by Beth Manz
Simon's attention was jerked away from the scene before him as another car arrived. The blue Chevy lumbered to a stop just behind the captain's car. Moments later, Eli Stoddard exited his vehicle and crossed to them.
"What's going on?" the professor asked, his cheeks flushed with concern. "I got a call at home from campus security telling me that there was a problem with Blair's car." He gestured toward the technicians hovering over the Volvo. "I know the tire was flat, but this...."
It was obvious the man had gotten out of bed to come to the campus. He wore blue corduroy slacks but the shirt beneath his jacket looked like a pajama top. On his feet were worn brown leather slippers.
"Is something wrong with Blair?" Stoddard blurted out to Jim. "Why isn't he here with you? Why are they looking at his car?"
"Eli," Jim said, stepping forward and grasping the man by the upper arms, "I need you to calm down."
"What's happened to Blair?" Stoddard demanded.
Jim took a deep breath and said, "We don't have anything official to report right now."
Eli blinked several times. "What? Nothing official? What are you talking about? Is Blair all right or isn't he?"
"We...we don't think he is," Jim said simply.
Eli's face crumpled at the news. His flushed skin paled in an instant and he leaned heavily against the car behind him. "No. Oh, no," he muttered.
Jim moved next to him, leaning close, speaking in soft tones, his hand resting against the older man's back. It was the most compassion Simon had seen Jim exhibit the entire evening. The captain moved away, giving the two friends a moment of privacy. And when his cell phone rang, he found he was almost grateful for the distraction.
"Banks," he spoke into the receiver.
"Captain, it's Dan Wolf. I'd like you and Ellison to come back to the morgue if you could."
"Do you have news for us?"
"Yes, but I'd like to give it to you in person."
Simon closed his eyes. He knew what that meant. "We'll be right there." Closing his phone, he crossed back to Jim and Eli.
"Who was that?" Ellison asked immediately.
"Dan. He wants us back at the station."
"Who's Dan?" Eli asked.
"Our medical examiner," Simon answered simply.
The older man closed his eyes. A single tear escaped and tracked its way down his cheek. "Oh, Blair," he whispered shakily.
"Professor, why don't I have someone drive you home," Simon offered.
Stoddard shook his head, his eyes opening. "No, I'm going with you. I want to know what happened. How he...." But he couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, he silently bowed his head.
"You can ride with us," Jim said, reaching out to escort the elderly man to Simon's car.
The captain didn't argue. It was obvious Jim felt Eli Stoddard should be with them when they got the official word on Sandburg's death.
Sandburg's death. Sandburg. Dead. It all seemed so impossible, so surreal.
The three men rode back to the station in silence. From time to time, Simon glanced at Jim out of the corner of his eye. He was surprised at how calm the detective now seemed to be. He'd gone from raw emotion to almost no emotion at all. Shock. Simon was sure that was all it was. Jim had denied what was happening, then he was angry about it, and now he seemed stunned.
Just as they had only a few hours earlier, Jim and Simon, now accompanied by Eli Stoddard, stepped off the elevator and turned toward the morgue. Dan Wolf was waiting for them inside the double doors.
"I wish I had better news," he began softly, "but I received Blair's dental records and they've confirmed the worst--the body pulled from the van was Sandburg. I'm sorry."
Eli covered his eyes with a shaky hand, a soft sob escaping his lips.
Jim's jaw clenched tight, the muscle in his cheek shifting and moving as he struggled to maintain control. "How...." he choked out at last. "How did he die?"
"Smoke inhalation," Dan answered, his voice certain. "He had a bad lump on his head. I think he was knocked unconscious in the initial accident, then the fire overtook him." The big man stepped closer to Jim and fixed the detective with a compassionate gaze. "He died from smoke inhalation rather than the fire, which means he didn't suffer, Jim."
"Can we see him?" Dr. Stoddard asked softly.
Simon's gaze shifted past Dan to the body that still lay in the morgue, covered by the sterile white sheet. Burned beyond recognition. He shuddered slightly. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"But--"
"Eli." Jim placed a hand on Eli's shoulder, squeezing briefly. "You don't need to see him. Believe me, you don't want this to be your last memory of him. None of us do."
The professor nodded. "It's not really Blair anymore, is it?"
"No," Jim whispered, his broken, sorrowful gaze taking in the shrouded form. "It's not."
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Jim inserted his key into the lock and pushed the door of the loft open wide. Moonlight poured in through the glass doors on the other side of the room. It seems like I've been gone forever, but it's not even morning yet. Shrugging wearily out of his jacket, he hung it on the coat rack before turning to close and lock the door.
Simon had offered to come home with him. So had Eli. But Jim had refused both offers. He needed to be alone. Needed to think, plan. I have to call Naomi. The thought sent a renewed sense of dread through him. How could he tell her Blair is dead?
Sighing deeply, he moved toward the kitchen counter, remembering that he'd stuffed Naomi's beeper number into the drawer that held the telephone book and note pads. But he never got to the drawer, never retrieved Naomi's number. Because there, on the counter, was a familiar brown envelope.
Jim began to tremble as he stepped up to the counter and stared down at the package. He knew what it held. What he didn't know was what decision Blair had made, if any.
With shaking fingers, he pushed back the flap and withdrew the papers regarding the deed to the loft...papers Blair had refused to sign only days before, fearful that taking half ownership of the loft would seal Jim's fate in some ominous manner....
Jim carried the packet of documents to the couch and sat down. He looked at a note that had been attached to the packet--a note written in his guide's familiar handwriting:
"Jim, I signed the papers, just like you wanted me to. I'm sorry I didn't do it right away but I just couldn't wrap my mind around the idea of you not being around one day. That's just not something I care to think about, okay?
I want you to know that I appreciate this gesture. No one has ever done anything like this for me and I really don't know what to say or how to react. I'd give you some flowery speech about how grateful I am but I know you hate that kind of stuff, right? So let me just say this--I'm sure I'll never need these papers because as long as we watch out for each other, we're both going to be around a very long time.
Blair
PS: Now that the loft is 'half mine,' do I get to leave my dirty socks on the bathroom floor?"
Jim dropped the papers into his lap. The loft seemed close and stifling all of a sudden and he found it difficult to breathe past the painful constriction in his throat.
"Chief...."
The whispered endearment slipped involuntarily past his lips as he ran sensitive fingers over the note. It was several moments before he realized he was picking up on each swirl of each letter Sandburg had penned, every dot above every 'i,' every crossed 't.' Each word suddenly came alive beneath his fingertips--touching the imprint of the words Blair had left behind was like touching Blair himself. It made him seem so near, so close....
The realization of what was happening slammed into Jim, caused his heart to feel like it would rend in two. Remnants of Sandburg's presence--that was all he would have from now on. Just remnants....
Tired and defeated, Jim closed his eyes. How do I go on from here, Chief? How?
He sat quietly for several long moments, trying not to think. But h
is efforts failed and finally he opened his eyes, learned forward slowly, and placed the packet on the coffee table in front of him. Resting his arms across his knees, he stared down at the scrawled message again--stared until the letters and words began to blur and run together, then became totally illegible. Finally, no longer able to see past the tears in his eyes, the sentinel hung his head and surrendered to the heavy burden of pain and anguish he could no longer keep at bay.
Part Two
Eli Stoddard stood at the window of his study and stared out across the expanse of dew-laden lawn. Normally the view of his own back yard served to calm him, bring him pleasure. But this morning it appeared to him as bland, barren--dull and gray, like the ache that surrounded his heart.
In the distance he could hear the low, plaintive cry of a Burlington Northern train whistle. Without thinking he checked his watch. Right on time. Again the whistle sounded, long and continuous, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. Such a lonely sound. A sudden, nearly overwhelming sorrow welled up within him, and he squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened.
It had been three days since Blair's death. Three days that seemed to have passed in a haze. He didn't remember what he'd eaten or even if he'd eaten in those days, wasn't sure what he'd dressed in each morning, couldn't even remember driving to and from Rainier each day. He'd spent most of his time at the university talking with staff and students about the loss of the outgoing young professor, shunting his own grief aside as he tried to help others come to terms with their pain and confusion.
Eli swallowed hard and told himself he needed to be strong. Needed to just get through this day. There would be time to deal with his own heartache later....
"Professor?"
He turned toward the familiar voice behind him. His assistant stood in the doorway of the study, her expression downcast, miserable. "You should probably leave soon if you're going to pick up Jack," she reminded him kindly.
Eli nodded. He'd promised to drive Jack Kelso to Blair's funeral. Although Jack had been released from the hospital, he still had a long way to go before he would be fully recovered or able to drive his own van. "Thank you, Karen," he said simply. "I appreciate you coming over this morning to help me out this way."
"It's no trouble, Professor. I'll take care of everything here while you're...." Karen's voice trailed off and she looked away. "I'll make sure everything is ready for the wake," she finished softly and left the room. Eli could hear muffled sniffling as she moved toward the kitchen at the other end of the house.
Eli turned back to the window. He would go to Blair's funeral, say good-bye to the brilliant, gentle young man he had always thought of as a son, then return to his house for the wake. And after that? He took a deep breath and refused to answer his own question. He couldn't bear to think about the days--the weeks--ahead. Not yet.
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Naomi Sandburg sat on the futon bed and slowly looked around her son's bedroom. She'd stayed at the loft many times in the past, sleeping in the small room at the back of the apartment while her son took the couch. She'd meditated here, talked with Blair here, but she'd never really looked at the room, looked at her son's possessions--the material objects that displayed so vividly who and what Blair had been.
Books and journals, stacks of papers and notes, a few trinkets from expeditions he'd taken--they surrounded her. Blair's memories, his hopes, his dreams--they were all contained in these items, tucked away in this room. Her gaze shifted to the small collection of photos he'd positioned on the windowsill above his bed. A snapshot from his first expedition, one of her, another of himself and Jim.
She closed her eyes and curled up on the small bed. Since arriving in Cascade yesterday afternoon, she'd stayed mostly in this cozy, comfortable room. Somehow she felt nearer to Blair here, seeing his things, sleeping in his bed. I can still smell the scent of his shampoo on his pillows. She opened her eyes and touched lightly at the soft sheets of the bed--and felt somehow as if she were caressing her son.
She sat up and looked toward the French doors as she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. The gait was slow and unhurried, weary. It was Jim. Her heart went out to the man who had been her son's best friend, partner, protector. She found it hard to believe that anyone would grieve as deeply as she over the loss of her son, but in her heart she knew that in many ways--ways she couldn't fully comprehend--Jim Ellison's grief would be every bit as acute as her own.
Her thoughts turned to the phone conversation she'd had with the detective just three days previous. She'd been at a friend's house in Arizona when the small beeper she carried with her faithfully suddenly went off. At first, she couldn't even remember how to turn the thing off, she was so stunned that it was actually being used.
She'd called the number displayed on the beeper immediately, but it hadn't been Blair who had answered the phone....
"Jim, Blair just paged me. Is he around?"
"It wasn't Blair who paged you, Naomi. It was me."
And somehow, in that very moment, she'd known. She still wasn't sure if it had been something in the tone of Jim's voice, the fact that he had been the one to beep her instead of her son, or just some strange maternal intuition. But she had known--known her precious baby was gone even before Jim had spoken the words.
She closed her eyes as a fresh wave of tears stung at her eyes. She couldn't start crying again, not now. She needed to get through the service and if she started crying now, she simply would not be able to stop.
"Are you ready to go?"
She looked up at the sound of Jim's voice. He stood in the doorway of the room wearing a dark suit and tie, his shoes polished and gleaming. "You look nice," she said absently, standing.
"I think most of the men from the station will be wearing dress uniforms," Jim said, his voice flat, emotionless. "But somehow the formality didn't feel right for me."
Naomi touched his arm, squeezing briefly. "There were no formalities between you and my son. I'm glad you decided not to wear the uniform," she whispered. "Blair would have definitely given you a bad time about showing up dressed like that," she finished softly, a brief smile flitting across her features.
She thought ahead to the service they were about to attend. Neither she or Blair were practicing Jews so she hadn't felt right about following the traditional Jewish ceremonies for her son's burial. The service was going to be open and informal, a reflection of the guileless and natural manner in which Blair had lived his short but extraordinary life. She had personally arranged the funeral in order to ensure that it would be something Blair would have wanted.
She'd contacted a man who had been a spiritual leader for both herself and her son for many of Blair's most formative years. He had readily agreed to perform the ceremony. The details had taken only a few minutes to work out and finalize--there would be no church or temple rites. An open air service would take place at the cemetery where her son's body would be laid to rest, the cemetery where they would all say their final good-byes to the young man who had so richly blessed all their lives.
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Abigail Glover picked up the chart hanging at the end of David Jacobs' hospital bed and scribbled his vital information onto the top sheet. Finished, she slipped the chart into the crook of her arm and moved to the head of the bed. She stared down at the face of her newest patient--the patient to whom she'd been assigned as primary care giver. He was younger than most of the patients in the ward, thirty according to his chart. But he looks even younger than that. He had an almost angelic look about him with his long, curly hair and soft, boyish features.
Tentatively, the nurse reached out and touched the bruising that discolored the lower left side of the young man's jaw line. "Well now, my poor lamb, how did this happen?" Her gaze shifted to David's left hand, to the bruising and scraping there. He had such an innocent appearance, yet he looked as if he'd been in a fight within the last day or so. Abby si
ghed and shook her head. After more than thirty years of working with mentally ill patients, she knew better than to judge any of them by their appearance.
She glanced down at David's chart again, reaching up absently to tuck a strand of gray hair behind her ear. She scanned the chart until she came to the details regarding the young man's medication. "Ativan? That's odd," Abby mused beneath her breath. She flipped through all the documents attached to the chart, searching for an explanation for the strange medication regimen, but found nothing.
Behind her, the door to the room opened. She straightened and turned to face the man who now entered.
"How is our newest patient doing?" Dr. Ryan Collins asked, his tone brisk and business-like.
Abby stepped aside as the doctor moved up to the side of the bed. She didn't particularly care for Dr. Collins. The man was condescending most days, downright rude on others. Abby didn't take it personally--he had the same reputation among all the nursing and housekeeping staff.
"I just finished with his vitals," she answered Collins' question. "Everything looks good. Would you like to see the chart?" She offered it to him.
He dismissed her with a curt wave of his hand. "I'm sure if you say everything's fine, then everything's fine," Collins answered smugly. "To be quite honest, I'm more interested in Mr. Jacobs' medical history than a few normal vital signs."
"Of course," Abby muttered. She'd forgotten that this particular doctor approached all of his patients from a coldly clinical point of view. She'd often wondered why a man like Ryan Collins had ever decided to go into the medical field. "I do have one concern...." Abby began.
Collins fixed her with an impatient glare. "Yes, what is it?"
"It's regarding Mr. Jacobs' medication," she answered, referring to the chart she still held in her hands. "I noted here that you have him on Ativan."
"That was by design," Collins responded. "I wanted this patient sedated. I knew I would be gone a few days and I wanted him to remain calm." He looked down at David, a nearly predatory expression on his face and in his eyes--an expression that bothered Abby greatly. "However, now that I'm back, let's begin tapering it off."
