Feet on the Couch

by Lois RH Balzer

  He shrugged into his terry robe and opened the door to the bathroom, his eyes drawn to Sandburg. From this angle, it was immediately apparent that the kid wasn’t meditating, he was sleeping. Sitting rigidly on the couch, his head slightly bent now to one side.

  Ellison glared at him. Where does he think he is? The whole picture didn’t look right. What was a grown man doing sleeping like that? Looked like a baby in a high chair. And if Sandburg stayed in that position much longer, he’d have headache for sure. Or at least a sore neck.

  He walked by him, up the stairs to his bedroom, taking care to make a lot of noise. He flipped the radio on loudly, turning it up loud, so he could listen to the early evening news while he dressed. The volume was a little too intense with his hearing the way it was, and he ended up turning it down. It didn’t really matter because Sandburg slept on, unaware.

  Ellison stood at the railing and looked down at him. Maybe he was being too harsh. He’s just sleeping, not trashing your place. Besides, the kid needed to catch up on some sleep. He looked a little ragged around the edges — as worse for wear as the gaping holes in the knees of his jeans. That’s what I get for getting mixed up with a college student. No sense of the realities of day -to-day responsibilities. Flighty — that’s what he is. Just how long am I going to hold his interest, anyway?

  It was seven o’clock. If he wanted to drop the kid off and stop and pick up a nice bottle of wine — did she say what she was making? Should I buy red or white? Regardless, he had to get going. He’d said eight o’clock and he’d be there on time. That ought to prove something to her.

  Why did I tell the kid it was on the way? The university is in the opposite direction from Carolyn’s.

  Guilt, that was it. The kid was helping him out, and so far, hadn’t asked for a penny from him.

  Ellison jogged down the stairs, pausing only long enough to punch Sandburg on the arm as he passed. “Come on, Chief. This isn’t a hostel or a flop pad or whatever you kids are calling it these days. We’ve got to go.”

  He heard the startled gasp behind him and studiously ignored it. Maybe he’d been a little too abrupt, but the kid had to learn. Sandburg looked more than a little flaky — tie-died shirt, long coat, the scruffy jeans. And two earring holes in his left ear; Sandburg had obviously taken the earrings out the day before, for whatever reason. No, not establishment.

  Ellison rubbed at his own earlobe, remembering how he got the pierced hole — an undercover assignment that he had meticulously prepared for, including the single earring.

  He reached for his keys and turned to find Sandburg at his elbow, blinking rapidly, trying to wake up. “Ready to go?”

  “Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate this.” Sandburg looked up at him, smiling slightly, but his face was drawn in pain. The hand must be hurting.

  Ellison thought of the Tylenol in his cupboard, then decided he wasn’t going to start handing out drugs to a college student. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.” He ushered the kid out, then shut the door behind them.

  *

  Siege

  Jim Ellison emerged from the captain’s office rubbing the back of his neck as he passed through Major Crimes, trying not to react to the smell of blood that still permeated the room five hours after it had been cleaned up.

  Rhonda walked by him, her eyes glancing up to meet his, then looking away quickly. She had been crying — a close friend was one of the police department staff members gunned down in the communications room — but she had refused to go home, insisting on staying to help out in any way she could. The building was full of on-duty and off-duty personnel, all reeling from the shock of what had gone down in their own building. Their own turf. Their own people.

  Ellison sank down at his desk and powered up the computer, only to realize it was still not working. He lifted the telephone receiver, glad to hear a dial tone at least, and then hung it up. He rifled through the papers on his desk, most of which had been gathered from the floor where they had been knocked during the siege. They were all mixed up, interspersed with documents belonging to other detectives in the bullpen. He pulled out anything that didn’t belong to him and stood up long enough to drop the stack on top of the desk next to his. Brown could take his stuff and pass the rest on.

  He frowned, going through the papers again. He was missing something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

  “Jim?” Simon Banks stood at the door of his office. “I called the hospital about Joel. He’s doing fine. They don’t expect any complications, but he’s lost a lot of blood. He’ll be there for a few days, at least.”

  Ellison nodded, but couldn’t find the energy to even come up with a smile for the haggard police captain. “How’s Daryl?” he asked, finally.

  “I was just going to call Joan and see how he was doing. She handled the whole thing remarkably well — or at least she’s trying to keep calm about it so Daryl doesn’t get any more spooked than he is already. When I spoke with her an hour ago, she agreed that we should make sure he gets some reliable counseling for this; she said she’s going to talk to his school counselor and let him know what happened, and I’ve told her I’d pay for a professional psychologist, someone who’s trained to deal with the aftermath of situations like this. I’ve got a good idea of who I’m going to call. But he was doing fine, she said. Watching TV.” Simon leaned against the doorframe and sighed deeply. “Damn it, Jim. Why Daryl?”

  “He’s a good kid, Simon. He’ll make it through this.” Ellison shook his head, remembering the sight of the fourteen-year-old boy dangling from the seventh floor window. And the same kid who had attacked one of the men who had been ready to gun them all down. “He showed a lot of nerve tackling Kincaid’s gunman. You’ve a right to be proud.”

  “So do you. Your cousin’s kid — or whoever he is — is a quick thinker. What’s wrong?” Banks asked swiftly, as Ellison stood up.

  “Sandburg. That’s what I’m missing. He was sitting out here when I went in to talk to you.”

  “Jim, we were in there talking to witnesses for close to two hours. Did you just leave him sitting out here?”

  “I didn’t think we’d be that long, then … I guess I forgot about him. Hey, I’m not used to keeping track of someone else,” Ellison said with a shrug.

  “And you wonder why you don’t have a partner?” Banks asked, dryly. “Seriously, maybe he got bored and went home.” Banks paused at Ellison’s slight frown. “Jim, he has a home, doesn’t he?”

  “I’m sure he does. I just meet him at the university. I’ve never actually been to his place.”

  “Where is it? He could have taken a bus.”

  “I’m not sure. Near the university, I think.”

  “Please don’t tell me he’s one of the unofficial residents of the woods around Rainier University. We’ve been chasing students out of there for years. They camp out in the denser areas.”

  “No. He’s got a place. And a TV that he was complaining about. He mentioned watching the news report of the Switchman and how it kept on going on the blink.”

  “So, no cable. Hmm … He seemed a little dazed when I saw him earlier. How’s he dealing with this?”

  Ellison shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance really to talk to him. We came down from the roof and I left him sitting here while I went in with you to debrief. Then we started interviewing the others.”

  “We’ll need to talk to him too. Set something up for tomorrow. He was one-on-one with Kincaid. His testimony will be important.”

  “I’ll tell him. He’s got sharp eyes; I’m sure he’ll be an excellent witness.”

  Banks looked up, frowning. “Sharp eyes? Don’t tell me he’s got this same senses-thing as you.”

  “No, he’s just helping me with—”

  “Wait. Not now. Tell me later. I’m going to need something stronger than this coffee when you do.” Simon sighed as two more civilian office workers entered Major Crimes. “Tell Sandburg he did ok
ay, it was a hell of a first day on the job for him,” Simon muttered to Jim, then turned his attention to the newcomers.

  “Captain Banks?” the young man asked, continuing when Simon nodded at him. “We’re from Bookings. We were told to report here to give you our reports.”

  “Thank you. Just go in my office and sit at the conference table. I’ll be right in.” Simon closed the door after them, looking over to Ellison. “Jim, why don’t you go find out if kid is still here and then go home. It’s almost seven o’clock.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need me in there?”

  “Nah. I think we’ve got all we’re going to get.” Banks smiled reassuringly, took a deep breath, and disappeared inside his office.

  Ellison picked up his telephone receiver. Shortly after Sandburg began helping him get control of his senses, he insisted Sandburg get a cell phone, because he was almost impossible to reach at the university. Calling him at home was equally difficult — make that impossible — since he didn’t have a phone. Well, at least that had been taken care of last week when Sandburg had proudly handed him a card with his new telephone number on it. Ellison pulled it from his wallet and punched in the number.

  A phone started ringing … from below him somewhere. He hung up, bent over, and stared at the familiar battered backpack tucked under his desk. Well, at least he’s here somewhere.

  But where? He groaned. Do I want to know where he might have wandered to? What he could have said?

  Ellison sat up straighter as possibilities presented themselves. Maybe some overeager young rookie arrested him? They had tried to on the station roof earlier, dragging Sandburg off while the kid yelled that he was one of the good guys.

  That brought a smile, one of the first ones since this whole thing began. Gulf War vet. Fought in Desert Storm. Right …

  He liked Sandburg. The young man had an infectious smile, was a fast thinker, and from what Ellison had heard, had handled himself well with Kincaid.

  Ellison went out into the corridor and stood, hands on hips, looking around. The station was crowded. Detectives, clerical workers, forensic officers, friends and family trying to find out if their loved ones were still alive, or if they were one of the unlucky few who had been gunned down, as the radio stations had been quick to report.

  So how was he going to find the kid in nine floors of offices, holding cells, rest rooms, break rooms, and corridors? He didn’t know where to look.

  Don’t look. Listen.

  He could hear the kid even when he wasn’t around.

  He smiled and closed his eyes, tilting his head unconsciously as he listened, trying to tune in on the voice that had been chirping in his ear for the last two weeks. Soft and soothing, sometimes. Demanding and blunt, other times. But always sincere, always intense and focused …

  He heard someone crying, a woman …

  Someone was sick …

  He could hear the anguish in a hundred different voices, the tension, the pain …

  Anger. Two rookies swearing.

  Wait …there …

  “So what was he like? I never had the chance to know him.”

  Sandburg’s voice. Caring. Coaxing the young office worker to talk about one of the communications officers who had been killed.

  Ellison tried to pull back a bit to see if he could figure out where Sandburg was, and ended up disoriented, his senses out of whack, dizziness forcing him to lean back against the wall. All his senses reeled as his hearing overloaded, picking up too much at once. He lost Sandburg’s voice amid the confusion and shook his head, trying to recapture it with a strange desperation.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Ellison opened his eyes. Sandburg was right in front of him, touching his arm, steadying him. “What?” the detective muttered, allowing the younger man to steer him around the corner into the bullpen and over to his desk.

  “Everything okay, Jim?” Detective Brown asked, moving to stand in front of his desk. “I saw this guy go flying down the corridor and—”

  “He’s fine, H. He’s with me,” Ellison said, leaning back in his chair, stretching his neck.

  Sandburg, still hovering at his side, gave a little wave. “Yeah. Hi. Blair Sandburg,” he said, introducing himself, then turning his attention back to Ellison, one hand resting on the sentinel’s wrist.

  “Henri Brown.” The detective stared at him, slightly puzzled, then returned to his desk when it appeared no one was going to give him more information.

  “What happened?” Sandburg asked softly, his face inches away. “Are you okay?”

  Ellison tried to readjust his vision to focus on the concerned face. “Yeah, I just — I was trying to find you, so I did what you said.”

  “Which was?”

  “I listened until I heard you, but then I couldn’t figure out where you were and—” The dizziness returned and Ellison clenched his teeth, fighting back the unpleasant sensations. He could feel fear radiate from the kid, the cold fingers resting against his pulse, the fine tremor of unacknowledged anxiety.

  “You heard me?” Hope drifted into the voice.

  “But I couldn’t keep the sound. I don’t know. This isn’t working. I can’t—”

  “You can, Jim. You just need to learn how. And that’s pretty cool,” Sandburg said, kneeling beside him. “You did what I said. You listened and you found me.”

  “Where were you?” he asked, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead.

  “I don’t know exactly. In that room with the candy and pop machines.”

  “The break room.”

  “Is that what you call it? Yeah, that’s where I was. Why were you looking for me?”

  Ellison opened his eyes again, found he could focus properly, and shook his head. “Let’s get out of here. I need to clear my head. Has it stopped snowing?”

  “I’ll check.” Sandburg stood up, looked around, then leaned over to him. “How can you work in a place without any windows?”

  “There’s lots of windows here,” Ellison mumbled, rubbing his forehead. “All around us.”

  “Windows to the outside, man. This is stifling.” The chatter started, words too quick. “Your working environment sucks, man. No wonder you have a headache. Recycled air, fluorescent lighting, all the low-level noises from the computers and faxes and printers. Did you know that statistics now prove that—”

  “Slow down!” Ellison ordered. “I’ve been in Simon’s office for the last couple of hours and it has a window. My headache has nothing to do with that.” He continued before he lost his question. “Sandburg — how did you know I was looking for you? Did you just happen to come out of the break room and see me?”

  “I was talking with Stacy and … I … just sort of started wondering how you were doing. I told her I’d be right back and — oh, man. I better go say goodbye to her. I ran out of there rather suddenly.” Sandburg jumped up nervously and raced from the room, causing every head in the office to jerk up as they registered the blur of activity.

  “It’s okay. He’s with me,” Ellison called out again, already having the feeling that he would be saying that a lot in the weeks to come. He’s with me. How did that happen?

  *

  Something had happened during the ride home. Ellison could feel his tight control slipping. During the entire takeover, he had kept himself focused, concentrating on getting into the station, then taking down Kincaid and his men. But eventually his resources had to wear down. Usually by this time he would be back home, sitting on the couch with a beer and losing himself in whatever was on television. Not thinking about it. Letting other mindless images fill his thoughts.

  But he wasn’t home yet and the anger was surfacing. He could feel his jaw tighten, his teeth grind together. His hands gripped the steering wheel. He knew he was driving fast, pushing the speed limit.

  He was also aware of Sandburg beside him in the front seat, sitting very still, trying to be invisible. No doubt thinking the anger was aimed at him. “I’m
not mad at you,” he said, deliberately easing his foot on the gas.

  “I know,” came the quick reply, hardly louder than a breath. The kid had been strangely quiet once they had reached the truck. Even now, he sat with one hand on the passenger side door handle; at one point Ellison had thought he was going to jump out. Sandburg was trying very hard not to be afraid of something, and Ellison had the sneaking suspicion that the kid would not be around tomorrow. Adios.

  And Kincaid would score another victim.

  Ellison’s fist crashed against the dashboard and Sandburg jumped, edging closer to his door. “It’s not you,” he repeated, one hand raised in a placating gesture, his eyes glaring at the road and traffic around him.

  No answer this time, just a silent sharp nod.

  Ellison stifled a groan. He was spooking the kid. He had to pull back, to get a hold of his anger. This wasn’t aimed at Sandburg, but the student was sure as hell interpreting it that way.

  He parked outside the loft. He’d cook dinner for Sandburg. Talk to him a bit. Make sure he was okay with everything. Maybe prep him for the debriefing the next day. They hadn’t spent any time discussing the kind of situations he might find himself in helping him on the job, and it was obviously an issue that needed to be addressed.

  Which led his thoughts back to the Kincaid. Ellison stabbed the “open door” button on the elevator, pushing through as soon as the opening was wide enough. Five long strides down the corridor and he was at his apartment, jabbing the key in the lock. “Are you coming?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  Sandburg stepped out of the elevator, but kept one hand over the sensor, preventing the door from closing. “Are you sure you’re up for making dinner, man? You look kinda beat. Why don’t I just call a cab and go to the university and get my car?” A tentative smile accompanied the suggestion.