by K Ryn
He closed the container and pushed it away with a shudder. His eyes tracked across the room again, seeking something to occupy his mind. The meaningless drivel of late night television would have been welcome, but the cheap motel room had no TV. The manager had one in his attached apartment and he'd made it clear that he was more than eager to share it, and more, with the anthropologist -- the man had blatantly propositioned Blair in the parking lot when he'd returned for the night. The grad student had scurried to his room and had no plans to set foot outside until the safe light of morning. He was desperate for a diversion, but not that desperate.
His portable CD player, three disks and a set of headphones lay near the pillows. Music was usually his distraction of choice, however he'd already played two of the disks to death -- he was sure the lyrics to the songs were permanently engraved on his brain at this point. The third CD was one he often used for meditation, and he was leery of even pulling that one from its case.
He glanced at the piles of boxes. Somewhere in that mess was the rest of his CD collection. He sighed and looked away. The idea of digging through the jumbled odds and ends of his life was less than appealing.
He found himself staring at the telephone. He knew it wouldn't ring. The cell phone in his pack was his link with the outside world, and right now that universe consisted of Simon and Joel. There had been one brief call from the captain, filling him in on Jim's status, and that was all he expected for the night.
Blair pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, hugging himself against a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature in the stuffy room. His body and weary spirit craved the respite of sleep, but his frenetically active mind didn't share that desire, relentlessly walking him back through his day one more time.
He'd always believed that time was a fluid entity and today had proven that hypothesis. It had rushed past like a storm swollen stream during his morning lectures. Unfortunately, it had slowed to the speed of a sluggishly draining sink over the course of the afternoon.
This would be the day that none of my students decided to take me up on my extended office hours, he mused humorlessly.
He'd tried to keep busy, sorting through the unending piles of papers and university forms that the anthropology department bureaucrats produced like rabbits. The reports had reminded him too much of what he'd typically be doing at the station if he were there, so he'd abandoned them to his already overflowing in-basket and spent some time rearranging the artifacts on the shelves.
He'd caught himself grumbling out loud and pacing the confines of his office at one point. He'd quickly seated himself at his desk with his mouth clamped tightly shut, doing his best imitation of his partner's clenched jaw routine. His office, like his motel room, was bugged. Not wanting either Simon or Joel to descend on him like worried mother hens, he'd flipped on the radio and forced himself to pick up a book.
After staring at the same page for over twenty minutes, he'd given up on the pretense of reading and had simply stared out the window. Watching the students criss-crossing the grounds had been a soothing way to occupy his time, but the moment Blair had felt himself starting to nod off, he'd packed up his belongings. He'd announced his intentions to the empty room, locked his office and headed out to his car.
He'd stopped for dinner at a favorite Indian restaurant a block from campus. It was on his approved itinerary, and he'd held hopes that the intriguing menu would stimulate his appetite. It had turned out that the salad was all he could stomach, and he'd ended up bringing more than half of the meal back to the motel with him.
And here you are, safely ensconced in a haven for the morally deprived. Having come full circle and accomplished absolutely nothing over the last eighteen-plus hours, you now have the joy of another day just like this one staring you in the face.
He stifled a groan and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on his knees. The only good thing that could be said about the day was that the flames and firewall of his vision had not deigned to make an appearance. Cynically, Blair thought that its absence was a conspicuously bad thing and that it was just waiting until he lowered his guard before it came calling.
He felt the tense tightening of already stressed muscles and wished he had a way to relax. A tiny voice in his head reminded him that he had a proven way to make that happen. Throughout the day, he'd managed to silence that nagging tongue by drowning it out with the sound of his own voice or blaring music. It had grown stronger and more insistent as his spirits had plunged and now it was demanding to be heard.
It whispered seductively, promising peace. A Shaman journeyed into the spirit world in search of healing and truth, murmured the voice. Knowledge, power and guidance waited in that altered state. All he had to do was open the door and it was his.
Blair raised his head and opened his eyes. Warily, he reached for the player and headphones. His hand trembled as his fingers closed around the third CD, a collection of drumming songs. As if compelled, he opened the case and lifted the disk free. He inserted it in the player and settled the headphones over his ears.
Shifting into a full lotus position with practiced ease, he took several deep breaths, trying to compose himself. Normally, he would have lit a candle or burned some incense, but those implements were packed away and a flame was the last thing he wanted to see anyway.
Concentrating on the path the air followed as it surged in and out of his lungs, he closed his eyes. When he'd reached a point where his breathing was even and unhurried, he slid his finger across the raised buttons and pressed play.
Four solemn drum beats called the powers of the Four Directions to the Medicine Wheel. A soundless prayer for thanks vibrated on Blair's lips along with a plea for help during his journey. The unmistakable flutter of a spirit rattle merged with the disappearing echoes of the drums. The imagined aromas of sweet-grass and sage filled his nostrils. Another smell intruded, and the small, rational part of his mind that had yet to be swayed by the crooning rhythm identified it...
Smoke.
Searing tongues of fire flared and burned their sinuous image on the inside of his eyelids.
NOOOOOOOO!
The reverberations of his scream -- and a sudden earsplitting clap of thunder -- chased the vision away and left him gasping for breath. He jerked off the headset and flung himself from the bed. Panicked, he scrambled backward, eyeing the still running player like it was a poisonous snake. A solid, unyielding wall halted his mindless flight. He stood half-crouched and shaking, his breathing harsh and horrible to his own ears.
He waited, certain that at any second, either Simon or Joel would be forcing the door open in response to his blood- curdling cry. The only visitation was in the form of the rain that tapped against the door and windows, announcing the onset of the anticipated storm. Finally, when neither the wall of flame or either of the two captains appeared, he allowed himself to slide to the floor.
It took a bit longer until his brain started functioning in something other than escape mode. Profoundly weary, he rubbed at his temples. The headache was pounding with a vengeance. He knew he needed to get up, get some water, dig through his stuff for some aspirin or something else to relieve the pain, but he didn't have the energy.
Leaning his head back against the wall, he stared at the ceiling. Hopeless. That's how he felt. And tired -- physically tired down to the marrow of his bones; emotionally tired of worrying about Jim's safety; mentally tired of having to deal with things that an anthropologist had no business in the middle of; so very tired of being separated from his Sentinel.
He lowered his head and his gaze drifted toward the bug hidden in the floor lamp. He was still stunned to realize that he hadn't screamed out loud. He was certain that he had. While a part of him would have been mortally embarrassed if Joel or Simon had shown up, another part of him fervently wished that they had -- or, more specifically, he wished that Jim had. Right now he wanted nothing more than to have his Sentinel/Blessed Protector/
friend/partner/roommate physically here, ready to shield him from everything that was happening -- real and imagined.
One word was all it would take. A single cry for help and the troops would come blasting in. Whoever had drawn his surveillance for the night would call Jim before the shout was fully out of his mouth. It was a toss-up to say who would arrive first -- but his money was on his partner. A threat to his Guide would bring the Sentinel running, as if the devil himself was at his heels.
... his heels... a tail... Simon said he was being followed... Jenson...
He bit back a groan, the horrifying scenario that his outcry would set in motion playing out in his mind all too vividly.
Jim would come... Jenson would follow him... Jim's cover would be blown...
And shortly thereafter, his Sentinel would be dead.
Destroyed by his Guide's cowardice.
"No way," he vowed, the whispered promise too soft for even the ultra-sensitive listening device to pick up.
Pure stubbornness got him off the floor. Gritting his teeth, he commanded his feet to carry him to the side of the bed. Repressing a shudder of revulsion, he reached down and hit the stop button on the CD player. With a hard jab he ejected the disk. His fear screamed for him to throw the CD away. He started to turn toward the small garbage can that sat on the floor next to the dresser, intending to do just that.
Disgust surged through him before he could drop it into the trash.
You're so pathetic, Sandburg, he berated himself silently. You've got everything you could ever have wished for, and you're ready to pitch it all away just because things have gotten rough. Get a grip. Jim's the one out there putting his life on the line. This stupid vision or whatever it is isn't worth getting him killed over. This is 'your' department. You're the one that told Jim that you didn't want to go back to your safe, ivory tower academic world. Now either find a way to handle this -- all of it- -or find the guts to tell him that it's too much and be prepared to walk away. You're either a Shaman or you're not. You're either his Guide or you're not. You're either his friend or you're not. Take a stand and stick to it. Jim deserves better than this.
Time slowed to a stop as he considered his choices. It started up again a few heartbeats later. Confronting his fears and his own shortcomings was a small price to pay when faced with the ultimatum of losing everything he had worked so hard to gain.
Face set in an expression of grim resolve, he slipped the drumming CD into its case. Soon, he would use it again -- and when he did, he would be prepared for whatever the vision threw at him. But first, he had some work to do. Grabbing a notebook from his pack, he settled himself on the bed. Letting his memories guide him, he let his thoughts float back to the evening of the sixth murder -- that was the first time the wall of fire had made an appearance. Pen gliding rapidly over the lined sheet, he began to write down everything he could remember about that night.
And a wisp of smoke rose from the smoldering embers...
By 11:00 a.m. the next morning, the atmosphere in the loft was several shades darker than the leaden sky outside. As predicted, a front had moved in during the night, covering the city with a heavy blanket of rain-laden clouds. The Sentinel had heard the first faint rumblings when the storm was still many miles distant.
The breathing and relaxation exercises Blair had drilled into him had allowed Jim to slip into a deep sleep fairly quickly. A seemingly endless parade of disturbing dreams -- in which his Guide had figured prominently -- had put an end to that slumber well before dawn. That was when he'd heard the first ominous roll of thunder.
The details of the dreams had vanished the moment he'd opened his eyes. What had remained was an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. He'd scanned the loft automatically. The annoying pulse of Jenson's electronic 'ear' was the first anomaly he found. The absence of his Guide's heartbeat was the next.
All was as it had to be; not as it should have been.
Unsettled, he'd climbed out of bed. Wrapped in his robe, Jim had padded silently down the stairs to the main level. He'd stopped near the balcony's partially open doors, listening to the rising winds that heralded the storm's approach. Sentinel vision had searched the darkness, but even his enhanced abilities couldn't see clear across the city to where his Guide was sequestered.
A change in his depth of field had brought his watchers into focus. Two of them: Harris and Rogers.
A low rumbled growl had caused him to turn and examine the inside of the loft once more. A familiar form had detached itself from the rest of the shadows -- the panther, pacing in front of the closed French doors that led to Blair's room. Tail lashing in agitation, luminous green-gold eyes all the more baleful in the dark, the beast had given vent to its displeasure with a definitive feline hiss.
I'm no happier about this than you are, the Sentinel had silently assured his Spirit Guide, sensing that the panther's animosity had little to do with the crooked cops sitting surveillance and everything to do with the absence of his Shaman.
The huge ebony cat had flowed toward him, bringing its personal thunder with it. It had stopped at his side, pressed tightly against his right leg. The panther had stared out into the night, motionless except for the twitch of its tail and the constant vibration that rumbled through its body. A bolt of lightning had streaked across the sky, followed by an explosive clap of thunder. The black phantom had suddenly lifted its head, nostrils flaring. Jim's breath had died in his throat and he'd gone as still as the statue-like form beside him, caught by the same sizzling current of danger.
As suddenly as it had occurred, the sensation disappeared. The panther had mouthed a silent snarl, echoing Jim's own. It had raised its great head and their eyes met, exchanging a wordless promise. Then, like a common house cat, it had rubbed against his legs and vanished, leaving the Sentinel alone and sorely troubled by what had transpired.
Something had threatened Blair. He and the panther had both sensed it. The nature of the danger had been vague, like his dreams, but it had triggered an instinctive reaction. He'd been halfway to the door before he'd pulled himself to a halt.
The compelling need to protect his Guide had been almost overwhelming, but his years of training had won out. Rash action would only endanger the one he sought to shield. He'd grimly realized that he would have to rely on the men to whom he'd entrusted that precious life.
The Sentinel had remained at his post.
Dawn had been a long time in coming.
The morning had dragged as well, and Jim was seriously considering his vow of the night before. He'd already been in and out of the loft twice, which should have given Jenson ample opportunity to make his move.
The rain had already accumulated in inch-deep puddles by 6:30 a.m., when he'd taken a run down to the bakery at the corner. The bag of donuts still sat on the kitchen counter, untouched. He'd had to restrain himself from walking up to Smithson, who was parked down at the opposite end of the block, and offering him one.
At 8:00 he'd headed off to the gym again. He'd managed to burn off several thousand calories in that ninety minute stop, but there had been no attempt at a contact, even though his personal shadow had followed him to and from the gym.
The telephone rang and he glared at it, deciding to let the answering machine pick it up. He'd already had his hopes raised by three previous calls. Two had been Blair's students. He hadn't had to fake the irritation with which he'd handled them. The third had been from a call center wanting him to take fifteen minutes to answer a survey on his radio station preferences. He'd growled something about 'anyone who played Santana' and cut them off.
Four rings, a click, his own terse message, followed by the beep... and nothing for ten long seconds. Jim turned away in disgust and abruptly whirled around when a familiar male voice uttered four soft words.
FOGGED MIRRORS
Blair stared blearily at the notebook lying open on his desk. There were over twenty pages of entries. He hadn't given in to the need for sleep until he'
d filled those narrow-ruled sheets from top to bottom. He'd racked his brain and his memory; recording every fact, thought, and emotion that he'd had over the past two-plus weeks that could be even marginally connected to the firewall vision.
The words had seemed to make sense in the dark hours of the night, but now, in the light of day, the scribbled black characters seemed as jumbled as the thoughts they represented.
He turned the pages absently, pausing on one spread where the writing was streaked and blotted. He didn't remember those tears. He peered closely at the content, and shuddered.
No wonder... those passages relate to the night before I left the loft... I was here then too, already banished, prowling my office while Jim packed up my stuff...
With a sad shake of his head, he flipped the notebook shut and swiveled his chair so that he could look out the window. The sullen gray skies and the steady downpour of rain matched his mood.
Hours of fruitless soul-searching and a sleepless night were all he had to show for his efforts. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired, bloodshot eyes. He was going to have to get some sleep, or he wasn't going to be of any use to anyone. It was no wonder that he couldn't make heads or tails out of what he'd written, foggy as he was.
Huge splotches of rain splattered against the window. He watched them elongate and chase in random trails across the pane, zigging and zagging at the whim of the wind. He smiled grimly, comparing his own situation to the harried droplets. Pushed by unseen forces, real and mystical, neither he or the water appeared to have any control over their destinies.
It occurred to him, dimly, that his morose thoughts and fatalistic attitude were a stark departure from his usual approach to life. Not that he went around wearing rose colored glasses all the time. He'd seen more than enough of the dark side of life during his time with Jim that some of it was bound to rub off. This, though, was more than that. It was as if his whole way of looking at the world had altered.
