Out of Harm's Way Read online

  Disclaimer: The standard. Not my characters, not my original concept. No money made. Less sleep lost than usual, but that's about the only profit in this one.

  Author's Notes:

  I've always maintained that there's a lot more to being a 'Guide' than just being around to pull a Sentinel out of a zone-out. This story came about originally because I felt like it was time our favorite anthropologist got some credit for the other 'little' things he does. I guess the Muse liked the idea because she took it several steps further and into a slightly different direction than I'd originally foreseen. But hey, I'm not arguing with her.

  The 'other' side of telephone conversations are noted with '//'.

  There's a final note at the end that you may find interesting. At any rate, if you have comments to make, I'm always eager to hear them...

  My thanks to Carolyn with her fine-toothed beta comb and lovely flattery. And to Sharon and Wendy for their encouragement -- as ALWAYS.

  Out of Harm's Way

  by

  K. Ryn

  [email protected]

  .

  Cascade

  Friday Morning

  8:00 a.m.

  Jim Ellison tucked the last items into his overnight bag and zipped it shut. A quick glance around the neat bedroom assured him that everything was in order. The soft sound of shuffling papers from downstairs brought a grin to his face.

  Order above, chaos below, he mused good naturedly.

  Grabbing the bag, Jim moved to the top of the stairs and paused. Papers and books were strewn across nearly every available surface. In the midst of the clutter was his roommate, Blair Sandburg. Perched on the arm of one of the sofas, the grad student seemed to be surveying the disaster with the confidence of a man who had everything under control.

  "Think I should call Joel, Chief?" Jim called out as he descended the steps.

  Blair's head snapped up in startled surprise, practically dislodging his glasses. Intense, but confused blue eyes stared at the Sentinel.

  "Huh?"

  "Looks like a bomb went off in here, Sandburg," Jim explained, gesturing to the mess.

  Blair's head swiveled and scanned the room before turning back to the older man. Confusion changed to amusement. Blair shoved the glasses back into place with one hand while running the other through his curly locks.

  "Working styles vary, detective," Blair answered with a laugh. "Not all of us operate in your perfectly ordered world."

  "The question is, Chief, how you manage to operate at all."

  "Give it a rest, Jim. I have my own system," Blair answered with affronted dignity. "Which, I feel compelled to add, I have put to work for you on more than one occasion."

  Jim held up both hands in surrender. "Point taken, Chief."

  Blair's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Besides, you agreed to suspend the house rules until I finished this paper."

  "Only because I'm not going to be here, Sandburg," Jim shot back.

  "Yes, Mr. Clean," Blair retorted. "All will be back in proper order by the time you get back on Tuesday." The younger man eyed the bag that Jim had dropped next to the door. "Hope the weather's better in Denver than it's supposed to be here. You all set to meet Simon?"

  Jim was reaching for his coat and hesitated for a moment before answering. He'd been avoiding this conversation, anticipating the argument that it was certain to provoke.

  "Actually, there's been a slight change in plans." Seeing the sudden wariness in his partner's eyes, Jim hurried on with his explanation. "Joan was called out of town for work this weekend, so Simon's got his hands full with Daryl."

  "Oh..." Blair's gaze flickered across the stacks of books and papers. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and in the blink of an eye was on his feet, headed toward his own bedroom. "Okay, just give me five minutes to throw some stuff in my pack and I'll be ready."

  "You don't have to do that, Chief."

  Jim's words froze Blair in mid-step. The younger man turned slowly, his normally expressive face a tight mask.

  "You can't handle this extradition by yourself," Blair objected softly.

  "I'm not. Brown's taking Simon's place," Jim countered evenly.

  "Brown." Blair's voice was flat, but his eyes glittered with anger. "We're talking Henri Brown, right? Tall, black man, nice guy, average poker player, but with absolutely NO clue as to how to guide a Sentinel. Have I got the right person, man?"

  "You left out the part about him being a MORE than an average cop, but other than that, yes," Jim answered, feeling his own stubborn streak kicking in. "Sandburg, this is a simple extradition. We fly in, do a mountain of paperwork, pick up the suspect and fly back. Sentinel senses not required."

  "So what are you going to do?" Blair asked heatedly. "Just turn them off for four days? Damn it, Jim, it doesn't work that way. You know that!"

  "Sandburg..."

  "Your senses are an integral part of you, Jim," Blair argued, visibly struggling to get his anger under control. "You've got great control now, but what if you run into something that trips one or more of them up? You need someone with you who understands what to do if that happens."

  "Nothing's going to happen, Chief."

  "Yeah, tell me about it." Blair shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "I am not the only trouble magnet in this partnership, Ellison. You need backup and since Simon's unavailable, I'm going."

  "I don't need you with me on this one, Sandburg."

  The words were out of his mouth before Jim could take them back. The stricken expression on the younger man's face and the abrupt shuttering that dampened the light in his eyes had the detective scrambling to form an apology or at least a believable explanation.

  "Look Blair, I know you're behind on this research paper because of all the time you've been putting in with me at the station and the last few weeks of stakeouts. You told me you've already gotten two extensions and that Monday's D-Day. You put enough of your life on hold because of my senses, Chief. I can't let you jeopardize your academic career, especially when there's no need. It's basic detective work. Brown and I can handle it. I promise, no zoning in your absence."

  He'd offered the last part as a joke, hoping that it would temper his partner's ire, but one look at Blair's expression told him that it had generated the opposite effect.

  "Guiding isn't only about watching for zone-outs, Ellison," the anthropologist answered angrily. "There's a lot more... oh, forget it."

  Blair shook his head and marched into the kitchen. Snatching up a stack of folders from the counter, he headed toward the door and yanked his jacket off the hook. Jim reached out and grabbed his arm as Blair struggled to pull the garment on.

  "Chief..."

  Blair shrugged off the touch, backing a step away. He didn't meet the older man's eyes as he dug in his pocket for his keys.

  "No, Jim, you're right," Blair murmured. "This is cop stuff and as I've heard far too often, I'm not a cop. I am a student, however, and I do have to get the paper done if I'm going to remain one. I've got to head down to the University and pick up some books. I'll drop these case files at the station on my way back later this morning."

  Jim didn't need Sentinel hearing to pick up the bitterness in his friend's tone. "You don't have to do that. They can wait 'til next week," he said softly.

  "I need to stop there anyway," Blair countered, looking up finally. "I want to pick up some of that new tea that I bought yesterday. I filled the canister at the precinct, but didn't bring any home."

  Jim frowned. He unleashed his senses, studying the younger man's vital signs intently. "I thought you said that stuff was for settling upset stomachs, Sandburg. You coming down with something?"

  "I said it had healing properties, Jim," Blair rebuked him gen
tly. He grinned up at the Sentinel, but Jim could see that the effort was forced. "I'm fine. Just a scratchy throat. I promise to return the loft to its normal state of efficiency and cleanliness by the time you get back. You and Brown have a good trip."

  Without another backward glance, he slipped out the door, leaving a slightly guilty Sentinel in his wake.

  Cascade

  Friday

  8:15 a.m.

  Mindful of his partner's ability to hear a fly on the wall at a range of several miles, Blair kept his mouth shut and his whirling thoughts to himself as he guided the Volvo out into traffic. It wasn't until he found himself slipping the car into a space at the University that he finally gave vent to the anger he felt.

  "Stubborn, pig-headed, anal-retentive cop... that's what you are, Ellison," he hissed, pounding the steering wheel with both fists. "Simple pickup, right. Just like transporting Quinn was simple. 'Sentinel senses not required,' what a laugh. And taking Brown as backup. He's a nice guy... I mean, I like him even if he did succeed in completely trashing my love life with Sam when he wouldn't let me buy back that present, but as a Guide? He doesn't even know you're a Sentinel, man! How's he going to know what to watch for? Will he remember to remind you to turn down your hearing when the plane engines start up? Will he know to watch what kind of mineral water you order to make sure it wasn't processed with chemicals that'll send your sense of taste out of whack? No, of course he won't! It would serve you right if you did zone. Big time. See what Henri does when you go catatonic in the middle of the street. See if he pulls you out of a firefight..."

  Blair froze, suddenly realizing what he was saying.

  "Shit!"

  He scrubbed his face with his hands and forced himself to take deep breaths, all the while praying to every deity he could think of to counter the ill wishes he had just sent in his Sentinel's direction.

  "You are a real piece of work, Sandburg," he muttered, leaning his head against the steering wheel. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're acting like a spoiled brat -- throwing a temper tantrum because you didn't get your way. Now settle down and get a grip!"

  A few more deep breaths and he raised his head. Wounded pride and bruised feelings aside, he knew exactly why he had reacted the way he had. It was a Guide's duty to keep his Sentinel safe. He'd been responding to instinctive patternings that had been in play well before Burton wrote his first journals.

  Blair had memorized every word that the explorer had written. In Burton's time, the man responsible for protecting one of the ancient Watchmen kept an eye out for poisonous animals, insects and plants; watched for enemy tribesmen; provided for the Sentinel's meals and generally kept the warrior focused.

  Privately, Blair thought they'd had it easy. Being a Guide to a twentieth century Sentinel was a more than full time job. He had dozens of journals stuffed in a box under his bed that outlined the hundreds of things that adversely affected his Sentinel -- cold pills, pheromones, pesticides, strobing lights, designer drugs, even women and memories from his past. And those were only the things that he had written down. Who knew what else there was that either Jim hadn't bothered to mention, or that they hadn't yet encountered?

  "Give me a poisonous mushroom to take on any day," Blair muttered, sliding out of the car and heading to his office.

  Complicating the picture was his Sentinel's line of work. It made perfect sense that being a cop would be the natural avocation for a modern-day Sentinel, but like all the other factors, it just made things that much more dangerous. Cascade's tribal protector faced an incredible range of lunatics on a daily basis, armed with the most sophisticated weapons money could buy -- a far cry from some primitive tribesmen equipped with bows, arrows and blow- guns.

  "It wouldn't be so bad if all that weren't matched with Jim Ellison's damn stiff-necked stubbornness," Blair grumbled, unlocking his door. "Doesn't the man EVER listen to me? You'd think after all we've been through over the past couple of years he would learn that a Sentinel needs his Guide by his side. But no, he's got that incredibly thick skull, which, I have to admit, has certainly saved his life a time or two. Still, it makes it impossible to pound ANY sense into him..."

  Blair flipped on his tape player and the soothing rhythm of drums filled the small room. Still irritated, he shoved a pile of papers aside and slumped miserably into his chair. Leaning backward he stared up at the ceiling. Slowly the frustration and anger ebbed away, leaving him drained and exhausted. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the repetitive beat of the music and let the chaos of his world and emotions slip away for a while.

  Cascade

  Friday

  11:45 a.m.

  Blair awoke with a stiff neck and even scratchier throat.

  "Great, just great. This WOULD be the time to come down with something. Hope that new tea's as good as it's supposed to be."

  Berating himself for having fallen asleep, he set about gathering the books and files he needed. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was nearly noon. Promising himself he'd stop on the way home from the precinct for something to eat, he headed out to his car, locking the door to his office behind him.

  The trip to the station was surprisingly quick given the lunch time traffic, which lightened his mood somewhat. He parked the Volvo in Jim's spot and cruised up to the sixthth floor, case files tucked under his arm. He caught sight of Rafe as soon as he entered the bullpen. The young detective was nearly hidden behind a desk stacked with a dozen piles of old report jackets.

  "Hey, Rafe, you look like you could use a hand," Blair called out as he threaded his way between the desks.

  "A new ankle would be better," Rafe grumbled. "This damn sprain's got me saddled with desk duty. I swear Simon's found every file from the last twenty years for me to enter into the database."

  Blair eyed the crutches that leaned behind the detective and hid a grin. He'd had his own battles with the wooden torture devices.

  "Looks like you and I are both on paper patrol," he chuckled. "I'm only going to be mobile long enough to drop off these files for Jim and head back to the loft."

  "That's right, you've got a major paper due on Monday, don't you?" Rafe responded sympathetically.

  Blair found himself momentarily at a loss for words. When his brain and tongue started working in concert once more, the resulting comment was far from his normal articulate patter.

  "You... did... how did you know about that?"

  Rafe shrugged. "Jim said something a week ago when the two of you were assigned another round of stakeouts on the Tate case. He wasn't very happy about you having to delay your work on it. I won't even tell you what the expression on his face was like when Simon announced he couldn't make the trip this weekend. Good thing Henri volunteered to go along on the prisoner pickup. I think Jim and Simon would have come to blows if the captain had suggested he take you instead."

  "Jim actually said something about it? About the paper I mean?" Blair asked in surprise.

  "Yeah. He talks about your classes and stuff all the time. Man, I don't know how you do it. It's got to be a real grind balancing the hours you spend here with the three classes that you're teaching, the four you're taking and the dissertation. You still holding office hours three days a week on top of that?"

  Blair would have sworn that his brain had stopped working except for the fact that it was spinning madly, churning out rational, but surprising thoughts at breakneck speed. Rafe had just rattled off his exact teaching and class load. There was no way he would have known that unless Jim HAD been talking about it. The paper was important, but he'd tried to downplay the fact that he'd gotten so behind on it because of the extra hours he'd been putting in with Jim. From Rafe's comments, it sounded like his partner had been ready to take on his superior in order to make sure that Blair got the time he needed to finish. A warm glow started to spread through him, dissolving the irritation and the doubts that the confrontation in the loft had left behind.

  "Sandburg, you okay?"

&n
bsp; "Uh, yeah... I'm fine," Blair stammered, meeting the other man's concerned gaze with a smile. "The schedule's a bear sometimes, but that's life in the nineties, man. You sure you don't need some help with that paperwork? I could stick around a while."

  "And have Ellison chewing on me when he gets back because you didn't finish your paper? No way!" Rafe cringed in mock horror and shooed Blair away.

  Blair sketched a salute and headed over to Rhonda's desk, dropping the files he'd brought into her in-basket. Buoyed by Rafe's words and the new insight he'd gained to his partner, the normal bounce returned to his step. Turning toward the doors, he swallowed hard, fighting to contain the shit-eating grin that threatened to split his face. The scratchiness in his throat reminded him that he'd had another reason for stopping by and he made a quick detour.

  Stepping inside the immaculate break-room, he chuckled good-naturedly. Ever since the department had hired the new cleaning service, even the Sentinel had no cause for complaints about the tidy little eating area. Blair opened a drawer to the right of the sink and pulled out the wooden container that he'd brought for his personal supply of tea bags, taking a moment to admire the craftsmanship.

  He'd picked up the beautifully carved canister at his favorite oriental grocery store because the clerk had told him that the canvas bottom would allow the contents to "breathe". The young woman's beautiful smile -- and her assurance that the tea would stay fresher -- had convinced him that the purchase was necessary. When he'd brought it into the station, Jim, of course, had mumbled the usual "table-leg" comment. Blair had ignored the jibe and tucked the container into the drawer where it would be safe and still accessible to anyone who wanted an alternative to the acrid coffee that seemed to be the life's blood of every cop's existence. Having something that was uniquely 'his' occupying space at the station made him feel a little more connected to a world where he was often decidedly out of step.

  He poured half of the bags out onto the counter and was about to replace the canister when he noticed a stain on the paper at the bottom of the drawer. Frowning, he checked the container. The canvas was wet to the touch and a quick check of the contents revealed that the remaining bags were damp.