by K Ryn
He stood as still as a statue, replaying all the conversations and phone calls he could recall having had with Blair or anyone else over the last few days. Gradually, he let himself relax a bit. They'd been careful. Hopefully, careful enough.
He moved back to the answering machine and hit the play button. The first call was from Simon, ordering him to contact the station first thing in the morning.
Might as well give whoever's listening something to chew on, he decided.
"Yes sir!" he snarled sarcastically. "Anything you say, sir! Shit... Banks... what a loser. No way he'd be a captain if it weren't for affirmative action."
The second message was for Blair, from one of his students. Jim made a mental note of the caller, and launched into a stinging diatribe over the contents of the message.
The third was also for Blair. Jim let it play only long enough to identify the anthropologist's advisor's voice and hit the stop button.
"He doesn't live here anymore, you moron!" Jim ranted for the benefit of his invisible audience. He stalked over to the coffee table, grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Cranking the volume up several notches, he flipped channels until he came to the sports network.
Still grumbling, he headed toward the bathroom and turned on the shower. He let it run for a few moments before easing the door half-shut. He would have rather closed it all the way, but he didn't want to arouse any suspicions. With no roommate in evidence, it would have been out of character to worry about privacy.
He turned on the sink tap instead, hoping the combined sounds of running water and the TV would block out any trace of what he was about to do. Pulling the cell phone from his jacket, he muffled it in a towel and punched the speed dial.
"I'm in, I've had company, they're listening, is he all right?" he whispered tersely.
//No sign of trouble. Who?//
The Sentinel breathed a sigh of relief.
"Gordon."
//You're sure?//
"Yeah. Smoke," Jim replied. He'd smelled enough of the man's cigarette leavings during the time that they'd had him under surveillance to recognize the odor of the unfiltered brand the detective preferred.
//I'll have Joel take over for me here... //
"No. Stay. Watch him."
//Jim, the kid's fine. You're the one under the gun.//
"Don't leave him!" the Sentinel hissed. "You made me a promise, Simon. That's the only reason I agreed to any of this."
There was silence on the other end and then, finally, an exasperated sigh.
//All right. Can I at least send Joel in for backup?//
"No. Someone tailed me. Better keep clear."
Simon's muffled curse was like a shout to the Sentinel's ears.
"Next check 8:00 am. Keep him safe," Jim pleaded softly before he cut the connection.
He decided to let the shower and the tap run for a few more minutes. Leaning wearily against the wall, he shut his eyes and ran the plan through his mind once again. There was no turning back now. Jenson was interested. It was up to Jim to make sure that he swallowed the bait -- hook, line and sinker. This had to work. His life, and the life of his Guide, depended upon it.
MIRROR IMAGE
According to schedule, Jim called the station at 8:00 a.m. the following morning. In harsh, clipped phrases, his captain read him the riot act about his behavior the previous day. The Sentinel maintained his posture of surly insolence and Banks gave him 48 hours to rethink his attitude.
Having showered and dressed earlier, Jim flipped on the television and headed to the kitchen to fix breakfast while he caught the morning news. As he stirred the eggs in the frying pan, his thoughts turned automatically to his partner. Making breakfast was normally Blair's task and a time when the two of them connected, planning their days and comparing schedules. No matter how late the grad student had been up studying, he always managed to crank himself out of bed to prepare something for the detective even if he himself wasn't ready to face food.
The Sentinel was acutely aware of his Guide's absence. He'd woken throughout the night keenly aware that the young man's steady, throbbing heartbeat was missing from the bedroom below his. The usually comforting morning ritual of breakfast felt as hollow as the rest of the loft, which had been stripped of Blair's possessions the day before.
There was some solace in the fact that during the haranguing phone call, Simon had used one of their prearranged code words to let him know that all was well with the younger man. Having monitored the evidence of his Guide's distress with his senses the previous night, the Sentinel doubted that Blair was indeed well, but for the moment, he would have to rely on his captain's assurances.
Breakfast was dispatched quickly; the plate and coffee mug rinsed and left in the sink to be washed later. Glancing at his watch, he nodded absently -- Blair would be at the university by now, going through the motions of his regular class and teaching schedule. It was time to get himself moving as well.
Jim's own plan for the day was to keep himself visible and accessible. He wanted to give Jenson every opportunity to make his move. Hanging around in the loft wasn't going to make that happen.
The faint crackle he'd picked up through the ear piece when he'd talked to Simon had confirmed that the line was tapped. Satisfied that the captain's announced 48-hour window had broadcast his availability, the detective packed a bag with his workout gear and headed downtown to the small gym that he frequented on his days off, or when the precinct facilities were too crowded.
A few hours of exercise in a public place suited his tactics and would have the added bonus of helping him burn off some of the tension while he waited.
Waiting...
It was never easy; never had been.
Action was what he needed. What he wanted.
But he wasn't in control of this round of the game. Jenson was.
He'd have to bide his time. For now.
Moments after he pulled the truck out into traffic, he picked up a tail. Not the vehicle from the night before, but the same driver: Smithson.
Jim spent the next three hours at the gym, working easily through several full circuits on the weights, using the sauna and taking a second shower. Over the course of the morning he noted several vaguely familiar faces. He'd catalogued each man by sight and scent, storing the information away for future reference.
The car that had tailed him from the loft was parked three blocks away when he stepped out into the bright midday sun. He paused and slipped on his sunglasses. Behind the black shades, his eyes glittered with suppressed anger. He allowed a trace of the ugly emotion to surface as an arrogant sneer and sauntered to his truck.
Smithson followed him to his next stop -- the grocery store -- but was nowhere in sight when he exited a half-hour later. Jim casually loaded the two bags of food he'd purchased into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. Within a few minutes of leaving the lot, he caught a glimpse of a dark green sedan hanging three car's back.
Trade off... they're being cautious... same car as last night, different driver... Harris this time... that's two accounted for...
His tail stayed with him all the way back to the loft, passing by and turning to stop just around the corner, as it had the previous night. Jim carted his groceries upstairs. A quick scan of the loft revealed nothing out of order. He made himself a sandwich, grabbed a beer and went out to the balcony to eat his lunch.
He hoped he appeared calmer than he felt.
The Sentinel let his gaze drift, his enhanced sight picking up Harris, standing in the shadows of a nearby alley. He put up his feet and leaned back in his chair, donning the dark glasses once again.
He spent the next hour sitting there, ostensibly absorbing the warm early afternoon sun, while surreptitiously running his own surveillance. His watcher never moved, the phone never rang.
Come on... come on... enough of this already. Let's get this show on the road...
His silent demand went unanswered for another fift
een minutes. Recognizing the inherent danger of his own impatient thoughts, Jim sat up, collected the remains of his lunch and went back inside.
Just keep moving... change locations again... keep sharp... he reminded himself.
He placed the three-quarter's full bottle of beer in the kitchen sink and let the golden fluid chug down the drain while he rinsed the plate and set it aside. Retrieving the bag of garbage from the kitchen wastebasket, he grabbed the now-empty bottle and headed out again. An unhurried trip to the dumpster at the back of the building gave him another opportunity to check on his watcher. Harris was no longer in the alley.
With a casualness that betrayed none of his tension, Jim crossed the street to his truck, sweeping the area with his senses. It took a few moments to filter out the ambient noises from the traffic and the pedestrians that filled the busy street. Mentally picturing his Guide at his side and the soothing timbre of the young man's voice helped him find his focus.
Dialing up his hearing, he concentrated. A few seconds later his efforts were rewarded: the distinctive chugging noises of a rough engine -- the same one he'd heard the previous night -- pounded against his eardrums.
The rest of the afternoon was spent leisurely attending to mundane errands. He made a lap of the city, stopping at his regular haunts. At the hardware store he picked up a gallon of semi-gloss enamel to use in repainting the bathroom. A stop at a small garage on the east side yielded a part he'd had on order for the truck. He purchased a half-dozen new fishing lures at the outfitter where he consistently bought his camping gear.
His tail changed just before dinner time. Harris had been replaced by Martin Randolph in a non-descript beige van.
Jim stopped for a hamburger, a large order of french fries and a cup of coffee at a fast-food spot that his partner had once referred to as 'Artery-clog King'. He smiled to himself at the memory of his friend's horrified expression and caustic tone of voice when the younger man had remarked on Jim's food preferences. It caused him to wonder whether Blair had made time to eat over the course of the day.
Probably not. If Sandburg grabbed more than a can of juice out of the vending machines at the student union this morning, I'd be surprised, he mused grimly.
Schooling the frown from his face, Jim took a seat near the expansive windows of the busy restaurant. He had a good view of the street from that position and Randolph had one of him as well. He took his time; for all appearances a man with no worries and no place he had to be.
Concern for his partner rippled under the surface of his calm demeanor. Unflaggingly energetic as his Guide normally was, even Blair needed to stoke the fires occasionally. It wasn't unusual for the younger man to go for hours on a cup of tea and a toasted bagel, working off some invisible reserve, but the Sentinel feared that the enervating stress of the last few weeks had emptied that tank. From all indications, Sandburg was cruising on pure will power and adrenaline. A major crash was only a matter of time.
The second cell phone was a heavy weight in his left jacket pocket. There had been no call from either Simon or Joel all day. For safety reasons, Jim had the responsibility of initiating contact with the two captains -- they would call him only in an emergency. The lack of communication should have been reassuring, but the detective knew it simply indicated that things were proceeding according to plan. It didn't give him any insights to his partner's actual well-being or mental state.
Finishing his meal, Jim tucked his worries close to his heart and forced himself to concentrate on the role he had to play. He stopped at a video store down the street from the loft and took his time browsing the selections, killing more time. The detective steered clear of the foreign film section, even though he had several favorites in that genre that he wouldn't have minded renting again.
Further evidence of Sandburg's insidious, pervasive influence on my life, Jim thought fondly, grabbing a couple of action flicks and turning toward the checkout.
He parked and locked the truck outside the apartment building, five minutes later. The beige van had turned left at an intersection two blocks back. The Sentinel didn't have to search for Randolph's replacement -- Smithson's now familiar heartbeat echoed from the alley where he had stood watch earlier.
Jim felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes -- the result of using his senses so intensely for such a prolonged stretch of time. Once inside the loft he flipped on the lights and locked the door, slipping the safety chain noisily into place for the benefit of whomever was listening. He wanted them to believe that he was in for the night.
There was only one call on the answering machine -- an offer from another long-distance carrier. He rewound the tape and set the unit to pick up on the fourth ring. A quick sensory check revealed that the bug was still in place and active, but that no new little surprises had been added during his afternoon away.
Placing his jacket within easy reach on the arm of the couch instead of in its usual place on the rack near the door, Jim pulled the second cell phone from the pocket. He turned on the TV and slipped a video into the VCR, thumbing the volume slightly louder than he'd left it at earlier that morning. While the previews ran, he went to the kitchen and started a pot of strong coffee.
A grumbling burble and hiss of steam announced the end of the brewing cycle just as he emerged from the bathroom and tucked the cell phone back into the jacket. His check-in with Simon had consisted of a single code word that signaled his return to the loft and his lack of contact with Jenson. Banks' reply had been a bit more elaborate -- Blair's day had been blessedly uneventful and he had returned to the motel for the night.
Returning to the kitchen Jim filled a large mug with coffee, savoring the aroma of the dark, rich blend. He didn't add his customary dollop of milk -- he wanted this dose of caffeine full strength and unadulterated.
Jim started to head back into the living area, but found himself hesitating, strangely reluctant to take his regular spot on the couch. It took him a moment to realize that he was again sensing the void generated by his partner's absence. The nearly constant activity of the day had kept that sensation at bay. Now, with nothing except what he suspected would be a long, solitary vigil ahead of him, he felt the disturbing sense of loneliness. It had been nearly three years since the apartment felt this empty.
Although their caseload and Blair's university schedule had made quiet evenings together at the loft a rarity, those companionable sessions were firmly etched in the Sentinel's memory. The anthropologist -- whose incredible mind was seemingly never comfortable with processing only one thing at a time -- would typically be seated at the kitchen table or on the floor in front of one of the couches, tapping the keyboard of his softly humming laptop with one hand while deftly wielding a red felt-tip marker across an open exam booklet in broad strokes of praise or encouragement with the other. Half-buried by stacks of his student's papers or chattering away about some obscure tribe, Blair would still be unerringly tuned in to Jim's presence -- as if he had some instinctive Guide-radar that allowed him to pick up on the Sentinel's mood shifts at the blink of an eye.
It never ceases to amaze me how you do that, Chief. If anyone here has an enhanced 'sixth' sense, it's got to be you. Is that a result of your being my Shaman? Or is it simply a sign of how committed you are to all of this -- to helping me with my senses... to our friendship...
They were questions that he'd asked himself before, and like always, he had no firm answers. Shaking his head in wonder at the quirk of fate that had brought the younger man into his life, he forced himself to cross the short distance to the sofa. Plunking himself down, he resolved to sit out both movies he'd brought home before he headed upstairs to bed. As much as he missed his friend, the loft was a potential war zone. Right now, the safest place for Sandburg was the motel on the far side of town.
At 11:30 p.m. he turned off the VCR and the television. Flipping the switch at the base of the stairs, he killed the lights and trudged up to his bedroom. Lying in the dark, he knew
that sleep would be a long time in coming. The oppressive silence that hovered thickly in the shadows was magnified by the missing heartbeat of his Guide.
We're going to get these guys, Chief, he vowed, staring up through the skylight at the star filled sky above. If they don't make a move by mid-morning, I'll take the game to them... Just keep it together...
"... keep yourself safe."
Blair murmured the soft prayer to the twinkling stars before closing the drapes on the east window of his motel room. If the forecast was correct, there would be rain shortly before dawn and the thought of waking to a gloomy, overcast sky was too disheartening.
He turned and wandered listlessly to the bed. Arranging himself in a half-lotus in the middle of the lumpy mattress, he let his gaze drift around the room, seeing, but not really focusing on his surroundings.
Papers were strewn at one end of the bed, spilling out of the stuffed folders that he'd pulled from his backpack hours earlier. They represented his one remaining active link to the case. There were still reams of information to plow through on the insurance angle. He'd hoped to make some progress identifying Jenson's other cohorts, but so far all he'd managed to do was exacerbate the headache that had become his constant companion.
Retaining the data had been risky -- if Jenson or one of his buddies discovered the printouts, they wouldn't hesitate to kill him. Of course, if they did come bursting through the door, it would mean the game was up anyway.
And that Jim was probably already dead.
The anthropologist shied away from that line of thought immediately and tried to ignore the mocking white sheets. The flat, rectangular Styrofoam container at the end of the bed caught his eye. He snagged it and pulled it into his lap. Flipping the lid, he stared down at the remains of the salad he'd purchased for dinner. The lettuce and vegetable concoction had tasted like cardboard when it was fresh. Now, wilted and soggy after sitting for hours, it was truly an unappetizing sight.