Smoke and Mirrors

by K Ryn

  "I'm not kidding, Jim," Blair rambled on, filling the tense silence with the first thing that came to mind. "I figure you're gonna wrap this up fast, so I expect to have something to eat when I get home."

  "Sandburg..."

  The almost angry expression in the detective's eyes and the annoyed tone of his voice nearly took Blair's breath away. It was too close to what he'd seen and heard during their little act at the station. That had been pretend, but this was real -- too real and far too painful. He needed to get Jim out of there now, before he lost it entirely.

  "You'd better get moving, Jim," Blair said abruptly, half turning away so that he wouldn't have to meet the Sentinel's penetrating stare. "You're going to stay in touch with Simon, right? He'll fill me in on how things are going."

  The awkward silence stretched between them again and Blair held his breath, waiting for the soft resigned sigh that would tell him that Jim was going to back down and move on with this. When it came, he wasn't sure if he was glad or not.

  "Yeah, I'll keep Simon in the loop," Jim finally responded. "Now that Joel knows what's going on, we'll have a second contact in case things don't go as planned. One more set of eyes to keep you out of trouble as well."

  Blair managed to don his most innocent grin and glanced over at his partner. "Me? Find trouble? Not on this case, man. I'm more than content to sit the bench while you go play with the bad guys."

  Jim snorted in disbelief and shook his head. "I'll believe that when hell freezes over, buddy."

  "You know, Jim, in some cultures that scenario is already an accomplished fact," Blair said smoothly. "If you were staying longer, I'd be happy to bring you up to speed. I know I've got several books on ancient religions here somewhere." He gestured with one hand toward the pile of boxes.

  "Yeah, I'm sure you do, Professor," Jim smirked back, holding up his hands in a posture of surrender. "Maybe another time. When this is over, okay?"

  The anxious expression was back on the Sentinel's face and Blair knew that the older man was as unhappy about the forced separation as he was. The implied promise that things would return to normal let him breathe a little easier.

  "I'm going to hold you to that, Jim," he said quietly. "You do what you have to do, man. I'll do my best to hold up my end."

  "You always do, Chief," Jim said just as softly. "You're clear on your schedule for the next few days?"

  "Same as always," Blair answered with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. "Classes, office hours, trips to the sta..." He caught himself before he finished the now forbidden word 'station' and glibly substituted "... stacks. Yeah, Jim. I've got it memorized. Don't worry. I'll keep a low profile."

  "By low, you'd better mean keeping your head down and your cell phone close," Jim growled. "You check in with Simon or Joel before you go anywhere, understood?"

  "Yes, Dad," Blair shot back in the most patronizing tone he could muster. "Hold on a second and I'll get the light." He heard the soft hiss as Jim sighed and saw his partner shaking his head in disgust.

  Better disgust than worry, Blair reminded himself, reaching for the switch to the lamp. He gave it a savage twist and plunged the room into darkness.

  He glanced back to where his partner should be standing, but in the almost total darkness, he couldn't even make out the older man's silhouette. He forced a crooked grin anyway, knowing that the Sentinel would have no such problems. He heard the soft rustle of fabric and then the click of a latch as the door to the adjoining room was opened. Jim's soft whisper floated surreally across the void.

  "Take it easy, Chief."

  "You too, man," Blair whispered, sentinel-soft.

  And then Jim was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

  Frozen in place, the young Guide's smile died and he closed his eyes, sending a prayer into the darkness, pleading with a dozen deities for his Sentinel's safety.

  It was a long time before he moved, shuffling through the small space to crawl wearily into the lumpy bed. It took even longer for sleep to claim him.

  Only thin smoke without flame...

  In the adjoining room, the Sentinel allowed himself a small smile when he heard his Guide's breathing change to the slow and steady pattern of sleep.

  Finally. I was wondering how long that was going to take. Get some rest, partner. You deserve it.

  With a shake of his head, Jim crossed the darkened room and paused at the outer door. He did a quick scan of the area before slipping out into the night, moving as silently as his phantom spirit guide. Within minutes, he was sliding behind the wheel of the rental car that Simon had supplied. Reaching into the glove compartment he pulled out a cell phone and punched the speed dial.

  "I'm heading out," he said tersely, not bothering with any pleasantries. The unruffled acknowledgment on the other end signaled Simon's understanding of Jim's current frame of mind- -Banks had been monitoring the entire evening's proceedings through the bug that they'd planted in Blair's room.

  Clicking off the phone, Jim laid it on the seat and cranked the engine to life. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he wheeled the sedan out onto the empty street and headed back toward the downtown parking garage where he'd left his truck.

  In full surveillance mode, he guided the car through the quiet streets, checking for any sign of a tail. It had been risky, going to the motel, but he'd been worried about his partner. Maintaining the sham of their dissolving friendship and partnership had drained the anthropologist of his normal energetic bounce and dulled the light in his eyes. Blair had played his role like a consummate actor, but Jim had begun to wonder whether the toll it had taken on his Guide's spirit was too high a price to pay.

  Remembering the ugly purpling of the bruise on the younger man's face, he felt a stab of irritation and guilt. He should have known that Blair wasn't going to duck when he'd thrown that punch -- even though that's what they'd planned.

  'Wanted to make it look real', huh , Chief? Well, you did. I just hope that black eye was worth it.

  He pulled up to a red light and looked in the rear-view mirror again. Still no sign of anyone following. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. He'd planned to be back at the loft before bar time, but waiting for Blair to fall asleep had put him behind schedule. Not that he regretted the delay. At least he knew that his Guide was safe for the night.

  As safe as he can be until this is over.

  Lost in contemplating the uncertainty of just how and when this whole mess was going to go down, Jim abruptly realized that the light had changed. Frowning, he pressed his foot to the gas pedal, easing the car through the intersection. For a moment, he debated going straight to the garage, but decided to keep to his original plans and turned right at the next corner, heading toward the nearest freeway ramp. It would take a good twenty minutes to make the loop and circle back to pick up the truck, but it was the prudent thing to do.

  Once on the highway, he let himself relax a bit, changing lanes cautiously, hoping to blend into the traffic just like any other late night traveler headed home. Now was not the time to get sloppy. Not with so much on the line. He glanced at the empty passenger seat and felt his stomach do a slow roll. He was alone now and it felt strange. And, in more ways than one, dangerous.

  He shook off the unsettling sensation and tried to concentrate on the road. This is how it had to be. As much as he missed having his partner by his side, there was no way he was going to let Blair get any closer to this case. Not only was it necessary for the younger man to be out of the picture so that Jenson and his buddies would allow Jim into their murderous circle, but the potential for his friend to be harmed if things didn't go down as planned was just too great.

  The thought of Blair being in any kind of danger, especially from his fellow cops, made his blood boil. Jaw clenched and eyes narrowing to glitter dangerously, Jim reviewed the plan in his mind, playing out the possible permutations of each move in the upcoming game. He'd have to be on his toes every minute. An
y mistake on his part could easily mean his partner's death as well as his own. Jim was certain that Jenson and his pals would have no qualms about taking out their vengeance on Blair if they discovered what Jim was up to.

  A low growl escaped his throat and he clutched the wheel in a frustrated, white-knuckled grip. He'd wanted his friend tucked away in a safe house until this was all over. He'd pushed for it, but Simon had pointed out that Blair's disappearance would raise more questions than they wanted. He'd even gone so far as to suggest that it might make Jenson more interested in the younger man. Jim had to agree to the logic, even though he didn't like it. Blair, of course, had been adamantly against going to ground, asserting that he was not going to put himself into the safekeeping of some cop who could turn out to be a part of Jenson's merry little band.

  Of all the arguments, that one had probably carried the most weight. Even though they'd identified six players, they still had no idea of just how many cops Jenson had managed to sway to his way of thinking. Jim had finally had to settle for getting the observer out of the station and the loft, trusting to Simon's assurances that the captain would personally keep watch over the anthropologist.

  Jim guided the sedan into the right hand lane and slowed as he entered the off ramp. He shifted restlessly in his seat as he waited out the traffic ahead of him. As much as he trusted Simon, it was hard to place the responsibility for Blair's safety in anyone else's hands. He was too used to fulfilling that role himself.

  But this time he couldn't. Nor would he have Blair's presence to keep him grounded. He'd have to watch his own back until this was over -- something he hadn't needed to do in a long time.

  He rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the ache between his shoulder blades. Running the deceptive, deadly game over the last fourteen days had taken its toll on both of them. Assuming an undercover persona for 24 hours a day was not only difficult, it was dangerous. It was too easy to lose yourself in the role, to start to believe your own half-truths and lies. To mix reality with fantasy.

  He'd had experience in dealing with it. Between his time in Covert Ops and the stint he'd pulled in Vice, he'd found a way to shield who he was deep inside and survive intact. The few days he'd been inside the prison had tested that barrier, however. He'd discovered that it was possible to bury your real self too deeply. Once they'd decided on this plan, he'd been on edge, crossing the line only as long a necessary before pulling back.

  Having his Guide at his side had helped. His concern for Blair's safety had kept him sharp and the younger man's physical presence had been a reassuring reminder that the real Jim Ellison -- and the Sentinel -- bore no resemblance to the bigoted jerk he was pretending to be.

  The anthropologist, on the other hand, had no training for this type of subterfuge. Sandburg took a lot of grief for being the 'king of obfuscation' and it was true that the young man could bend the truth in multiple directions at once, but this kind of deception ran counter to his very nature. Blair's generous and forgiving soul had landed him in the middle of trouble more than a few times, and Jim had often wished that his friend could form a tougher outer shell. However he had realized early in their partnership that to ask his Guide to become something other than he was, was to risk losing who he was, forever.

  Blair had hated it, but he'd thrown himself into his assigned role with a desperation borne of his fears -- not for his own safety, but for his Sentinel's. Picturing his partner's drawn, pale face; the lines of stress around the tired blue eyes; the strained tension in his body; the way his clothes hung much looser, made the Sentinel wonder if his Guide had lost part of himself -- and part of his essential spirit -- already.

  Sure, Blair had held his own against Kincaid and he'd handled several other undercover assignments with an ease than no one, himself included, had anticipated. But those experiences had been brief forays into the dark world of lies and half-truths. This... this hit too close to home. The little scene they'd played out at the station had been a distorted mirror image of the truth.

  And now we really are going our separate ways. No wonder he's reacting the way he is.

  Mix in a little insecurity, too little sleep, some very real fears; sprinkle liberally with a heavy dose of stress and enforced separation -- and you had the makings for one seriously distressed Guide.

  Seeing a familiar intersection only a block away, Jim reached for the cell phone again. Simon answered the pre-programmed number immediately.

  //Ready for phase two?//

  "Just a few blocks away. I'm staying with the original plan. Should be back at the loft within an hour," Jim reported.

  //Understood.//

  "How is he?"

  //Not a peep since you left. Except for the snoring. Sounds like a dull power saw chewing raw timber. Does he do that at home?//

  Jim grinned into the darkness. "All the time."

  //Glad he's your roommate and not mine.//

  The Sentinel laughed softly and shut down the connection. He slipped the phone into his pocket and flipped on his turn indicator. At the next corner he made a left and then three successive rights. The maneuver headed him toward the parking garage from the opposite direction in which he'd come. When there was still no sign of a trail, the detective pulled into the ramp.

  He parked the sedan in a shadowy corner of the third level. Locking the doors and pocketing the keys, he slipped along the wall to the stairwell. Moments later he let himself out into the alley at the back of the ramp. Hugging the wall he headed west for three blocks, quickly crossing the open streets only after determining that the coast was clear.

  He stopped at a dumpster twenty feet further on and knelt to retrieve the package that Simon had left there earlier. Extracting a six-pack of beer from the paper bag, Jim pulled three of the cans free. He dumped those and the bag into the metal trash container and headed back to the opening of the alley.

  Abandoning the shadows, he strolled down the sidewalk -- his slightly rolling gait, the occasional stumble, and the remaining beer cans dangling from his fingertips by the plastic rings, lending credibility to the pretense that his evening had been spent immersed in the bar scene.

  Jim headed directly to the parking garage and took the elevator to the fifth floor where he'd left his truck. He kept up the same half-shambling stride as he crossed the dimly-lit space, opening up his senses to sweep the area at the same time. He didn't pause or turn his head when he picked up the faint sounds of a heartbeat to his left.

  Halting at the driver's door of his vehicle, he dug in his jacket pocket for the keys. He fumbled them and they dropped with a dull jingle to the concrete. Affecting the exaggerated movements of a man who'd had a few too many drinks, he bent to retrieve the errant keys. The ruse allowed him time to pinpoint the location and identity of his watcher -- Rick Smithson, in a dark green sedan -- and also to scan the truck for any tampering.

  Finding none, he straightened slowly, inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. He tossed the beer cans onto the passenger seat and clambered in, pulling the door shut. The loud clang reverberated through the quiet garage, followed by the truck engine roaring to life.

  Several minutes later, Jim pulled out onto the main street and steered toward the loft. Prospect was only a dozen blocks away. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed that the man he'd tagged in the parking garage had followed him. The game was definitely in play.

  Pulling up in front of the apartment building, Jim parked the truck in one of the empty spaces that lined the street. He shut off the engine and grabbed one of the cans of beer. Flipping the pop-top, he took a long pull, using the action as a cover as he unleashed his senses again. The car that had been tailing him cruised by and turned the corner. It was out of sight, but not beyond his hearing range. He gripped the can tighter, using touch as a secondary focus and concentrated on locating the vehicle.

  His eyes narrowed when detected the idling sound of an engine. The rough putter that he'd been listening to died as the v
ehicle was shut off. The heartbeat that he'd identified earlier remained stationary. The Sentinel widened his search and detected another presence somewhere to his left.

  At least one outside, maybe two... wonder if I have visitors upstairs?

  He grabbed the remaining beers and elbowed the driver's door open. He stood next to it, took another drink from the open can and then lobbed the container toward the nearest trash bin. It fell short, splattering foam and gleaming trails of liquid down the outside of the basket. Shrugging indifferently, Jim slammed the truck door shut and half-staggered toward the front doors.

  He took the elevator. By the time it released him on the third floor, he knew that there was no one waiting in the corridor. Taking his time, he unlocked the door to the loft, certain that there was no welcoming committee inside either.

  But someone had been there. The stale reek of cigarette smoke hit the Sentinel's sensitive nose with the first gust of air stirred up by the opening of the door. Jaw clenching against the surge of rage that erupted at the thought of one of Jenson's henchmen having invaded his personal territory, the detective crossed the threshold and shut the door firmly behind him.

  He flicked the switch near the door and the loft was bathed in a soft light. Crossing to the kitchen, he dropped the beer on the counter and went to check the answering machine. There were three messages. He hit the rewind button and let his senses sweep across the apartment, only vaguely aware of the soft swish of the tape. He hesitated just as he was about to hit the play button and pivoted warily on his toes.

  There was an intruder, but not the human kind. A soft electronic pulse drifted across the room. Moving soundlessly, he approached one of the lamps. His sharp eyes found the expertly concealed listening device and his lips curved in a silent snarl.

  If they've bugged the loft, they've probably tapped the phones, too.

  He felt a momentary flush of fear.

  How long has this been here?

  He searched his memory. He couldn't remember having heard the sound before -- would he have picked up the telltale pulse if he hadn't been alone and the loft empty of his roommate's normal chatter and music? They had discussed the possibility that Jenson might try to bug the apartment at the beginning of this venture. He'd done a sweep of the loft every time they'd come home and found nothing. But what if it had been here all along and he'd missed it?