Progression Series 19 Last Call for Marcus Grant

by Beth Manz

  "Please, I need a doctor." Over the days and nights that had passed he had made this plea several times. His body was burning up with fever and the wound in his shoulder throbbed with infection. And he was only getting worse. "Please."

  Marcus Grant wiped a cool towel across Blair's forehead, shaking his head. "I am a doctor, silly. Did you forget that?"

  "You're a psychiatrist," Blair complained weakly.

  Grant simply chuckled. "Still had to go through med school. Trust me, Blair, I know what I'm doing. Now, sit up so I can give you your medication."

  "No." Sandburg shook his head against his pillow, licked at his dried, cracked lips. "Can't keep it down." Since losing his dinner that first day, Blair hadn't been able to keep anything down except an occasional cup of tea. He knew Grant must have put something in his food that first day, probably the same substance he now called his "medication." But between his infected shoulder and his overall weakened state, Blair could do little to stop this man and his "doctoring." "Please, just leave me alone," he pleaded

  "Now, Blair," Grant warned, narrowing his eyes as he stared down at him, "don't make me force you."

  Blair shuddered at the threat. "Marcus," he breathed, calling Grant by the name he wanted him to use, "please, please, just take me to a hospital. My shoulder and my stomach are killing me. I need more help than you can give me." Then, lighting on a new tactic, he added, "Jim took me to the hospital before, lots of times. That's what friends do when the other friend is really sick."

  But Grant shook his head. "Why would you want to go there when I'm perfectly capable of taking care of you?"

  "You're not taking care of me! You're killing me!" he blurted out before he could stop himself. Instantly, he wished he could pull the words back inside. But it was too late. The accusation hung in the air between them. And as Blair stared up at Grant, the man's caring expression quickly gave way to rage.

  "How can you say that? After all I've done for you, how can you say that!"

  "Marcus--"

  "Tell me what I've done! Tell me!" he exploded.

  "I haven't been out of this bed except for trips to the bathroom since I got here," Sandburg muttered, clutching the blanket that covered him, shrinking back from the man looming over him.

  "And you blame me for that? For you being sick?" Grant slammed the bottle of medication down on the table beside the bed, his eyes flashing anger. "I've cleaned up after you when you didn't always make it to that bathroom. I've brought you food, cool clothes for your forehead, medication. And instead of thanking me, you blame me. How can that make sense to you?"

  Because you're insane! A lunatic! But Blair didn't say those things. He'd said too much already.

  "I...I'm sorry," he whispered at last, hoping the apology would mollify his captor. "I don't know what I was thinking. It...it must be my fever." He stared up Grant, waiting to see what he would do next, how he would react, knowing he was totally at this man's mercy.

  His thoughts spiraled back to the evening Grant had first shown up at the loft with the videotape that would clear Jim of Douglas Merrick's murder. Blair had seen the situation as an opportunity-an opportunity to not only clear Jim but to also to get Grant out of their lives once and for all. He had thought that maybe if he went away with Grant and allowed the man get to know him, come to care about him as a friend, that he'd finally leave them alone.

  He couldn't have been more wrong.

  How could I have been so naive? How could I ever have thought this man would understand friendship? Would really come to care about me?

  But he knew why he'd gone away with him. Why he was here now. Because more than anything he'd wanted his problems with Grant to end. He'd wanted this man out of his life so badly that he'd been willing to trust him, had hoped he was telling him the truth.

  I just wanted it to end.

  Above him, Grant's angry expression slowly shifted and changed. He smiled down at his captive--his friend. Reaching toward Sandburg, he brushed gently at Blair's sweat dampened hair.

  "You're right," he said, his voice soft and understanding. "The fever is confusing you." He picked up the bottle of medication again. "How about you take your medication and then I'll make you another cup of tea. You like my tea, right?"

  Blair closed his eyes, totally defeated. A single tear slipped from his eye, wetting the pillow beneath his head. "Okay," he breathed out. And even as he swallowed the bitter medication, he could feel his stomach recoil, knew it would be only a matter of minutes before he lost whatever precious liquids his body now held.

  Part Three

  Eli Stoddard shifted slightly where he lay, his weary mind coming to realize that he was not in his own bed. Groggily, he opened his eyes, blinking at the unfamiliar surroundings until he realized.... I'm still at Jim's loft.

  He sat up slowly, the light blanket that had been draped over him dropping away. He was laying on one of Jim's couches. He didn't remember falling asleep here. All he remembered was sitting with Jim, telling the sentinel tales about Blair's early years at Rainier.

  How late did we talk? When did I drift off?

  The smell of coffee reached him and he turned toward the kitchen. The coffee pot was full and warming. Jim must already be up, he thought to himself as he pushed to his feet. A low groan escaped him as his back protested last night's sleeping arrangements.

  "You okay, Eli?"

  He looked toward the sound of Jim's voice. The detective was just coming down from the room above, dressed and ready for the day.

  "I'm sorry, Jim." He indicated the couch he'd just left. "I didn't mean to fall asleep here."

  Jim waved a hand, dismissing his concern. "I was happy for the company." Crossing to the coffee pot, Jim poured two cups and extended one toward Eli.

  "Thank you," the professor said gratefully as he accepted the mug. Taking a sip of the steaming brew, he stared up at Jim, noticed the dark circles under his eyes. "So...did you dream last night?"

  Jim didn't meet his gaze, just nodded curtly.

  "And...." he pressed when Jim did not continue.

  Jim's gaze met his, the detective's eyes filled with sorrow and fear. "He's dying, Eli," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. "Blair is dying."

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  "Come on, buddy, open your eyes."

  Blair moaned softly as the voice reached him, the warmth and caring behind the words drawing him toward consciousness.

  "That's it," the voice coaxed. "You can do it."

  Slowly, Blair opened his eyes. Jim leaned over him, his face a mask of relief. "Welcome back, Chief. You had me worried there."

  "Jim?" Blair blinked several times, sure that at any moment the sentinel would disappear, be replaced by Marcus Grant. "What are you doing here?" His gaze shifted around the room. He was still in the bedroom Grant had provided him, the familiar surroundings sending a sliver of fear down his back. "How did you get here?"

  "Just relax, buddy. I know you're probably confused. You were pretty out of it when I found you but you're going to be fine." He smiled broadly. "And I've got great news, Chief. Grant's been caught. He won't bother you ever again."

  "You caught Grant?" For a moment, it was as if Blair's heart had stopped beating in his chest. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Grant's been caught. I never have to see him again. He's out of my life...our lives...forever. "Jim..." But he couldn't speak past the lump in his throat.

  "I know, Chief. It's finally over. You're finally free of Marcus Grant."

  "I can't believe you're here," Blair said when he could breathe again. "How did you find me? How did you even know where to start looking?"

  "Don't worry about that right now; we can talk about all that later. Right now we need to get you well. Everyone's been so worried about you...they can't wait to see you, Champ."

  "That's great! I-" But the words died in his throat as he realized... "Champ. You just called me Champ."

  Jim frowned, shaking
his head. "No, buddy, you're confused. But don't worry. I'm right here and I'm going to take care of you. Nothing bad will happen to you..."

  "...as long as I'm around."

  And even as Blair stared up at Jim, the sentinel's voice changed, morphed into a chillingly familiar one. Became the voice of Marcus Grant.

  "Jim," Blair choked out, grief nearly overwhelming him because as he stared up into the caring face of his partner, he knew... This is just a dream. But beyond that realization was another one even more chilling.

  I'm waking. I'm waking and Grant will be with me instead of Jim!

  Blair clutched at Jim, gripping his hands, holding on tightly. "Don't go!" he begged. "Please Jim, don't leave me here with him. I can't stand it anymore. Please! Please don't go!"

  "I'm not going anywhere." Jim leaned closer, concern radiating from his green eyes.

  Fear stabbed through Blair. No! Jim's eyes are blue! They're blue!

  The sentinel blinked, the green of his eyes seeming to deepen with each moment, the color mocking Blair. Because he knew whose eyes he was looking into - Grant's. Marcus Grant has green eyes.

  "Jim," he sobbed brokenly, wishing he could think of some way he could stay with his friend. "Take me home," he blurted out, knowing the request was ridiculous. He knew this image of his partner wasn't real, that it was a dream, a fantasy cooked up by his tired mind. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Jim was with him and maybe...just maybe if they left right now, they really could go home. "We can leave right away. Just take me home!"

  "Blair," the green-eyed sentinel whispered. "You have to calm down. Maybe I should go call a doctor for you." Jim disentangled himself from Blair's grip and stood.

  "No, Jim, don't go," Blair cried out as the detective began backing away from his bed. With each step he took, Jim seemed to grow more and more distant, his image fading, threatening to blink right out of existence. "Don't go! Please, Jim, don't go! Jim...!"

  "...Jim!" Blair cried out, coming awake all at once. His eyes snapped open, his breath caught in his throat. His gaze darted around the room, searching for his partner, but as the last of his dream fell away, reality...his true reality washed over him.

  Jim isn't here...he's never been here...I'm still with Grant.

  Blair squeezed his eyes shut against the truth, longing to go back to his dream, to his friend. He bit at his trembling lower lip, a fine sheen of sweat covering his fever ravished body, his sore shoulder throbbing relentlessly. I just want to go home. His mind drifted back to all the times Jim had stayed with him while he was sick or hurt, of the soothing words of encouragement he always offered, the gentle touches. But that wasn't what he missed most about the sentinel.

  It was Jim himself.

  The mere presence of his sentinel was more comforting to Blair than he could ever express. And I'm going to see him again. I'm going to get back to my life. Even as the words, the vow rushed through his mind, he realized that he couldn't hear Grant moving around. His room was quiet; in fact, the entire house seemed to be quiet-empty.

  Blinking his eyes open again, he looked around. His room was vacant, the door to the hallway closed. Blair lay on his bed, his shirt open, a damp cloth atop his chest. He pulled it off and wiped it over his face. How long had he been out? He looked toward the French doors. The day was overcast, gloomy, but the rain had stopped.

  His gaze shifted to the table beside his bed. A note leaned up against the lamp there. Hand shaking, he reached out and picked it up. He had to squint hard to make out the words, his glasses out of reach.

  "Champ: Gone to the store to get some things to help your shoulder. I'll be back soon." It was signed, "Marcus."

  Blair crumpled the note. Grant was gone! He couldn't believe it. For the first time since bringing him here, Grant had left him alone.

  This was the opportunity he had been waiting for.

  Throwing back his blankets, Sandburg swung his feet to the floor. Dizziness swept in, making him regret the impulsive movement, threatening to send him back to the mattress. He gritted his teeth and willed it to pass. This was his one chance to escape before he became too weak to even walk and he wasn't going to miss it.

  Using the bed for support, he managed to get to his feet. He swayed for a moment but somehow remained upright. Perspiration stood out on his forehead as he began to shuffle toward the door, the chain around his ankles clanking noisily as he moved. Oddly, he found himself welcoming the sound. It helped ground him, keep him alert. Reaching the door, he turned the knob. It was locked.

  "Dammit!" he shouted, pounding a fist against the hard wood. Turning, he scanned the room around him, his mind racing, trying to think of a way out. He was about to attempt breaking down the door when a new idea struck him. He crossed the room as quickly as he could, halting before the sliding glass door. The rain had stopped but the wind still howled, bending the treetops, sending droplets of water cascading to the sodden ground. Taking a deep breath, Blair unlocked the glass door, slid it open and stepped outside.

  The wind cut through him, blowing his open shirt halfway off his shoulders. He clutched it around himself and, stepping up to the edge of the balcony, leaned over. A larger balcony extended off the living room below. All he had to do was go back inside, put on some warmer clothes and his shoes, then climb down to that balcony.

  But before he could move, he heard a car approaching in the distance. No! Too soon! He's come back too soon!

  He forced the despair away, determined he could still make his escape if he didn't panic. Taking a deep breath, he leaned over the side of the balcony and, moving his shackled legs as one, swung them over the edge, hanging onto the outer railing as he maneuvered himself into place. Pain coursed through his shoulder and down into his back, but he kept moving. Gripping the deck railing, he shifted slowly into a squatting position then gripped the bottom of the balcony and dangled his stocking feet over the living room deck below. An instant later, he dropped down, falling hard on his butt.

  Pushing up, ignoring the searing pain that the fall had sent through his body, he shuffled toward the deck's side stairs. He was forced to slow his movements when his stockinged feet slipped on the wet wood. Dizzy, his vision slightly blurred, he reached the steps and stumbled down, his hand gripping the railing for support. The sound of the car drew nearer. Again despair and panic welled up in his chest, and again he pushed them away.

  As he made his way around the front of the house, he picked up a thick branch, small enough for him to handle but heavy enough to do the job intended. He'd just reached the covering of the bushes beside the garage when Grant pulled into the driveway and stopped.

  Blair tensed. He was hidden on the passenger side of the car. Not exactly the best place to spring from but he'd had little time, little choice. He shivered as the wind swept over him. Crouching lower in the bushes, he gripped the wood in his hands and tried to keep his labored breathing under control. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind of the lingering dullness caused by sleep and heavy medication.

  Moments later Grant stepped from the car, but instead of heading to the house, he moved around the vehicle, walking directly toward the spot where Blair was hiding. Sandburg tensed, sure he'd been found out. But at the last second Grant turned and moved to the car's passenger door, opening it and retrieving two bags he'd left on the front seat.

  Hefting the bags into his arms and whistling a tune under his breath, Marcus headed toward the house. Just as the man walked past the area where he had hidden himself, Blair stepped out and swung hard. The branch hit Marcus square in the back. Grant let out a grunt of pain and pitched forward, the bags flying from his hands, groceries scattering all around him. Blair didn't give his captor a chance to recover; raising the branch again, he struck Grant along the side of the head. The man stopped moving.

  Blair dropped the wood and, reaching down with shaking hands, dug into the jacket pocket where he'd seen Grant stuff the car keys. Shuffling back to the sedan, he yan
ked open the driver's side door and slid in behind the steering wheel. He slammed the door shut and quickly made sure all the doors were locked. He was shaking violently but he didn't know if it was the cold or his fear that was causing it. He stabbed at the ignition twice before getting the key in. Then, twisting it hard, he relaxed slightly as the engine roared to life.

  A second later, an angry scream split the air as Grant sat up and turned to face the car. Blair didn't hesitate. He shoved the car in reverse and floored it, shooting down the driveway. He reached a dirt road and backed out onto it, barely missing the ditch on either side of the driveway. Braking hard, he brought the car to a screeching halt.

  As he shifted into drive, a fist slammed against the passenger window. He jerked toward the sound. "Blair!" Grant screamed, his face level with the passenger window, his eyes locking with Blair's. Rage distorted the doctor's features, giving him a freakish look and sending a slice of panic through Blair's stomach. Grant drew his fist back and hit the window again. The glass cracked with the force of the blow.

  Blair slammed the car into gear. It jerked forward, threatening to stall. He pushed the accelerator to the floor, gunning the engine. The car shot forward and Blair let out the tense breath he'd been holding. He shot down the road, bumping over the ruts and grooves.

  His gaze shifted briefly to the rearview mirror and he wished he hadn't looked. Grant was running after the car, screaming in rage and anger, arms flailing out, hair matted with blood. The image stabbed at Blair, sending a chill of terror through him.

  He tore his gaze from the mirror. He had to concentrate on his driving. In the gloom and without his glasses, it was going to be hard. But he had to find his way to a freeway. To safety. To home.

  To Jim....

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  Stacie Alexander turned the volume up on her car's tape player and happily sang along to her John Denver tape. She loved this drive, heading out to the country house she and her husband owned, taking the winding roads up into the foothills. She'd left the paved road behind several minutes ago. The dirt road she now traveled would lead her directly to the house, nestled far back in the trees, the nearest neighbor a full mile away.