“Just get inside, Sandburg. I’m hungry and since I’m going to fix something for me to eat, it’s just as easy to add enough for you.” Ellison waited for the young man to cross the threshold into the loft, then he shut the door behind him. “I can drive you home afterwards. I need to pick up a few groceries, anyway.” He dropped his keys on the counter and took off his jacket and hung it up, motioning for the anthropologist to do the same. “It’s no problem.”
Sandburg set down his backpack on one of the wooden chairs at the dining table, then started to undo the buttons to his jacket. “You don’t have to take me home. Dropping me at the university is fine. I want to get my car.”
“Whatever.” Ellison washed his hands, then opened the fridge to see if he had enough spaghetti sauce left to feed both of them. If he added some vegetables, he would have enough, especially if he added a can of mushrooms or something. Opening the pantry, he took out what he needed and set it on the counter, then pulled out two pots from the cupboard.
Sandburg finally had his coat off and was hanging it up.
Ellison filled one of the pots with water and set it on the stove. He emptied the sauce into the other pot and added the canned mushrooms, giving it a quick stir.
Sandburg was still at the coat rack, frozen in place.
Ellison adjusted the heat, then peered at the kid again. “What are you staring at?” he asked, frowning.
“What? Oh. Nothing.” Sandburg patted his jacket absently, but from where Ellison was standing he could see now what had paralyzed the young man. A gunshot hole in the sleeve.
“When did that happen?” the detective asked, his voice even, as though it were no big deal. He’d seen it earlier, but in the confusion of everything going on, he hadn’t asked how it had occurred. There was no blood, so the kid hadn’t been injured, at least.
“What? That? They shot at me once. Missed,” Sandburg said with a little laugh, washing his hands at the sink, hands that were beginning to tremble.
Oh, shit. The kid’s going to fall apart on me.
“Uh … why don’t you just go sit down on the couch? Relax a little. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready. It’ll be at least fifteen minutes.”
Sandburg nodded, head down, eyes closed, as he bent over while hanging on to the counter edging the sink. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Give me a second,” he added, his cheeks flushed against a suddenly pale face.
“Sandburg?” Ellison stepped closer, ready to catch him if he passed out. The stress of the day was just catching up with this kid.
“No, please.” Sandburg held one hand up, keeping the Sentinel at bay. “I just never had anyone hold a gun on me before, and this has been twice in two weeks. And they shot at me, man. I guess you’re used to it, but I’m not—”
“It’s a normal reaction—” Ellison began, launching into a standard talk to a rookie cop or soldier.
“I just wasn’t expecting it,” Sandburg said, interrupting him, speaking as though he hadn’t heard the other man. “One minute I’m in the restroom trying to convince my bladder that it wasn’t empty, and the next minute I almost wet my pants. I mean, that was just too freaky, man. What was that about, anyway? What were those guys trying to prove? Can anyone just take over the police headquarters of a city the size of Cascade? How did they know all the ins and outs of how the station worked? What’s wrong with this country? Where did they get all those guns? Those guys were going to kill everyone. Kincaid told them to kill all those people! That little boy — your captain’s son! That nice lady. That bomb guy who I met the other day. Oh, man. Oh, man …” Sandburg was bent over almost double, still clinging to the counter, panting, having what appeared to be an anxiety attack.
Ellison blinked as he heard Sandburg’s staccato breathing. The kid was going to end up with a heart attack if he didn’t calm down fairly quick. He took another step closer, pausing as Sandburg jerked away and put his hand up again, motioning the detective to stay back. His hand shook in the air, the wild tremors getting worse. Every time he took a step toward Sandburg, the kid would move away from him, until finally the young man was cornered by the fridge. It was like trying to corner a wild animal.
“Sandburg—”
“You have a gun. Where’s your gun?” Sandburg’s voice was raspy as he shot out the question.
“What?”
“Your gun? Where is it?”
“Why?” he asked, puzzled.
“Have you killed people with it?” Sandburg stared up at him for a brief second, then gave a strangled cry. “Oh, my God. You have. Oh, my God.”
“I use my weapon only to protect myself and others. I have permits and legal permission to have that weapon,” he said, gesturing to the table where his gun lay. He took a step closer, now within arm’s reach of the kid.
Sandburg looked over at the gun, then shifted again, his back sliding across the front of the fridge. “I’m sorry man, but this is a little too intense, you know? I mean, theoretically I knew you had a gun and everything, but you’ve actually killed people with it. Maybe that’s old stuff to you, but this is a whole new concept to me, okay? I— I— stay away from me,” Sandburg whispered, his face twisting in anguish when Ellison took a step toward him. “Please. I’ve— I’ve got to figure this out.”
“Calm down, Chief. You’re getting all worked up over nothing—” Ellison said, instantly regretting his words.
“Over nothing? People are gunned down and it’s nothing to you? Don’t you care? Don’t you give a damn about—”
“Of course, I do!” Ellison snapped at him, frowning when the kid flinched. “I’ve pledged my life to help them. I risked my life today to rescue them. We can’t always stop situations from happening—”
“Why not?” Sandburg said bitterly. “Why the hell not? Doctors practice preventative medicine — Isn’t there something the police can do?”
“There are no easy answers, Chief,” Ellison said, keeping his voice level. “We do everything we can—”
Sandburg waved him silent, horrified at his own reactions. “I know. Sorry, man. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said any of it. That was stupid. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” The words came in short pants. Sandburg’s eyes were closed now, his face white, his lips colorless. He looked like his knees were about to give out, and Ellison was determined to have him sitting down before that happened. “It’s all just churning inside,” Sandburg whispered.
“It’s okay,” the detective responded, hoping to calm him further. “You did good, today, actually. You fast-talked your way out of several dangerous situations. You did good,” he repeated, reaching out to snag Sandburg’s sleeve.
“Six people fucking died!” Sandburg tore his arm from Ellison’s grasp and moved past him down the short hallway. He ran blindly into the door at the end of the hall, then leaned onto it, one fist banging against the flat surface. “They died!” he mumbled, resting his cheek against the door, his eyes closed, clenched tight. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes there’s nothing we can do—”
“Where was everyone? How the hell did they just march in and do that?” Sandburg looked over his shoulder and shouted at him, not caring that tears streamed down his face. “Why didn’t anyone stop them?”
Ellison shook his head, trying to find some words to reach Sandburg’s anguish, but there was little he could say. “We tried. We stopped them from killing anyone else.”
“Too late. It was too late,” Sandburg murmured, turning back to face the door. He leaned his head on the hard surface, his shoulders shaking as near-silent sobs wracked his body.
Ellison looked around his apartment, trying to think of something to do to help this kid, to get him under control. Often there was nothing one could say to take away the victim’s trauma. And he wasn’t fooling himself. He knew Sandburg was a victim, just as much as the other hostages. He thought of Daryl’s passionate reunion with his father, of how the other hostages had hugged each other
when it was over. And Sandburg… there had been no one there for him to turn to, no one offering support. Instead Sandburg had stood off to one side, internalizing everything, trying to push down his own fears and help others instead. Classic avoidance.
Ellison frowned, thinking about it. He knew all about classic avoidance. But he had also had training in recognizing it in himself. Sandburg, for all his degrees, was the innocent here. Sandburg who knew all about sentinels and tribal mating customs and co-ed dorms and had a thousand and one facts at his fingertips… Sandburg didn’t know the first thing about coping with post-traumatic stress. Perhaps he’d read about it, but that was different than living it.
Ellison had lived it. In far too many shapes and colors.
But touch sometimes succeeded when words failed. Ellison stepped closer and laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder, relieved when Sandburg offered no further resistance. Slowly he turned him around and eased him down the hallway, past the kitchen and into the living room. Sandburg let himself be seated on the edge of the couch, then tilted sideways to rest his head on the cushions.
“Can you rest for a few minutes?” Ellison asked, then retrieved a folded blanket on the other couch and draped it over the young man. Sandburg grabbed hold of the blanket and pulled it around him like a protective mantle.
Ellison retreated to the kitchen, standing at the stove. Mechanically, he opened the box of pasta and emptied it into the pot of boiling water. The sauce in the other pot was just starting to bubble, so he stirred it absently, his gaze going constantly back to the man in his living room.
He thought briefly of phoning Simon and asking for advice on how to best handle a civilian in distress, but considering what Daryl was going through, Simon had more than enough to deal with on his own. Besides, he was trying to convince the captain to let Sandburg ride with him, that the kid could handle it.
And there really was no one else he could he talk to. Joel Taggart was in the hospital. Maybe Carolyn? No, not for this.
Danny, maybe? Ellison worked out their ages and realized that Danny and Sandburg were probably within a few years of each other. Maybe Danny could talk to this kid. They’d relate better. He would be seeing Danny next week, so if things worked out, he’d introduce them. He liked the idea of them meeting. His two good friends. Both were—
Ellison froze, then blinked. Friends? Where did that come from? I barely know the kid.
Stress. It’s got to me, too. I’m blowing this all out of proportion. In a few weeks, when I get this sentinel thing under control, the kid will be gone.
He looked back to Sandburg. The young man was unmoving. He listened. The breathing was ragged, but Sandburg was sleeping, the nightmare momentarily held at bay.
He’d let him sleep until dinner was ready — five minutes — and then he’d wake him up. He didn’t want him to get in the habit of hanging out here.
This is my home, he repeated. You belong somewhere else. You need to find someone else to take care of you.
He drained the noodles and put them on two plates, then poured the sauce over them and put the plates on the table. Cutlery, Parmesan cheese, and water glasses. A loaf of bread and some butter. Not fancy, but then this wasn’t a restaurant. He liked the kid and didn’t mind cooking dinner for him this once, but he needed to draw the line somewhere. The kid obviously wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. He needed to toughen up. Maybe if he got some training in firearms, he wouldn’t be so afraid of them.
“Sandburg?” Ellison called out loudly, not looking at the couch. “Dinner’s ready.” He sat with his back to the living room and began to eat. He was halfway through his meal before Sandburg joined him, silently slipping into the chair opposite. “I don’t have a microwave to heat it up; it’s getting repaired.”
“This is fine,” Sandburg whispered, not raising his eyes, and Ellison had to listen carefully to catch the faint words. “Thank you.”
“Eat up and I’ll take you back to your car.”
The young man nodded and picked up his fork, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve.
“Want some coffee?” Ellison asked after a few minutes. “Or milk?” he added, trying to think of something to say.
Sandburg only shook his head, then replied softly, “No, thank you. This is fine.”
It didn’t matter much, since the kid didn’t eat more than two mouthfuls. He pushed the food around the plate, twirling the noodles around his fork. Finally, when Ellison cleared his own dishes, Sandburg picked up his plate and carried it to the counter, then disappeared into the bathroom. Ellison could hear the water running in the sink, the long deep breaths Sandburg was taking, then the soft sound of water splashing as he washed his face.
It was late. He would talk to Sandburg tomorrow, try to get him to put it all in perspective. Try to convince him to stick around a while longer. But tonight… tonight Sandburg needed to go home and sleep.
When he came out of the bathroom, Ellison was ready, coat on and keys in hand, and he drove him back to the university.
*
Killers
It was a quiet night. Rain had fallen incessantly all day, the sky gray and foreboding, but as darkness came on the city, the skies became an ever-changing pattern of clouds and clear patches. The lull in the weather seemed to lift the sentinel’s spirits and he wondered briefly if it had anything to do with his senses. Would he now find himself overly-sensitive to changes in barometer and air temperature on top of everything else? The last month, since this sentinel-thing kicked in, had been uneasy, tense, pushing him as close to the edge as he had ever been, and yet, tonight, the nearer he got to the university, the more he felt like a great weight was lifting off his shoulders.
It was such a dramatic change from the black pit he had been in earlier that day, that as he drove along the bayside road, he found himself contemplating the reversal of mood and trying to pin down exactly what was buoying his spirits. Was it really the absence of rain? Being out of the courtroom? Out of the bullpen?
No. It was less subjective. It was more a feeling of anticipation. Curiosity.
Hope, maybe.
Hope that what? That things would get better? That a hippy college kid held some answers for him?
Not a wise move. He’d learned the hard way not to put too much reliance on one person and here he was doing exactly that — expecting Sandburg to come up with all the answers he was looking for. Sandburg was just a kid, still enwrapped in the false world of academia, protected within its hallowed walls. He had no doubt Sandburg was sincere, but how much was he also guessing? Making up? How much of what Ellison was being told was simply conjecture, wishful thinking, or story lore?
But then, my headaches are gone. He’s been on the nose so far. He’s doing something right.
Ellison shrugged off the train of thought and let the good mood settle back. He turned on the radio, playing with the dial until he found a station with some oldies. The luminous clock on his console said it was 7:50 p.m. He was right on time. Yeah, this is good. Ellison felt a smile cross his face and indulged himself for a few minutes as he drove, enjoying the evening, his fingers drumming the steering wheel as he glanced out to the harbor, sharp eyes tracking a ferry as it churned through the waters.
The university was at the edge of Cascade, bordering one side of the inlet, just far enough from the downtown area that the absence of overhead street lights seemed to accentuate the darkness, and in places Ellison could see the stars emerging. After a week of rain, it felt good to see brief glimpses of familiar constellations. The tires made a slight shhhhhh sound as they passed over the damp, glistening pavement. Traffic was light, almost non-existent. His police radio remained remarkably quiet, and Neil Schon’s guitar wailed through the stereo speakers.
Ellison automatically turned onto the university lands, a route that was becoming exceedingly familiar. Sandburg had some kind of class he was attending that ended at eight, and he had agreed to accompany Jim on his rounds the rest of
the evening. A busy university schedule the past few days had kept the doctoral student from the station, although Simon Banks’ suggestion that Sandburg was avoiding the police department because of what had happened the week before was also a possibility. It was clear that they needed to talk about Kincaid’s raid. Sandburg wasn’t a cop, as Ellison had been rudely reminded when the kid fell apart on him at the loft. He had actually been surprised that Sandburg had agreed to meet him the following day to work on a problem with his sense of smell, but neither man had mentioned the police station. Conversation had been strictly limited to sentinel things, and Ellison hadn’t wanted to spook the kid by mentioning the hostage incident.
Bypassing the parking lot, the detective turned onto the narrow road that ran in front of Hargrove Hall. At this time of the evening, there were few students around and the campus seemed strangely silent, so different from the frenetic activity during the day. He had disliked the whole pressure-filled scene when he had been a college student and liked it less now that he was removed from university life. The atmosphere seemed so false, so far away from what was real in life. Wars and bloodshed and battles raged, people died of starvation, poverty and corruption swallowed whole people-groups, while some poor college kid was committing suicide because he didn’t get a high enough mark on an exam.
Sometimes it didn’t make much sense.
Sandburg, though, seemed to thrive in the academic atmosphere. It’s where he belongs, not traipsing after me. Ellison rubbed at his neck, stiff after sitting in court all afternoon listening to the defense drone on and on about the misunderstood childhood of a man charged with multiple convenience store hold-ups. Several times Ellison had turned to say something to Sandburg, and then found himself almost irritated that the kid wasn’t there with him. Added to that irritation was the fact that in the few short weeks Ellison had known Sandburg, the student had never actually been with him at a trial, which led Ellison to wonder at his growing expectation that Sandburg would be at his right-hand side whenever he needed him.
Feet on the Couch Page 3
