by K Ryn
Disclaimer: Characters from The Sentinel do not, unfortunately belong to me. Pet Fly and Paramount own them. UPN abuses them far more than I ever have. All other original characters are mine -- fortunately they don't demand much in terms of food and board. No money made, no point in chasing me for money.
Author's Notes:
While hunting up a title for another writer, I came across this marvelous quote:
The most dangerous of our calculations are those we call illusions. -- Georges Bernanos
It rumbled around in the dusty corners of my mind, generating a scant kernel of a story idea, until the Muse found it. I think she was appalled at the condition it was in -- she's a much better housekeeper than I am. She shook off the cobwebs and demanded I clean up my act and get busy. What can I say? I learned long ago -- never, ever, argue with the Muse.
My boundless thanks to Chris for her constant support and for a great TS-overload visit; to various readers (Hi, Carmen!) who wrote and encouraged -- threatened -- me to produce another story post-haste; to Majik for originally posting this to her site; and to Carolyn, whose fine-toothed comb and sharp eye made this a much better piece.
Attributions and credits for quotes found at certain section headings appear at the end of the story.
Smoke and Mirrors
by
K. Ryn
[email protected]
.
SMOKE SCREEN
It wasn't a pleasant neighborhood.
It had been once.
From dawn to well past dusk, the streets and buildings had pulsed with life and hope and innocence.
Children had filled the streets with laughter and the casually abandoned toys of youth, confident of their own immortality.
Lovers young and old, with eyes only for each other, had strolled hand in hand down the sidewalks, dreaming of the future and reliving the joys of the past.
Even the night was welcomed; not feared.
Generations ago -- when the bricks that formed the building blocks of homes and stores still bore the faint heat of the inferno from which they were molded; when mortar gleamed pure and white as it was troweled onto each layer; when the pine boards that were sawn and shaped still seeped droplets of pungent sap; when artisans sculpted scrolls and magical beast-like creations on the cornices -- it had been a place of new beginnings.
Back then, the buildings wedged shoulder to shoulder like marching soldiers had breathed with a life of their own. They exuded a vitality that had welcomed wanderers from afar, gathering the refugees into a safe harbor from which they could begin their new lives.
Now, it was a place stained by more than just the passing of time.
The fires that warmed the brick-faced structures brought destruction, not conception; the cement that had once bound the building blocks of pride was gray and crumbling from neglect; rough splintered wooden boards were hammered haphazardly across broken windows, barring the world from entry; broken faces leered like vultures from the rooftops, their beautiful images distorted into monstrous shapes that formed the stuff of nightmares.
There were gaps in the ranks, marking soldiers who had fallen victim to age and avarice. Between the structures that still stood, rubbish littered alleys gaped like hungry maws, ready to devour unsuspecting prey -- fertile playing fields for the darkness.
Lassitude and age permeated the streets, offering no real welcome except to those with nowhere else to go.
Yet there was still a spark that beat beneath the surface. In the decaying wasteland there was still life; struggling not just to hold its ground, but to move upward, straining toward the sun- -toward hope and the promise of dreams.
And it was that feeble flame that gave Blair Sandburg hope of his own as he leaned wearily against the side of the old blue and white truck, waiting for his partner. He rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his coat and grimaced at the sting of gritty ashes and soot. One glance at his hands told him that they were no cleaner. He wiped his palms against his jeans, trying to remove the worst of the grunge. Pulling out his shirt tail, he scrubbed at his face, wishing he could erase the scene before him just as easily.
Another fire. Another death. The sixth in as many weeks.
With an audible sigh, Blair gave up on trying to get clean. Crossing his arms over his chest he leaned back, letting the solid bulk of the pickup support him. His gaze drifted to the smoldering ruin of what had been a three-story apartment building. There was nothing left of the structure except the shell and the jagged, blackened timbers that had once formed the interior walls of the first floor. The strobing bubbles of the emergency vehicles and squad cars cast the street in a kaleidoscopic rainbow of color, making the whole scene even more surreal.
"About, about, in reel and rout, The death fires danced at night," he whispered, recalling the words to a poem he'd once read. The verse was painfully appropriate now.
Blair shook his head and mourned the loss -- not the loss of the building, but the loss of what had been a home to at least a half-dozen families. He could see them without turning his head. Men, women and children huddled in blankets on the sidewalk across from the ruins, grasping the pitiful remnants of their possessions and each other.
Their shell-shocked expressions were far too painful for the young Shaman to observe for long. His empathic soul felt as battered as they looked. The presence of the Red Cross van and its gentle volunteers did little to ease the heartsick young man.
He let his gaze drift again, feeling somewhat guilty in the knowledge that he would be leaving this all behind in a short while to return to the safety and comfort of the loft. Unbidden, the memories of his own loss to fire returned and he shivered. The images that paraded through his mind were as fresh as the night the warehouse had been destroyed. With a determined effort, he shook them off. He'd made a new beginning then. Perhaps there was one waiting for these people as well.
Maybe there's a Blessed Protector waiting in the wings. Or a Guardian Angel, he thought hopefully. After all, I got lucky. And Jim's always saying that there must be someone with some clout watching out for children and wayward anthropologists.
Buoyed by that thought, Blair glanced back at the remains of the building. His partner was still inside, directing the forensics team.
And probably ready to bite someone's head off, Blair mused grimly. He'd better not be trying to push his senses anymore tonight, or I'll be pulling an all-nighter just trying to get them back into line.
For a moment, he considered going back inside, but then decided against it. Jim Ellison might be a Sentinel, but he was also a cop. And as much leeway as Blair had in their relationship, he knew that there were times when he had to step out of his Guide mode and into his police observer role. This was one of those times. Jim had a job to do, and even though his Shaman worried about the way the man pushed himself, he understood that there was a time and place for hovering.
Blair shifted and wedged his shoulder into the support of the side mirror, resting his left cheek against the cool metal. It was late and he was tired. Jim had told him he could take the truck and head for home -- a testimony to just how wrapped up in the case his partner really was, since the pickup was his pride and joy and the times that he had allowed anyone beside himself behind the wheel were easily counted on the fingers of one hand -- but Blair had elected to remain. His Sentinel would need him before the night was over, even if it was only to offer the comfort of some mindless chatter on the way home.
It wouldn't be just his partner that he would be distracting with his ramblings either. Letting his mouth run was a sure way to keep from thinking about the body that they'd discovered in the debris. It had been impossible to determine anything from the remains -- at least for Blair. Jim had voiced his own opinions, based
on what his senses had revealed, but even with his enhanced abilities, the only things they could be sure of at this point were that the victim was male, that he'd been shot in the head and that the fire had quite neatly covered the killer's tracks.
The same facts that they'd picked up at each of the previous crime scenes.
They'd spent hours going through the debris -- searching for any evidence that might help them solve the puzzling string of arsons and murders -- but they'd found little to give them the break they so desperately needed. By the time Jim had been ready to hand that part of the investigation over to forensics, the Sentinel had been nearly exhausted, although he'd adamantly denied it. Blair knew better -- he'd seen the strain on his friend's face and the tension in the taught muscular frame. So Blair had stayed on, waiting for the detective to call it quits- -waiting to take the frustrated Sentinel home.
Probably with a headache the size of Cascade.
Smiling at the appropriateness of the analogy, Blair raised his head and pushed himself away from the truck. He could feel the nagging complaint of his own headache and started to wander down the sidewalk away from the crime scene, hoping that some minor aerobic activity would help.
There were at least seven patrol cars still blocking the street and he nodded in silent greeting to the cops that he knew, or at least recognized from some past case or event, giving a wide berth to those that didn't look familiar. Blair felt pretty secure with his standing within Major Crimes, but the uniformed cops often forgot to look past the long hair and earrings and he wasn't in any mood to explain his right to be there.
He walked as far as the corner and turned to survey the area. The firefighters who had valiantly battled the blaze remained, watching the smoking charred remains with wary eyes and casting an ocean of water on the nearby buildings in hopes of containing the destruction. Blair saw the sorrow in several of the men's eyes and felt a strong, peaceful kinship with them.
He could still see a couple of the families who had been burned out, but the rest had apparently been shepherded to either medical care or some temporary facilities. The thought that they'd sleep with a roof over their heads for at least one night made the young Shaman's heart a bit lighter.
There were other people crowding the sidewalks now. Onlookers whose expressions ranged from the mildly curious to horrified. The anthropologist in Blair couldn't help but study them, thinking about the odd melting pot of nationalities and ethnic origins that made up the small community that he was getting to know all too well.
Ranging from ancient to infant, the population living in the crowded and less than hospitable neighborhood was a mixture of cultures and lifestyles. Given the variety of values and beliefs, Blair had expected to find a kind of war zone mentality, with each common group clinging together for safety and support. What he'd discovered was a powerful sense of community. It had intrigued the anthropologist and delighted the Shaman's soul.
But in the course of their investigation, he'd unearthed the hint of something dark as well.
Something that smelled of fear.
Blair shook his head and dragged a hand through his tangled curls, frowning as he tried to pin down the undefinable something that was flittering in the back of his mind. He hadn't talked to Jim about it yet. It was too vague, too much a feeling as opposed to fact. And, realistically, it didn't seem to have any bearing on the case at hand. No matter how fascinating Blair found the odd subculture of the neighborhood, it still didn't explain why six people were dead, or give them any clues as to who had killed them.
He took a quick look toward the site of the most recent fire, but he still saw no sign of his partner. Deciding that he had given Jim more than enough time, he started to walk back, letting the facts that they did have roll through his mind.
The victims had all been area merchants. One woman and five men -- assuming his Sentinel's assessment of the newest corpse was correct, which Blair didn't doubt. Each was murdered execution style, with a bullet to the head. Jim had theorized that some kind of protection racket was operating in the area, using strong arm tactics and murder when necessary to secure their hold over the residents. So far, no one had come forward to volunteer any information that made that assessment anything more than educated speculation.
Then there was the arson angle, which appeared to be a cover for the murders. Jim had put Rafe and Brown to work on digging through the paper trail on the buildings, just to make sure that they weren't missing some important connection. So far they'd come up with reams of printouts, but no concrete leads.
All of the fires and homicides had taken place within an eight block radius of tonight's destruction. He and Jim had walked the streets, talked to the remaining merchants, interviewed the residents -- those that would talk to them anyway. He'd actually had more luck than his partner in getting anyone to say more than a few words.
Guess sometimes it pays to look less than intimidating.
Lost in his thoughts, Blair stepped down off the curb and caught the heel of his right shoe on a broken piece of concrete. He pitched backward and flailed his arms trying to regain his balance. Strong hands wrapped around his left arm and jerked him upright. The anthropologist drew in a quick breath and looked up, expecting to find his partner at his side. To his surprise, it was a stranger.
"You okay?" the man asked in concern.
"Yeah... just forgot to watch where I was going," Blair explained, grinning in mild embarrassment.
The man released his hold on Blair's arm and stepped back, shaking his head. "Good way to break your neck, kid."
Blair grimaced at the reference to 'kid', but bore the designation with patience. He'd been called worse, and to be truthful, he did look younger than his 29 years. Certainly he was young enough to be this man's son.
Blair nodded absently, acknowledging the man's words while he studied him. He was nearly as big as Jim, but far older. Late 60s maybe, although not at all frail, given the grip he'd wrapped around Blair's arm just moments earlier.
A full head of silver hair topped a rugged, life-creased face. The clothes he wore had long since gone out of style, but they were clean and he wore them with the air of someone who had once held the reins of command. The eyes that glittered beneath bushy eyebrows were sharp and clear as they swept across the chaotic scene.
"Quite a mess," the man observed. "This used to be a quiet, peaceful neighborhood. Worst thing we had to deal with in the old days was keeping the kids off the basketball court after curfew. Wasn't that they got into trouble or anything, but the noise of that ball bouncing at all hours used to drive the old folks who lived across from the school crazy. Hard to believe with everything that's been happening lately."
"Sounds like you're pretty familiar with the area," Blair said quietly.
"Lived here all my life, except for the time I spent in the service, of course. Spent my childhood on this very street, a couple blocks north," the old man replied. Turning his gaze back to Blair, he favored the anthropologist with a scrutinizing stare that would have done the Sentinel proud. "I don't remember seeing you around before. You have a place to stay yet?"
It took Blair a moment to realize that the old man had mistaken him for a new arrival to the neighborhood. Given his disheveled appearance it wasn't hard to understand why.
"Uh, well, actually..."
"Mind if I give you a little advice, kid?" the man interrupted before he could correct the false assumption.
"Sure -- as long as you use my name instead of calling me kid," Blair replied with a grin. "Blair Sandburg," he offered, extending his hand.
The old man eyed Blair's grimy palm warily, then enfolded it in a firm handshake. "Guess that's fair enough," he answered and then introduced himself. "Andrew Jankowski."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jankowski."
Andrew eyed him quizzically. "Pretty fancy manners, Mr. Sandburg. Nice to see that there's still some that respect the old ways."
"Actually, I have a great deal of
respect for older cultures and traditions, Mr. Jankowski," Blair answered, grinning broadly. "It's kind of my life's work, plus my mom was pretty unorthodox, but she was a real stickler for manners. I have to admit, being polite probably got me out of a lot of the jams that my youthful enthusiasm landed me in the middle of."
"Well politeness isn't going to do you any good if you get in trouble in this neighborhood," Andrew said grimly. "These bastards don't waste time with pleasantries. Cross 'em and you'll end up with a bullet in your head."
"What?" Blair gaped at the man, his tired mind trying to come to grips with what Jankowski had just said.
Face filled with an expression of disgust, the old man grabbed him by the arm and spun him around to face the street.
"Open your ears and eyes, boy. You want to stay alive, stay away from them!" Jankowski hissed.
Blair stared at the assembled crowd of onlookers, cops and firefighters, desperately trying to figure who the old man was talking about. Suddenly he was aware that the hand on his arm had dropped away. He turned to find Jankowski already stalking down the sidewalk.
"Wait!" Blair scrambled after the old man.
"I already gave out all the free advice I'm offering tonight, kid," Jankowski called over his shoulder.
"You know... don't you?" Blair gasped, grabbing at the old man's jacket and pulling him to a stop. "You know who murdered those people!"
Jankowski's eyes narrowed dangerously and he pulled out of the younger man's grasp.
"You have to help us," Blair plunged on. "Before someone else dies."
I don't have to help anyone except myself."
"But this is your neighborhood," the Shaman argued. "You said you've lived here all your life. You must have known the people who died... How can you stand by when you know the truth?"
"The truth can get you killed, kid," Jankowski snarled, turning away.
"Please... talk to my partner," Blair pleaded.
Jankowski whirled around and grabbed the anthropologist by the front of his jacket. The mixture of rage and fear in the old man's face made Blair flinch, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact and not look away.