Smoke and Mirrors

by K Ryn

  "Your week was up a long time ago, Sandburg," Jim said darkly.

  "So you just kick me out? Dump my stuff in the street? After everything we've been through... after all the time I've put into this partnership..."

  "Let's get one thing straight, junior," Ellison snapped. He rose from his chair and came around the desk to stand chest to chest with the younger man. While the difference in the two men's heights was not that great, the ex-ranger seemed to tower over the grad student like a menacing, fairy tale giant. "We were never partners. I'm the detective. You're just an untrained, pain-in-the-ass civilian who's been dogging my heels like a long lost puppy for way too long."

  "ELLISON. SANDBURG. MY OFFICE. NOW!"

  Joel flinched at Simon's bellow, but it didn't faze either of the partners.

  "So, the truth finally comes out, huh, Ellison?" Blair stared up into the older man's face defiantly, jaw clenched in an impressive imitation of the detective's.

  "You want the truth, kid?" Jim sneered. "You've been nothing but a nuisance since the day you wormed your way in here. I've had to risk my own neck and the lives of other real cops pulling your ass out of the fire more times than I can count. I don't know what's worse... the way you whine and complain about following the most basic order, or the fact that you can't keep your mouth shut for more than thirty seconds at a time. Do you really think anyone's interested in that crap you dish out? Well, they're not."

  Ellison jabbed Sandburg hard in the chest with one finger, forcing the younger man to take a step backward.

  "You're nothing but a liability around here, Sandburg."

  "And you're just what Naomi said you were, Ellison," Blair retorted hotly. "A bootstrap, red-necked pig!"

  Ellison's face flushed crimson with fury and he lashed out with his fist, catching Sandburg on the left cheekbone. The force of the blow knocked the younger man to the floor with a resounding crash.

  There was an audible gasp from everyone in the room. Time seemed to stand still, capturing everyone in a horrified moment of disbelief.

  Then Ellison lunged forward, grabbing Sandburg by the jacket and dragging him to his feet. Hands that were deadly weapons in their own right locked around the younger man's neck.

  The attack broke Joel and everyone else out of stasis. Taggert ran forward, vaguely aware of Simon, Rafe and Brown moving as well. Banks got to Ellison first and pounded on the detective's arms, trying to break the choke hold that Jim had on the smaller man. Brown and Rafe joined their efforts to their captain's and managed to separate the partners before Joel was in reach.

  "You bastard!" Blair gasped, clutching at his throat.

  "No, you're the bastard here, Sandburg!" Ellison tossed back as he was pulled even farther away from the observer.

  Taggert came up from behind and wrapped his arms around Blair just as the younger man started to lunge forward toward Ellison. Holding the seething anthropologist was like trying to contain a firestorm. Blind anger and outrage gave the smaller man surprising strength and Joel had to use brute force to drag him backward.

  "THAT'S ENOUGH!" Simon shouted, his harsh command cutting through the air.

  Joel pulled Blair farther away, stopping just inside the main doors. The younger man had quit struggling, but Taggert held on tight, afraid that the trembling ball of energy in his hands would explode at the least opportunity.

  Simon released his hold on Ellison, but Brown and Rafe maintained theirs. The ex-ranger's face was dark with rage and disgust, but he, too, had stopped fighting to get free.

  Silence reigned once more, broken only by the harsh, heavy breathing of the two men and their holders.

  "I don't know what's going on between you two, but it stops now!" Banks snarled. "The bullpen is not the place for you to go ten rounds with each other. I will not abide this infantile behavior any longer. You either work it out or I'll work it out for you."

  "There's nothing to work out, Captain," Ellison snapped. "I want him out of here." The detective fixed the shaking grad student with a withering glare. "You hear that, punk? I find you anywhere near me or my place again, and I promise you, you're going to regret it."

  Joel felt Blair stiffen in his grasp, the tension sizzling in the younger man's body at the naked threat.

  "That's it, Ellison. You're suspended until further notice!" Simon barked. "Sandburg, go cool your heels in my office until he clears out."

  "I don't think so, Simon," Blair hissed. "I've wasted enough time and energy here as it is."

  He jerked his shoulders and Taggert reluctantly released his grip. The anthropologist pulled his observer's pass from his jacket with an angry tug. With a flick of his wrist he sent the laminated card sailing like a Frisbee across the room. The gaze he directed at the man who had been his best friend was as cold and hard as Ellison's had been.

  "You stay clear of me, Ellison, or you'll be the one regretting that we ever crossed paths."

  "Words, little man," Jim taunted. "You haven't got the guts to back up the threat."

  Joel reached out to forestall another retaliatory surge, but Sandburg simply shot Ellison a venomous glare, pivoted precisely and stalked out through the bullpen doors.

  Taggert turned, seeking Simon's eyes, hoping for some sign that things were not beyond repair. The captain's expression was rigid and unreadable.

  "Let him go," Simon ordered, nodding at Ellison. Rafe and Brown released the detective and stepped warily away.

  "Stay away from Sandburg, detective. If I find out you've been harassing the kid, that suspension will be permanent," Banks vowed.

  "Don't worry. That piece of trash isn't worth losing my job over," Jim sneered.

  "Ellison..."

  The detective shrugged at the warning in Simon's voice. He walked around his desk and grabbed his coat. "We done?" he asked belligerently.

  "Yeah, we're done," Simon said quietly, disappointment obvious in his face and tone.

  With an air of smug superiority, Ellison strolled across the bullpen. He glanced at Joel as he passed by, and the bigger man felt a shiver run down his spine at the intensity of that brief contact.

  As the doors closed behind him, Joel mourned the heartbreaking loss. Not only had the department lost its best team, but the friendship that he'd envied between the two men had obviously just died a painful death as well.

  Hither and thither spins The windbourne, mirroring soul; A thousands glimpses wins, And never sees a whole... Blair pulled the Volvo into the patched asphalt lot of the Peaceful Slumber Motel, parking the car under the gaudy, orange and blue flashing neon banner. The 'vacancy' sign was still lit, but at 11:30 at night, he didn't think they'd find too many more customers. He wouldn't be here himself, if he'd had another choice.

  He stared grimly at the blinking sign, certain that given the current state of affairs, his sleep would be anything but peaceful.

  'Nightmare Alley' would be more appropriate, he mused darkly. Or maybe 'Insomnia Bay.'

  He turned off the car and pocketed the keys. Grabbing his backpack, a six-pack of bottled water and the already grease-speckled bag of fast-food he'd picked up on the way, he slid out from behind the wheel. Checking to make sure both doors were locked, he took a quick look around the parking lot. The simple action brought back a flood of memories. Jim had drilled that safety precaution into his head during the first few days of their working together.

  He shook his head angrily, banishing the painful thoughts and images to the far corners of his mind. There was no point in looking backwards. Not now.

  Slipping his pack to his shoulder, he clutched the bag of food in one hand and tucked the bottles of water under the other arm. With a determined effort, he trudged up the sidewalk to the front of the hotel. It was an old, well-worn, single story structure. Its brick and wood paneled facade had been indifferently cared for over the years by a parade of owners -- the most recent of which was a fat, balding, middle-aged man who had leered suggestively at the anthropologist when he'd paid for the room
earlier in the day. Unloading his possessions under the man's penetrating gaze had been one of the creepiest experiences of his life. He was glad he'd brought two of his students along. Not only for their help, but they were both seniors on the football team and their combined bulk was threatening to behold.

  Ten mucus-colored doors marched in sequence down the length of the long building, identical except for the numbers scratched into the painted metal panels. Ten windows, all the exact same size and shape, paired with the doors to mark the boundaries of the rooms -- each one as loathsomely nondescript as the next. The curtains to all but his were closed. Bright vertical streaks of light at the gap of the drapes in three of the units were the only tell-tale signs that anyone was in residence.

  He headed down to the end unit, pulling the motel-room key from the pocket of his jeans. He'd chosen the room partly because it afforded the greatest distance between him and the resident owner, but also because it was the only one with a second window. The eastern exposure would allow him at least a glimpse of the first rays of the rising sun, something he'd become accustomed to waking up to.

  With a grimace, he realized he'd opened the door to more memories and picked up his pace. Four long strides brought him to his room and he thrust the key into the lock. There was a loud 'click' as the tumblers turned. He paused, taking a deep breath, preparing himself for what lay within.

  "So, shall we see what surprises are waiting behind door number 10, boys and girls?" he muttered under his breath.

  He gave the knob a sharp twist, pushed the panel inward and stepped across the threshold. The faint glow from the parking lot didn't make a dent in the darkness of the interior. The only light source was the reflection of the hotel's sign in the mirror at the far end of the room. The reversed image pulsed sickeningly. The rest of the room remained drenched in shadows.

  Blair elbowed the door shut and flipped on the light switch. A tarnished brass floor lamp flared to life. Its forty-watt bulb cast enough light to see by, but not nearly enough to chase away the gloom.

  "Hey, honey, I'm home," Blair murmured to the empty space.

  There was no answering welcome -- not that he had expected one. He dropped his backpack on the bed and headed toward the small bathroom, depositing the bag of carryout and the bottles of water on the top of a battered dresser on the way.

  He emerged a few minutes later, wiping his face and hands on a threadbare towel. Shimmering droplets of the tepid water that he'd splashed on his face in an effort to perk himself up, dripped from his hair onto his shirt. Blair patted at the damp spots half-heartedly before abandoning the effort. He tossed the towel back onto the tile bathroom floor and turned to survey his new domain.

  The room was small and cramped -- barely twenty feet square, not including the tiny bathroom. Certainly a far cry from the spacious openness of the loft.

  Do NOT go there, he reminded himself.

  A sagging double bed and two mismatched upholstered armchairs accompanied the dresser that was serving as his temporary kitchen counter. The rest of the space was filled with cardboard boxes. He knew the contents of those all too well.

  He crossed back to the door, shot the deadbolt into place and slipped the safety chain onto its track. Taking one quick glance out at the parking lot, he pulled the drape. He opened the east window, leaving the curtain pulled back to let in whatever breeze happened by -- and found himself longing for the balcony of the loft, where he and Jim had spent many a quiet evening, drinking a beer and sharing stories, or just rehashing the day.

  With a savage shake of his head, Blair turned his attention back to the room. He spent the next ten minutes rearranging the boxes so that he had a clear space to pace, making sure not to block the access door that led to the room next door. "Always allow yourself an escape route." That was something else Jim had taught him.

  There wasn't enough room to sit on the floor and meditate, but he had little intention of doing that anyway. If he wanted to try that exercise, he could use the bed, although he surmised that the ugly floral print of the spread would be a rather potent distraction, even with his eyes shut.

  No, meditation was at the bottom of his current agenda -- it had been for the past two weeks. What had once been a calming, soothing exercise had turned into a repeat performance of hell.

  Since the night of the sixth fire, the vision of a raging wall of flame had haunted every attempt he had made. He still had no idea what the image meant, but it terrified him.

  He paused in the center of the room, running his hands through his hair in frustration. That was the problem with being an untrained Shaman. Sure, he had the title -- Shaman of the Great City -- but it was one that he'd flippantly assigned himself. Incacha had passed on his gifts and abilities, but, like the vision, he still had no clue as to what that really meant. Or, what responsibilities it entailed.

  If I'd known it was going to produce these kinds of hallucinogenic episodes, I would have grabbed my 'Get out of jail free card', proceeded directly to 'Go' and gotten the hell out of Dodge.

  Not that the choice had presented itself. Incacha had grabbed his arm with his bloody hand, fixed him with an ancient, desperate gaze and it had been a done deal. He had to admit he'd been fascinated and flattered that the Shaman had deemed him worthy of the bequest. But figuring out what to do with it had left him significantly overwhelmed.

  He'd tried analyzing it from a scientific perspective, but the cold, clear eye of reason fell far short when it came to the mystical. Up until now, meditation had been the only route to an even minimal understanding of what was happening to him. With the door closed on that option, he felt lost -- and more frightened than he had ever been in his life.

  He ground his teeth together in frustration and disgust. Unwilling to go backward; too afraid to go forward. He hated that feeling -- abhorred the fact that his own fears might be holding him back from a path that he was destined to follow. He wished wholeheartedly that he had a Guide of his own. Someone to tell him what he was doing wrong, or at least give him some sense of direction.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and a tongue of flame danced in his mind.

  Now is definitely NOT a good time for this, he thought desperately.

  With an effort of will, he opened his eyes. The image of the flame was gone, replaced by the bland reality of the motel room. He breathed a sigh of relief, but felt a flash of irritation as well. While he respected the shamanic traditions, at times like this he balked at the fact that fate seemed to be playing its own little game with his life.

  Guess I'm getting a taste of what Jim's gone through.

  He'd never had the chance to talk to Jim about the vision. Things had escalated quickly after their discussion that fateful night. He could still see the expression of rage in the Sentinel's eyes, the look of pure betrayal as Blair had voiced his theory.

  A look that had resurfaced on Jim's face that morning.

  Blair muttered a curse and started pacing again, wishing he could drive his mind to the same state of exhaustion that the rest of his body felt. Maybe then he could just collapse and not worry about fires, or blackened corpses, or about the fact that he was now a Guide without a Sentinel.

  But no matter what he did, the confrontation at the station replayed itself over and over in his mind like a looped tape. The hateful words that had spewed from his Sentinel's mouth -- and his own -- seared streaks of fire across his heart. They burned a thousand-times hotter than the bruise on his cheek.

  He choked back another curse and headed back to the bathroom in search of a cool compress for the still swelling injury.

  Smoke gets in your eyes...

  From his car on the east end of the parking lot, Joel Taggert watched the troubled young man with a sinking heart. He could see Sandburg through the open window, flickering in and out of view as he paced the small room. It looked like it was going to be a long night. For both of them.

  Worried about the anthropologist's safety and state of mind, Joel ha
d left the station only moments after Ellison. He'd followed the detective back to the loft and then headed out to the University, hoping that he'd find the grad student safely tucked away in his office.

  A few casual questions to students emerging from the Anthropology Building had assured him that Sandburg had indeed returned there. Uncertain as to whether his presence would be welcome, Taggert had located the younger man's car and found himself a spot where he could watch both the entrance to the building and the vehicle.

  He hadn't had to wait long. Within an hour, Sandburg had emerged with his pack on his shoulder and two very large students in tow. The trio had made their way to the parking lot and after some discussion, the would-be linebackers had piled into a pickup truck -- the back end of which was loaded with cardboard boxes -- while the anthropologist had headed to the Volvo.

  Taggert had trailed them to the motel. Once it had become apparent that the slimy manager wasn't going to give the grad student any trouble -- at least not with the two jocks on the scene -- he'd hung back, watching from a distance as the boxes were unloaded into the end unit. When the last of what Joel assumed were the anthropologist's possessions were inside, the students had left and Sandburg had disappeared behind a firmly closed door.

  Joel had contemplated approaching the younger man then, but had refrained. He could only imagine the pain that the sensitive observer was experiencing and had no words that would offer any real comfort. He'd headed back to the station, promising himself that he'd check on the anthropologist later, although he'd been pretty convinced that even Ellison, with his uncanny knack for tracking down the most elusive subject, would have a hard time finding the young man if he didn't want to be found.

  The nagging suspicion that things weren't exactly as they seemed had begun to grow shortly after he'd returned to work. He'd ignored the insistent needling thoughts at first, assuming that it was just his own inability to accept what had gone down. But the idea that something was very wrong with the current picture kept clamoring for attention.