Sentinel - Progressions Series 02 Hidden Truth

by Beth Manz

  Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.

  Note from the Authors: In our Sentinel universe, the events depicted in "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg" did not occur. Therefore, any "canonical" references that may be found in this story are related to episodes up to and including "Most Wanted."

  Dedication: This series is dedicated to friendship, for only through caring for others can we truly find a sense of peace and belonging.

  Hidden Truths

  Part Two of the "Progressions" Series

  by Beth Manz and Shiloh

  Prologue

  Stepping into the apartment, Eddie Rostin closed the door quietly behind him. He stood still and held his breath as he listened for sounds of movement. Seconds ticked by, but he heard nothing except the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen and the steady tick, tick, tick of a clock somewhere nearby. He smiled, then bit his lip to hold back a chuckle of satisfaction. He had gotten inside unnoticed.

  Moonlight slanted through three large windows on the other side of the room, casting long shafts of silver light across the living area. Eddie remained where he was for several more seconds, allowing his eyesight to adjust to the semi-darkness, then slowly he stepped forward and let his gaze wander around the large room. His brow furrowed with confusion as he took in the pictures on the walls, the books in the living room, the strange tribal mask leaning in one corner.

  This was not the home he had expected of Jim Ellison.

  He tiptoed over to the mask and leaned down, wanting to get a better look at it. He touched gingerly at the thick straw that made up the mask's hair, then trailed his fingers down the rough wood that formed the broad, strange-looking face. "Where'd you get this, Jimmy?" he whispered to himself. The mask looked like something he'd seen in old National Geographic magazines; it sure wasn't something he'd expected to find in a cop's home.

  His gaze tracked right to the bookshelves against the brick wall at the back of the apartment. Eddie crossed to the shelves, crouched down and began skimming the book titles. It was difficult to read some of the titles in the dim light, but there appeared to be lot of books about faraway tribes and countries he had never heard of. Again, his brow furrowed.

  Boy, have you changed, Jimmy!

  Straightening, he noticed a compact disc lying on top of the stereo. He held the CD, still in its protective cellophane wrapper, up to the moonlight. Santana. The famous guitarist. Now this was more like the Jim he knew. He turned the small disc over in his hand, almost laughing out loud at the memory of Jimmy sitting in his father's garage, trying to play an old electric guitar that someone had given him. Smiling, Eddie slipped the CD into his jacket pocket.

  A soft sound from above him drew his attention. He looked up at the room at the top of the stairs, debating his next move. It took him only moments to decide. He crossed to the stairs and started up, his footfalls nearly silent in the stillness of the night.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, his gaze fell on a sleeping figure only a few feet away from where he stood. He smiled fondly; even after so many years, he easily recognized his old friend. Jim had aged but he hadn't changed much at all. He still had the same square-jawed good looks; the same short, no-nonsense haircut; the same aura of quiet confidence, even in sleep.

  Eddie glanced at the small white noise generator on the table beside the bed. From where he stood he could hear bits and pieces of the soothing sounds emanating from the small device--the steady patter of raindrops and an occasional bird calling out in the background. Eddie raised his eyebrows in surprise. So, Jimmy is a light sleeper? He decided to move that much more carefully. After all, he wouldn't want Jim to wake up. Then the game would end before it even had a chance to really begin.

  Walking to the bedside table, Eddie picked up Jim's wristwatch, stared absently at the time it displayed, then slipped it into his pocket, biting his lip to hold back another chuckle. He crossed back to the stairs and made his way cautiously down the steps and across the expanse of the loft.

  As he passed by the living room windows, he noticed a few pictures sitting on the corner table between the couches. He moved over to the table and glanced at each of the framed photographs. The first was of Jim and his brother Stephen; both men were smiling into the camera. He reached out and touched the picture, running his hand over the polished wood frame. His gaze locked on Stephen and memories of a day very long ago ran through his mind. You should have let me finish the game, Jimmy. But it didn't matter. He would finish it now. After all, he'd planned it so carefully, so perfectly.

  He dropped his hand away as his attention shifted to the next photo. It showed Jim and a boyish looking man with curly brown hair. They were standing in a stream, holding a net with a large fish caught in it. Beside that photo was another of the young man, this time with a slender, red-haired woman who was smiling broadly and holding a plate of something he couldn't identify. The last picture was of Jim and the young man. It had obviously been taken here at the loft; the two of them were standing out on the balcony and Jim's arm was draped comfortably around the younger man's shoulders.

  "Who are you?" Eddie mused softly as he stared at the curly-haired man. "And what do you mean to Jim?"

  Again a sound drew his attention, but this time it didn't come from the upstairs bedroom. He glanced toward the kitchen. At the back of the loft, French doors stood slightly ajar and there was a room beyond. He frowned. He hadn't noticed the room before. As he listened he heard another sound--a soft murmur-- come from beyond the doors. He glanced up at Jim's bedroom as he walked quietly toward the room tucked beneath his old friend's.

  Glancing around the partially opened doors, he saw a man asleep in a small bed, long brown hair spilling out over the pillow beneath his head. It was obviously the young man from the photos. Eddie stared at the stranger in puzzlement. Who are you?

  He stepped inside but didn't cross directly to the bed. Instead, he stopped at the desk. A tiny lamp had been left on and it cast a weak circle of light across the small desktop. Quietly, Eddie shuffled through the notes and papers there, glancing behind him every few seconds to make sure the young man was still sleeping. Most of the papers seemed to be from Rainier University--tests, term papers, more than one with the name Blair Sandburg scribbled across the top.

  He looked back again as the young man muttered softly and shifted in his sleep, then he moved close to the bed and crouched down beside it. Tilting his head to one side, he studied the sleeping man's face. He had to be at least ten years younger than Jim. He stared at the long hair and at the two hoop earrings in his left ear. He just couldn't imagine his old friend spending time with this man. Or allowing him to live here. But he was here, which meant he was a friend. A close friend.

  Eddie smiled widely then reached out, stopping just short of touching the sleeping man. He'd thought about the game for so long, had planned it out perfectly. Had known exactly who to involve and what steps to take in order to get Jim to play. But as he stared at Blair Sandburg, he realized that his plan was going to have to change.

  Part One

  Jim Ellison sat at his desk at the police station, his gaze locked on the computer screen before him. He'd tried and failed three times to finish up the paperwork and reports he'd found in his in-box that morning. A deep sigh of frustration escaped him and he sat up straighter, stretching his weary back muscles. He was tired of typing reports, tired of being chained to his desk. But it was the only work h
e could do until he was cleared by Internal Affairs in the Dawson Quinn shooting.

  He looked over to the desk on the other side of the bullpen where Blair was sitting. His partner was using Taggert's computer to help Jim catch up on paperwork that had accumulated during the time Blair had been confined to the loft, recovering from the injuries he'd sustained at the mine. It had been over three weeks since Blair had been released from the hospital, but this was his first day back at the station.

  Jim watched Blair as he typed methodically at the keys, his glasses reflecting the glow of the computer screen. From time to time the young man reached up and pushed his hair behind his ears, and it was during those moments that Jim could see the faint outlines of the injuries inflicted by Quinn. But the bruises were nearly gone; the cuts on his face and wrists closed and healing; and his ribs, while still tender, were hurting him less and less each day. In spite of the progress he'd made, however, Blair still moved slowly and carefully, still tired easily. But he had been anxious to get back to his life, and Jim had to admit that he was more than happy to have his partner at his side again.

  The detective turned back to his computer screen and stared at it morosely. He just couldn't maintain the concentration necessary to finish the report he was working on. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. Something was nagging at the back of his mind--it had been there, teasing at him since he'd woken that morning, like a memory he had forgotten or a dream he couldn't remember, yet it was more than that. Something had seemed... wrong in the loft that morning. Different. But he hadn't been able to put his finger on it.

  He had considered mentioning the unsettling feeling to Blair on the ride into the station that morning, but had discarded the idea almost immediately. He'd been worrying everything to death during the weeks since he'd brought Blair home from the hospital and his partner was growing weary of it. Sandburg had even come to the point where he had insisted that Jim sleep with the white noise generator running.

  "You're up every time I make the slightest noise," Blair had told him one evening. "I can't sleep that way, man. And neither can you."

  Jim glanced over at his partner again as the memory of Blair's argument came back to him. Sandburg had been right, yet Jim couldn't seem to stop himself. Because I came too close to losing him. And I can't go through that again.

  He ran a hand over his eyes then up across his hair. He needed to put what happened with Quinn behind him, close the door on that chapter of his life and leave it closed. But as he watched Blair he found himself staring at the small scar on Sandburg's chin--the one left by Quinn's attack. And in an instant Jim was back in that mine, holding his friend in his arms as his life slipped away with Jim helpless to stop it. Helpless. The word repeated itself in his mind, leaving an angry, bitter feeling in its wake.

  Blair looked up at that moment and caught Jim watching him. He narrowed his eyes slightly, knowing what his partner was thinking. "I'm fine," he whispered, sentinel-soft. He lifted his hand and made an impatient gesture in Jim's direction. "Hurry up and get your work done so we can grab some lunch. I'm starving over here!"

  Jim smiled and nodded, then turned his attention back to his computer. Quinn is dead, he told himself. I killed him. Blair is safe. He repeated the words over and over in his mind like a mantra. But they didn't alleviate the worry that gnawed at his mind and stiffened his back.

  /

  /

  "Have a seat, Jim," Simon Banks directed, motioning toward the conference table. The tall captain waited until Jim had settled himself into one of the chairs, then he lowered himself into a chair opposite his detective. He propped his cane carefully against the table.

  Jim eyed the walking aid; the object served as silent testimony to the fact that Blair hadn't been the only person to suffer injury at Quinn's hands. "How much longer do you have to use that?" Jim asked, inclining his head toward the cane.

  "If all goes well at the next couple of therapy sessions, I can get rid of it as early as next week," the captain answered. "And I can't say I'm going to miss it, either." Smiling, he pushed a manila file folder across the table. "I thought you'd be interested in seeing this."

  He watched as Jim picked up the unopened file and read the label in the upper left-hand corner. "Internal Affairs," Ellison observed softly. The detective studied the label a few seconds more, then looked across at Banks. "They've made their decision?"

  Simon's smile widened and he nodded slowly. "This morning. You've been cleared in Quinn's shooting, Jim."

  Jim considered the news, a slow smile breaking its way across his face. "That's great, Simon," he said after a few moments. "So, I'm officially back on active duty?"

  "Starting right now, Detective. You just need to sign the bottom of the first page in the file and it will be official." Simon handed a pen to Jim. "I thought I saw Sandburg with you when you came in this morning. Where is he?"

  Jim's soft smile widened into an amused grin. "He's down in Records. He heard at lunch that a new clerk had been hired, so he went down to meet her." Jim opened the file and signed his name on the required form, then pushed the file and pen back across the table to Simon. "I believe Sandburg thinks that all those cuts and bruises he's still sporting will win him a certain amount of sympathy from the female population of the precinct."

  Simon chuckled. "I should have known." The captain leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on the table. Becoming serious, he asked, "So, how's he doing, Jim, really? You know, if it's too soon for him to be out in the field with you, I can assign Joel as your partner for the next couple of weeks."

  "No need for that, Simon. Sandburg's fine."

  "It's only been a few weeks since he was released from the hospital."

  "I know, but he's made a lot of progress and the doctor told him he can start working full-time again if he takes it easy and limits his physical activity. Besides, he's about to go crazy from 'cabin fever'."

  Simon laughed and leaned back into the comfort of his chair. "Which means he's been driving you crazy."

  Jim chuckled. "Nothing I can't handle. But in all seriousness, even though he's still moving a little more slowly than usual, I think he's ready to be out in the field with me. And I'll keep my eye on him, make sure he takes it easy."

  Simon nodded his head and stood, prompting Jim to stand as well. "Very well. Why don't you go find him and give him the good news, then. I know he's been concerned over how this whole IA thing would turn out."

  Jim blinked in confusion. "Concerned? Why would Blair be concerned?"

  Simon stared at him. "Well, because of the circumstances. I just thought..." The captain's words died in his throat as he looked at his detective. He had assumed that Jim and Sandburg had talked about what happened after they were rescued from the mine, but maybe that wasn't the case after all. "Surely Blair asked you what happened out there in those woods...." the captain began.

  "I told him I shot Quinn," Jim replied matter-of-factly, looking at Simon with a steady gaze. He shrugged slightly. "Blair trusts me. He knows I did the only thing I could do at the time. End of story."

  Simon thought about that, then slowly nodded. So Blair didn't know what had happened on the day Jim shot Dawson Quinn. Pulling off his glasses, Banks swiped a hand across his eyes, pausing to rub at the bridge of his nose. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. After all, even he didn't have all the details. Didn't want all the details. He replaced his glasses. "I understand."

  Jim looked down at the floor for a few seconds, then back up at his captain. "Are you sure, Simon?" he queried softly. "That you understand, I mean?"

  Simon sighed deeply, then moved over to his detective and placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told IA when they questioned me. That I wasn't there to witness what went down with Quinn. But that I have never known you to use deadly force unless it was absolutely necessary and absolutely justified." The captain paused and squeezed Jim's shoulder. He lowered his voice and asked quietly,
almost hesitantly, "I told them the truth, didn't I, Jim? I need to know."

  Jim held Simon's gaze, and the detective's eyes were steady, resolved. "You told them the truth, sir."

  Simon closed his eyes in relief, then patted Jim's shoulder before dropping his hand back to his side. "Never doubted it for a minute," he stated confidently, punctuating his words with a wide smile. Glancing out into the bullpen, the captain noticed that Blair had returned from Records and was seated at Jim's desk, leafing through a thick file. "Looks like our resident Casanova has returned," Simon quipped. Motioning toward the door, he told Jim, "Go on, Detective. You and your partner have a lot of work to catch up on."

  /

  /

  Blair watched as Jim crouched down and checked the area around the car for the third time. They'd been at the crime scene for nearly an hour now, going over the evidence, talking to witnesses. The old Chevy Nova had been used in a string of drugstore robberies, but the left front tire had gone flat and the men had obviously ditched the vehicle in a hurry. The men behind the robberies were young, over-confident and sloppy. The case would be an easy one to solve.

  That's why Simon gave it to us. Blair understood the captain's reluctance to assign anything too stressful to the two of them right now. He knew it might be several weeks before they actually got back to the kind of case load they were used to--the kind of case load that Jim liked to carry. But his partner had yet to utter one single complaint about the time he'd had to spend at his desk or about this first new case that had been assigned to them.

  Sandburg shifted where he stood, watching as Jim rechecked the inside of the car. Again. Blair hated to admit it, but he was getting tired. More than tired, he was sore. He sighed heavily and looked around; he just needed to sit down.

  He ran his hand up and down his left side, feeling the slight tenderness that still lingered there. His ribs and side hurt the worst first thing in the morning, which made showering and dressing a bit of a struggle. But once he was up and about the aching only became noticeable when he made a sudden move. Or when he was on his feet too long... like he had been today.