Sentinel - Progressions Series 02 Hidden Truth

by Beth Manz

  "You okay, Chief?"

  Blair looked up at Jim. He'd been lost in thought and hadn't realized Jim had walked up to him. "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied.

  Jim nodded his head and gave him a calculating look. "I see. And is that why you're rubbing your side?"

  Blair dropped his hand away, suddenly self-conscious. "Jim, man, you're worrying too much. I'm just a little sore. That's all."

  "Okay," Jim acquiesced, holding up his hands in surrender. He reached out and gave Blair's shoulder a quick squeeze. "I'm finished here. We can head back to the station and type up what we've found." He glanced down at his wrist then shook his head, as if he suddenly remembered something.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing." He held out his bare wrist. "I couldn't find my watch this morning, but I keep checking my wrist out of habit. It's driving me crazy."

  Blair grinned. "Couldn't find your watch, huh? Sounds like you might be getting a bit forgetful in your old age."

  Jim pointed a warning finger at the younger man. "Listen, Junior, unless you want to walk all the way back to the station, you'll go easy on the remarks about my age."

  Blair laughed. "All right, all right. I take it back."

  Smiling, Jim placed his hand on Blair's back and steered him away from the crime scene. "I want to run the prints we found as soon as we get back."

  "Sounds good to me." Blair started toward Jim's truck, his gaze sweeping across the small crowd that had gathered on the other side of the bright yellow police tape. He never failed to be amazed at the number of people who gathered whenever the PD marked off an area. What do they expect to see? He ducked stiffly under the tape that Jim was holding up for him, careful of his aching ribs, then fell into step beside his taller partner.

  They had only taken a few steps, however, when Blair felt Jim's hand leave his back. He turned toward his friend. The sentinel stood a few feet away, perfectly still, his eyes locked forward, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

  "Jim? Are you coming?"

  Jim didn't move. In fact, he seemed not to hear Blair at all. Sandburg took a step toward his partner, sudden worry gnawing at his stomach. "Jim?" he called again, more firmly. "Are you okay?" Still, Jim did not move.

  A shallow breath caught in Blair's throat as he stared at his friend. He's zoning! The realization slammed into him, catching him off guard. It had been so long since something like this had happened. So long since Jim had lost control.

  Blair stepped up to the sentinel and gripped his arm. He rested his other hand lightly against Jim's ribs and leaned in close. "Jim," he said, his tone low, controlled. "Listen to the sound of my voice and follow it back." Blair's gaze shifted to the other officers standing around the scene. He exhaled a small sigh of relief; the other police personnel seemed more interested in what they were doing than they were in Jim. He leaned in closer, his hand tightening its grip on Jim's arm. It's been so long since I've done this. "Jim, man, you have got to concentrate," he ground out. "Listen to me and come back. I need you to come back before someone notices us and hauls you away."

  Suddenly Jim blinked, took a long, shuddering breath, then turned a confused gaze on Blair. "Sandburg," he said, his brow creased. "What happened?"

  "You zoned, man," Blair whispered, staring up at Jim with concern. "I can't believe it."

  "Zoned?" Jim repeated in disbelief. He shook his head. "I don't understand... I haven't zoned in over two years."

  Blair looked around to be sure no one was listening to their conversation, then turned back to Jim. "I realize that." He pulled at Jim's arm and gestured toward the truck. "Come on, let's get outta here. I think we need to talk."

  /

  /

  Blair turned in his seat and pressed his back against the passenger door of the truck. "Okay, Jim," he prompted, his voice taking on the low, soothing tone that he used whenever he was dealing with Jim's senses, "Try to remember what you were thinking about just before you zoned."

  Jim rested his head against the rear window of the cab and stared up at the visor. "I was thinking about the case," he answered. "Sorting through the different odors at the crime scene, trying to decide if there was anything that might help us catch those guys."

  "The different odors..." Blair repeated thoughtfully. "You're sure you were concentrating on your sense of smell? And only on smell?"

  "Yes, I'm positive."

  "Okay. Do you think there might have been one odor in particular that caused you to zone?"

  "I wish I knew. I'm... I'm just not sure." He narrowed his eyes in concentration as he thought about the answer he had just given Sandburg. He couldn't recall any odors from the scene that had been so unusual that they would have caused him to zone, yet something pulled at him... It was that same feeling he'd had this morning at the loft, the same feeling that had lingered with him persistently throughout the day. What was it? Something from his past. Something... But what?

  "Jim," Blair's voice came to him, tinged with worry, then his friend's hand grabbed his arm, drawing him from his thoughts. "Jim! Are you okay?"

  "What? I'm sorry, Chief. I was just thinking."

  Blair dropped his hand and studied his partner. "Thinking, or zoning?"

  Jim caught the worried look on Blair's face, then chuckled. "Thinking, Chief. Just thinking." He smiled at Blair's continued look of concern. "Oh, c'mon, Sandburg. You're not going to start watching me like a hawk now, are you?"

  "That would only be fair. After all, you've been driving me crazy these last few weeks with all your hovering."

  "I do not hover," Jim grumbled.

  Blair rolled his eyes and grinned in spite of himself, shaking his head in fond exasperation. Then, becoming serious again, he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. "Jim, about this zone-out... It really worries me that you zoned after all this time."

  Jim took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know," he said softly. "It bothers me, too."

  "But you still have no idea what may have caused it? What it was that grabbed your attention so strongly that you lost everything else?"

  "I don't know." Jim bit at the inside of his lip as he tried to find the words to describe what he had felt at the crime scene. Turning back to Blair, he said, "When we were walking away from the scene, it was like I flashed on something, something I can't quite grasp now. But I think... I think it was something from when I was a kid."

  "When you were a kid?" Blair repeated, confused. "Why would you be remembering something from your childhood at a crime scene?"

  "Honestly, Chief, I don't know." Jim exhaled a long breath. "But I feel like whatever it was that made me zone had to do with something from when I was young. Like a memory I'm trying to recall or something." He raised his hands in a gesture of frustration, then dropped them back to his lap. "It's hard to explain and I know it doesn't make much sense, but that's the best description I can come up with right now. And I feel like..." His voice trailed off. This was the hardest part to admit or to explain, even to himself.

  "What? You feel like what, Jim?"

  He looked steadily over at his partner, knowing that as crazy as what he was about to say would sound, he would find only understanding and support in his partner's eyes. He took a deep breath and said softly, "I have this almost overwhelming urge to talk with Stephen."

  Part Two

  Jimmy Ellison stood alone in an open field. Slowly, he looked around him. He recognized the place where he was--it was the vacant field near his house. The field where he and the other neighborhood boys came to play on weekends. But he'd never been out here at night, had never seen the field looking so desolate, and he wondered why he'd been drawn to this eerie place.

  The blackness of deep night surrounded him, yet in the near distance he could see the large trees that surrounded the field. They stood at the edge of the darkness like ghostly, malevolent guardians, and their barren branches reminded him of cold, damp arms and rough, spiny fingers that could easily grope for and
find young boys who had the misfortune of being outside so late.

  Jimmy swallowed deeply and forced his attention away from the trees. Slowly, he began walking across the fog-shrouded ground. Frost encrusted grass, brown and dead, crunched beneath his feet, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet of the night. A light breeze ruffled at his hair and chilled his ears and nose; absently, he wondered why he hadn't worn warmer clothing. He continued on, without direction and without purpose, only aware of the fact that he had to keep moving.

  Then, suddenly and without knowing why, he fell heavily to his knees and began digging frantically at an exposed patch of earth. The dirt was damp and chilly against his bare fingers, making him cold all over. Shivering, he kept at his task. A sense of panic stabbed at his heart and he pushed himself to dig faster, faster, faster! A cry of frustration escaped him--with each scoop of dirt that he unearthed, loose granules skittered back down across his bare arms and hands, rushing back into the hole and causing him to have to scoop it out again and again.

  But he worked on, making little progress, not knowing what it was he needed to find--only knowing that he must find it. He must!!

  At last his fingers brushed against something warm and soft just beneath the frigid earth. With renewed vigor, he pushed the dirt away, away, away... until a face came into view. A face he should recognize... someone he should know...

  Jim Ellison sat upright in bed, his breath a strangled and painful constriction within his throat. The scenes of the nightmare pressed down on him, smothering him with shock and panic. He looked frantically around him, taking in the familiar sight of his bedroom at the loft. He was home. The dream wasn't real.

  He swallowed convulsively and forced himself to take deep, even breaths. Then, without even thinking about what he was doing, he opened his hearing, concentrating on the room beneath his. It was a habit he'd developed across the months and years since Blair had come to live with him. Whenever he woke in the middle of the night, for whatever reason, the first thing he did was search out that familiar and all-important heartbeat.

  And there it was--a soft pattern of relaxed, steady beats. Jim closed his eyes as a wave of gratefulness swept over him.

  After a few moments he lay back against his pillow and stared up into the darkness. He concentrated, but he couldn't recall who it was he had unearthed in his nightmare, though he felt that the identity of the person was just beyond his grasp. But he certainly recognized the memories associated with what he was doing in the nightmare--memories from a time in his life that had been forgotten until now. And why now? he wondered to himself. Why were the memories coming back to him now?

  He ran his hands across his face and tried to push the strange nightmare away, telling himself that it was only a dream, that it wasn't real, that it couldn't hurt him. But Blair's voice came to him then, spilling across his attempts at rationalization and washing them all away: "Your dreams are manifestations of your subconscious trying to process information. And think about it--if your five physical senses are enhanced, then isn't it possible that your subconscious might be enhanced as well? Don't ignore your dreams, Jim. In your case, they really might be trying to tell you something."

  A shiver crept its way down the length of his spine, chilling him. Unconsciously, he reached down and grabbed the comforter, then pulled it up around his shoulders. Was this dream trying to tell him something? More often than not, Sandburg's theories turned out to be correct. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He hoped that this time, his guide's words would prove to be wrong.

  /

  /

  Jim lifted the corner of the morning newspaper and peeked under it. Nothing. He let the paper drop back to the surface of the coffee table. Frowning, he walked over to the shelves that housed his compact disc collection. For the third time since rising that morning he perused the familiar titles, looking for his newest acquisition--Supernatural, the first release by Carlos Santana in over five years.

  As he searched, patchy memories of the nightmare that had assailed him in the middle of the night lingered at the back of his mind, like a dark cloud on the outer periphery of his consciousness. Sighing deeply, he did his best to ignore the plaguing uneasiness. He leaned in closer to the shelves and concentrated more diligently on his search, reading then re-reading the titles. Finally, he gave up. The CD just wasn't there.

  He straightened and glanced back at the French doors of the bedroom where Blair slept. Narrowing his eyes, he decided that as soon as his roommate was up, he'd ask him about the CD. Santana wasn't exactly Sandburg's favorite choice in musical entertainment, but maybe the kid had decided to expand his musical horizons and give the aging musician an honest try after all.

  A series of little bumping sounds reached his ears and Jim smiled fondly. And then, as though in perfect synchronization with his thoughts, his rumpled, half-asleep roommate appeared at the doors of his room. The young man yawned, then made a beeline for the coffeepot. Jim had watched this scene played out at the loft on more mornings that he could count, and he was totally convinced that the kid could find that coffeepot even if he were blindfolded. A sadistic smile pulled at the edges of the sentinel's mouth. Maybe I'll run a few tests on the professor one of these days--payback for all the tests the kid has put me through in the past four years.

  "Good morning, Chief," Jim called across the expanse of the loft.

  Blair didn't look at him; he simply waved a hand and then leaned heavily into the kitchen counter, as though he needed its support to remain upright. Lines of concentration etched themselves in his features as he positioned the coffeepot over a mug and poured the hot liquid, grimacing a bit when some of the coffee sloshed out onto the counter.

  Jim chuckled at the sight of his wobbly, bleary-eyed partner, then walked over to stand opposite him. For the first time since emerging from his room, Blair looked up at him. Sandburg held the coffeepot up with one hand. "More?"

  Jim laughed and reached over to take the pot out of Blair's hand. "Yes, but I'll pour. I'd rather drink my coffee than wear it, thank you very much."

  "Yeah, yeah, whatever," Blair replied drowsily. He squinted up at the taller man. "So what have you been doing out here this morning? I heard all this muttering and then things being moved around. You lose something?"

  "Well, I'm not sure," Jim replied, looking out across the loft, then returning his gaze to Blair. "Have you seen that new Santana CD I bought the other day? I can't find it anywhere. I thought maybe I'd left it in the truck, but it wasn't down there, either."

  Blair took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. "Sorry, man. Haven't seen it."

  "You sure? You didn't take it to your office?"

  Blair choked back a laugh. "Um, sorry to disappoint you, Jim, but if I played Santana in my office, my students would lose all respect for me. Know what I mean?"

  "That only proves that your students, like their esteemed professor, wouldn't know good music if they heard it," Jim retorted dryly. He bit at his lip and swept his vision across the loft again. "Seriously, Chief, I know I brought that CD up from the truck. I just can't figure out what I did with it."

  "I still think you're just getting forgetful in your old age. I mean, yesterday you couldn't find your watch, and now it's that CD. It isn't like you to lose things, Jim. Especially not two things so close together."

  Blair's words, spoken lightly and in jest, nevertheless held a truth that Jim couldn't ignore. It wasn't like him to lose things. Everything had a place. Everything.

  He moved over to the couch and looked out across the city. A vague memory pricked at the edges of his mind, something familiar but not thought of in a long, long time... Suddenly the scenes from the previous night's dream assaulted his mind in stark vividness, demanding his attention. Lost things... lost things that were buried, then found. But found too late. No. Oh, no! Taking a gasping breath, Jim sat down abruptly, heavily, on the couch.

  Behind him, he heard Blair's bare footfal
ls as the younger man rushed over to the living area. "Jim? Jim, what's wrong?" Blair was beside him then, sitting close, a warm hand against the back of his neck. "Talk to me, Jim. You're as white as a ghost and you're scaring me here."

  Jim shook his head, then looked over at Blair. He gestured lightly with his hand. "I'm okay, Chief," he breathed out. "It's just... I was reminded of something from my past again. Only this time I remember..."

  Instantly Blair shifted, moving closer. Jim could sense his friend's concern, could almost feel it. "What are you remembering from your past?"

  "What you said about me never losing things... it made me remember something from when I was a kid, like I did yesterday when I zoned. And last night, I had a dream. A nightmare, actually." Jim ran his hands back across his hair, then dropped them back into his lap. "All of a sudden everything sort of came together for me. Just shocked me, I guess."

  "Okay, okay, we can deal with this," Blair said, reassuring his partner. He moved his hand down to Jim's forearm, letting it rest there. "Just relax and tell me what you're remembering."

  Jim settled back into the couch cushions. "When I was younger, about ten or twelve, I guess, a kid--Eddie Rostin--moved into our neighborhood. He was a bit strange, but all of us guys tried to include him in things when we could. Anyway, Eddie loved to play hide and seek. That's all he ever wanted to do. So we went along with him. And I was really good at hide and seek. Really good. I found the kids every time." A small smile crossed Jim's face.

  "Well, that makes sense," Blair reasoned. "After all, we've already determined that you were using your enhanced senses even when you were a kid. You probably recognized the different scents associated with your individual friends and used that recognition to track and find them."

  "Yeah?" Jim considered that. "Maybe. Anyway, this kid could never win at hide and seek when I played. Never. So he became sort of obsessed with beating me. It was innocent at first--he'd take balls or stuff like that and hide them. Then he'd tell me what he'd done and challenge me to find them. At first it was fun--I guess that even as a kid I liked a challenge." Jim paused, frowning. "But after a while, the game became weird. I think it frustrated him that I could find stuff so easily, so he notched the game up a bit. He started putting a time limit on how long I had to search."