Sentinel - Progression Series 07 Blessed Protector

by Beth Manz

  "You expect me to believe that you had no idea Ms. Hillman had called the police until Blair told you?"

  "It's true," Peter said, his gaze shifting from Jim to Blair and back again. "When I saw her talking to Dr. Sandburg, I thought she'd found herself another replacement."

  "A replacement? A replacement for what? What are you talking about? What-"

  "Jim," Blair cut in sharply, pinning the sentinel with a hard stare. "Maybe if you'd let him talk..."

  "Fine. Talk." Jim leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Blair turned back to Peter. "What do you mean you thought she'd found another replacement?"

  Peter swallowed hard, his worried gaze shifting away from Jim, locking on Blair. "Four years ago, Ida Hillman's son died in a car accident. He was her only child, her only family, and from what I've been able to find out, they were really close. Since then, Ida's been renting out the spare room in her house, but only to men who look like her son. Replacing him in a way.

  "When I realized what was going on, that she actually was beginning to believe I was her son, I knew I had to leave. But I thought...I thought if I left some of my stuff there, she might not rent the room out again. She might, I don't know, somehow convince herself that her son just wasn't home. That he was at the store or at work." He rubbed his forehead. "It was stupid, I know that now, but I was just trying to help her."

  "Was her son named Mark by any chance?" Blair asked.

  He nodded. "She call you Mark, too?"

  "Yes. Several times."

  "I wanted to help her," Peter said again. "I just...I didn't know how and I felt like my being there was only making her delusions worse. I've been trying to keep track of her, watching her activities, trying to gauge how my leaving affected her. Today when I saw her in the cafeteria with you, I knew we had to talk." He glanced at Jim again briefly. "I didn't want to hurt anyone or scare anyone. Really."

  "Have you talked to the other men she was renting too?" Blair asked.

  Peter nodded. "They both said the same thing - she began to call them Mark and seemed to think they were her son. Freaked them out so they left. I didn't want to do the same thing. I knew she'd just find someone else."

  "You should have contacted Social Services," Jim said, his voice flat, emotionless. "This woman could have hurt someone."

  "She's not dangerous or crazy," Peter said, his worried gaze boring into Blair. "Just confused."

  "We understand that," Blair said softly. "And we're going to help her."

  /

  /

  /

  Blair leaned back in the passenger seat of the truck and let out a long breath. After talking with Peter Latimere, he'd spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone to Social Services, explaining the situation to them and volunteering his own time to help Ida Hillman work past the grief of losing her son.

  Peter had also agreed to help, even offering to move back into his room at Ida's house. More than anything, Blair wanted to try and keep Ida out of a nursing home. He was confident that with Peter's help, he would be able to accomplish just that.

  He glanced briefly at Jim. The detective had not said much about the outcome of the case, but since his reaction to Ida Hillman had been so over the top, Blair wasn't completely surprised. If he wants to pretend none of that ever happened, that's fine by me.

  "Man, I am starving," he said, cutting through the silence in the cab of the truck. "Do you want to pick something up for dinner or just make sandwiches?" He glanced over at Jim when he didn't answer. His partner sat behind the wheel, his gaze locked on the dark road ahead, his brow furrowed as if in deep thought. "Jim?"

  "What?" He glanced at Blair briefly before returning his attention to the road. "Did you say something?"

  "Yeah, I asked if you want to pick something up for dinner or just make a sandwiches at home."

  "Sandwiches," Jim mumbled.

  Blair nodded. "Sandwiches it is." He glanced out his window, down at his hands, thought about rummaging through his backpack. Anything that would help to break up the uncomfortable silence within the truck.

  "Blair?" Jim said softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

  "Yeah?" he answered when his partner didn't ask whatever question he seemed about to pose.

  "Do you ever think about David Lash?"

  Blair blinked several times, taken off guard by the unexpected question. "What? Why would you ask me that?"

  Jim shrugged one shoulder, his gaze never leaving the road.

  "Jim, this is the second time today you've brought up Lash. What is going on with you?"

  "Nothing. It was just around this time of year when... that happened. I guess this case just reminded me of it."

  "Well, to answer your question, no, I don't think about him. I only think about the psychos who tried to kill me and are still alive." He grinned at his partner. Jim's stoic expression did not change. "That was a joke, man. You're supposed to laugh."

  "Sorry," he muttered. "Chief, what do you remember most about that time? When Lash had you?"

  Blair frowned at Jim but he could tell from the look on his face that this was important to him. That he needed to talk about this. "You," he said softly. "I remember you coming down those stairs. That's my most vivid memory. I really didn't think there was any way you would be able to find me. I thought I was going to die. And then... there you were." He smiled at him. "It was unbelievable, man."

  Jim reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. "It was unbelievable, wasn't it?" But as Jim spoke the words, Blair thought he heard... fear. Disbelief.

  "Jim, please talk to me. What's going on?"

  "Nothing." He steered the truck into its usual parking space in front of the loft and turned off the engine. But before he could get out of the cab, Blair caught his arm, stopping him.

  "Jim," he said softly. "Something is wrong and you're starting to worry me. Please man, talk to me."

  "Sandburg--"

  "Come on, Jim. You're not telling me something... and don't say I'm imagining it because I know I'm not."

  Jim settled into his seat and stared ahead, his gaze distant, unsure.

  "Are you still having those dreams about Grant?" Blair asked, his voice low.

  "No," Jim whispered. He ran a hand over his face, through his hair. "It's just this case, Chief. When I thought Ida Hillman had killed all those men, I had a bad feeling but when I found out they looked like you...." He glanced over at Blair, his face hidden in the shadows of the cab. "It got me thinking about Lash, about what could have happened back then. I just... I can't seem to shake that."

  Blair shifted in his seat until he was facing the sentinel. "Jim, I've been there, man. Believe me. I spent a couple of weeks doing exactly what you're doing now... going through the possibilities. But it's pointless. I'm fine. Lash didn't hurt me. You stopped him. End of story." Reaching out, he laid a hand on Jim's arm, holding tightly. "Just let it go, man."

  Jim nodded. "I'll try," he said softly.

  The two men headed upstairs together, Blair rubbing at tired eyes. It had been a long, trying day. But as worn out as he felt, he knew Jim was even more exhausted. He could see it in the dark circles under his partner's eyes, in the way he carried himself.

  Maybe we should have stopped for food, he thought as they crossed into the loft.

  Blair didn't think either one of them had the energy to do much more than get ready for bed. But as he padded out of his room several minutes later, pulling a flannel shirt on over his gray sweats and tee-shirt, he was surprised to see Jim already sitting at the kitchen table eating, a platter of ham sandwiches set out before him.

  "Hey, thanks, man," he said as he slid into his seat at the table. "I just want to eat and go to bed. I'm totally wiped."

  Jim reached for another sandwich. "I was just looking at the TV Guide and SciFi is showing Renegade Cyborg Cops at midnight tonight. I thought maybe we could stay up and watch it."

  "Renegad
e Cyborg Cops," Blair repeated dryly as he picked up his sandwich. "Now there's some real brain fodder."

  Jim snorted. "It's an action flick, Sandburg, not a cultural expose." He shrugged as he bit into his sandwich. "It'll be a nice diversion."

  "Oh, yeah," Sandburg quipped, "A nice diversion into brain death." He looked over at his partner and asked around a mouthful of food, "Why don't we just tape it? I'm really done in here, man."

  "Sandburg," Jim complained. "The fun of watching a late night movie is watching it late at night."

  Blair smiled as he found himself beginning to catch a bit of his partner's enthusiasm for staying up and watching the cheesy b-movie. Jim seemed to be relaxed this evening--more relaxed than Blair had seen him in several days. Maybe staying up and watching the movie was exactly what his partner needed.

  "Okay," Blair gave in. "Renegade Cyborg Cops it is. But you have to make the popcorn."

  Part Four

  Simon pulled his sedan into a long driveway that led to a handsome brick building set on a knoll in the distance. High chain link fencing with barbed wire attached to the top surrounded the spacious grounds, casting a cold and forbidding ambiance across what would have otherwise been an idyllic setting. Jim's gaze drifted to the painted sign on his right: Washington State Correctional Hospital. The detective knew this place--the unobtrusive name of the facility was simple window-dressing, a society-palatable façade for what was, in actuality, the state's largest facility for housing its criminally insane.

  "Simon?" Jim asked, barely-controlled panic giving a clipped edge to his words. "What are we doing here?"

  "We're going to see David Lash, Jim," the captain answered carefully.

  "Impossible," Jim spat out. "David Lash is dead. Why won't you believe that?"

  "Because it isn't true," the captain replied sympathetically. "And unfortunately, this is the only way I have of proving it to you."

  With Simon's credentials, the two men had no problem checking through the institution's tightly monitored security. They were ushered into a narrow room that was separated down the middle by a wall of thick, bulletproof glass. Cubicles had been built to abut the glass wall, and each corresponding cubicle had a phone on either side of the glass barrier so prisoners and their visitors could converse with one another in relative privacy.

  Jim glanced around the barren space, the bland, pea soup-colored walls and the linoleum floor wreaked of institutional sterility. A shiver of disgust wound its way down through Ellison's body, causing small goose bumps to raise on his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth, but the gesture was ineffectual. The coldness Jim was feeling had nothing to do with the physical atmosphere of the room.

  "Have a seat, Jim," Simon directed, gesturing toward a cubicle in which two visitors chairs had been set up. "The guard is going to get Lash now. It should only be a few minutes."

  "I don't want to be here," Jim whispered out, surprised to hear that he had actually spoken the words aloud.

  "I know," Simon answered softly, reaching over to place his hand against Jim's back, "You never do." Gripping his shoulder, Banks guided him into one of the chairs, then sat down beside him. The captain's sorrowful black eyes bore into him. "It'll all be over in a few minutes."

  From somewhere beyond the room a warning bell chimed, then there was the sound of heavy electronic gates coming unclamped and then sliding apart. "You ready?" Simon asked as the door at the other end of the room opened.

  "No," Jim breathed out, but his attention was already riveted on the opening door, on the shackled man who was being ushered in between two capable looking male guards.

  Jim's breath caught in his throat as the long-haired inmate shuffled slowly in their direction. A wave of nausea assaulted the detective as he realized that David Lash--caught shortly after killing Blair Sandburg--was still trapped in the role of the young police observer. The man was dressed in a pair of Blair's ripped blue jeans, that old corduroy coat--the one with the patch on the arm--and the curly wig he'd been wearing when Jim found him standing over his partner in that warehouse...

  Jim forced himself to swallow against the queasiness that had settled in his stomach. He watched as Lash was led to the cubicle on the other side of the glass and gently pushed down into the chair. Jim stared over at him, blue eyes meeting blue. He was appalled that the hospital would still allow Lash to wear that disgusting wig--would allow him to continue to play out his demented fantasy of being Blair Sandburg.

  "Jim! Where you been, man?"

  At the sound of Lash's voice, Jim jerked backward in his chair as though he had been physically struck; the inflection and tone so closely mimicked the voice of his dearest friend that it was uncanny. Another shiver snaked its way through his body and he could feel himself beginning to tremble.

  "Did you come to get me out of here?" David Lash was asking him, gesturing around the room in an eerily convincing imitation of Sandburg. "I am, like, so tired of this place. I really miss the loft."

  "No!" Jim stood abruptly, sending the lightweight vinyl chair careening across the floor behind him. The sentinel reeled on his feet, fearing for a moment that he was going to pass out. He shook his head and groped with one hand until his fingers came into contact with the sturdy side of the cubicle. Latching onto the low wall, using it for support, he blinked against the dark spots that danced in front of his eyes. "Get me out of here," he whispered, tearing his gaze away from David Lash and fixing it on his captain. "Get me out of here, now!"

  /

  /

  /

  Jim gasped, coming awake all at once. He shoved to his feet, his gaze darting frantically from one darkened corner of the loft to another, searching for... Blair!

  His guide lay on the couch--sound asleep. Jim took two faltering steps toward him, his eyes wide. Light from the television danced across the loft, shifting and changing, creating irregular patterns on his partner's sleeping form. Blair lay on his stomach, one arm flung over the side of the couch, his long hair obstructing the view of his face.

  Crouching down beside him, Jim listened to the steady breathing, the familiar heartbeat. It was Blair, he was sure of it. Yet... those curls... his mind flashed back to the image of Lash in that institution, to the long, curly wig...

  Jim took a deep breath; he had to know, had to see. Fingers trembling, he pushed back the sleeping man's hair until he could see the face clearly. Relief washed through him as he stared down at Blair's familiar features.

  He lay a gentle hand against Blair's shoulder, listened to his heartbeat for another full minute. Then, standing, he pulled the throw from the back of the couch and gently draped it over his sleeping friend. He knew he should wake him, send him off to bed and then go to bed himself.

  But he couldn't...

  If Blair went to his room, Jim wouldn't be able to see him anymore, would have no way of monitoring him other than with his hearing. And right now, more than anything else, Jim needed to see Blair. See that he was alive. See that he was not David Lash.

  Turning, Jim grabbed up the remote from the coffee table and shut off the television. The loft fell into darkness, the only light coming from the balcony doors and the moonlight beyond. He glanced at his watch--the movie he and Blair had planned to watch had ended over an hour ago. An uncomfortable niggle of guilt pushed against Jim's mind as he thought of his selfish need to have Blair sit up with him tonight. He'd only used the bad movie as an excuse. Did Blair know?

  Jim's gaze fell on his partner again.

  Why am I having these dreams?

  The question had cycled through his mind almost continuously over the last few days, yet he was no closer to an answer than he had been when the dreams had first started.

  You should tell Sandburg.

  But, how could he? The incident with David Lash had occurred over three years ago. It was behind Blair. Jim didn't want to reopen old wounds, remind his partner of that period in his life.

  Admit the truth.

&nbs
p; Jim closed his eyes against the three words. Because he knew what the truth was, knew why he hadn't told Blair about the dreams.

  What if this--the warmly furnished loft, the living presence of his guide-- is the dream? And what if the barren loft, Blair dead--what if that is what's real?

  "No," he whispered fiercely. Jim was fully aware of the effects that sleep deprivation could have on a person's emotions and psyche. And he'd certainly been short on sleep lately. Yet, what if his doubts weren't the result of a few nights of missed rest?

  What if...

  Even as he crouched down in front of Blair again, he couldn't help but wonder. Their friendship had been so unexpected, so impossible, yet it had grown so strong. That friendship was the one sure thing in Jim's life, the one and only thing he never doubted.

  How can that kind of bond be real?

  Reaching out, he placed his hand against the side of his friend's face. The warmth of Blair's skin sent a chill through him. He's alive. He's right here! But even as the reassurances echoed in his mind, the images of his dream-his other life-followed closely behind.

  Is he really here? Or is this the dream? Your way of assuaging your guilt? Your grieving mind giving life to someone who died too young because you couldn't save him in time?

  Jim closed his eyes and bit back an anguished sob. He focused his thoughts and concentrated on the man before him. On the steady breathing, the calm heartbeat. Sounds that were more familiar to him, more important to him than anything else in his life.

  He's alive, he told himself, forcing his weary mind and heart to believe the words. This is real.

  /

  /

  /

  Blair blinked slowly, exhaling a long sigh, and pushed himself upright. The blanket that had been covering him slipped to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, peering through half-open eyes at his surroundings. As the darkened room came slowly into focus, he frowned. Why am I in the living room? But then he remembered-he and Jim had stayed up to watch a late movie. His gaze wandered to the television. It was turned off, the screen black. He squinted, focusing on the VCR sitting below the television. The digital display read 3:02.