by Beth Manz
Jim flinched as Simon spoke, his hands coming up to cover his ears. "Do you have to shout?"
"Shout? I'm not shouting." Concern wound through the captain and he stepped closer, lowering his voice even more. "Jim, I was barely speaking above my normal tone of voice. That sounded like shouting to you?"
Dropping his hands away from his ears, Jim avoided eye contact with the captain. "I'm just tired."
"You're more than tired," Simon pressed. "You're on edge both physically and emotionally and unless you recognize that fact and do something about it, you're going to collapse."
Slowly, Jim turned and glared up at Simon, his expression irate. "I'm just tired," he repeated evenly.
Simon shook his head and, reaching into the bag he still carried, produced a bagel. "I may not be able to get you to rest but I can at least get some food into you." He held the bagel out toward Jim. "Eat this. That's an order."
Jim accepted the offering without saying a word and took a large bite. Instantly, he began choking, his eyes watering, his face turning red. Grabbing up his garbage can, he spit the uneaten bagel into it. "You trying to be funny?" he demanded, pushing angrily to his feet.
"Funny?" Simon responded, stunned not only by Jim's reaction to the bagel but his sudden fury over the food. "I was just trying to get you to eat."
"By giving me a bagel so loaded with salt that I choked on it?"
"Jim, that bagel was perfectly fine."
"It was swimming in salt!"
Simon glanced around as several heads came up. Thankfully it was early enough that the bullpen was nearly empty. Moving closer, Simon kept his voice low. "In my office. Now," he ground out. He didn't wait for a reply, simply moved past Jim and strode toward his office, expecting his detective to follow.
Jim did. He entered the office behind the captain and closed the door. "I know what you're going to say," Jim began as Simon turned to face him again, "and I know I overreacted. I'm sorry, sir."
"Jim, you overreacted because your sense of taste is so out of whack that you were overwhelmed by the salt on that bagel. And you accused me of shouting when I wasn't, so I know your hearing must be off-line, too." His hands went to his hips. "What else? What else isn't working right?"
Jim rubbed at tired eyes, shaking his head. "Simon, I'm just-"
"Tired," Simon cut in. "Yes, I know, you've told me that. But you've been tired before and your senses weren't affected like this." Then he remembered what Eli Stoddard had said when he'd first arrived at the hospital....
"I know you don't understand the full ramifications of the bond between your detective and Blair... Jim Ellison needs this young man. And until he's back at Jim's side, it's going to be up to you to keep him in control."
"Jim, I think you need to go home," he announced. Stepping closer, he placed a hand on Jim's shoulder. He could feel the overwrought detective trembling slightly beneath his touch. "Go home and get some real rest."
"I can't do that," Jim insisted, not meeting his gaze. "I'm too close to figuring this out."
"Dammit, Jim, you disappear for two days without even bothering to check in and now you say you've almost solved this? Why didn't you keep me posted? Call me yesterday and let me know what was happening?"
"Because I was busy!" Jim snapped. "I was trying to find out who attacked my partner. I'm sorry if I didn't have time for your little niceties."
"Niceties?" Simon barked. "We're talking procedure here, Detective. My men do not work investigations alone. Your partner is down, you take on a new one, someone to watch your back. And in your case, someone who knows about you." Simon crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at Jim. "How much help would you be to Sandburg if you ended up zoning somewhere and got hurt?"
For the first time since entering the office, Jim's eyes softened. He dropped his gaze to the floor, shifting slightly where he stood. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "You're right."
"Of course I'm right. I'm the captain." And as Jim looked up again, Simon offered him a warm smile. "Now that we have an understanding, why don't you tell me what you've found out. Then the two of us will try and find a solution."
Jim paced to the window and stared down at the street below. "I spent all of yesterday tracking down the cadets in Sandburg's attendance book. I wasn't having much luck until I followed some of the cadets to a bar." Reaching up, he rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head. "I practically took one of them apart in the men's room in order to get information."
Worry gnawed at Simon's gut. "Jim, is this going to be a problem? What did you do to this kid?"
"Everything's fine, sir. Cadet Cooper and I came to an understanding before I left. But that kid swore to me that nothing was going on at the academy."
"And you believe him?"
Jim turned and faced the captain, meeting his gaze straight on. "Yes, Simon, I do."
"That's not enough to just dismiss what Mitchell told you."
"I know. That's why I spent all night looking into the cadets-going over their background checks, looking at their files--and I can't find anything that raises any red flags. The more I look into it, the more I come to realize one thing...." He paused briefly, his eyes taking on a hard, determined look. "I think Sandburg was right all along. I don't think any of those cadets are involved in anything illegal."
"Then who attacked Blair?"
"That's what I want to talk to George Mitchell about."
"Mitchell? I thought you wanted him kept out of this?"
"Simon, I think Mitchell may be the one behind this whole thing."
"What? Why the hell would Mitchell attack Sandburg?"
"Because he blames him for Tom Brayden's death." Briefly, Jim related the encounter between Mitch and Blair at Tom's funeral. "I honestly thought that the passing of time would make Mitch see that Blair had no responsibility in what happened to Tom. Now I think I may have been wrong. I think it's possible Mitch set this whole thing up just to get to Blair. He convinced me that he would watch out for him. I trusted him to take care of my partner, and all along he planned to kill him."
Simon shook his head, held up his hands in supplication. "Jim, this is all circumstantial. We don't know-"
"I do. I know it, Simon. I just need to find Mitchell...and get him to admit the truth."
/
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/
George Mitchell stepped out of the elevator and stared down the hospital corridor. He'd been told at the information desk that Sandburg was in room 407, but he didn't need to read the numbers to figure out which room was his. Turning the corner, he could see the uniformed officer stationed outside the door ahead. He recognized the young man instantly--Roger Grabowski. He'd had him in one of his classes just last year.
This should be simple.
He strolled casually toward the rookie as if in no hurry whatsoever. In reality, all he could think about was Sandburg and the fact that he was expected to wake up soon. That was the rumor floating around the station, anyway. From the talk he'd heard this morning, the kid was off the respirator and showing signs of regaining consciousness.
Can't have that, now, can we?
There was a chance that when he woke, Sandburg wouldn't remember what happened in that warehouse, who had attacked him. Maybe he wouldn't remember anything at all. After all, the drug still coursing through his system had wide-ranging affects. But he couldn't take that chance. If Sandburg woke and did remember, Mitch would certainly be brought up on assault charges, possibly even attempted murder, and he wasn't about to let that happen.
The kid should have died. This would all have been so simple if he had just died!
Reaching the door to Sandburg's room, Mitch smiled down at the rookie posted there. "Hey, Grabowski, how's it going?"
The young officer grinned widely. "Mitch! I haven't seen you since the academy. What're you doing here?"
He nodded toward the door behind him. "Came to see the kid."
Grabowski's cheerful expression fled as quickly as it had
come. "Yeah, shame huh? I don't know the guy too well but from what I hear, he does a good job. Lots of the guys from the station have been by to check on him since he was admitted."
Mitch nodded, trying to keep his disgust at bay. Many of the officers at Cascade PD had been fooled into thinking Sandburg deserved the post he'd been given, this rookie included. The news only made Mitch more determined to finish what he'd started.
"Listen, I'm going to visit a while. Why don't you go down to the cafeteria and grab some breakfast while I'm here. You look like you could use the break."
"I am going on eight hours out here."
Mitch nodded toward the elevators. "Go on. I'll cover for you."
Moments later, as he watched Grabowski disappear around the corner, Mitch felt a sense of triumph race through him. Reaching into his pocket, he fingered the syringe there. All he had to do was pump a little more Golden into Sandburg and this whole mess would be over. Permanently. Should be simple.
Smiling widely, he pushed through the door...and stopped cold. An elderly man sat beside Sandburg's bed, talking quietly to the anthropologist, his right hand holding Sandburg's left. The old man looked up as Mitch approached, his brow creased in confusion.
"Can I help you?" he asked, standing and placing himself between Blair and Mitch, the protective stance unmistakable.
Mitch smiled easily, smoothly. "George Mitchell," he said, extending his hand. "I worked with Sandburg at the academy."
"Eli Stoddard," the man said, shaking the offered hand, his grip strong. "I work with Blair at Rainier." His eyes narrowed as he stared at Mitch. "Your name is familiar. Blair must have mentioned you to me at some time."
"Yeah, well, like I said, we've been working together." He nodded toward the man in the bed. "How's he doing?"
"Quite well, actually. His doctor was in here this morning and he feels he could wake at any time now." Stoddard smiled broadly as he turned and stared down at Blair. "It's a miracle, really. When he was brought in there seemed to be little hope. Now...." He shook his head fondly. "Blair is nothing if not full of resourcefulness."
"So I've heard," Mitch mumbled.
Eli turned back to him, one eyebrow quirked. "I'm sorry. What was that?"
"Nothing. Just commenting on how good the news is."
"Yes, it is good news." Reaching out, he placed a hand on Sandburg's forehead and stroked gently.
For a brief moment, as Mitch watched the gentle affection this man had for Sandburg, he felt a twinge of guilt. The way Stoddard looked at Blair reminded him a great deal of himself...and Tom. In an instant, his mind flashed back to the day Tom had been grazed by a bullet in a bank shoot-out. He'd gotten the call that Tom had been admitted to the hospital with a bullet wound, and he'd run every traffic light between his house and Cascade General to get to him. Once he'd arrived, however, he'd found that the wound had required only a few stitches and a tetanus shot.
Tom had never let him forget that, ribbing him constantly about his "fatherly" concern. Mitch closed his eyes against the onslaught of grief that assaulted him. If only Tom were still alive, he'd let him rib him about anything he wanted...as much as he wanted. The familiar old bitterness settled in, and when he opened his eyes again the feeling of guilt was gone. Now, as he stared at the man hovering over Sandburg he felt only anger for his own loss. Why should this man have what had been ripped away from Mitch when Tom died?
"Officer Mitchell?"
Mitch looked up, pulled away from his dark thoughts by the sound of Stoddard's voice. "Yes?"
"Would you mind sitting with Blair for just a few minutes? I need to run down to the men's room and get cleaned up a bit but I don't want to leave him alone."
Mitch couldn't help the smile that leeched its way across his face. Perfect! Moving up to the bed, he smiled down at Sandburg, then turned his attention on Stoddard. "Take your time," he encouraged smoothly. "I'll be happy to stay with Blair."
/
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/
"If I'd only used more Golden the first time around, we wouldn't have this problem."
The words, laced with anger and resentment, reached him-and with them came a sense of panic. Because he recognized the voice. It was the voice of the man who had put him in this dark place...this dark place with the golden fire people.
He's come here to hurt me again...me and my sentinel!
He couldn't let that happen, had to find a way of stopping him. Clawing through the darkness all around him, fighting past the golden shapes, a small spot of light in the distance captured his attention. He moved toward it. His efforts were sluggish but he kept trying, kept moving.
"That's it, kid," the voice coaxed, "open your eyes. Let me look at you while I snuff out your life."
With a monumental effort, he moved closer to the light, felt himself pulling free from the darkness...He reached toward the brilliance...
...and blinked against the sudden change in surroundings. He couldn't see much, everything around him was bathed in a golden halo. But a figure loomed above him, the mouth curled into a deep grin of satisfaction.
"Welcome back. You're just in time to die."
He stared up into the distorted face, listened to the words. But none of it made sense to him. Who was this man? Why did he want him dead?
And then it all swept over him in a flood of painful images and he remembered. Everything!
Blair tried to call out for help but before he could utter a sound, George Mitchell clamped a hand down across his mouth.
"You know what's going to happen, don't you?" he growled. "You understand that all that struggling you did to wake was for nothing, because I'm about to end your life."
Blair cried out again but the sound was muffled by Mitch's hand still pressing roughly against his face. Where's Jim? Why did he leave me alone with this man? He tried to shake off Mitch's smothering grip, but found himself too weak to even raise his arms.
"I've brought you a present," Mitchell hissed. "We'll call it a booster shot." Laughter rang out as the shape above Blair shifted and moved.
Sandburg struggled to see past the golden haze and moving shapes that pressed in on his vision, but the figure above him remained unclear. But he didn't need to see Mitch to know what he was planning to do--he was going to give him another injection of Golden.
"No!" The word was no more than a garbled, indistinguishable sound against Mitch's hand. I can't let him inject me again! Determination burned through Blair. Summoning every ounce of strength he had, he raised his left hand and swatted lamely at the man above him, trying valiantly to save himself. But Mitch easily maintained control, pushing his hand away with little effort.
"Gotta do better than that, kid."
Blair tried again, swatting blindly. This time he connected with flesh. Dimly, he was aware of the man's gasp of surprise, then he heard the sound of something hitting the floor and rolling away. The syringe! It had to be!
"Dammit!" Mitch growled. "I guess I move on to plan B."
Blair didn't even have time to process the words before he felt his head shift and drop lower on the bed. Moments later, Mitch's hand moved away from his mouth.
"Help!" he cried out. But the sound was muffled instantly as something large and soft was placed over his face. Panic sliced through him as he realized it was his pillow. He struggled, his hands pulling feebly at the man who was now applying pressure to the pillow, attempting to smother him to death.
/
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/
Eli paused, his hand hovering just above the knob to the bathroom door. George Mitchell. Why was that name so familiar? What had Blair told him about Mitchell? He shook his head, the information simply not coming to him. Pushing through the door, he headed for the sinks, depositing his shaving kit on the steel shelf just under the mirror. As he stared at his own confused expression in the mirror, the name repeated in his mind again.
Mitchell...George Mitchell. No, not Mitchell. He liked to be called Mitch.
/> And then Eli knew...remembered. Officer George Mitchell who liked to be called Mitch. He was the man who had involved Blair in all this in the first place, the man who had been so rude to him at Tom Brayden's funeral, practically saying that he wished Blair hadn't survived the abduction by Marcus Grant.
Suddenly, a feeling of dread pressed in on Eli. He looked toward the door as an uneasy feeling washed through him.
Blair's not safe.
And even as the words flashed through his mind, Eli grabbed for the door and ran toward Blair's room. It was only then that he realized the guard on the door was gone. Mitchell must have gotten rid of him somehow. The realization sent another stab of fear through the professor.
Reaching the door, he pulled it wide, rushed inside...and was greeted by the most horrific sight he'd ever seen. George Mitchell had his back to the door, his body looming over Blair, a pillow pressed over the young man's face, smothering him. On the bed, Blair struggled uselessly, his weakened body unable to put up much of a fight, the sound of his desperate cries muffled by the pillow.
Eli didn't hesitate. Launching himself toward the bed, he latched onto Mitchell's back and fought to pull him away from Blair.
/
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/
"Why the hell are we here, Simon?" Jim stared at the numbers above the elevator door as the small car carried them toward the fourth floor of the hospital, the floor Blair was on. "I know Blair is safe. Right now, all I want to do is find Mitchell."
"And you will, but not until you see Blair." He glanced at Jim, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "I think...I think you need to see him. I think he can help you...regain your control."
Jim looked at Simon. It was the first time that Simon had acknowledged out loud that Blair was more than just an expert on sentinels--that he might actually have more of a purpose to Jim than just the knowledge he carried with him. "You're probably right," he said softly. "I should have realized that myself."