Out of Harm's Way Read online

  "Damn, this tea's expensive. It'll never last if they don't dry out," he mumbled.

  He glanced at the pile on the counter and then dug in another drawer for a plastic bag. With a deft motion, he dumped the tea bags from the container into the zip-lock plastic and scooted the first batch back into the canister.

  "I needed to take some home, anyway. I'll just use these first." Pleased with the solution, he returned the container to the drawer and headed for the loft.

  Airborne

  Friday

  1:00 p.m.

  Wedged into the middle seat with Brown on his left and an elderly woman on his right, Jim rolled his shoulders and tried to find a more comfortable position. Airplane seats, he decided, were simply not built for anyone over five feet tall. He stole an envious glance at Henri, who was napping peacefully, his long legs stretched out into the aisle.

  "That's usually my spot," he noted grumpily. "Sandburg normally takes the inside seat."

  Thinking of his younger partner reminded him of their heated conversation. Jaw clenching in annoyance, Jim turned to look out the window, hoping the view would provide a quiet distraction. Unfortunately, the silver-haired woman to his right had other ideas.

  "I'm a grandmother, you know," she whispered smugly. "I've got nineteen grandchildren. Twelve girls and seven boys. Would you like to see their pictures?"

  Without waiting for his consent, she began digging in her voluminous purse. Jim allowed himself a silent groan and pasted a mindless smile on his face, prepared to suffer through the upcoming pictoral journey the same way he had survived countless hours of kitchen drudgery in the military.

  As the old woman chatted away, his thoughts returned to his partner. If the younger man had been there, he would have been matching her comments word for word, delighting in the opportunity to trade stories and entertaining her with some of his own.

  And I'd be sleeping soundly, Jim realized abruptly. He'd be diverting her attention so that I could catch some Zs, even if he were half asleep himself.

  And that wouldn't have been the only thing his Guide would have done, he mused. Sandburg would have reminded him to turn down the dials long before they'd gotten near the terminal -- his head was still pounding from that sensory assault. Once on board, Blair would have undoubtedly made some caustic remark about the food and then grilled the air steward about the ingredients -- with an entirely separate, but intense line of inquiry into the quality of the ventilation system.

  Jim felt a genuine smile play across his lips. Sometimes he forgot how lucky he was to have met Blair. Not only because the anthropologist had the answers to the problems that his senses generated, but because he was a friend in the truest sense of the word. Brilliant and armed with a tongue that could just as easily flay as enlighten, the younger man filled a place in his heart and in his life that he'd never realized was empty. Blair's good-nature and generous spirit -- combined with a seemingly endless energy reserve -- had brought a reserved and cynical cop out of his shell.

  If only I could keep him out of the line of fire, Jim thought grimly. His Guide's sense of duty tended to override his common sense, especially where his Sentinel's safety was concerned. We're a fine pair. What we need is a joint "Blessed Protector" contract. He's pulled my ass out of the fire as many times as I've saved his. The whole Sentinel/Guide connection aside, he's certainly the best partner I've ever had. Maybe I should tell him that more often.

  An image of Blair's face, filled with the expression of hurt and betrayal that he'd glimpsed at the loft filled his mind. Jim cringed, acknowledging that he'd handled the whole situation badly. Nodding absently at the ramblings from the woman beside him, he settled back in his seat, determined to call and apologize as soon as they landed.

  Cascade

  Friday

  1:15 p.m.

  Letting himself into the loft, Blair dropped his backpack onto one of the kitchen chairs and surveyed the waiting piles of research. It would take some pretty intense work and there would be very little sleep between now and Monday morning, but he knew he could get the paper done. It was just a matter of getting into the right mindset.

  He pulled the plastic bag from his pack and shook the tea bags out onto the counter. Filling a kettle with water, he set it on the back burner to boil and dropped four of the bags into a ceramic teapot. His stomach growled, reminding him that he'd forgotten to stop for food. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of Chinese carryout. Satisfied that there was enough left for both a quick lunch and a later dinner, he scooped a generous helping onto a plate and slid it into the microwave.

  With those preparations underway, he crossed the room and loaded several CDs into the deck. As the soft earth-music filled the room he wandered back to the kitchen table and flipped open his laptop. It hummed reassuringly as it booted. Blair smiled and kicked off his shoes, his fingers flying over the keys as he opened programs and files.

  The ding of the timer on the microwave had him on his feet once more, padding into the kitchen to retrieve both his meal and to finish fixing his tea. He filled the teapot with boiling water. Watching the steam rise in waves set his mind to wondering what it would be like to have Jim's senses, just for a few hours. It was a fantasy he'd indulged in countless times, imagining the colors and scents and sounds that the Sentinel experienced.

  Ruefully he shook his head and forced himself back to reality, which, at this moment was to grind out his research paper. Shifting some books he made room for the teapot and his favorite mug next to the computer and settled down to do some serious work.

  Denver

  Friday

  7:55 p.m.

  Jim sank gratefully onto the bed and scanned the hotel room wearily. Between weather holdups and some vague mechanical problems, they'd arrived too late to head to the precinct and start the paperwork for the transfer -- which was a dubious turn of luck. He was in no mood or condition to face the bureaucratic red tape. The headache that had started in Cascade still pounded in his skull and his throat felt raw.

  Probably coming down with Sandburg's bug, he thought grimly.

  He glanced at his watch. It was only eight o'clock. Still early enough to call, although it would probably be safe to try at almost any hour. He'd seen Blair in full study mode before -- the younger man had a concentration level that rivaled a zone-out. He'd probably fall asleep right at his computer, if he slept at all.

  Not to mention forgetting to eat.

  Frowning, Jim considered calling Simon and asking his captain to check in on the grad student over the course of the weekend. He contemplated the possible fallout from that move and decided against it.

  You've hovering, Ellison. Sandburg's an adult, not a kid. He pulled all- nighters for years before you met him. He'll be fine.

  A burst of pain flared as the headache grew in intensity. Hoping that a shower would help, Jim headed toward the bathroom. Somehow, Blair always knew when his senses were out of whack. He wanted to get a handle on his discomfort before he made the call, or he'd be dealing with a justifiably angry Guide again, this time at long distance rates.

  Cascade

  Friday

  8:45 p.m.

  Ear shattering sound screamed its way through Blair's awareness. His head snapped up abruptly and searing pain shot up his spine. His eyes flew open, but he was blinded by the burst of lightning that arced inside his head. Pounding waves of agony that shifted from brilliant white to an explosion of unimaginable colors, matched the beat of his racing heart.

  He toppled from the chair, clutching his stomach as the pain shifted to his abdomen and then blossomed again in his skull. He swallowed convulsively and tasted bile in the back of his throat. Struggling to his knees, he crawled across the floor, barely making it to the bathroom before the contents of his stomach spilled forth.

  The sounds of his own retching merged with the piercing scream that pulsed with a demanding relentlessness, shattering his fragile grip on the universe. His stomach heaved o
nce more and pain ripped through his body, propelling him through another maelstrom of kaleidoscopic colors before dropping him headfirst into a pit of unending blackness.

  He never heard the answering machine kick in.

  Denver

  Friday

  8:45 p.m.

  "Sandburg, if you're there, pick up."

  Jim curbed his own impatience when there was no answer after several long seconds.

  "Okay, you're either out, which is unlikely, or you're asleep, which is probably just wishful thinking on my part, since it's not even ten o'clock yet. My guess is that you've got the stereo cranked and you're oblivious to the world. Turn down the jungle music for a minute and answer the phone, Chief."

  Jim paused, waiting to see if there would be any response, but only silence met his sensitive ears.

  "We got delayed by weather, so we just checked in an hour or so ago," he continued. "I'm in room 1231. I left the phone number for the hotel on the pad on the refrigerator. You need to call, you can reach me here, or at the station. That number's there, too." Still no answer.

  "Look, Blair, I'm bushed. I'm heading for bed. I'll try to give you a call in the morning. Take it easy, buddy."

  Jim slowly returned the phone to its cradle and rose to his feet. The familiar tingle of danger teased at the back of his mind. As tired as he was, he wasn't sure whether it was connected to his Guide or not.

  He's working or he's still pissed. Either way, he's safe in the loft and out of harm's way. You've just got a guilty conscience, Ellison.

  He crossed to the balcony and opened the doors, suddenly needing some fresh air. The sounds and smells of a strange city surged into the room, nearly staggering him. Cursing, he closed his eyes and reached for the mental dials, cutting back the sensory input until the wave of dizziness was gone. He felt oddly disconnected from his body. He opened his eyes and gazed at the shimmering lights that stretched to the horizon and meshed with the twinkling stars that filled the velvety jet sky.

  He pulled himself away from the seductive lure of the glittering lights with a hard shake of his head -- and regretted it as the pounding headache that he'd managed to subdue earlier came back full force. Stretching out on the bed he took a swipe at the light switch and plunged the room into darkness.

  He found himself tensing, and then realized he was listening for a sound that was a thousand miles away.

  Even YOU'RE not that good, Ellison, he reminded himself. The Sentinel closed his eyes and pretended that the throbbing beat of his own pulse was the heartbeat of his Guide.

  Location Unknown

  Time Suspended

  Blair knew he was dreaming the moment he opened the loft's front door. First, because he had no memory of why he was standing there; second, because the hallway that stretched before him bore no resemblance to the real thing; and third, because the doorway behind him disappeared the instant his foot crossed the threshold.

  Propelled by a strange sense of urgency, he padded forward, his stockinged feet making soft squishing noises in the thick carpeting. The pattern in the rug seemed to shift and come to life when he stared at it. He quickly looked away, chiding himself for reading too many Steven King novels late at night. Turning his attention to the hallway itself, he frowned. The corridor stretched as far as he could see. On either side were doors, dozens of them, all identical in size and color. Green -- just like the door to the loft.

  He paused beside the closest, listening intently. There were muffled voices inside. Curious, he knocked at the door. The sounds stopped immediately. Blair waited a moment, then moved on to the next one. He caught the distinct murmur of conversation, the tinkle of glassware and the soft swell of music.

  He tapped on the shiny metal surface, wincing at the ringing echo that reverberated in his ears. The voices and sounds from inside stopped once more.

  "Hey! Anybody in there?" he called out. Grabbing the doorknob he gave it a sharp twist, but it refused to open.

  "Fine," he muttered, glancing down the hallway. "Go ahead and keep the party to yourselves. Lots more options to choose from."

  The rhythmic sound of drums beckoned to him from another door farther down the hall. He moved toward it, but this time the music stopped before he could even reach out to knock. Angrily, he pounded on the door. The only result was a bruised fist.

  "This is nuts," he muttered, striding down the corridor, head swinging from side to side. As he passed each door the voices or music died away. Finally he stopped, frustrated and breathing hard. "I've had just about enough of this," he growled at the empty hallway.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and then another. As the air filled his lungs he felt himself grow calmer. The image of his Sentinel filled his mind and he started to smile, abruptly feeling less disoriented and alone.

  "That's better... now, it's time to wake up..."

  An anguished scream shattered the peace that had been building. Blair's eyes flashed open in horror and he was running before he knew it. Desperately searching for the source of the sound he tore down the corridor, pounding on doors, staggering against the wall for support as a wave of dizziness rolled over him.

  He found himself leaning against one of the doors. Blearily he glanced up, trying to focus his blurry vision on the four numbers that danced in front of his eyes. Suddenly a voice from inside the room called out a name. His name. He raised both fists to hammer on the door. Before he made contact he felt himself falling forward into oblivion.

  Cascade

  Saturday

  2:30 a.m.

  Cold.

  Blair found himself staring at a blurry pattern of small white geometric shapes. He blinked, straining for focus and the shapes gained definition.

  Tiles. Bathroom.

  He shivered and his earlier thought resurfaced.

  Cold.

  With a groan he managed to push himself off the floor. He leaned back against the tub, not trusting himself to stray too far from the toilet in case his stomach had plans that it hadn't informed his mind of yet.

  "What the hell happened?"

  The vision of a long hallway filled with doors flickered briefly in his memory, but the surreal images slid away when he tried to hold onto them.

  You got blindsided by a killer virus, his mind informed him sarcastically. Its just been waiting until you got complacent. What better time to get deathly ill than when you have a paper due and no hovering nursemaid?

  Blair squeezed his eyes shut and winced at the pain that surfed against the lids. Another shiver rippled through his body. Aching muscles forcibly reminded him that he'd just spent who knew how long trying to expel every major organ into the porcelain throne. Wrapping his arms around his throbbing abdomen, he tipped his head, enjoying the coolness of the tub against the back of his neck.

  He sat there, concentrating on breathing until he worked up the nerve to move. Gritting his teeth he managed to get to his feet, grabbing the edge of the sink to steady himself. The image in the mirror made him freeze in shock.

  Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes -- pupils dilated to the point of masking nearly all of the ocean blue iris -- stared out of a face that was as white as the tiles on the bathroom floor.

  "Man, this sucks," he whispered, watching the blue tinged lips in the mirror mimic words that felt like they were torn from his burning throat.

  He fumbled for his toothbrush, suddenly far too aware of the vile taste in his mouth. Awkwardly he smeared toothpaste onto the brush and began to attack every crevice. Several gallons of water and mouthwash later, he felt cleansed enough to grab a facecloth and began to scrub at his face and arms with cold water. He contemplated a shower, but he wasn't sure he was steady enough for that degree of gymnastics.

  The sponge bath refreshed him enough so that he felt safe to leave the bathroom. With one hand on the wall for support, he lurched into his bedroom. It took him ten minutes to don a new pair of sweats and three layers of shirts. He was sweating by the time he was finished and the
headache was still threatening to split his skull, but he managed to make his way back to the chair that he fallen out of earlier.

  He reached for his cup, thinking the tea would settle the last of the upheaval in his gut and soothe his raw throat. He frowned when he saw that it was empty. The furrowed lines creasing his forehead grew deeper when he checked the pot. The remains of the four tea bags sat forlornly in the bottom.

  With a long-suffering sigh he grabbed the pot and staggered into the kitchen. Mechanically, he filled the kettle and turned on the stove. Fishing out the used bags, he dropped four new ones inside the pot and then leaned against the counter, watching the slow accumulation of bubbles as the water began to boil and filling the teapot once it was ready.

  He waited impatiently for the tea to steep, glancing at the clock on the microwave to time its progress. He was surprised to find that it was nearly three o'clock. A quick look out the balcony doors revealed a black starless sky. Three o'clock in the morning. He had only a vague memory of checking the time when he'd sat down at the computer, but he was sure it had been early afternoon.

  Shit, how long was I out?

  He shuffled back to the table and glared at the laptop screen.

  Page 22... well, at least I made some progress before this stuff hit.

  Keying in the commands to save the file, he shut down the computer. The congealed remains of his reheated lunch caught his eye and he felt his stomach do another slow roll. With a shudder, he picked up the plate and dumped what was left into the garbage before setting the plate in the sink. Deciding that the tea had brewed long enough, he poured a cup. Wrapping his fingers around the steaming mug, he drew in the comfort of the heat.

  Blowing across the top he took a sip and sloshed half of the contents down the front of his shirt. He lurched to the sink and spat out the foul tasting liquid. Shaking his head in disbelief, he sniffed at the tea, wrinkling his nose at the odor.