Out of Harm's Way Page 4

  His eyes swept the bullpen, landing on Brown who was still on the phone. How to explain to the detective that it was imperative that they leave tonight, now? If it were Simon sitting there, he'd argue the logic, but ultimately he'd agree. And, of course, if Blair were here, there would be no need to go running to find trouble.

  The Sentinel's jaw clenched even tighter as he rose to his feet. Sandburg had been right -- he needed someone with him who understood who and what he was. He still owed his Guide an apology. He wanted to make it in person and as soon as possible.

  Location Unknown

  Time Suspended

  Alone.

  The hallway had no doors. Not any longer. There had been one left, a few seconds ago, but now it was gone. All that remained was the featureless gray corridor. Even the shapes that had writhed underfoot in the pattern of the carpet had disappeared.

  Alone.

  "Jim... where... are... you...?"

  Another burst of agonizing pain pushed him back into the darkness.

  Denver

  Saturday

  9:55 p.m.

  Staring out onto the tarmac, Jim waited impatiently for his flight to be announced. His own reflection glared back at him -- eyes hard, jaw clenched. He was grateful that Brown had handled the arrangements. He wasn't sure whom the detective had bribed to get him on the flight back to Cascade at the last minute, but he knew owed the man. It was a debt he'd gladly repay.

  The nebulous feeling that his Guide was in desperate trouble had continued to build to an ominous certainty. It had taken every once of his control not to run screaming for the phone and demand that Simon investigate. He glanced at his watch. He'd be home by 1:00; to the loft by 1:30. Would that be soon enough?

  His gaze shifted back to the window and he froze. Blair's face stared back at him. The blue eyes were nearly black and rimmed in red, wide open and staring at nothing. Tangled, matted curls were pasted against the pale, contorted face.

  The vision abruptly vanished. So did his control.

  Cascade Overlook Bridge

  Saturday

  10:00 p.m.

  //"I need you to send someone to the loft, Simon. Something's wrong with Sandburg."//

  Turning away from the wreckers that were clearing the remains of the pile-up on the bridge, Simon gripped his cell phone tighter and wished fervently that Ellison was within arm's reach so he could strangle him personally.

  "Slow down, Jim. What do you mean something's wrong? //"Blair's in danger, Simon. I know it!"//

  Ellison's voice was filled with desperation. Taking a deep breath, Simon sent a silent plea for patience winging upward into the stormy sky. Not only did he have a city in disarray, his best detective had picked this particular moment to go over the deep end.

  Even with Ellison in Denver and Sandburg tucked safely away in the loft, they're still finding a way to make my life miserable. What is it with these two?

  "How do you know that, Jim? Did you talk to him?" Simon countered.

  //"No... I've been trying since yesterday, but I can't get through."//

  "Jim, the phone's probably still out..."

  //"Simon, please. I've got a flight leaving in just a few minutes, but even with the best of luck it's going to be three hours before I land. I'm afraid that's going to be too late."//

  There was an edge to the detective's voice that Simon had only heard a few times before -- always when a certain observer was in the middle of something nasty.

  Jim Ellison panicked? Not a good sign. Damn. This has got to be some new Sentinel/Guide dilemma. He hasn't talked to the kid since he left. How does he know there's trouble? Some sixth sense kicking in? Weren't five hyperactive senses enough?

  //Simon?"//

  A vision of the detective pacing the waiting area in the Denver airport like a caged panther flashed through his mind.

  "All right. I'll stop by as soon as I can get away from this mess. But I'm warning you, Jim. If this turns out to be some kind of weird psychic misconnection between the two of you, I'll have both your heads on a platter, " Simon growled.

  //"If it turns out I'm wrong, I'll gladly do the beheading myself, sir."//

  "Just get on the damn plane, Ellison. I promise to go check on your partner."

  Airborne

  Saturday

  10:15 p.m.

  Closing his eyes, Jim forced himself to sit back in the seat. He was in the air, headed home. Brown and one of the Denver detectives would be bringing the prisoner back tomorrow. Henri hadn't questioned the abrupt change in plans. He'd simply shrugged, made a soft comment about friendship being more important than anything else, and taken care of the arrangements.

  Jim drew in a deep breath. He'd done everything he could do to this point. Now it was a waiting game. Simon had promised to check on Blair...

  The Sentinel winced as the strange, disorienting sensation hit him. His head pounded, his throat burned. He fought against it, focusing on building an image of his Guide in his mind -- Blair in his "study" mode -- glasses perched on his nose, vivid blue eyes scanning the page; his agile mind absorbing every word, thought and inference like a sponge; slender fingers absently tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear...

  The wave of dizziness hit again, accompanied by the anguished scream of the panther. The vision of his Guide blurred and shifted into a picture from hell. Jim stifled a groan and pushed the terrifying image away. It was the same specter that had prompted the frantic call to Simon.

  "Sir? Sir, are you all right?"

  Jim opened his eyes and met the worried gaze of the flight attendant. He managed a nod, not trusting his voice.

  "Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "Just get me home. As fast as possible," he whispered.

  "We'll do our best, sir."

  Cascade

  Time Running Out

  It hurt too much to move -- to do more than just stare up at the ceiling waiting out the next wave of agony. He'd tried. He was closer to the front door. He had to be. That had been his goal. Reaching it had, at one point, been worth braving the pain that crawled like living fire across his skin; the stomach clenching heaves that ripped him apart, bringing up blood and the vile smelling liquid that coated his skin, robe, and hair.

  Alone.

  One foot in reality and one in a nightmare. It had become nearly impossible to know where one began and the other ended. There was unimaginable pain in both. Physical anguish in one, spiritual emptiness in the other.

  Alone.

  When the last door in the dream hallway had disappeared, he'd known that his only remaining hope was the dull green rectangle in the real world. Getting to it had become the only clear thought in his otherwise muddled mind.

  Alone.

  He didn't want to die alone. He was sure that was the direction that this was heading. It had to be. The thought released another flood of hot tears that he made no effort to stop. He couldn't. He didn't control his body any longer. He was only mind, and even that was slipping away.

  Alone.

  Not just him. His Sentinel, as well. Jim would be alone when he was gone.

  Alone.

  "NO..."

  He wanted to scream his denial, but he had no voice, no throat left to carry the sound. He settled for the whisper of air over swollen lips. Leaving his Sentinel unprotected was simply not acceptable. He willed himself to move. To slide another inch toward the door. Toward help.

  Pain.

  Sound, sight, taste, touch, smell -- all five senses surged to what he imagined was Sentinel intensity as the next thrust of pain hit. The violent sensory barrage was too much for the failing Guide and as the world exploded, it took him with it.

  Cascade

  Saturday

  11:45 p.m.

  Simon leaned wearily against the side of the elevator as it made its slow climb upward toward the loft.

  You'd better be here, Sandburg. And with a good excuse for not answering the phone, he groused.

 
; It had been a long day and an even longer night. Wrapping up the mess on the bridge had taken lmore time than he'd anticipated and then he'd had to detour back to the station to retrieve his son from under Rafe's watchful eye. Whether the detective had been a good influence or not was questionable, judging from the frenetic energy flowing off the young man. Daryl bounced and fidgeted in the corner, the palms of his hands tapping in disjointed rhythm against the elevator wall. Simon wondered just how many cans of soda and bars of chocolate his son had ingested over the course of the night.

  The elevator announced its arrival at the third floor with a 'ding' that would have set Simon's teeth on edge if they hadn't already been mangling the remains of an unlit cigar. Still in hyper-drive, Daryl bolted through the doors before they were fully open. Wishing he could have an intravenous shot of whatever it was that energized teenagers and certain anthropologists, Simon pushed himself away from the wall and stepped out into the hallway.

  Daryl was already at the loft door, pounding and yelling.

  "Hey, Blair! Wake up. It's me!"

  "Daryl, keep it down!" Simon hissed as he joined his son. "It's almost midnight. There's no need to rouse the entire building."

  The teenager had the good grace to look momentarily abashed. "Sorry Dad. You sure he's home?"

  "That's what we're here to find out," Simon growled. Tossing his cigar aside in irritation, he gave the door a sharp rap with his knuckles. "Sandburg. It's Simon. Open the door."

  The order was delivered in the tone that usually had detectives, staff and sometimes even police observers jumping to do his bidding. This time, however, there was no response. Annoyance started to give way to concern and Simon pulled out the key that Jim had given him months earlier for just such an occasion.

  The smell hit him before he had the door fully open. Vomit. Blood.

  Then he saw the body.

  Blair was laying on his back, his legs bent at awkward angles, one arm wrapped across his stomach, the other limp on the floor. Wide blue eyes stared vacantly upward, hard dark orbs in an otherwise deathly pale face.

  "What the hell...?"

  Two long strides had him at Blair's side. He knelt down and reached for a pulse, stunned when he actually found one.

  "Sandburg...?"

  A quick glance revealed no bullet or knife wounds, but Simon lifted his head and scanned the apartment. No sign of a break-in, although papers and books were scattered everywhere.

  "Blair, answer me," Simon demanded, tapping the younger man's cheek gently.

  Nothing. The motionless form could have been a corpse.

  Will be, if you don't get some help here, Banks, he berated himself.

  Keeping two fingers on the pulse point at the younger man's throat, Simon pulled out his cell phone and punched in the 911 code.

  "This is Captain Banks, Cascade PD. I need an ambulance at 852 Prospect, apartment 301. I've got a man down. Cause unknown. Caucasian male, age 29. No apparent signs of injury, but he's unresponsive and he's been vomiting blood... yes, I want a unit here to contain the scene... I don't care, just get someone over here as soon as possible. It's Ellison's partner, damn it."

  With a snarl, Banks snapped the phone shut.

  "Dad?"

  The soft, horrified whisper made him turn in surprise. He'd forgotten about Daryl. The teenager stood transfixed in the doorway.

  "He's alive, son," Simon said gently. "But he needs our help."

  "What... what happened?" Daryl stammered, his eyes wide and filled with glittering tears.

  "I don't know, Daryl. I've called the paramedics. They'll be here soon." Simon could see the shock setting in and knew he had to keep his son occupied. "In the meantime, we need to make him as comfortable as possible. Can you go to Blair's room and get a pillow and one of the blankets off his bed? You know how much he hates to be cold."

  "He's... he's cold...?"

  Simon could feel the unnatural, clammy coolness of the anthropologist's skin under his fingertips. "Yes, Daryl. He's cold. A pillow and a blanket. From his room. Now," he urged.

  Much to Simon's relief, his son nodded and shifted into motion. Cautiously picking his way across the room, Daryl disappeared inside the lower bedroom. He reappeared at his father's side a few moments later with the requested items bundled in his arms.

  "Thank you," Simon murmured, forcing a slight smile onto his face as he looked up at the frightened teenager. "There's something else you can do to help. Go downstairs and wait for the ambulance."

  "But dad, I want to stay here," Daryl objected.

  "I know, son, but I need you to go downstairs," Simon ordered gently. "You can bring the EMTs straight up here when they arrive. That'll save time. That's the best thing you can do to help right now, all right?"

  Daryl looked unconvinced.

  "I'm going to stay right here with him, son. I promise."

  "He looks so awful, dad. I've never seen him so still."

  "He'll be up and around in no time," Simon countered, hoping desperately that fate would not prove him a liar. "You'll see."

  Daryl handed the blanket and pillow to his father. "Okay. I'll bring them up as soon as they come. If Blair wakes up..."

  "I'll tell him you're downstairs," Simon promised.

  With a final glance at Blair, Daryl slipped out of the room and Simon turned his attention to the stricken young man on the floor.

  "Come on, Sandburg, wake up and talk to me," Simon muttered as he tucked the blanked around Blair's body and gently lifted the younger man's head to place the pillow beneath it.

  An almost imperceptible sigh escaped the anthropologist's lips and his eyes slowly closed. Grimly, Simon forced himself not to panic and concentrated on counting the beats of the pulse that beat weakly in the motionless body. Slow. Too slow.

  "Damn it, Blair, don't you die on me. Help's coming. You just have to hold on a little longer. Jim's on his way..."

  Location Unknown

  Time Streams Converging

  The gray mist that had swirled around him dissipated, revealing the hallway once more. Blair turned and walked back the way he had come, stopping in front of a familiar green door with three numbers. He could hear a strong, deep voice on the other side, but he couldn't quite make out the words. He waited, not daring to break the spell of safety and hope that had enveloped him.

  Simon almost gasped aloud at the sudden surge of life under his fingertips. It took a few seconds to realize what had happened, but once he understood, he leaned forward, speaking softly into the younger man's ear.

  "That's right, Sandburg. Jim's coming. He's going to be here soon..."

  The lights in the hallway brightened. The voice behind the door grew stronger, more insistent. Blair reached out to touch the door, surprised by its solidity.

  Blair's pulse throbbed even stronger.

  "Jim needs you, Blair," Simon whispered. "And he knows you need him. You have to hang on."

  Blair tried turning the knob, but it resisted his efforts. He didn't have the strength to force it. Behind the door the voice droned on.

  Your Sentinel needs you...

  The lines of agony that furrowed the observer's face deepened. Wrapping his fingers around Blair's wrist, Banks played his trump card.

  "You have to wait for him, Blair," he repeated, putting every ounce of persuasion he could muster into his words. "It's your duty as his partner. You can't leave him alone."

  Duty.

  Alone.

  Not acceptable.

  Blair's balled fists pounded on the door in frustration and despair.

  Simon tightened his grip as the younger man's body arched and an almost silent scream of anguish tore from Blair's throat.

  "No..."

  It was a plea. A denial. A promise.

  "Stay, Blair. Wait for Jim," Simon ordered.

  With a sharp click that echoed through the hallway, the lock released, the knob turned on its own. The door stood ajar, a thin sliver of warm, soft glow running around
the frame. Physical pain entered this universe along with the light. Exhausted and hurting, Blair slumped to the floor, the voice on the other side of the green panel hard and demanding.

  Stay, Guide. Wait for your Sentinel.

  Blair's eyes opened for just an instant. The intensity of the pain that glimpse revealed almost made Simon scream. Instead, he hung on tight and kept up the litany, hoping the words would provide the lifeline that the younger man so desperately needed.

  "Help's on the way, Blair. Wait for Jim..."

  Wait for your Sentinel...

  Legs curled under him in a half-lotus, Blair settled himself on the carpet, soothed into peaceful stillness by the promise implied in that command. His Sentinel would come -- he always did. Neither of them would be alone.

  Cascade

  Sunday

  12:05 a.m.

  Help arrived in a flurry of flashing lights and screaming sirens. Simon heard his son's voice in the hallway, the sound of running feet and then the loft was filled with people and equipment. He barely had time to blink before Blair was surrounded by a team of EMTs. They barked questions and the older man answered them as quickly as he could, slightly dazed by their frantic, yet efficient movements. Strong hands eased his fingers away from the young Guide's wrist. Before Simon could object, they were lifting the anthropologist to a stretcher and whisking him out of the room.

  The moment Blair was out of sight, Simon lurched over to one of the sofas and sat down hard. Leaning forward he rested his elbows on his knees. Head down, he forced himself to breathe slowly, struggling to regain his composure. His son was immediately at his side, one small hand laid comfortingly on his shoulder. He raised his head and managed a brief smile which Daryl returned tremulously.

  "We're going with him... to the hospital, aren't we, Dad?"

  "Yes, Daryl. I just need to take care of a couple of things here," Simon answered, his voice rough and hoarse to his own ears.