Judgements

by K Ryn

  Blair's voice trailed off and his eyes took on an even more haunted look. Jim felt the tremors running through the slight frame and almost flinched back from the heat pouring off the younger man's body. Sandburg's fever was spiking again. It would be easy to write off his ramblings as delirium, but the Sentinel instinctively knew that it wasn't. What had happened when he was sixteen that had so terrified his Guide that he still carried it with him, clutched tightly to his soul? And what was the comment about Blair's destiny all about -- just who was Nate's grandfather?

  "A couple day's later, the Sheriff came out to the reservation looking for trackers," Blair suddenly continued. "There was a search on for two missing teenagers... their car had been found on the highway. They'd run out of gas, just like I had. Nate and I went out with his grandfather. After about four hours we found the first body. He was... he was about my age... my build... even had longer hair like me. He was laying on his back, just staring up into the sun. His eyes... he didn't really have them. It was like the sun had burned them away... and his mouth was stuffed with sand... he'd been trying to drink it..."

  Jim's hold tightened as a shudder consumed Blair, but his words continued to pour forth in short, choking gasps.

  "We found the second one only a mile from the first. What was left... what the animals and the desert hadn't... eaten. We found his tracks. He'd been walking in circles... endless circles... going nowhere..."

  "Chief --"

  "Grandfather wouldn't touch the corpses. He left them for the Sheriff... but he looked at me at each death scene and asked me if I'd learned yet..."

  My God, he saw his first dead bodies when he was just sixteen, Jim realized. And the victims had been almost his age. It's amazing he didn't flip out then and even more incredible that he doesn't run for the hills every time he has to accompany me to a crime scene now. You, my friend are much braver than you give yourself credit for. Just be strong a little while longer...

  "And I had learned. They'd crossed the line. They believed that nothing could touch them... and they paid for it with their lives... just as I could have. The desert is unforgiving... beautiful and deadly at the same time... life and death always in the balance... and one wrong step..."

  Blair turned his gaze back to Jim, blinking once as if to shift from the past to the present. "We can't leave the road, Jim. That's the line out here. If we leave the road we'll die, just like those teenagers did."

  "Blair, there's someone out there, someone that can help us. The deaths of those two kids were tragic, but that's not going to happen to us."

  "Jim --"

  "Hear me out, Chief," Jim ordered firmly. "We'll be together --"

  "So were they... in the beginning..."

  "We'll stay together. Remember what the guys at the station are always saying? That we're joined at the hip? Besides, until both of us are back to full strength, you're still my eyes and I'm still your ears."

  Jim was grateful for the slight nod of agreement that came from his Guide, and pressed the issue further.

  "I know what I heard, Chief. I know what I smelled. You trust me, right?"

  "You know I do, man. It's just --"

  "If we had any other choice, I wouldn't push you on this, Blair, believe me. But neither one of us is in very good shape. Every time your temperature spikes it's higher. And I know you've got one hell of a headache. It probably matches mine. The old man's place that you talked about is at least another seventy miles away -- and we don't know what we'll find when we get there." 'If' we get there. "This is our best shot. We've got to take it."

  Blair's anxious gaze flickered between the desert and Jim's face. Finally, he responded with a quick nod of his head, doubt still evident in his eyes.

  Struggling up a slight rise, Blair's fever-enhanced terror -- which had been increasing with each wobbly stride since they'd left the paved roadway fifteen minutes earlier -- surged to a level beyond his control. With a choked sob, he jerked out of Jim's hold.

  "Gotta go back... can't leave the road..." he gasped. Frantically seeking the black ribbon of safety, he whirled and began staggering back down the slope.

  Blair's sudden movement caught the Sentinel off guard. He'd had his sense of hearing tuned to the limit, seeking to identify a new, low-level grinding sound that was coming from the direction that they were headed. Jim reached for his Guide, but his fingers closed on empty space.

  "Blair, wait!"

  Jim struggled to bring the blurry figure of his partner into focus. He took a step, losing both his balance and his hold on his vision as his feet slipped in the shifting sand. His own pulse pounded in his ears, blocking out everything else. For what seemed like eternity, he stood in absolute darkness. Shaking his head angrily, he fought to restore the fragile connection once more. Abruptly, his sight returned -- in a raging flood of sensory input. Blinded now by the light, the Sentinel swayed, savagely wrenching at his mental dials.

  "Gotta go back... can't leave the road..." His Guide's terrified chant filled the Sentinel's ears. It was the catalyst he needed to bring his senses under control.

  Jim broke into a run, desperately trying to close the distance that had grown between them. He saw Blair stumble and fall to the ground, the anthropologist's momentum carrying him in a rolling jumble of flailing arms and legs the rest of the way down the incline.

  Before Jim could reach him, the younger man was on his feet again. Weaving drunkenly, Blair was, amazingly, still targeted on his goal of reaching the highway. Lengthening his stride, the Sentinel reached out and grabbed at his friend, his fingers closing on the tattered shirt. His Guide lurched sideways, directly into his path.

  They both went to the ground hard, Jim rolling away at the last minute. Gasping for breath, the Sentinel was on his knees immediately, crawling to his Guide's side. Blair was clawing frantically at his sand covered face, his eyes wide with panic. Jim grabbed both wrists and pinned the younger man's arms to the ground to keep him from hurting himself.

  "Easy. Easy, Chief," he murmured, his voice cracking on the soothing words.

  "Can't... swallow... sand... can't..." Blair writhed in Jim's grasp, but the older man held him firmly pinned.

  "Breathe... come on, buddy... take a deep --"

  The deafening roar of a ragged engine cut the air. Reeling under the auditory assault, Jim doubled over, swamped once again in darkness. The Sentinel fought the urge to cover his ears and hurl his own scream of anguish against the wall of sound. Blair had gone limp in his grasp, but Jim instinctively held onto the younger man, fearful of what might happen if he let go.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Jim raised his head, staring blindly toward the source of the angry shout, his dazed mind trying to process the chaotic input his senses were feeding him.

  Rough engine... the scrape of rubber on sand and rock... motorcycle...

  "Help us..." Jim's whisper was so soft that even he could hardly hear it. He winced again as the engine roared and seemed to come closer.

  "I don't know who you are, mister, but you'd better let go of him now," the new voice demanded.

  Jim pushed for the visual connection again. He was rewarded with a faint glow of light and the vague image of a young black man astride a small trail bike.

  "Detective... Ellison..." Jim managed to choke out the words, hoping that they made sense.

  There was a moment of silence, and then the man erupted in rage. "A pig? A God damn pig? Take your hands off of him!"

  "You don't --" Jim's protest was cut off abruptly as the man drew a battered handgun from a pouch on the side of the bike and pointed it at the detective's chest.

  "I said let him go, asshole, or so help me, I'll kill you."

  Convinced that the threat was genuine, Jim released his hold on Blair. Struggling to his feet, he raised his hands slowly in a surrendering gesture. "Don't ... my friend and I..."

  "Pigs don't have friends," the man snarled. "Not friends like that!" He gestured toward Blair's moti
onless form.

  Jim shook his head, confused by the man's words. "He is... my friend... we were attacked... on the road..."

  "Attacked? Yeah, right. More likely he's your prisoner. What'd he do? Try to escape? Or maybe you just decided to save the taxpayers the cost of a trial?"

  "What?" Ignoring the risk to his own safety, Jim stepped over Blair to place himself between his fallen Guide and the malevolent man on the bike.

  "I saw you chasing him, pig. I saw him tryin' to get away from you."

  "It's not what you think --"

  "You pigs are all alike, aren't you? You do whatever you want, abuse the power you've got and then you try to hide the evidence and pass the blame. I've seen it all before!"

  "You're wrong about this," Jim retorted, his jaw clenching with his own anger. "I don't know why you hate cops --"

  "I've got my reasons, pig. A lifetime supply of them! Now move away from him or I'll shoot you right where you're standing."

  Jim tensed, readying himself for a desperate grab at the gun. A soft moan and a whisper of movement from his partner had him crouching at the younger man's side instead.

  "Easy, Chief." Deftly, Jim ran sensitive fingertips across Blair's forehead, reading the fluctuating vital signs. Eyes that were dull with pain and fever stared up at him with no trace of recognition. Gently brushing the damp, matted strands of curling hair off the younger man's sunburned face, the Sentinel stared down at his Guide and made one of the most difficult decisions of his life.

  "Look, you don't want to help me, that's your choice," Jim said quietly, raising his eyes to plead with the man who could mean the difference between life or death to his partner. "But at least help him. He's not a cop. He's never done anything to hurt you... or anyone else. You take him. Get him to a doctor. I won't interfere."

  "I'm supposed to believe that?"

  "I give you my word," Jim answered the skepticism solemnly. "That may not mean much to you, but it does to me."

  The black man's eyes narrowed as he weighed Jim's promise. "Help him to his feet," he finally ordered.

  "Hey, Chief, you still with me? It's time to move," Jim murmured softly, focusing his attention on his Guide. "Help's here. Just gotta take a little ride, okay?"

  Jim raised the still dazed anthropologist to his feet. Gathering the trembling body into a firm embrace, he hugged Blair to his chest and locked gazes with the other man.

  "If anything happens to him... if I find out you didn't help him... I promise you, I'll hunt you down, even if it means coming back from the grave," the Sentinel threatened, his eyes glinting with a feral, ancient fire.

  There was a flicker of something -- doubt, fear, surprise -- in the dark brown eyes, and then, with a shake of the head, it was gone, replaced by the all too familiar burning hatred. "Back away from him," the young man ordered, gesturing with the gun to emphasize his command.

  "It's going to be all right, Blair," Jim whispered, resting his cheek against the top of his friend's head. "You go with him. I'll follow as soon as I can. I promise."

  The Sentinel gave his Guide one more gentle hug, then released him. He moved backward two steps, then three more. Blair wavered on unsteady legs and sought Jim's gaze. He blinked owlishly, and started to take a step forward, as if instinctively drawn to the older man's side.

  The black man's hand on his arm stopped him. Blair gave the stranger a bewildered glance and then turned to stare at Jim once more.

  "Go with him, Blair," Jim said quietly.

  The almost childlike confusion and uncertainty in his Guide's expression tested the Sentinel's control. Entrusting his young friend to this belligerent, possibly irrational stranger went against every instinct that he possessed. Yet it was the only choice he could make. Jim would have made a deal with the devil himself at that moment, if it meant that Blair would have a chance to survive.

  If only his stubborn Guide would cooperate. Even in his muddled mental state, Blair was fighting the separation. His brow furrowed, a deep frown filled his face, and he shook his head slowly.

  "That's an order, Sandburg," Jim growled and made a quick, 'shooing' gesture.

  He forced himself to remain motionless as the man pulled his reluctant Guide to the dirt bike. Settling Blair in front of him, the stranger wrapped one arm around the anthropologist's stomach and kicked the motorcycle to life. Only then did the man lower the gun, tucking it into the saddlebag with a quick, fluid motion.

  The stranger wheeled the bike expertly and shot forward, aiming toward the top of the rise. The Sentinel hissed in anger when he saw his Guide's head snap backward at the unexpected movement. Before Jim could take a step, the cycle had disappeared over the crest.

  Jolted into action, Jim scrambled up the slope. By the time he made it to the top, there was no sign of the cycle or its riders. The Sentinel reached out with his hearing, but the ragged sounds of the bike's engine were already fading. He dropped to his knees, shaking in fatigue and the world plunged into darkness once more. This time he didn't fight it -- the emptiness matched his despair.

  He lost track of how long he'd knelt there. A part of his mind craved the peace of that blackness, whispering that the way was easy -- all he had to do was focus on one of his senses and release himself into a zone-out.

  But his soul and his honor denied it. He'd promised Blair he would follow. He'd never lied to his Guide before, and he refused to start now.

  Somehow he made it to his feet. Reaching deep inside himself, he found the connection to his sight once more. Gazing over the ravaged landscape, he felt the heat of the sun pounding on his sunburned shoulders and neck. Only one option remained open. If he tried to follow Blair, he would almost certainly end up dead. His vision was still unreliable, and without his Guide at his side, trying to push the limits on his senses was more than just risky -- it could be fatal.

  Outside of the limitations of his own physical condition, he knew that even with the proper equipment and supplies, locating his Guide would be no easy task. While the range on the trail bike's tank was only about fifty miles, that still left an incredible amount of ground to cover. Tracking the motorcycle on foot through the sandy terrain would be nearly impossible and the faint scents he'd been following earlier had already begun to fade.

  In order to keep his promise, he would need help. He needed to stay alive himself to find it. Resolutely, the Sentinel turned and started down the slope. Blurring vision fixed on the black, endless line in the distance, Jim began the trek back to the highway, praying that the man who had taken Blair was more stable than he'd appeared.

  "Do you have any idea what you've done, Ben?"

  Bob Holland turned away from the charred remains of the convertible and stared at his son.

  "Come on, Dad. I told you. It's not my fault. It was that freak. He was hitting on Connie at the park. You've always told me that we've gotta protect what's ours from the crap that's out there. That's all I was doing. When I saw 'em on the road... well, we were just gonna have some fun. Guess it just got a little out of control."

  "Fun?" Holland hissed angrily. "You ambushed two people, threatened them with a gun and stole their car. The charges on that alone would be enough to put you in prison for years. But to top it off, you tried to kill them. And one of them's a cop. Don't you realize how serious this is? We're talking attempted murder, son."

  "I didn't know he was a cop until we went through their stuff," Ben retorted.

  "Ben, it doesn't matter --" The shrill warble of the squad's radio cut off Holland's tirade.

  "Unit F-2 respond, please. Bob, this is Molly. Dave wants you to come into the office. He says it's urgent. Please respond..."

  Holland shot an angry glare at the radio and stalked away from the vehicle, pacing worriedly alongside his son's ruined car. This was the third time in the last hour that Molly had tried to reach him and her persistence was sending off warning bells in his head. The request sounded innocent enough, but the deputy was certain that it was connected to
the mess his son had created.

  "Did anyone else see you driving Jake's car?" he asked abruptly. "Anyone else know what went on here besides your two brainless buddies and Connie?"

  "No way, Dad. I was careful. You're just overreacting. You'd think you've got a guilty conscience or something."

  Holland flinched at that comment. "And if I do have, who's to blame, Ben? Huh? I've pulled your ass out of the fire far too many times in the last few years. What's wrong with you? What's happened to your conscience?"

  "Just calm down, Dad. It'll all be cool. You called in this morning, right? Told them you had personal business to take care of, so you're covered. You just need to come up with an excuse that has you out of the car for a while. Heller's the only one you've got to fool and he's a chump anyway. You should have his job. You're smarter than he is and you're a hell of a better cop."

  "I was a better cop, when your mother was alive," Holland whispered.

  "Hey, that's it!" Ben said excitedly. "You could always say that you were at the cemetery visiting mom's grave. They'd buy that. "

  Holland turned and looked at his son in horror. "You'd use your mother's memory... as an excuse for this?"