by K Ryn
"Just tell me what to look for, Chief."
"Jim, I can --"
"Sandburg --"
They both grinned over the familiar standoff. Blair shrugged and quickly described the type of plant that Jim needed to look for. Giving his Guide a playful pat on the top of his head, the Sentinel rose to his feet and moved away from the rocks, searching for more of the pods.
Watching his partner's almost painfully slow progress, Blair realized that Jim's vision was still far below normal. Sucking on one of the pods, he took a quick look around. He could see the flat band of highway only a few yards away and breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn't come far from the road, so they would have no problem getting back to it.
Glancing upward, he saw the sky deepening in hue and there were hints of color starting to form on the horizon -- the first signs of approaching sunset. They'd slept longer than he'd thought, but the results seemed to have been worth the lost time.
Looking toward the east he could see the faint silhouette of a half moon, and the first faint glimmer of stars. He was thankful that they'd have at least some light for their evening trek. Without Jim's Sentinel vision to guide them, they'd have to rely on whatever natural light they had. Fortunately, they'd be traveling on the flat highway.
And I'm going to make SURE we don't stray from it!
There was a touch on his shoulder. He looked up to see the Sentinel standing over him, his face creased with concern. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just thinking," Blair answered, pushing away the fears which threatened to unearth themselves from deep within his memories. "Give me a hand, will you?"
Jim pulled him to his feet, steadying him until he regained his balance. Tentatively he stepped forward on the injured leg. He felt the familiar stab of pain, and the wound began to throb again. He felt Jim's arm encircle his waist and pull him closer. With a quick nod to hide the grimace of pain, Blair worked his arm under Jim's, reaching up to clutch the older man's shoulder for support.
"Back to the highway, man. It's time to find new accommodations. Preferably some place with lots of running water and a huge buffet," he said lightly, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt.
They started out fairly strong, quickly making the necessary adjustments to their new pattern of combined movement. Concerned that Jim was pushing his control over his eyesight too fast, Blair convinced him to ease off for a while and let him continue to lead. Jim grudgingly agreed, but he left his other senses dialed up to normal, and kept close tabs on his partner's vital signs.
They walked for thirty minutes and then took a short break. Blair had objected to stopping, claiming that he could go farther, but Jim knew that the renewed burst of energy they both felt was destined to be short-lived. He intended to set a pace they could both meet and was determined not to let them get overextended again.
That set the pattern for the next several hours -- walk, rest, walk, rest. Occasionally one of them would pull out one of the pods and suck on the sour, refreshing moisture. Conversation was kept to a minimum -- mostly short anxious questions from Blair, testing both the Sentinel's condition and his own hearing. Jim understood that his partner had his own set of protective instincts -- instincts which needed verbal reassurance the older man was quick to provide.
The desert slid from blistering day to soft twilight, shedding the oppressive heat in exchange for a significantly cooler wardrobe. Wide bands of color stretched from the horizon as the setting sun burned its way into the far hills -- the vivid pinks, oranges and purples an intense contrast to the flat, faded blue which had filled the sky earlier.
Night came on in a rush, hurrying to push twilight from the sky in its eagerness to begin its own cycle anew. The ethereal glow of the moon and the twinkle of stars overhead bathed the landscape in gentle rays of light, smoothing shadows and softening the knife-sharp edges of the harsh terrain. Life began to appear where there had been no trace before -- small creatures on individual life-quests of their own, scurried and crawled out of their holes and crevices.
To the Sentinel's sensitive hearing, it was like listening to a symphony tuning up for a performance. Not quite a cacophony of sounds, but definitely a prelude as nature nudged her chorus into line. His Guide's harsh, ragged breathing was even more noticeable as the desert voices came into sync and sang one long pure note that formed the opening of the evening's overture.
Jim eased Blair to the asphalt. "Rest, Sandburg. That means your mouth, too."
"You know, I think I'm having a relapse," Blair murmured, shaking his head. "I'm sure I didn't hear that last thing you said. I know you wouldn't be insulting me. Not in my condition."
"Relapse, huh? I suppose now you'll be using this as an excuse every time I tell you to stay in the truck."
"Not to worry, man. You've said that line so often I'm sure I could read your lips if I had to. Now your yelling at me about the optimal state of cleanliness for the loft... that just might trigger a another hearing loss."
"Guess I'll be signing us up for sign language classes when we get home," Jim muttered, smiling.
"Sign what?"
"Sign language," Jim repeated, wiggling his fingers in front of Blair's face.
"Only if the department pays for it."
"I'm sure Simon would jump at the chance, if it meant keeping you out of the line of fire once in a while."
Blair eyed Jim uncertainly for a moment, and shook his head, his expression growing anxious again. It reminded the older man that his partner's hearing, while improved, was still spotty. He laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze. His Guide gave him a shaky smile and then stretched out on the rapidly cooling pavement.
"Ummmm, this actually feels good. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is out here at night. Last time I walked this stretch I wasn't in the mood to appreciate the scenery."
"Last time?"
"Yeah... I made my first trip out here between my freshman and sophomore years. I'd planned to spend the summer on a dig in Mexico, but at the last minute the guy heading the expedition decided to fill my slot with his own kid."
"A little rampant nepotism?"
"Huh?"
"Sounds unfair," Jim amended.
"Happens," Blair replied with a shrug. "Anyway, I had to shift gears pretty fast. I crashed with a couple of other friends for a month or so and ended up doing some house-sitting for one of the visiting professors. Nate got wind of my dilemma, and invited me down. I managed to scrape up enough money to make the trip, and headed out here at the beginning of August. I got stupid -- hey, I was sixteen, you know -- and didn't pay attention to the gas gauge. Ran out of fuel about twenty miles from the old man's place. Course I didn't know it was there at the time."
"You made this trip in the Corvair?"
"Nah, worse. I had an old beater of a Fiat then. Great car except in cold weather when you had to spend ten minutes massaging the stick to free it up. It had a tendency to freeze in the winter --"
"I get the picture, Chief," Jim growled, forestalling another of Blair's off-topic rambles. "Stay with summer for a minute and finish that story first."
"Finish? Oh... yeah... well, I figured I'd just brought my usual run of luck south with me. I pushed the car off to the side of the road, grabbed my pack and started hiking. When I hit the old man's place -- Harold, that's what his name was, I knew I'd remember it sooner or later -- when I got to Harold's I had to do some fast talking. He reamed me from head to toe, man. He finally sold me enough gas to get me out to Nate's. Gave me a lift back to the car and threatened me with seven deadly forms of physical abuse if I ever found myself in that situation again."
"Blessed Protector number one?" Jim grinned down at his Guide.
"I didn't think so at the time," Blair said softly. "I learned differently, later... in fact, I learned a lot on that trip..."
Jim heard the slight catch in the younger man's breathing and focused in on his friend. Blair's face had taken on an odd, d
istant expression.
"We should get moving," Blair announced abruptly, pushing himself to his knees. Jim grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. He was about to make a sarcastic comment about headstrong Guides when he felt the heat radiating off of the younger man.
"Your fever's up again," he said tersely. Turning his partner to face him, Jim placed the back of his hand against Blair's forehead to make sure he understood. "We can rest a while longer."
"No. We can't. We need to keep moving," the younger man objected, shaking his head.
"Sandburg --"
"Damn it, Jim. This is why I didn't tell you about the gunshot wound in the first place," Blair hissed angrily. "You don't know this desert like I do. We can't afford to be stuck out here another day. We don't have any water. Those pods are only a short term fix. We need to keep moving. We need to find a doctor. You were out for a hell of a long time, man. I thought for a while you were never going to wake up. Your vision's getting better, but what if there's something else wrong? I'm not going to be the one holding us back, I --"
"Blair, stop it," Jim ordered , gripping the younger man tightly. "Stop beating yourself up over this."
"We need to keep moving, Jim. Please..." Blair's anger had evaporated, but the urgent plea in his voice and his eyes was just as intense.
"Okay... we'll go... but we'll stop whenever I say, and no arguments."
"Just as long as we get moving now," Blair agreed glibly.
Recognizing the futility of arguing against what they both knew they had to do, the Sentinel shifted his hold on his Guide and they walked on into the night.
It was still dark when Dave Heller pulled his squad into the parking space next to the station. The headlights illuminated the small sign at the front of the stall and he smiled. After 36 years with the department -- the last 20 of them as Sheriff -- he never failed to appreciate coming 'home'. He turned off the engine and crawled out of the car, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his limbs. Even after a night in his own bed, he still felt the effects of three long days on the road.
Good to be home and in one piece, he grinned, grabbing his hat. He took a moment to look around, drinking in the quiet familiarity of the predawn streets of his hometown.
Fergis, Nevada, population 2365 -- with three more on the way before the end of the year -- was far from a hot bed of crime. They'd helped the big city boys out a time or two -- once in apprehending a trio of bank robbers who had seriously underestimated the dedication of the sleepy little town's law enforcement community. Although not one bullet had been fired, that episode had given the town gossips enough ammunition for a year's worth of stories. He'd been more than pleased to have gotten out of it with all of their skins intact. Dave Heller was not a man who pursued danger and excitement in the job. He never turned away from his duty, but he preferred quiet and uneventful.
And that was pretty much what he'd gotten during his terms as Sheriff. Mostly it was local troubles; hot-tempered neighbors nursing disagreements that had existed for years; doing his 'bad cop' routine for the local kids who -- usually out of boredom or on a dare -- got into mischief and needed a firm warning to settle them down; and adding a few dollars to the local coffers when someone decided to stretch the speed limit further than the law allowed.
The town was his base of operations, but his responsibilities included the entire county. Once a week either he or his deputy would tour the highways and half-paved roads. The three-day round trip he'd just made was, as usual, uneventful. He'd visited with some old friends, checked on a couple of the area's more colorful 'hermits' and done his typical thorough sweep. He missed the time away from the town and his family, but as his wife Jean so aptly reminded him, as long as the job of Sheriff was an elected position, he needed to keep his face well known to the local populace.
Only a third of the territory under his watchful eye was inhabited, and even that small segment was sparsely populated. The rest was desert. And that was more than trouble enough. The locals understood it. So did the tribe on the reservation. Technically, his authority extended there as well, although the tribal council policed its own people with efficiency. The few times he'd had any trouble, it usually manifested itself in town -- a brawl at the bar between a couple of hot-shots who'd had a few too many beers and some of the reservation kids out to prove something to themselves.
No, it was mostly the out-of-towners who kept tempting the desert's fickle sense of mortality. The sandy oven had claimed more than a few lives over the years -- he still had occasional nightmares from one case that had happened not long after he'd taken over as Sheriff. Over the past few years he'd added five more missing persons cases to his 'unsolved' files. Three young men and two women. Five lives that the desert had simply swallowed -- only their vehicles, abandoned on the highway, left any tangible trace that they'd been there at all.
He stretched again, rolling his shoulders. At 56, Heller was still a man winning the battle against aging. His back was ramrod straight -- a carryover from his time in the Marines -- and although he knew that all the driving and desk work were making him a bit flabby, his extra 'inch' around the middle came from enjoying his wife's cooking a little too much, not from knocking back too many brews at the local bar. His hair, graying at the temples in the last two years, was still full and carried the auburn tint that Jean had always admired. The hazel eyes were still sharp and his easy going manner belied a quick and intelligent mind.
He walked to the front of the building and stood for a moment before the entrance, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He held his breath as he tried the door, a full grin filling his face as the knob turned easily in his hand. Shaking his head in amusement, he let himself inside, hanging his hat on a rack near the entry. Turning on lights as he made his way through the office, he nudged open the door to the break room and peeked inside, already certain of what he'd find.
"Molly, you never cease to amaze me," he said, greeting the woman who sat bent over the small table, thumbing idly through an out-of-date magazine.
Warm brown eyes rose to meet his, flickering with mischief. Molly Brown was a tiny handful of woman. Nearly his own age, she looked barely thirty-five. Her cropped, sandy blonde hair and lithe figure added to that illusion.
"Why, Dave, compliments so early in the morning? How thoughtful."
Heller was drawn to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee -- it was always waiting, no matter what time he arrived. He slid past her to the counter and poured himself a cup, eyeing the plastic wrapped plate of muffins.
"'Course, it's probably just to get on my good side," Molly murmured. Rising from her chair, she slipped the plastic wrap off of the homemade goodies. Picking up the plate, she waved it under his nose. "Blueberry... that's your favorite, isn't it?"
"I thought maybe I had you this time," Dave grinned.
"In your dreams, Dave. You forget how long I've known you. You're like an open book. You always come in early the day after a road trip."
"And you're always here ahead of me. How do you do it?"
"Trade secret, Sheriff," Molly grinned back, giving him a quick squeeze on the arm. "Only one muffin until you finish the paperwork I've got ready for you."
"Yes, Molly. Anything you say, Molly."
With an easy laugh, she left him to claim his prize and made her way to her own desk. Heller chuckled himself. He'd known Molly since they'd both been scrawny kids. They'd gone head to head growing up, competing in almost everything -- baseball, spelling contests, science fairs. He'd even competed for her, once he'd opened his eyes and seen what a lovely young woman his tow-headed companion of youth had become. His best friend had beaten him to the punch. Molly had married Tom Brown just a year out of high school and he'd been the best man -- a favor Tom had returned several years later when Dave had married Jean. The four of them had been inseparable. Until Tom had died seven years ago.
The smile on his face faltered. His best friend's death had been a blow. Tom had been hi
s deputy, a man he trusted with his life and the safety of his town. Killed when his squad car crashed into a ravine, the loss had been a bitter one. It still rankled because the cause of death had never been completely explained. From the remains of the vehicle, they'd determined that Tom had been on a high speed pursuit when he lost control. But who or what he'd been chasing -- that they'd never resolved.
Molly had dealt with her husband's absence with the perseverance and determination that made her so much like her Broadway musical namesake. She'd been working a few days a week at the station all along, handling the paperwork and dispatch duties for a meager hourly wage. After Tom's death, Dave had stretched the budget to bring her to work full time -- not only for her own sanity, but also, selfishly, for his own. Her warmth and generous spirit had made walking in and seeing his friend's empty chair that much easier to take.
Not that the seat had remained empty for long. He'd brought on a new deputy a few months after Tom's death. Bob Holland had been no match for his friend, but he was from the area, knew the basics of law enforcement, and he did have an eye for detecting trouble. Privately, Dave thought that was because wherever Bob's son Ben turned up, problems soon followed.
"Only one, Dave!" Molly called out, shaking him out of his reverie. Snatching one of the blueberry muffins -- still warm from the oven -- off of the plate, he grabbed his coffee and walked to his office.
True to form, Molly had three stacks of paperwork waiting. Settling down to the onerous task, Heller chuckled again. Personality wasn't the only reason he liked having Molly around. She was damn good at her job.
Heller wondered if Molly was part psychic too, as she appeared almost magically at his desk just as he was finishing the last of the files. She winked at him, grinned knowingly -- the gentle camaraderie of their friendship was as reassuring to her as it was to him -- and placed another muffin on his desk.
