by Beth Manz
"We called the manager," Rafe added. "He's in the ground level apartment just to the right when you enter the building. Apartment A."
"You guys stay out here," Jim said. "Watch our backs. Randall shows, you call me or Sandburg and give us a heads up."
"You got it." Brown's gaze shifted from Jim to Blair and back again. "Be careful, guys." There was no mistaking the worry in the detective's tone. Jim knew that by now half the department had seen the tape of Tom's death, knew the young officer had been gunned down without any hesitation, that the man they were dealing with was a cold-blooded killer.
"Stay close, Chief," Jim said as they entered the building. Blair nodded, his gaze taking in the rundown interior of the apartment's lobby area.
As they followed the manager to Randall's fourth floor apartment, Jim pulled his weapon. He'd told the manager to simply unlock the door and then get lost. The man followed his directions without question, obviously used to opening his tenant's apartments to the police.
When the man disappeared at the end of the hallway, Jim looked down at Blair. He stood with his back to the wall at the opposite side of the doorway. Jim cocked his head to the side, extending his hearing and picked up...nothing. The apartment was empty.
"No one's home, Chief," he said, shoving his weapon back into its holster. Then, pushing the door open, they entered the one bedroom apartment David Randall had called home for the last six months.
The rotting odor of spoiled food hit Jim immediately. He closed his suddenly tearing eyes and instinctively turned his head away.
"Dial it back," Blair said, his hand coming to rest against Jim's back.
Instantly the sentinel attained control of his overwhelmed senses, the odors still unpleasant but at a manageable level. As he focused on the room around him, he saw the cause of his problem. The man had left a half-eaten meal on the table and maggots crawled through the rotten chicken pot pie.
"Something tells me this guy has been gone a while," Blair said from beside him.
"Yeah. I think we-"
"Hey, cop?"
The sentinel spun toward the voice behind him, stepping in front of his guide and drawing his weapon in one fluent motion.
The apartment manager backed away from the gun pointed at his chest, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender. "Whoa! Take it easy!"
"Dammit!" Jim lowered the weapon, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. "What the hell did you think you were doing, sneaking up on us like that?"
"I just wanted to ask you to lock the door when you leave," the manager blurted out, still clearly shaken.
"We will," Blair assured him, moving from his position behind Jim, standing beside the detective instead. As soon as they were alone, Blair looked up at Jim, worry creasing his brow. "Jim, man, what was up with that? You've never been that quick to pull your weapon before."
"He took me off guard, that's all." Jim shoved his weapon into the holster at his back, his hands shaking slightly. Dammit! When he'd first heard the voice call out, he'd thought it was Grant. Thought that he'd turn and Grant would be in the doorway, a gun leveled at Blair's head. It had been the first thought that had flashed through his mind, the real reason he'd drawn his own gun so quickly. Because that's what I'm afraid he might do. Just walk up to Blair and kill him, right in front of me, before I even know what's happening.
"Jim-"
"Sandburg," Jim snapped, "the smell in here is nearly overwhelming me. Can we just check this place out so we can leave?"
His partner stared up at him, his eyes searching. Finally, shaking his head in defeat, he said, "Whatever you want, man." He turned away from Jim and moved toward the kitchen. "You take the bedroom. Maybe the smell's not as strong in there."
Jim stared at his partner as he began pulling drawers open, sorting through the contents. Blair was angry with him--that much was clear. But even though he was angry, he was still watching out for his sentinel, willing to work in the filthy kitchen if it spared Jim some discomfort. "Blair?"
The kid glanced over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised in question.
"Thanks."
One corner of Blair's mouth quirked up. "Go turn down some blankets, man."
Jim chuckled and headed toward the bedroom, determined to find something that would lead to David Randall's capture...and end this case.
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Blair pulled off his glasses as he closed down his laptop. He'd finally entered the last grade into the computer, which meant he was officially finished with school until the autumn semester. Just as he was stretching his arms over his head, a knock sounded on the loft door.
He turned toward the locked door, frowning. His gaze shifted up to the wall clock. Seven p.m. They weren't expecting anyone. In fact, Jim had left just ten minutes earlier to run down to the deli on the corner to pick something up for dinner. So who was at their door?
A sliver of dread slid down Blair's spine. If someone had been watching the loft, saw Jim leave.... Get a grip, Sandburg... Marcus Grant wouldn't knock to announce his presence!
The knock sounded again. "Blair?" Eli Stoddard's voice called out.
Relief washed through Blair as he crossed to the door and pulled it open. "Professor! What are you doing here?"
Eli held up a large bag. "I brought Chinese. Thought maybe you boys would be so caught up in this case that you might not be eating properly."
Blair smiled as the professor crossed inside the loft and hefted the large bag onto the table. "Actually, Jim just went for food."
"I knew I should have called first," Eli reprimanded himself, turning back toward Blair, reaching for the bag.
"No, no! This is great. We can put the deli in the fridge for tomorrow. Believe me, Jim will be thrilled. Chinese is his all-time favorite."
Eli smiled and began opening the containers and setting them out while Blair retrieved three dishes and the appropriate silverware.
"How is the investigation going?" Eli asked as he pushed a spoon into each container. "Did you find out who killed that poor officer?"
Blair nodded. "We think we know who it is, but we've been unable to locate him." He shook his head. "I sort of hoped we'd have the guy collared before tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tom's funeral."
Eli looked up at Blair, his brow furrowed in sudden concern. "I see," he drawled out. "Will you be okay? With going?"
"Me? Yeah, I'll be fine," Blair assured the professor softly. "It's just so...surreal." And as he looked up at Eli, he realized that professor's good mood had quickly slipped away. His face was now lined, his eyes distant, filled with pain. And in that moment, Blair knew he was remembering another funeral--one held not so long ago. "Professor," Blair said softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put a damper on the evening with my talk about funerals."
Stoddard gave him a small grin. "Not your fault, my boy. Seems it doesn't take much to remind me of what we went through when we thought we were...well, when we thought we were burying you."
Blair frowned then moved closer to the professor and gestured to one of the chairs flanking the dining room table. "Could I ask you something?" he inquired as he took his own seat.
"Of course."
"Who told you?" he asked hesitantly, staring at his mentor. "When you thought I was gone. Who told you?"
Eli slid into one of the chairs at the table, letting out a long sigh as he settled himself. "Jim," he whispered. "He called my office looking for you. I couldn't find you but I found your car with a flat in the parking lot. We both assumed you'd caught a ride to the station with someone." He shook his head, his eyes closing. "But then I got a call that night from campus security telling me that your car was being examined by the police. When I got to Rainier and you weren't there...." His voice trailed off as he looked at Blair again. The pain in his eyes tore at Blair's heart. Never had he seen Professor Stoddard look so sad, so lost. "Jim told me...that there'd been an accident."
; Blair exhaled a long, slow breath. "I'm sorry, Professor."
Eli managed a small smile. "Not your fault, my boy. We all know that."
"Professor, can I ask you something else?"
"Yes, of course."
"Did you...approach Jim? When you thought I was gone, did you come to see him like we talked about? Offer to assist him with his sentinel abilities?"
Eli nodded "Yes, Blair. I did just as you asked. But I'm afraid I wasn't much help."
Blair frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The day after your funeral I came here, to the loft, to offer to take Jim out to dinner. I thought we could discuss how I might help him." The professor paused for a moment, his gaze troubled. "When I got here, I found him standing in the doorway of your bedroom, zoning."
"What?" Blair blurted out. "He was zoning? Jim never said a word about that to me." He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head.
"I'm not surprised," Eli told him. "I'm sure he knows how you worry--"
"Still, I needed to know." Blair shook his concern aside; he'd deal with Jim's failure to tell him about the zone at a later time. "At least you were here," he continued. "At least you were able to pull him out of it."
"Oh, but I didn't pull him out of it." Stoddard looked at Blair, his eyes soft, imploring. "I couldn't do anything for him, Blair. Jim was gone and I couldn't bring him back." Gently, he reached out and placed his hand over one of Blair's. "It was you. He came back because of you."
Sandburg frowned. "I don't understand."
"I played the answering machine tape--it has your voice on it and it was the sound of your voice that brought Jim back. And the moment he heard you speaking, he...he called out to you, Blair. In his confusion, he called out to you."
Blair swallowed hard, dropping his gaze. Fear, anger, remorse all warred within him. He'd thought that if anything ever happened to him, Jim would still be able to go on. That Eli or Simon or someone could step in and take his place. But now...now he had no choice but to face the truth. No one could do for Jim what he did. No one could guide his sentinel--no one but him.
Part Four
Jim parked at the edge of the cemetery. Blair leaned forward, looked past his partner and scanned the crowd. There was a sea of dark blue police uniforms, dress uniforms just like the one Jim was wearing now. Did he wear that for my funeral? A ripple of apprehension shivered through him.
Jim leaned into his line of sight, purposely blocking his view. "You still okay with this?"
"Yeah, man. Let's go." He pushed out his door. Warm spring air brushed over him. He inhaled deeply and pushed at the sunglasses he wore, positioning them more comfortably on his face. A moment later, he felt Jim's hand at the small of his back, silently guiding him through the crowd of people gathered to say their final farewells to Tom Brayden.
Blair scanned the faces of the mourners as they passed. Most of the police officers he knew. But the other people, the civilians--they had to be Tom's friends, his family. They passed a young woman with tears running down her cheeks, an older man with a heavy beard who was trying and failing to hold back his grief, a couple holding hands.
Mourners. Bereaved friends and family. All the people who cared about this young man who had come to say a final good-bye. Just as my own friends and family did. He pushed the unspoken words to the back of his mind, determined to keep his thoughts on the present. This is about Tom. Not about me.
The minister's deep voice reached Blair as he and Jim stopped at the edge of the people circling the casket. "....will never understand the pointlessness of this death."
Blair stiffened beside Jim as his gaze fell on the woman directly across from them. She stood ramrod straight, her face concealed by a black veil. A younger man, one who looked a great deal like Tom, stood beside her, his arm around the older woman's waist.
Tom's mother? His brother?
As the ceremony continued, the woman began to sob openly, then buried her face in the younger man's shoulder.
Instantly, images of his own mother flashed through Blair's mind. Naomi standing beside his casket, weeping for him, grieving over the loss of her only child.
He glanced away, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in his throat. For the first time since coming home from Crittendon, since finding out that Grant had told everyone he knew that he was dead, Blair found himself envisioning his own funeral, seeing his friends and family gathered around his casket, saying good-bye to him.
He shuddered slightly and a moment later felt Jim's hand come to rest on his shoulder. The sentinel moved closer and pressed into his side, offering silent, much-needed support. But as he looked up and back at Jim, he could see the pain, the loss in his partner's eyes. He's thinking about my funeral, too.
Blair kept his gaze lowered during the rest of the ceremony. Jim remained close to his side, his hand never leaving his shoulder. As the service ended and everyone began to move back toward their cars, Jim leaned down and spoke close to Blair's ear.
"There's someone here I need to speak with before we go."
Blair nodded and followed his partner as they crossed to a police officer who was standing alone, his gaze locked on the casket. As they drew nearer, Blair recognized the man--George Mitchell, an older officer who spent most of his time teaching at the academy. He had a solid reputation throughout the department as a good, by-the-book cop. He'd never actually met the man in person--knew him really by reputation and sight only. But he'd heard more than once how dedicated the man was to the rookies he trained. Blair wondered, as he took in the grief on Mitchell's face, if Tom Brayden had been more than just another student to him.
"Mitch," Jim said, stopping before the man and extending his hand. "I'm sorry about Tom. I know how difficult this must be for you."
And as Jim said the words, Blair realized he was right. This man must have been close to Tom. As close as I am to Dr. Stoddard? His heart ached at the thought--for this man and for Professor Stoddard who had so recently mourned his death.
George Mitchell shook Jim's extended hand, nodding slightly at the detective's words of sympathy. "I heard you got the case, Ellison. That's good. If anyone can bring in Randall, it's you." His gaze shifted to Blair. "You're Sandburg, right?"
Blair nodded, pulling his sunglasses off before extending his own hand. "You have my deepest condolences, Officer Mitchell."
"It's Mitch," the man said, shaking Blair's hand as well. "My friends just call me Mitch."
"Tom was a good man, a good officer," Blair said softly. "I wish I'd had more time to get to know him better."
"He wanted the same thing, actually." Mitch's gaze shifted back to the casket. "For the last year, Tom had been trying to get a position in Major Crime."
Blair glanced up at Jim, surprised by the statement. It was clear by the expression on Jim's face that it was news to him as well.
"I wish I'd known," Jim said. "Maybe I could have talked to Captain Banks for him."
Mitch waved away his regretful words. "There was nothing you could have done. There simply were no openings in Major Crime." His gaze shifted to Blair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at him. "By the way, I heard about what happened to you. I'm happy to know that the pronouncement of your death was premature."
The words should have been comforting but there was something in the way Mitchell said them that sent a chill down Blair's spine. It was there in the tone of his voice, in the way he was looking at him now--something...insincere. And Blair suddenly realized what George Mitchell was thinking--his death would have created the coveted opening in Major Crime, the opening Tom Brayden would have filled, the opening that may have served to save the young man's life.
Guilt wound through him. If he had remained "dead," Tom might not have been on the streets the day he stopped Randall's car. He might still be alive.
"I...I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I don't know what else to say. I--"
"It's okay, Chief." Jim's hand once again fell on his shoulder, squeezing
gently. "We should go, buddy."
And as they turned and made their way slowly back to the Ford, Jim slipped an arm around Blair's shoulders and pulled him close. "Don't worry about what Mitch said," he encouraged Sandburg. "He's just grieving over Tom, that's all."
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Jim glanced at Blair as he steered the truck between the open cemetery gates. He'd downplayed George Mitchell's words to his partner, but inwardly the meaning behind Mitch's statement made his stomach twist in anger. The man all but told Blair he's the reason Tom is dead. The only thing that had kept Jim from tearing into Mitch had been the knowledge that the older man was speaking from a heart filled with grief. Jim had no doubt that in a few days time Mitch would regret his words, his implications. I just hope he calls Sandburg when that happens. But until then....
"Blair--"
"You don't have to say anything, Jim." Blair exhaled a long, weary breath and turned toward his window. "I'm all right. And I know why Mitchell said what he did. I understand what he's going through." Reaching up, he loosened his tie before unbuttoning the top two buttons on his dress shirt. "He's grieving. He's angry. And he's looking for someone to blame."
Jim glanced at his partner but Blair's gaze was still locked on the scenery outside his window. But he's not seeing anything out there. He's still at that funeral. Jim slowed the truck as the light ahead turned from yellow to red.
The quickest way back to the loft would be a straight shot down Pacific, then over to Prospect. But that route would take them directly past Sacred Heart Cemetery, the cemetery where they had so recently held Blair's funeral. Where Jim had said what he thought would be his final good-bye to his friend.
His hands tightened on the wheel. The light turned green. He made a quick right and accelerated away from the intersection.
"You taking the scenic route, man?" Blair asked from beside him.
"Something like that," Jim muttered.
Blair raised his eyebrows in question but didn't push the issue. Jim was glad Sandburg let it go so easily. He'd never told him where his "burial plot" had been. And he certainly didn't plan on giving him the information today.