"What do you want with her?"
Oh, that didn't sound like a friendly voice, Blair thought fleetingly, as he was spun around. "Huh?" he asked, grasping for an intelligent comeback.
"I saw you walking around with her. Keep your hands off her, you freak."
Blair stared at the multi-tattooed, wild-haired man. "You're calling me a freak? Have you looked in a mirror lately, Icy?"
Okay, not the right thing to say, he realized, as his body hit the ground and rolled.
Icy was livid, high on something Blair really didn't want to know about. It seemed to dissolve any social graces he might have had. A pointed-toe boot caught Blair in the ribs and he gasped, curling onto his side as Icy screamed, "Stay away from my lady, or I'll kill you!"
"Yeah, you and what army?" Shut up! Shut the fuck up, Blair implored himself, but to no avail. Head injury, plus exhaustion, plus some pretty wicked jet lag or whatever, had apparently dislocated his common sense. Now there's a sense that Jim has in spades.
A fist grabbed hold of his sweatshirt and hauled him to his feet.
"Hey, thanks--"
The fist then connected with his jaw and knocked him back off his feet.
"--for nothin', man."
A crowd was gathering to bear witness to the spectacle of Icy kicking the shit out of him. Enjoy the show, folks. Hey, feel free to step in anytime and do the peace thing. What kind of love-in freaks are you, anyway? Why aren't you stopping this guy-- "OUCH." Now that sucked. "Don't pull my hair, man."
He saw the brief glimpse of a dragon tattoo on someone's chest as he was dragged upward by his roots, then another blow sent him falling back into the side of one of the tents where the musicians stored their equipment. It collapsed inward, eliciting a collection of screams and swearing from within. Blair was pulled off it by his arm and leg, then swung around to land against a water keg. The band playing on the stage nearby stopped as the fight was finally noticed by the musicians.
"Hey, fuck off! Leave him alone." Hang Dog's sharp order cut through the night.
Ah, a friendly voice.
Suddenly the hand holding him upright let go, and Blair crumpled to the ground, his head bouncing off the hard dirt-packed field.
Oh, I do not feel good.
"Help! Help me!" A woman's scream cut through the night, and the crowd went deadly quiet at the horrible intensity of it.
That wasn't me.
"Help me!"
In the darkness it was impossible to see who had made the sound, and all they could do was wait for it to happen again. Another scream, from down the hill somewhere. Then another, choked off, this time.
Blair was forgotten as the crowd surged forward to see what had happened.
"Careful, someone's down on the ground here," Hang Dog yelled, trying to shield Blair's prone body as the crowd passed them.
He couldn't even raise his head, listening helplessly as voices called out in the dark. "There's a body here!" "Fuck, someone's dead." "Get those cops here." "Anyone know first aid?" "Forget it, man, she's dead -- strangled."
Strangled?
Oh, man.
* * *
Part Six
"They beat him! Oh, my God. They beat him up!" Naomi sat hunched over on the couch, close to hysterics, her body undulating as she sobbed.
"Are you talking about Blair? Who beat him up? Who hurt him?" Jim crouched in front of her, trying to get some clear information, but she seemed lost in her memories, repeating the same thing over and over. "Naomi!"
Simon appeared at Jim's side with a damp washcloth. "Here, try this."
It did seem to work, Naomi at first crying into the warm cloth, then using it to wipe her face as she calmed.
"Naomi?"
"A minute, Jim."
"Take a deep breath, Ms Sandburg."
She looked over to the police captain and weakly smiled her thanks, then tried to compose herself and meet Jim's anxious face. "I was thinking about it in the store while I was shopping, trying to remember if I'd seen Blair back then. Of course, I wouldn't have known it was my Blair then, just someone who I was sure would have been as sweet and kind as he is now. And that's when I remembered. This very sweet man who tried to help me. I'm sure it was him." She stopped as her chin began to tremble and tears once again ran freely down her face.
"What did you remember, Naomi?" Jim asked softly, prompting her.
"Well, Blair, of course. I remember him being there. I think he was sick at first, like he had a cold or something--"
"Sandburg had a bad cold yesterday." Simon sat back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he refused to take that thought any further.
Jim nodded. "I brought Blair home from work in the afternoon, and he went to bed early last night."
"Well, that was it, then. A cold. I'm not sure how we met, but I remember someone, whom I'm sure now must have been Blair, helped me look for my baby. Except he didn't say his name was Blair; it was something else. Some strange name, I think. I wish I could remember."
Jim steered the conversation back to her initial comments. "Naomi, you said they beat him up. What happened? Who beat him up?"
"Well, Icy mainly, and others."
"Ivan Chomski?"
"As I remember it, I had brought big Blair back to my tent, and Icy wasn't happy about that. Icy found Blair later and started to beat him up but then everything got all crazy and others got involved in the fight and then the murder happened and everything was so confusing. Blair was just lying there and people were running all around and yelling for the cops and, and--" Her voice trailed off.
At Jim's silent shock, Simon stepped in, one hand resting on his detective's shoulder as he asked, "Who was murdered, Naomi?"
"I don't know."
"Was Blair--" Simon stumbled over his question, but she understood.
"No. I think he was okay. I don't remember seeing him after that, though. They took him away."
"Who took him away?"
"People. I don't know. I was with Icy."
Jim spoke up now. "You went back to Icy, even after he beat Blair up?"
Naomi buried her face in her hands for a moment, then used the damp cloth to wipe her reddened eyes. "Jim, I'm sorry. I don't remember much. I know Icy was with me when we found Blair -- little Blair. The cops were talking to him about the murder, because they thought he might have done it, but I had to swear to them that Icy was with me during that time."
"Was he?"
"Well, he was with me when they found her body. I'm not sure of when it all happened. I don't really--"
"I don't really remember," Jim recited, along with her. "Well, what do you remember?"
Her eyes snapped angrily at him as she stood. "It was twenty-seven years ago! Twenty-seven years ago! So tell me, Detective Ellison, how much do you remember of any one particular event that long ago? It was 1971. No, I don't remember a whole lot of what happened back then, and yes, I had been using drugs, and I was also traumatized that my little baby boy was missing. I'm doing the best I can!"
* * * * *
Consciousness beckoned, teasing him with fractured sounds and the fleeting touch of hands on his body. He took in a cautious breath, but the resulting cough cost him, darkness dulling the pain that swiftly overwhelmed him.
* * * * *
Three in the morning. Twenty-four hours since Blair disappeared.
James Ellison stood at the balcony window and watched the rain fall endlessly, pounding against the pavement on the street below. He let the sound amplify until it almost drowned out the refrain in his head.
Are you coming back? Damn it, Chief, are you still alive, out there somewhere? Is there something I'm supposed to be doing to bring you back? Some chant, or dream, or-- are you there?
He couldn't feel him anymore, not the adult Blair. And that was not acceptable.
My guide -- I don't even know what that means.
Yet he did. Somewhere inside, he knew. He felt it to be true.
The sentinel slow
ly walked through his territory and stood at the door of his guide's bedroom, watching the tiny child sleep. This child filled his senses. This child's heartbeat echoed along with his own. This child was his guide -- but not for another twenty-five years.
But could he wish this baby to go back to that--- that-- life? A place where his mother, God bless her, seemed more interested in where she would get her next high from? He couldn't. He had to. It was likely he had no choice.
And yet . . . yet his guide had been this child, had lived through it, had survived it all. And his guide was whole.
Yes, he wanted and needed his guide, his friend, his companion, to be at his side.
But could he wish this child to return to that other life? To hope again that precious innocence would not be torn away from those trusting blue eyes, that the soul of his guide would negotiate the uncertainty and abandonment that was before him, and yet triumph.
His guide was hurt. Out there. Away from his sentinel.
And he had no idea why, how it happened, or if there was something he could have done to stop it.
Or if it was something Blair had purposefully done, for some reason he had yet to understand.
The phone rang, jarring Ellison away from the near zone he had fallen into. He moved swiftly across the dark loft, grabbing it before it could ring a third time.
"Yes?"
"Jim, it's Harvey Leek. I took the chance you weren't sleeping."
"I wasn't."
"Is Blair still missing?"
"Yes." Jim held onto the receiver tightly, his eyes shut, willing the San Francisco detective to say something that would ease the pain in his heart. "What do you know, Harvey?"
"I told you about the dream I had last night."
"Yes."
"Well, I got to thinking about it. In my dream I was at that music festival I told you about in 1971. When I got off work tonight, I went home and looked through some old albums until I found some photos of that concert."
Harvey paused, then rushed on. "I didn't find any of Blair, but looking at the pictures sparked some memories, and I think I remember him being there. Someone my mind wants to interpret as Blair helped me out in the food tent I was manning. There were some problems; there was a murder, several of them, but that weekend was significant for me in other ways, too. I met Nash and Joe that night, and the events of the weekend steered me to my present course as a police officer. Everything came together: who I was, my understanding of my world, and my desire to help that world in a positive manner. And Blair was at the heart of it."
"He usually is," Ellison said softly.
"Jim, I remember Blair was hurt in a fight or something. And I remember looking for him afterwards, but I thought they had taken him away. And I remember a lost child was found."
"How badly was he hurt?"
"Your guide? I don't think the injuries were life-threatening. I know I talked with him afterwards but I don't remember what was said. It's all rather jumbled. I've been trying to sort it out, but felt I should tell you what little I remembered."
"Thank you." Ellison rubbed his aching neck, a thousand questions halted on his tongue.
"I'll call you if I remember anything else."
"Do me a favor, Harvey, ask Bridges to look up that murder case and send me the file. I think it might be significant."
"Sure thing. Good night, Jim. He's coming back. I know he is."
"I just have to keep telling myself that." Ellison said good-bye and hung up the phone.
With a weary sigh, he gave up the idea of sleeping on the couch and turned to the kitchen, rinsed out the coffee maker and set it up for the next day, then washed the few dishes remaining from their Chinese dinner.
The balcony drew him again, and he stood at the window, his forehead leaning against the cool glass, as he let the gentle rainfall become a roaring waterfall, each droplet crashing to the ground. His head ached from the pain of it. Suddenly, it was too loud. Too much.
Leadened arms pushed away from the window, leaving the sentinel staggering. He found himself in his guide's room, hunched over the bed. With a weary heart, he picked up the sleeping baby and lay down on the bed, repositioning the toddler on his chest.
With the restful beat of his tiny guide's heart reverberating through his body, the sentinel slept.
* * * * *
"Hey, Blair? You okay?"
No.
"Hey, come on, man. Wake up."
No.
Another voice, one of authority. "What's the problem here?"
"Some guys beat up on him."
No shit, man.
"Can he move at all?"
Oh, please, no.
"Hey, kid. You there?"
"Hmmmm."
"He's coming around, I think."
"What's your name?"
"They call me Hang Dog, but it's Harvey."
"You run the food tent, right?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"I'd like you and my partner here, Constable Dominguez, to take this guy inside your tent. Joe, see if you can get someone to help with first aid, then call for backup and a coroner."
"Sure thing, Nash," another voice said.
Blair groaned, turning his head slowly.
"Harvey -- Hang Dog -- we've got another situation here. I do want to deal with your friend here, but I've got to do this first. Can you stay with him? Let me know if we need an ambulance."
"Okay."
There was no discernable words for a short while, just noises he couldn't identify.
"Son? Can you hear me? I'm Officer Dominguez."
Yeah, I can hear you. Especially when you yell in my ear. "Hmmmm."
"Are you here alone? Can we find someone for you?"
"Want Jim." Hey, I said that. "Want Jim."
"Jim? Is Jim here?"
No. Damn.
The horrible sensation of being moved brought blessed relief as consciousness fled.
* * * * *
Two hours later, Jim woke up to a still-pounding headache and the distinct impression of being watched in the relative darkness of the loft. The toddler was sitting next to him on the outside edge of the bed, studying him carefully while playing with the hem of the adult-sized T-shirt he was wearing. Once he made eye contact, the child scooted closer, smiling as he tugged on Jim's shirt.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked softly.
"Want Mama."
"She's not here. Well, not really." Jim closed his eyes, then opened them hurriedly as another thought occurred. "Do you need to use the toilet or anything?"
"Did. Big boy." Baby slid off the bed, gathered up his overalls and striped shirt and brought them to Jim, pushing them toward him. "Want Mama."
Jim rested his arm over his eyes, not knowing what to say to the child. "Yeah, I know you do. Sorry, I don't think that's going to happen yet."
"Want Mama." The new clothes were abandoned and his brown shorts were retrieved, then placed on the bed next to Jim's hand. "Mama. Go Mama," Baby asked, tears beginning to run down his face.
Jim sat up, put the clothes on the night table, then picked up the little boy. The tyke laid his head on Jim's shoulder as he carried him to the kitchen. One-handed, Jim put some milk in the new bottle and heated it slightly. Baby seemed able to drink from a glass, yet he had gladly taken the bottle when they had given it to him earlier.
Jim checked the temperature of the milk, listening to the forlorn thumb sucking near his ear. He didn't say anything, relieved that somehow this child knew he could be trusted and didn't seem to be blaming him for being apart from his mother. Problem was, the adventure of being away and having fun had faded and now all the little guy wanted was to go home.
Taking him back to Blair's bed, Jim sat leaning against the wall, cradling Baby in his arms and letting him find some comfort in the familiarity of feeding. Before the bottle was half drained, however, Baby had pushed it aside and clung to Jim, sobbing, heartbroken, until he had cried himself to sleep. Jim's own hear
t felt like it was about to break as he settled back on the bed, still holding Baby in his arms, listening to the deep hitches in the child's breathing as he finally slept, exhausted.
A Step Backwards Page 11