by K Ryn
"Dad., come on. I need your help here. You said you'd always be there for me. You promised me that when she died." Ben eyed his father carefully, pitching his voice softer as he piled on the guilt. "I know this is a bigger mess than usual, Dad. But I know you'll take care of it. Just like you always do."
"Maybe I've taken care of things once too often," Holland murmured.
"So what, you gonna turn me in? Your own son?" Ben caught the uncertainty in his father's voice and pushed the guilt trip harder. "You said it yourself, Dad. If anyone finds out about this, I'll go to prison. You don't really want that, do you?"
Holland turned away from his son. The thought of losing his only remaining connection to his late wife and the joy that he'd had with her was too much to bear. He had to protect him -- the cop and his friend were strangers after all. No matter what Ben had done, he was blood.
"All we can do now is try to keep a lid on things. Damage control," Holland said tersely. "We'll have to eliminate the witnesses and destroy the evidence. The cop and the other one... you said they were hurt. How badly?"
Ben hid a sneering smile and tried to keep his voice from revealing his satisfaction over manipulating his father once more. "Jens banged the cop over the head with the tire iron. He dropped like a stone. Had to be dragged from the car before it blew -- wasn't movin' on his own. The hippie wasn't doing much better. He took a bullet in the leg." At his father's questioning stare, Ben hurried on with an explanation. "Hey, I had to shoot him, Dad. The crazy freak came after me. I didn't have any choice. I was protecting myself."
Holland shook his head at the glib excuses. "Well, there's no sign of them. Injured or not, looks like they tried to walk out of here. We didn't see any sign of them on the road from town, so they probably headed west. Where are Jens and Harvey? They still have Jake's car?"
"Yeah, they've got it. I told them to wait for us at Harold's old shack. Figured no one would bother to look there. Since the old bastard died last year, the place has pretty much gone to hell. Not much more than a few boards bein' held together by some rusty nails."
"We'll have to get rid of the car. This wreck too," Holland said, gesturing at the convertible.
"It was a piece of shit anyway," Ben shrugged. "But man, I'd like to hold onto the Chevy. That's one nice ride."
"Ben, are you crazy?" Holland swung around and glared at his son. "Jake can testify that he rented the car to those two. You turn up in it, and they'll have a direct link to you and the missing cop. It's evidence. It's got to go."
"Okay... okay, Dad. The car goes," Ben agreed reluctantly.
Holland took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. Just the heat, he told himself, silencing his screaming conscience. "Maybe we'll get lucky. If those two left the road, the desert will take care of them for us. We'll still have to find them, just to be sure."
"They looked stupid enough to try a cross country trek," Ben agreed quickly. "We could leave the Chevy on the side of the road. Siphon out the gas, put a small hole in the tank, and everyone'll think that they had car problems. That'll put the heat on Jake, won't it?"
The deputy felt a shiver run down his spine. He glanced at his son, suddenly thinking of the similarity of the 'problem' that his son was proposing and the other missing person cases over the past few years.
"What about Connie," he asked brusquely, pushing away the sickening thoughts.
"She's with the boys. Don't worry about her, Dad. I'll talk to her. I'm sure I can persuade her to keep her mouth shut."
Unconvinced, Holland nodded anyway. Eliminating two strangers was one thing. Killing a local girl he'd known for years was something else again. But if it came down to it...
With a jerk of his head, he gestured for his son to climb back into the squad car. Sliding behind the wheel, he began to put together his own plans. Finding the cop and his friend was his first priority. He'd drive out toward the shack and see if he could find them on the road. He could check on his son's accomplices that way, too. If they weren't any more concerned about this than his son was, well, the desert might just have two more bodies to hide. He just had to remind himself he was doing this for love.
Jim allowed himself a small sigh of relief when he finally reached the blacktopped road. Gathering several handfuls of rock, he built a small pile at the edge of the highway. It would serve as his marker when he returned.
First leg's done, buddy. Next stop, your friend Harold's place.
He stared east for a moment, searching the empty road. With a shake of his head, he turned and headed west, toward their original destination.
On the move again, Chief. Just hang in there. I'll walk all the way to the reservation if I have to, but I'll find help and then I'll come after you. Just like I promised.
In his heart, Jim knew it was a long shot -- far too many miles, extreme conditions, no water -- only the handful of Argula pods in his pocket and no food. He had to make contact with someone today or it would be over.
Exhausted, he still moved easily across the paved surface. To his surprise, his control over his sight was holding.
Something to be grateful for, right, Chief?
The running commentary in his head -- directed toward Blair -- was the only thing that kept him from turning around. Even though he knew he'd made the only decision he possibly could, he had to fight the urge to go back and seek out his Guide every step of the way.
God, Chief, I hope I made the right choice. Once you realize what happened, you're going to be pissed. I know you. I know you didn't want to leave my side. Whoever that guy is, he wouldn't have been my first choice, believe me buddy, but your 'Blessed Protector' was out of options and you needed help. Just remember what I said. Hang on until I get there.
He walked on. Soon, even the attempt to keep up the one-sided conversation with his Guide was beyond him. The sun rose higher, filling the air with searing heat. Every inhalation was like breathing fire. He sucked the last drops of moisture from the final pod and cast it aside absently, his eyes fixed on the wavering horizon.
Instinct told him he had to conserve whatever energy he could. Without even realizing it, the Sentinel dialed his senses back to only what he absolutely needed. The focus of his world shrunk until it reached a point where all he was aware of was the connection to his sight and the burning determination that kept his feet moving. Everything else fell away. His stride lengthened out a bit, shifting into a ground-eating pace that he hoped would carry him to help before it was too late for either of them.
Dave Heller stalked into the station, his stormy face reflecting the barely controlled anger that was seething just under the surface.
"No word from Bob?"
Molly answered the snarled question with a worried shake of her head.
"Try him again. And keep trying."
Dave headed to his office and slammed his hat on his desk in frustration. From behind the desk, Jake peered up at the Sheriff, surprised at the normally even-tempered man's loss of control. "You want to sit down?"
"Tim's sure it was your car. And he's positive it was Ben driving it," Heller snapped, thrusting a chair aside to clear the small space for pacing. "And no, I don't want to sit down. I just spent the last fifteen minutes getting my ass chewed by a very angry police captain. Banks was not at all pleased to hear from us. Seems not only is Ellison his best man, but they're good friends. And the riot act he read me over this Sandburg kid... shit!"
"We got a call a few minutes ago from Joseph Spiritwalker," Jake offered quietly. "They've sent out a search party from their end."
"At least we'll have some qualified eyes looking," Dave grumbled. "Damn, where is Bob? So help me, if he's helping his son cover up something again, I'll --"
"You'll do what you have to do." Heller turned to see Molly standing in the doorway. "And you'll do it by the book, just like always," she said softly. "You want me to start gathering in some help from this end?"
Seeing the calm confidence in her eyes, Dave took
a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah, Molly. Go ahead. I'll lay out a search plan with Jake. Have everyone here as soon as possible. And call Evansville. See if you can get Doc Myers out here. I have a nasty feeling we're going to need him."
"Hey, Dad. Look up ahead," Ben's voice was filled with eager surprise. "That's him. The cop."
"About time," Holland grumbled, staring at the figure that was coming toward them. "We've already been up and down this stretch twice. They must have left the road for a while. Damn, he's alone. Where's his partner?"
"Maybe he's already dead."
Holland shuddered at the satisfaction underlining his son's words. He pulled the car to a stop. "Dead or alive we've got to find him. We can't afford to leave any evidence for the authorities. That means getting this guy to talk. Stay here."
"But, Dad --"
"You wanted me to deal with this, so shut up and stay put. He sees you and we're gonna have more trouble than we do already."
Holland heard his son mumble something under his breath, but he ignored it. He checked his gun and slid it into the holster. Grabbing a water bottle from the cooler in the rear he climbed out of the car and started walking toward the staggering detective.
"Hey, Mister,... you all right?" Holland grabbed Jim's arm as the Sentinel lurched to a stop.
Jim blinked at the man who had materialized in front of him, wavering slightly in the firm grasp. Taking in the details of the man's clothing, he suddenly realized that the help he was looking for had miraculously found him.
"My partner..." Jim's words came out as a choked gasp, barely working their way around his thick tongue and dry, cracked lips.
"Hold on a minute," Holland snapped the top off the water bottle and wrapped Jim's hands around it. "This will help. Just take it a few sips at a time to start."
The sensation and taste of the water on his lips and inside of his mouth almost sent the Sentinel into overload. He was tempted to gulp the life-giving moisture down in one swallow, but his medic training kicked in. With a nod of understanding, he managed to follow the deputy's directions. After several small sips he lowered the bottle and met the older man's curious gaze with a thankful one of his own.
"Thanks...?"
"Bob Holland," the deputy responded, answering Jim's unvoiced question. "You've obviously had some trouble. Can you tell me your name?"
"Jim Ellison... my friend... my partner and I... we were attacked on the highway yesterday... some kids, probably local. They took our car. We've been trying to find some help since then."
"You mentioned a partner. Where is he?"
"He was with me until a few hours ago..." Jim whispered, closing his eyes for a moment against the remembered pain and helplessness of that separation.
"What happened? Is he still alive?" Holland pressed.
"Someone... took him... black man... late 20's... had a dirt bike..."
"Sounds like Bowden," Holland said quietly, his gaze flickering out across the landscape worriedly.
"You know him?" Jim asked eagerly.
"One of the local crazies," Holland explained. "Lives about thirty miles south of here in an old ramshackle trailer. You say he took your friend with him?"
Jim cringed at the word 'crazies' and took another sip from the bottle. The water was quickly soothing his dry throat, making it easier to speak. "Yeah... this guy... Bowden... he said he'd help him. Blair's hurt. He was shot when we were attacked. He's been running a fever since last night. We need to go after them. He needs a doctor."
"Looks like you could use one yourself," Holland murmured in sympathy. "Let's get you back to the car and I'll call it in."
Jim didn't protest the steadying hand on his back as Holland guided him to the driver's side of the waiting vehicle. He took another long drink and felt the immediate effects of the water on his moisture starved tissues. The pounding in his head began to ease and he drew in a deep breath, feeling some of the tightness leave his chest and muscles. As he regained control over his senses, he suddenly became aware of a third heartbeat.
The front passenger door opened and a vaguely familiar figure stepped out of the car. In the few seconds it took the surprised Sentinel to recognize the younger man, he found himself flattened against the side of the vehicle. Filled with a rush of anger, Jim pushed himself away from the squad only to be shoved forward again.
"Stay put, Detective." Holland's warning coincided with the distinctive click of a cocking gun.
Mind screaming 'betrayal', Jim started to turn to face the older man. The cold, blunt barrel of a gun was jammed against the Sentinel's spine, freezing him place.
"I said don't move!" Holland ordered, efficiently patting the detective down to make sure he wasn't armed.
"Hey, cop. Surprised to see me again? I bet you are," Ben sneered.
Spread-eagled against the car, Jim ground his teeth in frustration, mentally kicking himself for his stupidity. Good job, Ellison. Way to use those super senses of yours. If you'd looked past the uniform, maybe you would have seen the danger lurking in his eyes. But no, you saw 'cop' and you let down your guard. Not only did you put yourself in a deadly situation, but you managed to place your partner in further jeopardy.
"Ben, be quiet," Holland ordered.
"Where's that freak buddy of yours, eh?" Ben continued, in the same baiting tone. "He bleed to death already?"
Sensing the detective's building rage, Holland shoved the gun against Jim's back so hard that it made the Sentinel gasp. "Don't even try it, Ellison, or I'll drop you right here."
"That's not going to convince him, Dad. He's a tough guy... aren't you cop?"
Jim glared across the roof of the car at Ben. "You're a dead man," he snarled, his eyes snapping sparks of blue fire.
The almost physical force of the Sentinel's stare caused the younger man to step back a pace, fear flickering in his eyes. But that retreat lasted only a moment. Fear was replaced by hatred and a burning arrogance.
"Bring it on, cop," he taunted.
"That's enough, Ben! He said the other one's still alive. Bowden's got him."
"He doesn't scare me, Dad. I took him out before and I could take him again. So the little hippie's still alive, huh? Good. We've got some unfinished business."
At the blatant threat to his Guide, blind fury swept through the Sentinel. Forgetting the man behind him, Jim lunged to the right, intent on wiping the sneer off Ben's grinning face. Holland's fist rammed into his kidney, dropping him to his knees. The blow that landed on the back of his head pushed the Sentinel the final step into a yawning pit of blackness.
There were stars.
Shining, winking; dancing erratically every time he drew a breath.
There were stars when the soothing voice murmured soft words of comfort.
The sky was alive; Hunters, unicorns, the serpentine windings of a dragon, all moving in time to some elemental rhythm.
There were stars when a cool cloth dripped moisture against his fever-parched skin and chapped lips.
The shapes shifted, forming into a huge black panther who leaped, morphing into an ancient Indian Shaman; and Blair nearly laughed aloud in delight.
White specs against a background of blue-black shimmered and danced in his blurred vision. Tracing the pattern of their design his eyes followed the trail of one of the sparkling lights as it shot off to the left, merging finally with the cord of a broken mini-blind.
The incongruity made him blink. He stared at the star-field again, his foggy brain searching for an answer to the puzzle before him. The word ceiling slipped into his thoughts and he held onto it, turning the concept over in his mind.
He'd had a lot of experience staring at ceilings. Especially in waking up to them filling his first conscious thoughts. He was intimately familiar with the colors and textures of the ceilings in the exam rooms at the hospital; the smooth dome of the inside of an ambulance; the jointed seams of the wooden panels in his office; the sculpted surface above his bed. He could even tell t
he difference between a pre-fab metal storage shed and a full-fledged warehouse, just by looking at the main support beams. But nothing in his memory provided a clue to this one.
There were stars, but they weren't real.
Looking beyond the paint splatters he could see the pattern of interlocked ceiling tiles, stained from years of smoke and grease. His eyes tracked back to the broken blinds and registered the sunlight streaming in from outside. That meant he was inside -- a concept that matched nicely to what his sight was telling him as he let his gaze wander around the small room. Being inside fit with the fact that he was laying on his back on a small cot as well.
But it felt wrong.
Frowning, he let his eyes roam over the furnishings in the room, looking for other clues. Nothing struck a chord of recognition. The accommodations were spartan; a small table and two chairs -- one held together with a fair quantity of duct tape -- a well worn sofa with stuffing bursting through nearly every seam, and the cot that he reclined upon. Along one wall he could see what appeared to be a small kitchen. There was an apartment-sized refrigerator, a compact stove and sink, and a tarnished coffee pot possessively occupying the tiny counter. Sharing the opposite wall with the window, was a metal framed screen door.
The word trailer joined the rest of the disconnected concepts in a mad dash around his mind. Irritated, he shook his head. The rush of nausea that flooded through him at that small movement made him groan and he shut his eyes as the small room spun wildly.
Pressing himself back into the bedding, he tried to wait out the overwhelming sensations. He thought about taking a deep breath, but he had a vague idea that it would be a bad choice. Instead, he concentrated on breathing shallowly, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.
A persistent, low-level buzzing in his ears clamored for attention. He tried to raise his hands to his head and was surprised at how much effort it took. A shiver rippled through his body, giving him new insights to how much everything hurt, especially his left leg. Keeping his eyes screwed shut, he concentrated on breathing again in an attempt to control the pain, and missed the faint sound of the screen door opening and softly latching shut.