeah, I know *you’re*
looking now."
A low growl from the sentinel’s
throat surprised both men. He had miscalculated, the scent trail did not lead
to the office. Lithely, he jumped off the stairs. Jim crouched and looked under
the building, his hand resting on the wooden platform. The prefabricated
building was raised off the tarmac ground on an intricate maze of scaffolding
and wooden planks.
The glow of scent trickled under the
building. Another scent twisted around the child’s, strangling it. Jim blinked
and allowed his pupils to eclipse his irises; dilating them to their maximum
extent. Night became day as he picked out details beneath the building. In the
centre of the support network was a drain covered by a metal grate.
"Chief, can you make out the
drain?"
The observer shuffled down next to
him and shielded his eyes, straining to see any details.
"Yeah, you think the kid’s down
there? Is there something about this psycho and drains? Marcus was in a drain.
Does the creep not like the sunlight, or something?"
"You think you can get under
there?" Jim asked quietly.
Blair’s eyes darted this way and
that, nervously. "Aw, nah, why me?" He canted his head to the side
estimating the distance between the tarmac and the bottom of the building.
"Maybe, if I take my coat off and wriggle. Probably," he hazarded.
He began to shuck off his coat,
gently easing the cuff over his bandaged hand.
"No, Chief - not yet."
"Why then?" Blair’s brow
furrowed.
"The kid was under there with
someone with a strong scent; an adult. No one’s seen this guy, but we know now
that he’s the same size as you or smaller. I would get stuck."
"Definitely male?"
Jim flared his nostrils.
"Guessing. The other scent’s musky, deep, so it’s probably male."
"Are we going to get forensics
down here or can I go and have a look down the drain?"
Jim rocked back on his heels.
"I can’t hear anything."
The non sequitor perplexed the grad
student for a heartbeat then he understood the ramifications. If Charlie was
down the drain he wasn’t making any noises - none at all.
~*~
Hugging Simon’s police issue
raincoat around his shorter frame, Blair tried, vainly to cut out the cold
draft whistling around the courtyard. The obscenely well equipped F.B.I. agents
had sent in a video camera on a radio controlled gurney to the drain - their
attempt at a Mars Lander. It had been somewhat more successful, it had only
stalled once before it had reached and peered down the small hole. The images
sent back through the light-fibre cables had shown something. They thought that
it might, possibly, be a padded coat. The F.B.I. had now brought in jacks so
that they could lift up the building and examine the site properly.
Blair kept telling himself, futilely,
that they couldn’t have moved faster. Jim had to imprint on the scent first -
that took time. As soon as they had the scent they had followed the spoor. It
would have taken him a good fifteen minutes to crawl under the scaffolding...
time that would not have helped a small boy. Blair prayed that Charlie was not
stuffed in the drain.
The kidnapper’s penchant for drains
and sewers was disconcerting. Yet, now they had a common thread: a knowledge of
drainage systems and a short person. The F.B.I. profiler was sequestered in his
van, across the courtyard from the buildings, cross-referencing sewage workers,
waterworks engineers et cetera with known psychopaths. Simon had Brown
and Rafe visiting the local library checking out the records of the old industrial
sewage systems and drains.
Cassie was in the thick of things,
helping a F.B.I. forensics officer to direct operations. Jim was talking
quietly to the nursery caretaker trying to find out where the drain might exit.
Unfortunately the man was a sufferer of Down’s Syndrome and, despite Jim’s
careful wording, he was failing to grasp the importance of the detective’s
questions. Blair watched as the detective and caretaker headed into the main
building.
Sick of standing around like a
useless bookend thinking the worst, Blair wandered over to the video link. As
the prefab building was ratcheted upwards daylight reached the hole allowing
the watchers to finally see into the drain. Blair held his breath, along with
five others. The small jacket was empty, discarded, left.
"It is the kid’s," one of
the agent’s said as he consulted a file.
"We now know that this bastard
likes drains," another said.
"Charlie’s not there,"
Blair breathed out softly. "That’s sort of good, isn’t it? There’s a
chance."
"There’s always a chance,
son." A grizzled veteran patted his shoulder. Blair looked up and smiled
at the older man.
"Hey, kid, what’s your
story?" he asked. His eyes were wise, evidently taking in the ill fitting
police jacket.
"Blair Sandburg. I’m an observer
with the Cascade P.D.. I work with Detective Ellison." He pointed to his
friend who was emerging from the main building, minus the caretaker.
"Doing what?"
"Have you got a couple of
hours?" Blair smiled guilelessly.
"Not going anywhere at the
moment, son. By the way, my name’s Oscar Mutawbi."
They shook hands. The F.B.I. agent’s
hand swamped the anthropologist’s. Their eyes met, dark brown weighing lapis
lazuli blue. Blair decided that he liked this walking F.B.I. suit. Threads of
grey touched Oscar’s sideburns and Blair wondered if someday Simon Banks would
resemble this relaxed older man. Simon sometimes needed to take a chill pill.
"Are you in charge?" Blair
asked.
"You weren’t kidding when you
said you observed."
"I never kid," Blair
deadpanned.
A whoop of excitement interrupted
their nascent conversation. The building had been lifted high enough to allow
the F.B.I. agents and forensic experts to examine the site. One Sentinel surged
forwards with the crowd.
"‘scuse me." Blair left
Oscar standing as he joined his Sentinel
He didn’t really need to be close.
In fact sometimes he wondered why the detective continued to accept his
presence, both as an observer and ‘so-called-guide’. It wasn’t if he zoned
regularly. The occasional weird happening confused his senses, but in general
he had them under control. Feeling a tad superfluous, the observer stopped to
the left and a step being the Sentinel
"Chief?" Ellison grabbed
his attention with his low voice. "What do you make of that?"
Blair followed the direction of
Jim’s pointed finger, looking in the narrow drain. The darkness swamped any
unenhanced vision.
"Jim, man," Blair hissed.
"Turn it down, you can’t see anything, okay?"
The Sentinel nodded, reluctantly,
seeing the wisdom of his words. Settling to wait, on tenterhooks, for the
forensic scientists to step to the side was physically painful.
~*~
Finally - Jim sighed deeply, a sigh
with Blair echoed - the forensic specialists deemed that the site had been
covered. As the F.B.I. scientists conferred with their fellow agents, Jim saw
the opportunity to investigate.
As Jim crouched, to better peer into
the drain, Blair knelt next to him covering his actions. The detective snapped
on his latex gloves and then stretched out on his stomach. He squirmed, rucking
up his t-shirt and jacket showing bare skin, but no matter how much he
manoeuvred he could not get his shoulders into the narrow pipe.
An impatient tap on his shoulder
reverberated through his head.
"Why don’t you let me?"
Jim rocked up and onto his heels in
a smooth motion. The kid’s size was deceptive; five foot eight was kind of
short for a man of indeterminate European descent (maybe), but it was all
compact, lithesome muscle. But, when push came to shove, appropriately enough,
his shoulders were narrower than the Sentinel’s shoulders.
"Go on, then."
Blair deftly pickpocketted a
surgical glove from Jim’s jacket and carefully drew it over his undamaged hand.
He then lay down, remaining stationary for a mere second and he then twisted
onto his side and glared impatiently.
"Well, are you gonna direct me
to what you’re looking at?"
Jim rolled his eyes extravagantly
then crouched down next to the observer. Under his directions, Blair wriggled
headfirst into the pipe.
"Feel your way down the far
side... another brick... carefully... don’t cut your fingers; god knows what
bugs breed down there..."
Blair’s face mirrored his disgusted
expression.
"Little bit further, there’s
something hairy secreted in a crevice."
"Hairy?" Blair echoed,
appalled. He yanked back his hand. Before he could move further, Jim dropped a
heavy hand on the small of his back pinning him to the ground.
"Get it," the detective’s
tone brooked no argument.
Whining under his breath, Blair gently
pinched the hairs between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly, he teased a thumb
sized object out of the hole. He rolled onto his side and sat upright, holding
something in his hand. All the sentinel could see was a wrinkled thing with two
arms, two legs and a hairy round head.
"Oh, God," the grad
student squalled. "That’s gross."
Blair’s eyes widened, horrified, as
he held out a tiny figure.
"That’s nice," Jim
drawled.
"Oh, man," he yelped and
dropped the doll-like thing. "It wiggled. I swear it wiggled."
Jim’s hand darted out, catching the
figure in mid-air. Shuffling on his bottom, Blair backed away.
"Calm down, " Jim ordered.
Stock-still, he held the figure at arm’s length.
"Some kid must have lost
it," Blair’s tone was plainly disbelieving.
"I don’t think so, Chief."
Jim’s lip curled up in distaste, as a distinctively creepy feeling crawled up
his spine.
Reluctantly he augmented his sight,
magnifying the tiny figure to enormous proportions. The effigy was beyond
detailed: each individual black hair was unique; the apple wrinkled face held a
slit of a mouth with perfect, even teeth and the stitches on the long skirt and
matching jacket were executed with machine precision.
"Oh, God, it’s a person,"
Blair whispered, somehow pre-empting the Sentinel. He leaned closely, his body
language warring with himself; escape verses scientific curiosity. "It’s
like a shrunken head but the whole body."
"What did you find?"
Cassie’s imperious voice washed over them.
Blair jumped backwards. The Cascade
department’s forensic chief peered down at the twosome sitting on the tarmac,
like a school teacher, tapping her immaculately polished shoe against the
ground. The detective and observer froze, trying to hide the effigy would make
it all the more suspicious, but hiding the figure was not necessary.
"A kid’s doll?" She
dismissed it with the flip of her hand, spinning on her heel to return to the
F.B.I. agents.
"That was close," Blair
hissed.
"What are we going to do with
it?"
"Evidence?" Blair hedged.
They both turned to look at the
staid, everyday agents using their tried and true techniques to find the
kidnapper of a young child.
"It’s a person, Chief. How was
this done?"
The anthropologist nibbled nervously
on his thumbnail. "With a head, they make a slit up the back and pull the
skull out and pack the empty head with a desiccant and stitch it up."
Jim rolled the figure over in his
fingers. "No stitches."
Blair shuddered down to his toes.
"We can’t let the mundanes see
this, Jim. It’s bad. This is really bad. We’ve got to let Philip get a look at
it."
They had known as soon as they had
picked up the figure that they had moved beyond the boundaries of a normal
investigation and had delved into the world of the supernatural. The sentinel’s
talents rested in the preternatural, out of the normal course of nature. The
next step was the supernatural.
Sentinel and Guide stared at each
other across the figure. Both remembered the events of the daemon from the
otherside that they had fought tooth and nail. Pure, unadulterated luck and the
determination of a compassionate, evolved soul had saved them from a monster
that coveted their own souls.
They had met and made friends with
one Philip Callaghan, a Catholic Priest, as they had attempted to investigate
disappearances of the first victims of the daemon. Philip had a reluctant
interest in mysticism and, similar to the Sentinel and Guide, despite his best
attempts found himself pulled into matters supernatural.
"Okay, we’ve got to get out of
here. If this is something weird, the F.B.I. won’t be able to handle it."
"Unless they have a real life
Mulder and Scully," Blair said irrepressibly.
Jim didn’t even bother responding to
his observer’s levity. He fumbled in his pocket for a plastic bag for the
figure.
"No, you can’t put it in
plastic," Blair said wisely. "You have to wrap it in silk. We have to
insulate it."
"What?" Jim paused, about
to drop the shrunken-thing into the bag.
"Everything I read says that
... implies that objects of this nature have vibrations. Silk will insulate the
effigy from other vibrations so they remain intact so someone who is
psychically sensitive will be able to read them." Blair raised his hands
and shrugged expressively. "That’s what they say! It won’t harm it, but it
might help Philip figure out who made it."
"Do you have a silk
handkerchief on you?" Jim said practically.
"No."
"Silk boxers?"
Blair spluttered, and unaccountably
blushed.
The Sentinel’s face cracked into a smile.
"Hey, it’s silk - must work."
"Get out of here!" Blair
rummaged in the pockets of Simon’s jacket. He didn’t find any handkerchiefs but
pulled out a Swiss army knife, a lighter, a sewing kit and a single cough
sweet. Snapping a glare at the grinning Sentinel, Blair launched himself to his
feet and then ran across to the Captain of Major Crime who was talking to Oscar
Mutawbi. Jim watched as he spoke with Simon for a moment, the captain’s brow
furrowed and then with a plainly irritated expression he handed across the
handkerchief tucked in his lapel pocket. A bounce and Blair ran back to the
Sentinel’s side.
Carefully, Jim wrapped the figure in
the handkerchief and then offered it to his Guide.
Blair immediately backed off, hands
splayed defensively. "No way, man. You’re the Watchman. You’re better
equipped to handle this sorta stuff."
Unwillingly, the detective dropped
the tiny body in his pocket.
"Ellison," Simon called to
them across the courtyard.
Cool, calm and collected, Jim strode
to his Captain’s side. Simon viewed him with a weighing expression. Blair kept
a step behind him, effectively keeping out of the Captain’s sight.
"What did you find in the
drain?" he questioned, his dark eyes level.
The F.B.I. divisional supervisor in
charge of the investigation, beside him, also waited for the answer.
"Found a kiddie’s doll,"
Jim pulled out the figure and allowed the folds of the silk to reveal a flash
of hair and jacket. "Figured some kid would have missed it. There must be
a ‘lost and found’ box in the school." He reached behind him and hauled
the grad student into view. "Dunno why Sandburg here wanted to wrap it in
a handkerchief."
"That’s some little child’s
beloved toy, you know. You gotta look after it. Didn’t you wrap your..."
Blair’s voice deliberately trailed off, the obfuscation master knowing when to
let a fairy tale write itself.
Simon wasn’t buying the fabrication
but he was willing to go along with whatever new thread his premier detective
and said detective’s eccentric sidekick had found. He had evidently guessed
that it had something to do with his detective’s sentinel abilities.
"Go on then, and I’ll see you
back at the precinct," Simon dismissed them, with a subtle order.
Jim tucked the figure back into the
folds of silk.
"Yeah, come on Jim." Blair
tugged at his sleeve. "Can you drop me off at the University?" He
wiggled his fingers at the F.B.I. agent. "Nice meeting you, Oscar."
Jim allowed the student to tow him
away.
~*~
"Fascinating," Philip
Callaghan breathed.
The high tech laboratory hidden
within a seemingly innocent rectory was state of the art. The small figure sat
in the hypercold interior of a relatively small scanning electron microscope.
They could now see greater detail than any sentinel.
"I thought that you had to
treat samples with gold plating and stuff?" Blair said hesitatingly. He
tapped his note pad with his pen, jotting down notes as thoughts occurred to
him.
"No," Philip said easily.
"I’ve seen aphid frozen - viewed - and then when they thaw they’re all
right."
Blair shook his head. During
combined anthropological and archaeological digs he had collected remains and
artefacts for study, the techniques prior to microscopical analysis had been
complicated and tedious not a simple freezing.
"It’s in black and white,
though. Can’t we have colour?" Jim demanded.
Blair spluttered and stuck out his
tongue. "Have you any idea how much this costs, Jim? It is not
cheap."
"I *thought* we were here for
the mystical stuff not science," Jim said snottily.
Father Callaghan coughed lightly,
breaking into their banter. "You’re assuming that the two are mutually
exclusive..."
"That means: no relation,"
Blair said helpfully.
"Thanks, Sandburg."
The priest continued, ignoring the
interruption. "I wanted to do this."
The image panned over the body,
hovering over the fingertips and then zooming in on the index finger. All the
whorls and lines were shown in perfect clarity. A single press of a button and
a copy of the video image was printed.
The priest took a number of photographs
and then, using forceps, removed the effigy from the imaging chamber. He did
not touch the body at any time; distaste rolled off him in waves.
"What about the vibes?"
Jim said, plainly forcing the words out.
Blair grinned like a loon.
"It’s not really my cup of
tea," Philip said, as he laid the body on a desk.
"If I thought that this was a
scientific problem I would have given it to Cassie."
"Detective," Philip said
precisely. "I can measure certain forms of electromagnetic radiation -
which are standard test for psychic activity - I don’t understand the science
but I can watch a dial. I don’t believe you have these devices down at
Cascade’s precinct."
He suited actions to words, bringing
over to the desk a device that both the detective and observer recognised as a
Geiger counter. A slow series of clicks told them that they were in no danger
of radiation poisoning. The priest exchanged the meter for another more
esoteric device. The box bore of a mismatch of wires and dials that whirled
rapidly.
"What does that mean,
Philip?" Blair asked eagerly, his pen was poised over his paper.
"It indicated pyschokinetic
activity."
"Which is?" Jim asked,
trying very hard to be patient.
"Pyschokinetic as in the
manipulation of any matter by a method other than explainable physical force
whereas telekinetic refers to the manipulation of metallic or metal based
matter," Blair lectured snootily.
Jim scowled. "I’ll check the
dictionary when I get home, Egon."
Father Callaghan rolled his eyes
heavenwards. "Children, children. Behave."
A chastisement, the priest had
actually chastised them, no matter how gentle it was so perfectly unusual that
Blair’s thoughts stuttered in shock.
"Hang on, Hang on." He
held his hands out in the classic ‘time out’ gesture. "Bear with me a
second, Jim. Philip can you insulate that *thing* and put it somewhere out of
view."
"It’s not a *thing*, it was a
person," Philip said with a sharp edge to his mouth.
"Okay," Blair said
tightly. "Please." His full lips were pursed together. The pen in his
fingers twirled like a cheerleader’s baton. Quickly, he grabbed Simon’s silk
handkerchief and caught the figure up in its folds. The priest made a grab for
the figure. Deftly slipping out of the priest’s grasp, Blair checked the room,
honing in on an empty liquid nitrogen container. With an unconscious flourish
he dropped the effigy in the canister and sealed the lid.
Slowly he faced the confused
Sentinel and priest. Harsh breathing sounded through the suddenly quiet
laboratory.
"I think we should go into the
kitchen and have a nice cup of camomile tea and think about the last few
minutes."
Blink, blink. Two sets of eyes
watched him carefully.
"I’m asking you," he took
a deep breath, "as an observer of human nature: to step out of this room
and put as much space between us and the thing and review how we’ve been acting
since we came in this room."
Philip raised a finger, about to
interrupt.
"Please," Blair
interrupted, his blue eyes widened imploringly.
Executing a controlled parade manoeuvre,
Jim left the laboratory without any argument.
~*~