Cally stepped back to reach into her rather limited first aid kit. "Might not be too good for the kid either, Phil."
"If the kid's mother comes here, give her something to calm her down, okay?"
"Sure."
Phil frowned at Blair. "What happened to you?"
"I fell out a window."
"No one pushed you?"
"No."
"Good." With that, Phil left the tent, Cally sending a rather ribald curse after him.
"He thinks he's so groovy cool. What a bastard." Cally gently pushed Blair back on the cot. "Why don't you get some sleep? You'll feel better when you wake up."
"Should I? With a concussion?" Blair asked sleepily.
"Sure. Why not? I'll be around, okay?" She ran her hands over the sweatshirt he was wearing. "This is on wrong."
"I know." He'd taken Harvey's advice to heart and put his Cascade PD sweatshirt inside out. Especially as it was for the 1996 Softball championship. "I like it this way."
"Cool. I can dig that." Cally headed to the tent entrance. "I'm going to get a coke. I'll be back. Want anything?"
"No." Yes. Blair watched her leave. I want to go home. "Jim?" he whispered, as he fell asleep.
* * * * *
Ellison stared at Naomi. "Impossible."
"I'm serious, Jim."
"That's crazy." He got up, distancing himself from her. And the child.
"Look at him."
"I have. He's been here all day. I would know if that was Blair. And that's not Blair."
"It's him."
"Listen to yourself. That's crazy." He stared out the balcony window, arms crossed over his chest.
"Look at this picture." Suddenly at his side, she shoved the photo under his face.
He sighed and took the offered wallet, studying the picture. Enhanced visual senses catalogued the face, the bone structure, the pixelized blue eyes. The frayed button hole of the overalls. The slight stain where red had bled into the white stripe, third from the collar. He handed the wallet back to her, and turned to look at the child, sitting on the floor in front of them, enthralled with the flickering, idiotic cartoon images parading across his television. Frayed button hole. Slight stain in the same spot. Same wild curls and wide-eyed blue eyes. "Okay, I admit they look similar, Naomi, but-"
"They look identical." Naomi sank back on the couch, her fingers lightly ghosting over the photo. "I never bought that outfit in this picture, Jim. When my little Blair disappeared he was wearing a pair of brown shorts and was probably filthy from camping for a week. When he showed up again, thirty-seven hours later, he was wearing a red striped T-shirt and overalls and had been bathed and taken care of. There were no showers at the concert."
"That's not enough evidence to --"
"Was he wearing these clothes when you first found him or did you buy them?"
"I bought them downstairs," he admitted reluctantly.
"And was he wearing a pair of brown shorts when you found him?"
Ellison nodded curtly, turned, and walked into the kitchen.
"A coincidence, Jim?" her voice called after him.
"Maybe it is. Yes. Maybe it is. Naomi, do you hear what you're saying? That's impossible." Ellison's hand was on the fridge door. The early afternoon light was slanting into his apartment, throwing the shadows around. He should have eaten something earlier; his blood sugar was low. He pulled open the refrigerator door, hunting for something, trying to ignore the two people in his living room -- his partner's mother and . . . who? Who was this?
The fridge shelves were largely empty. What they needed was more food. He should have bought more last night, but all he had ended up with was Sandburg's 'sick' food and medicine. The tissue boxes were still on the counter, unopened. Maybe he could pop out now that Sandburg's mother was here. Blair would be hungry when he got back from wherever he'd disappeared to. Blair would come back, and this would all be a misunderstanding. Something he would gripe about and then go over the house rules with his partner. When Blair came back.
That -- that child -- was -- not -- Blair.
Naomi materialized beside him, and rested her hand on Ellison's arm. "Look at him. Just look at him."
Ellison glanced over to the little boy on the couch, his bright eyes still fixed on the television, his hand rooting around the plate for more food. He involuntarily flashed on Sandburg sitting on the couch, grading a test and watching television, groping around for more popcorn, without looking at what he was doing. "Naomi, Blair's around somewhere. He's been called away for some emergency-"
"He's Blair," Naomi insisted. "Right, Baby?"
Baby glanced away from the television for a brief second, long enough to smile at her blankly. Then he looked to Jim and held up a piece of banana. "Nana good?"
"Yes, sweetie." Naomi beamed as Baby looked back at her. "The banana is good, honey." Naomi's eyes brimmed over as she stared at the toddler.
The plate balanced precariously on knobby knees was close to tipping, so Ellison walked over to him, crouching to straighten it. "Careful there."
Baby reached down and picked up another of the now slimy pieces of banana and held it up to Ellison's mouth, as though to feed him. "Dim?"
"Uh, no, thanks. You eat it, kid."
"Dim. Dim eat nana." The child's face lit up in a radiant smile.
"'Dim', is right," Naomi muttered as she scowled at Jim, then she scooped the little boy up and took him into the bathroom.
A few minutes later the sound of tiny bare feet running along his floor shook Ellison from his thoughts. The child ran straight down the hallway into the living room and around the couch. With great effort, Baby pulled himself onto the blue couch, and dropped to the cushions, holding up his hands for Ellison to see.
"All done. Fu-Fu, pwese?"
Ellison nodded but didn't move.
"Fu-Fu, pwese?" The request came louder, emphasizing the last word, as though Ellison were deaf or stupid and unable to fulfill one simple request.
Ellison flicked on the television again. He looked up as Naomi left the bathroom and stood at the edge of the carpet.
"I need to meditate, Jim."
"No problem. I'll go back to the station for a while. It'll give me a chance to look into a few things."
"Thank you."
Ellison nodded to her formally, then went upstairs to change his shirt. It had banana on it.
Naomi was waiting for him when he returned. "Blair's ready to go." Naomi handed the little boy to Ellison.
"Hang on here. Why do I get him? Can't he stay here?" Ellison asked, trying to catch the child as Baby twisted backwards to keep his eyes on the television screen with little fear of crashing to the hardwood floor below.
"I told you I needed to meditate."
"But I'm going to the station."
"I'm sure the station can survive one little boy."
"You should watch him, not me--"
"Why? Because I'm a female?"
"No, I mean, he's your son--"
"Ah-ha!" she exclaimed. "So you admit--"
"NO!" Backstepping, Ellison found himself by the door. "I mean, if you consider him your son--"
"He's your partner as much as he's my son, or so he has told me on more than one occasion. He has chosen to follow you and live in your world, rather than come with me and live in mine."
"Please, Naomi. Can't you just watch him for a while?"
"I want to try to remember exactly what happened when Blair disappeared. Maybe it'll explain what is happening now. And for that, I need solitude."
He gave up. "Fine, I'll see if Mrs. Langital downstairs can watch him again. I'll be back in a few hours." Juggling the child, Ellison pocketed his badge and wallet and located his keys, then shut the door firmly behind him as he left.
* * * * *
"Wonderful. Absolutely fucking wonderful." Sarcasm dripped unheard from Ellison's lips. The day was progressing oh so nicely. It was already two o'clock and he still had no idea what had happene
d to his partner.
And he didn't know where to start looking for him, which was pissing him off.
And he was shut out of his own apartment.
And he was stuck with a wiggly toddler on his hip, clutching his shirt as he threw himself backwards, apparently getting high on the rush of almost falling headfirst to the pavement.
And Mrs. Langital wasn't home.
And Simon had just called on his cellphone and ordered Ellison to get to the station PDQ, then hung up before Ellison could say anything.
And to top it off when he went to put a seat belt on the little kid, a horrified passerby -- who didn't know how to mind her own business -- had yelled that he was a baby killer.
"I don't own a baby seat. Do I look like I own a baby seat?" Ellison retorted. "He'll be fine."
She stood her ground and glared at him. "You move that truck with that little one sitting like that in the front seat, and I'll call the police. I swear I will."
"Everything's fine," Ellison said, snapping the lap belt around Baby, then tightening it. "It's not your concern."
"I'm a mother. You're obviously a clueless," she pulled out her cellphone, "mule headed," she punched 911, "idiot."
"Fine." He was getting nowhere and, despite his irritation at her, knew she was right. Frustrated, Ellison picked up the child and headed back into Colette's, where the owner had witnessed the scene, had figured out the problem, and had a used car seat in her hands.
"Fifteen dollars."
"You're a saint." Ellison handed Colette a twenty. "The extra five is yours if you strap him into it."
Another ten minutes went by before Ellison was actually in the truck and rolling. He tried to relax his hands' white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and unlocked clenched jaw muscles.
Where are you, Sandburg? What's going on?
At least the kid seemed to think everything was a wonderful adventure and sat in the car seat like a supreme ruler sitting high on his throne touring his kingdom. Unfortunately, Baby felt he needed to point and comment on everything he saw.
"Cah."
"Yeah, it's a car."
"Cah."
"Yup, another car."
"Cah."
"Yup."
"DOGGIE!"
The high-pitched squeal almost sent the truck through a red light. The child was drooling out the window at a Great Dane, while Ellison's heart struggled to regain a normal rhythm.
They rolled by a McDonald's and a look of rapture came over Baby's face, along with an awed, whispered, "Donna-land!" as they passed it.
Okay, now I've got proof you're not Blair.
Fortunately, there were only cars and the odd "fwuk" to be catalogued the rest of the way to the Cascade Police Station. Ellison parked in the underground garage, then walked around the truck and opened the passenger door.
"Great."
Okay, the kid was cute when he was asleep. How this had happened in the few seconds Ellison had taken to back the truck into his allotted space, he had no idea, but this was typical of how his day was going. The toddler had listed to one side, his mouth slightly open, hands loosely gripping the car seat bar, a bit of doggie-lust drool pooling in the lower corner of his mouth.
Ellison managed to get the car seat snap undone, the bar raised up and over, and then began the arduous task of getting the child to his shoulder without waking him. That became Ellison's sole concentration. To shut the car door, without waking the child. To get into the elevator, without waking the child. To push the right button for Major Crimes, then deal with stopping at every doggone floor enduring a crowd of females coming on and off the elevator, each one doing the kid's version of "doggie" -- drooling, coveting, and fawning over "baby!" -- without waking the child.
Finally at his floor, he pressed his way through the crowd in the elevator, endured a well-placed hand on his gluteus maximus, then popped into the hallway outside Major Crimes. He set his eyes on the captain's office, then plowed through the bullpen, ignoring the startled "Huh?" noises around him, and finally found sanctuary behind Simon's closed door.
* * * * *
Blair bounded across the living room of the loft. "Jim, man, am I glad to see you. I had the weirdest dream. And I mean, it was one weird dream."
His roommate was in the kitchen, stirring a large double boiler. "Slow down, Chief. Where's the fire?" he asked, without turning around.
"Huh? Oh. I'm just glad to see you." Blair slid to a stop beside Jim. "What you cooking?"
"Vegetable soup."
Okay, that's where he made the mistake. Blair looked in the pot.
Floating among the carrots and onions and broccoli ... was Jim's head. Burned, boiled flesh was peeling away from the bones. Those wonderful familiar eyes looked up at him, through the bubbles of water. And winked.
Blair backed away from the stove, a scream caught in his throat.
Then Jim turned and looked at him, and it was the corpse again.
* * * * *
"Jim!" Blair woke abruptly, sitting up and grabbing at the thin blanket covering him. "Jim!"
He jumped from the cot, knocking it over. Oh, God. Oh, God. Shit. He stumbled around the tent, falling out the door into the warm summer's day. "This isn't even Kansas," he muttered. "I must be hallucinating with fever." But his cold seemed to have vanished and he actually felt okay. Well, except for the headache. And the dream. And everything else at the moment.
A rather hairy band on the wooden stage was loudly massacring a Dylan song. Bob Dylan's Dream. Mom used to sing it. Blair wiped his eyes, then sang along, quietly.
I fell asleep for to take my rest,
I dreamed a dream that made me sad,
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.
He pulled the blanket around him, shivering in the eighty-degree weather, and wandered through the crowd toward a tent that offered food. For a price, of course. He reached for his wallet --
But since he wasn't in the habit of keeping his wallet in his pajama bottoms, he was out of luck. At least his pajama bottoms were dark gray sweat pants and looked like the worn, drawstring pants a lot of the crowd was wearing. It would have been a lot more comfortable walking around, though, if he'd been wearing some boxers underneath.
Dejected, he turned away from the food tent.
"Hungry?" a voice behind him asked. The man at the counter was maybe twenty, probably younger, with a wild fringe of brown hair heading in every direction.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you look a little pale. Tell you what, help yourself to some food, and then help me clean up after the breakfast crowd, and we're even. How's that? Felix, the guy who owns all this, is gone for the day, so I could use the help. He had an emergency of some kind, and I'm filling in for him."
"Thanks. Really." Blair hustled to the table and poured a bowl of cereal, topping it with milk. The man brought him a cup of coffee. "I really appreciate this."
"No problem. What happened to your head?" he asked, gesturing to the bandage.
"Oh. I sorta fell." Blair sipped at the coffee. "Thanks again, uh, sorry -- what's your name?"
"Hang Dog."
"What?"
"It's really Harvey, but everyone calls me Hang Dog." At Blair's blank look, he clarified, "I surf."
"Oh. My friend surfs, but I've never tried. Not seriously anyway. My name is Blair."
"Wow. I never heard that name before, and now twice in an hour," Hang Dog said, heading back to the counter and some customers.
Blair watched him carefully as he ate, but he seemed like a nice guy. Harvey said he had been at this concert, so maybe this was him. It was hard to tell. Twenty-seven years made a lot of changes. Twenty / Forty-seven. That sounded about right. He wasn't sure how old Harvey was, but mid-to-late forties sounded right.
It also occurred to him, as he helped himself to another cup of coffee, that he was handling this whole time-travel thing relatively well. Although it felt like there was a scream somewhere inside his throat wai
ting for an inopportune moment to express itself. Blair swallowed carefully, hoping it would go down. There would be time enough for hysterics later.
A Step Backwards Page 6