Feet on the Couch

by Lois RH Balzer

  Ellison stopped halfway up his stairs. “How many times has he seen this?”

  “Lots.” Sandburg disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later the shower came on.

  Larry hung upside down in his cage and chattered at the TV screen.

  One week, Ellison promised himself.

  *

  He had breakfast ready by the time Sandburg came out of his bedroom. “Pull up a seat,” he ordered.

  Sandburg seemed surprised. “Is that for me?”

  “I don’t see anyone else here. Sit down.” He gestured to the table, and the kid slid into the closest vacant chair. “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Uh…. scrambled.”

  “Light or firm?”

  “Firm.”

  “Same as me. That makes it easier.” He left the eggs on the burner for another thirty seconds, then clicked it off. “Do you eat bacon?”

  Sandburg sat staring at him blankly. “Once in a while,” he stammered.

  “There’s orange juice, coffee, toast, jam, bacon, and eggs. Help yourself.” Ellison dished out the eggs and put the pan in the sink. “Dig in,” he ordered, and started to butter his toast. He glanced up to see Sandburg looking down at the table. “What’s wrong?” he asked when twenty seconds went by without the kid moving.

  Sandburg shifted then, obviously uncomfortable. “I don’t have any money right now, but I’ll pay you back as soon as I can, okay? It’s just that I spent all my last check on rent and stuff and I have to wait for my next check at the end of the week. I didn’t mean to take advantage of you or anything. Well, I did, maybe a little bit, but I promise I’ll be out of here as soon as I can. You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m not asking you to go out of your way. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. Really. It’s just that—”

  Ellison put down his knife and waved the kid silent. “It’s just breakfast, Chief. It’s not a problem.” He got up and retrieved the salt and pepper, wondering why he always managed to forget to put them on the table.

  Sandburg seemed to come to some sort of understanding and finally picked up his fork and began to eat, slowly at first, and then with more appetite once he had swallowed a few bites.

  The tension dissolved and they ate and talked about the drug lab, Larry and his TV addiction, what each had planned for the day, and ideas about what to make for dinner. Sandburg made him laugh and he almost choked on his eggs. When they finished eating, the kid offered to clean up and Ellison left for the police station in a relatively good mood, feeling relaxed and content, a smile on his face.

  It’ll be okay. I’ll make it a week.

  Maybe even two.

  *

  Cypher

  (Pre-Cypher)

  Jim Ellison shut the door to his truck and headed over to the apartment building door, glancing up to the faint, flickering lights seen through his bedroom windows. Sandburg was home already, which meant dinner was happening, there was a fire in the fireplace, and a friendly smile would greet him when he walked into the loft.

  I could get used to this, he thought with a smile.

  But he’s moving out on Sunday.

  That had been the deal. Just for a week. And Sandburg had found a temporary place to stay until he could come up with enough money to put the first/last month’s rent and security deposit down on another place of his own. It was a two bedroom apartment near the university. A nice enough building from the outside — Ellison had detoured to drive by it on the way home from work the day before, wanting to make sure the address was in a safe neighborhood. The apartment was rented out to a Christine Hong. No priors. Her roommate was apparently taking a month off to deal with a family emergency and had any trouble with the idea of Blair Sandburg staying there during that time. And since Christine was Blair’s current infatuation, she was certainly encouraging him to move in.

  Sandburg hadn’t said much about it.

  He’s moving out on Sunday because that was our arrangement. One week.

  But does he want to move out?

  It’s my place. Our arrangement was one week. A deal’s a deal.

  Ellison checked his mailbox — only bills and flyers — then bypassed the elevator and took the stairs.

  But why does he have to move out?

  He paused on the landing between the first and second floor, wondering what insane part of his brain was asking this. Yes, overall, the week had been fine. Sandburg had an easygoing personality, and while he was still a little on the untamed side, they had managed quite well over the five days he had been there. In exchange for rent, Ellison had agreed that Sandburg would take care of cooking and laundry for the duration of his stay. Surprisingly, or not, the kid was a great cook, as long as he stayed within the realms of normality in his choice of menus.

  Pot roast … carrots … Fruit pie of some kind, maybe blueberry… He couldn’t identify the other smells yet, but he was making strides. Alcohol … An uncorked bottle of wine. Red wine, he realized smugly. Sandburg had probably used it with the pot roast and they would finish off the bottle with the meal. The kid was going all out. But then, this was his last night cooking, as the weekend held other plans for both of them.

  So why does he have to move out? Tell me that, Ellison.

  What if I ask him to stay?

  No, it’s better this way.

  He rubbed his forehead, feeling like his brain had stalled out on him. Taking a seat on one of the stairs, he sighed wearily as he tried to figure out what was going on in his formerly nice, stable, uncomplicated world. Warning signs were flashing at him, but he wasn’t sure what they were warning him of, other than it was imperative that he make his mind up before he walked into his apartment tonight. Before he started talking to Sandburg. Before he got all nice and comfortable and said things it would be difficult to back out of later.

  And rubbing his forehead wasn’t helping at all. It only seemed to start up the dueling dialogue in his brain.

  What if — What if I let him stay a while longer? Would it really be so bad?

  But once in, it might be hard to get rid of him.

  Get rid of him? That sounds a bit harsh.

  I’m just being realistic.

  Forget being realistic. Go with your gut feelings.

  Not on this. If I get carried away with the moment, see those woe-begotten eyes turn in my direction, I’m sunk. I have to think this out. I need some solid ground here. I’ve got to think this through rationally … So, what are the pros and cons?

  Okay. Pros. First, Sandburg’s got a grip on this whole Sentinel problem. Having him live here would be to my advantage as I can get these senses under control quicker. And I wouldn’t have to worry about them going wonky on me and no one around.

  Cons: He’d be intruding on my privacy. And I don’t like jungle music or whatever that is. And he’s in the shower first in the morning and the floor is wet when I go in there.

  Pros … Well, sure, he’s a nice enough kid. He’s got one of those contagious smiles. Okay, and I’ll even admit that lately I generally feel better with him around.

  Pros: Cooking. There’s one. Cooking is definitely not my choice of evening activity at the end of a rough day. He seems to like it, though. And he does an okay job at it. That’s a pro.

  Cons: I gave up my office space. What if I need it back? … But then, I can’t remember ever actually using it. That was Carolyn’s home office area and has been only a storage space for me.

  Cons: Women. Yeah … It would be awkward if I wanted to bring someone home. Like Beverly. If Sandburg was living with me, there would have to be arrangements made about female, uh, guests … But then, besides Beverly, when was the last time I actually brought a woman home for dinner or even to the loft for a nightcap? Usually I’d take them out for dinner, then back to their place.

  Cons: My privacy. Major thing to consider here. I’ve liked my privacy. This is my retreat. My place of solitude.

  He sniffed the air again. The pot roast was out of the o
ven. It was getting harder to concentrate. Why on earth was he sitting in the stairwell of his own building, when upstairs was dinner, fine company, interesting conversation, and a peaceful, relaxing evening ahead? And he had a pair of tickets to the Jags game this Sunday night in his pocket, courtesy of Simon Banks for solving the last case.

  It’s my place, still, regardless. I set the rules; I call the shots. It’s my decision. So what do I want to do?

  What do I want to do?

  He stood up.

  What the hell. Let him stay.

  *

  “Hey, Chief. Smells good.” Ellison tossed his keys into the basket by the door and hung up his coat. “Need any help?”

  “Hi, Jim. Good timing,” Blair said, looking up, smiling, then adding a flour mixture to the meat juices to make up the gravy. “Uh, how about setting the table? I figure about five minutes and this should be ready.”

  “You’ve been busy, I see. Not that I’m complaining.” He got the dishes from the cupboard and set them on the table.

  “Yeah, got a bit carried away. I don’t get the chance to cook often, not in a place where the oven actually works, there’s more than one pot, and the ingredients are all in stock. And believe me, since I usually live alone, the opportunities when I have an entire roast beef to cook, with all the trimmings, are few and far between,” he added, stirring the gravy, then resuming slicing through the medium rare meat. “Is this okay? I can cook it more if you want.”

  “Looks perfect. But then I’m starving; if it’s not moving, it’s cooked enough for me.” Ellison looked at his handiwork on the table, then added cutlery and wine glasses. “Oh, hey, Simon gave us some tickets to Sunday’s Jags game. You free?”

  “Oh, man!” Blair groaned. “I can’t believe you have tickets to that game. Against Chicago, right? But I’m moving on Sunday, remember? It probably wouldn’t look very good to Christine if I dumped my stuff and then took off.” Sandburg put the serving platter on the table, the carved meat surrounded by roasted potatoes and carrots and what appeared to be perfectly browned Yorkshire pudding buns. “This is lousy.”

  “Lousy?” Ellison asked, pouring the wine. “Looks wonderful to me.”

  “No, I mean about the game,” Sandburg said, dropping into his chair, appearing suddenly depressed.

  “Yeah. Well, maybe I can get Brown or one of the other guys to go with me.” Ellison forked the meat onto his plate, aware of his subdued partner. “Uh, listen, Chief,” he started, then stopped.

  “What?” Sandburg pushed his plate over to the platter and slid some food onto it.

  “About Sunday?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I was just thinking … Now hear me out; don’t interrupt. I mean, I don’t use the room much … And the women thing — that won’t be a problem. We can work something out … Doing the laundry and cooking would be a big help to me … I need my privacy, though. Some days I won’t be very talkative, do you understand? I’d need you to respect that… . Music, too. Yeah … And it makes sense, with the Sentinel thing. Those tests and other stuff … But I want the first shower in the morning. Got that?” Ellison asked, pouring gravy over his meat and potatoes.

  Sandburg was staring at him, stunned. “Jim? What exactly did you just say?”

  “I said you could stay here. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” Ellison took a sip of his wine and nodded in appreciation. “Tastes good. Where’d you get this? There’s no label.”

  “Tomas’ grandfather makes his own.” Sandburg leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying I can stay here? For how long?”

  Ellison shrugged, chewing his food, and avoided meeting the student’s intense gaze. “Let’s just see how it works out.”

  “I need a time frame here. I’m sorry, Jim, I just need some rough idea what you’re talking about.”

  Ellison swallowed and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “Okay.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Chief, you are welcome to stay here until the end of your semester. That should give us time to see if this living arrangement will work.”

  “That’s a month away.”

  “Just a month?”

  “It’s almost the end of April now,” Sandburg said, dryly. With exams and everything, that should take us to the end of May.”

  “Then until the end of the summer. I should have my senses under control by then, right?”

  “You think?” Sandburg laughed, then sobered. “What about rent?”

  Rent? That was one area he hadn’t even considered. “What about it?”

  “How much would I pay?”

  Ellison shrugged again, at a loss of what to say. He didn’t want to take any money from Sandburg. “I don’t know. How about you just do the cooking and laundry for the rest of this month, and we call it even?”

  “What about next month?” Sandburg persisted. “I’m on a limited budget here—”

  “You were managing to pay $850.00 a month for the warehouse.”

  “I was also renting out sections of it for storage space for other students. I only had to put in about $400.00 of my own money. And in the summer, I don’t make much money at all.”

  Ellison waved the topic away. “We’ll figure that out later. It’ll be something you can pay, though.” He drained the last of his glass of wine, wondering where it had gone so quickly.

  “Then my next question is — why?”

  “Why what?” he asked, pouring himself more wine and topping Sandburg’s as yet untouched glass.

  “Why do you want me to stay here? I thought this was some major imposition problem for you.”

  Ellison took a long sip of the wine, stalling for time. Why? I’m not sure why. I just want you to stay. “Eat up. Your food’s getting cold.”

  “Answer my question. Please?”

  “Just seems to be a good idea. For now, anyway.” He put his glass down on the table, meeting Sandburg’s eyes. “I’d like you to stay. If you want to.”

  “I want to.”

  “Then eat your dinner.”

  “You always going to be this bossy?”

  “Probably. You got a problem with that?”

  It was Sandburg’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know.” He grew pensive again, not letting go of the subject. “Jim, I — What if I screw up? What if I do something wrong and I don’t even know I’ve done it wrong. We’re two very different people here and —”

  “I’m aware of that. Eat your dinner. Phone Christine and tell her you got a place. I’ll call Simon and tell him we’ll be at the game with him on Sunday. Deal?”

  Sandburg raised his wine goblet and clinked it against Ellison’s. “Deal.”

  *

  (Post-Cypher)

  Lash was dead. Ellison stared down at the body, wavering, trying to keep his footing on the ancient flooring. He bent over, his weapon pressed into Lash’s neck, and rifled through the man’s pockets, removing a set of keys that had mercifully not fallen out. He drew his hand away, stepping back. Lash was dressed in Blair’s corduroy jacket. He could smell Lash’s blood overpowering Sandburg’s own scent.

  Lash was dead.

  Blair?

  Training took over, and Ellison shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. His body was beginning to shake with the post-adrenaline surge from the fight. He needed to call this in, advise Simon of the situation, but a quick check showed that his microphone had been lost in the struggle and subsequent fall through several floors. Lash was dead; he was certain of that. Nothing else needed his attention here.

  Ellison shoved his gun back in the holster and glanced upward, turning off the cop mode and letting that other part of him surface, that part he was beginning to accept, where his senses were screaming for his action. Go to Sandburg. He listened for Sandburg’s heartbeat, no longer doubting that he would find it. And it was there, pounding too fast, as he thought it would be.

  He remembered knocking over candles in the fight with Lash, but he couldn’t smell any fir
e burning, threatening his partner. “Hang in there, Buddy.” He turned his back on Lash’s very dead body and half-ran, half-limped to the stairs. “I’m coming.”

  Walking was painful. He’d pulled a muscle in his back. He ached and hurt more with every step. Three flights he had to walk up, carefully picking his way up a stairway that was basically crumbling beneath him. Twice he had to cling to the railing as the step fell through, but the racing heartbeat of his partner drew him steadily upward.

  No sirens, but he could hear the cars approaching, police radios chattering. Simon, he thought to himself, going up another stair. He was supposed to give me twenty minutes before moving in.

  Simon would come, of course; there had been gunshots and he hadn’t reported in. No ambulance yet, but one had been standing by and would come as soon as the police gave them safe access. They were prepared to deal with the trichloroethane mixture that Lash had been administering to his victims — and had probably administered to Sandburg, from the brief glance Ellison had of the young man. “Oh, Blair,” he muttered, trying to move faster. “Hang on. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

  He could hear the faint struggles slowly cease. It’s just the drug. The drug is incapacitating him. The heartbeat was slowly slightly, not dangerously, the breathing definitely straining.

  “Sandburg?” he yelled, as he started up the final flight. “I’m almost there!”

  Once more step and he made it to the right level, the sight of his partner propelling him across the room. “Blair?” Ellison leaned over his partner, checking the unfocused eyes. Sandburg was completely subdued, partly conscious, but unable to move. The yellow scarf was out of his mouth at least; the gag had probably been removed so that Lash could feed him the potion. Ellison undid it and flung it away. “I’m here. How you doing? Hmm?” Sensitive hands felt down the motionless body, searching for any hidden life-threatening injuries. “I’m just checking you out. Did he do anything else to you?” Instead of calming, the heartbeat quickened at his light touch; the eyes showed panic.

  “Chief?” Ellison frowned; the kid was unable to even turn his head. He could see that Sandburg had heard him, but had no way of responding. “Relax. It’s okay.” The heart rate increased, almost as though his words had frightened the young man. “It’s okay,” he repeated, patting Sandburg’s leg. “Just try to breathe normally.”