Judgements

by K Ryn

  Holland was out of the car before the dust settled, his weapon trained on the anthropologist.

  Blair's fingers tightened around the rock, feeling for the balance of it as he considered his options. He had a pretty fair arm -- he'd managed to strike out a dozen batters the last time he and Jim had played on the department softball team -- but would it be good enough against a trained marksman?

  "Bullet's faster, kid," Holland warned, as if reading his mind.

  Seeing the determination in the deputy's eyes, Blair released the rock and let it fall to the ground at his feet.

  Ben slid out of the squad, pointing frantically in the direction that the bike had disappeared.

  "Bowden's getting away, Dad. We've got to stop him."

  Holland kept his eyes and gun targeted on Blair as he moved around the front of the car. "He's not going to get far. Not on that bike. We'll take care of him later."

  Not quite satisfied with that answer, Ben swiveled around and stalked toward Blair, his face a mask of barely contained fury.

  "This is all your fault, freak!"

  Blair's eyes flickered from the deputy to the enraged young man and back again, wondering how far the older man would let his son go. It didn't take long to find out. Three long strides brought the younger men face to face.

  "I'm talkin' to you, punk!"

  Anger flashed through the anthropologist -- the hot, blood-red emotion he'd felt in the bus station. Tired of being pushed around, Blair refused to flinch. His lack of reaction drove the other man over the edge. With a snarl, Ben gave the exhausted Guide a vicious shove. The force of it broke Blair's precariously achieved balance and he fell to the ground, landing on his back.

  The gasp of pain that escaped his lips made his attacker grin with delight. With a well-placed kick, Ben struck again. His heavily booted foot connected with Blair's injured leg near the bullet wound. An agonized cry burst from the anthropologist and his body curled into a ball.

  "Ben, that's enough!"

  Blair barely heard the startled cry from the older man before another kick landed in the same spot. Fighting blackness and pain, the miserable anthropologist was only vaguely aware of the deputy manhandling his son away.

  "I said, that's enough!" Holland barked, giving Ben a push toward the car. "We agreed to let the desert finish him, remember? Dark Springs should do just fine. Take out some of your anger on the trunk. Clear everything out of there and put a blanket down. You've already left me a mess to take care of. I don't want to have to clean up blood stains as well."

  A shadow fell across him, and Blair managed to raise his head. Holland crouched down next to him. The injured Guide hissed and flinched away when the deputy reached out to check the freely bleeding wound. A flicker of regret flashed across the older man's eyes and Blair drew in a sharp breath.

  Maybe... maybe there was a chance...

  Glaring at his father and the downed anthropologist, Ben jerked several boxes from the trunk of the squad and slammed them into the back seat. The impact jolted one of the cartons open and the younger man's eyes caught the dull gleam of flat black gunmetal. A slow grin filled his face. He plucked the backup pistol from its holster and slid it alongside the frame of the front passenger seat. Assured by a quick glance over his shoulder that neither of the other men had seen his furtive movements, he returned to the back of the car, finishing the task his 'daddy' had assigned him.

  "Killing me isn't going to solve anything," Blair whispered, fighting to stay focused. He managed to shift enough that he was resting his weight on his right elbow. He met the deputy's eyes and held them. Words were the only weapons he had now. "You know that. My partner's out there. He'll find help and they'll come looking. And I've gotta tell you, Jim Ellison's the kind of cop that doesn't quit until he finds what he's hunting."

  "Your partner's already found help," Holland said softly, a faint tinge of sadness in his tone. "Just not quite was he was expecting."

  Blair's eyes widened as the meaning in the older man's words became clear.

  "Damn you!" he hissed through clenched teeth, anger sweeping away caution. "Is he still alive? Is he?"

  "He's alive," Holland answered. "You're the last loose end."

  Blair released a soft sigh of relief. The fear that he'd been carrying with him since he'd been unable to find his partner was replaced with a grim hope. His faith in Jim was unshakable, but he'd been afraid that the deadly, unpredictable desert would prove too much for even his Sentinel. Now, faced with only mortal enemies, his friend would have a chance.

  Raising his determined gaze to meet Holland's, Blair's mind whirled, trying to come up with a way to buy his partner some time.

  "Don't do this, man," Blair pleaded softly. "No one's done anything yet that can't be dealt with."

  Holland shook his head regretfully. "You don't understand."

  "I know he's your son, but he's a grown man. He's responsible for his choices and actions, not you. How can you live with yourself?" Blair asked angrily. "You took an oath, man. This isn't some kind of kid's prank. This is murder. Cold-blooded, premeditated murder."

  Holland glanced toward the car. Blair followed the direction of his gaze. His breath caught in his throat and he swallowed convulsively when he saw Ben unfold a blanket and lay it open inside the trunk.

  "I can't live with myself if I don't."

  Blair stiffened and shifted his gaze to the deputy at the whispered reply. Seeing the resolve in the set face, the younger man knew that he'd run out of arguments. He drew in a ragged, trembling breath at the sight of the handcuffs in Holland's hands.

  "Put your hands behind your back," the older man ordered quietly.

  Blair's stubborn streak kicked in and he shook his head in a quick, defiant gesture. The deputy's eyebrows raised in surprise, then lowered into a scowl.

  "I can just as easily finish it here, kid. It's your choice," Holland murmured, fingers tightening on his gun.

  The anthropologist's eyes widened slightly, his body tensing for a moment as fear found its way back into his heart. As certain as he was that he was going to die, he found himself unwilling to face it just yet. With a soft exhalation of breath he let himself slump to the ground, turning slightly so that he lay on his stomach. Face pressed to the hot sandy surface, he did as he was ordered. Wincing as the burning metal locked around first one wrist and then the other, he closed his eyes, gathering the shreds of control that he had left. He managed to hold back all but a short choked cry of pain when Holland hauled him to his feet.

  Another set of hands closed cruelly around his left arm. Blair didn't need to open his eyes to know that Ben had rejoined the party. Together, they dragged him to the rear of the car and backed him against it. Pain flared through him when his injured leg was lifted and he was pushed inside.

  "Time for a little trip, freak," he heard Ben murmur as the trunk was slammed shut.

  Eyes screwed shut to ward off the darkness that he was sure was blacker than the inside of his eyelids, Blair allowed the pain free reign and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Settling back in the seat, the Sentinel's eyes swept the countryside. Once again, he was forced to wait as the miles rolled beneath them.

  Two hours -- a life can end in a split second and they've got a two hour head start. If we don't catch them before they find Blair...

  He forced himself to take a deep breath. It was hard for him to admit that there were things beyond even a Sentinel's control. The only thing he could do right now was conserve his strength and work on managing his senses. He couldn't alter time, as much as he wanted to, nor could he change what had already happened. Visualizing his friend's face in his mind, he held onto the picture he wanted to see -- his Guide, safe and alive.

  Blair was always teasing him about being 'a control freak' -- a comment which was usually followed by the anthropologist innocently suggesting some tests to determine whether it was 'learned' Blessed Protector behavior or 'genetically inherited' Sentinel behavior.
Privately, Jim thought it was some of both.

  It wasn't so much that he had the desire to control everything or that he needed to be 'right' all the time -- although he knew that his young friend would have disagreed vigorously with that statement.

  It was just safer to be the juggler instead of one of the balls.

  Loss of control meant an increase in risk. And it was usually a disproportionate increase. Once something got out of hand it usually went to hell in a hurry. He'd learned that in Covert Ops, and it had been proven time and time again during his years as a cop. The less control you had over a situation, particularly a dangerous one, the harder it was to influence the outcome, and the greater the chance that someone -- yourself, your partner or one of your team -- was going to end up hurt or dead.

  Controlling a situation was one thing -- with enough time, resources and planning, it could be done. But controlling people and their emotions, that was something else. That was like swimming against the tide.

  Misunderstandings or arbitrary judgments engendered fear. Fear bred hatred. Hatred led to prejudice. Prejudice and bigotry created an atmosphere where violence flourished. Jim had seen the damage that a 'different is wrong' mind-set could produce -- irrationally held truths were often more harmful than reasoned errors.

  Being perceived as 'different' was what had endangered his partner from the very beginning of this mess. First at the bus station, where angry words had stabbed at the younger man's self-image. Then he'd barely escaped becoming a punching bag for an arrogant bully's bigotry. Blair's calm, unruffled response to their threats had led to their need to prove their 'superiority.' The line had been crossed the moment Ben and his buddies had attacked them on the road. Violence begat more violence as their anger and hatred took them the final step to attempted murder.

  It was ironic that the same prejudice had probably saved both of their lives when they'd been ambushed. With Jim down, Ben had probably expected the anthropologist to fall apart -- to put his head in his hands and lay down and die. Instead, Blair had drawn from his seemingly unending well of determination and pig-headed stubbornness, refusing to give up. He'd kept both of them alive. His Guide had put his Sentinel's safety and sanity above his own pain and fears.

  A perverse twist of fate had put his young friend at risk again. Bowden's hatred and prejudice had been aimed at Jim, but Blair was still catching the fall-out. If Bowden had been willing to help them both, he would be at his Guide's side, protecting him, instead of sitting here helplessly, watching the miles stream past.

  Closing his eyes, Jim rubbed his forehead absently, trying to soothe the throbbing pain away.

  "I've got some aspirin in the first aid kit," Heller offered. "From the size of the lump on your skull, that's got to be one nasty headache."

  "Thanks, but I've got my own way of dealing with it," Jim answered softly, reaching for the mental dial and turning it down a notch. The annoying pounding eased a bit and after a few minutes he was able to open his eyes again. He glanced at the Sheriff and found the man watching him curiously. Jim answered the stare with a quizzical one of his own.

  "What is it you want to know, Sheriff?"

  Heller shot a quick, surprised look at his passenger before turning his attention back to the road once more. "You and your captain must be pretty tight," he said after a few moments of silence.

  "Simon's a good friend." Jim glanced out at the desert and shook his head ruefully. "I don't imagine he was too pleased to hear from you."

  "He wasn't. He didn't seem too surprised though. I take it from his comments that you and your partner have a history of finding trouble?"

  "Or it finds us," Jim admitted softly. "But that's not what you wanted to know."

  "No, not exactly... Your partner... I know he's not a cop..."

  "Sandburg's been paired with me for a couple of years as a Civilian Observer. It's part of his research. He's actually an anthropologist. A teaching fellow at Rainier University."

  "Strange. Banks called him one of 'his' men. That's a little unusual for a civilian. Your captain seemed as concerned about him as he was about you. Maybe more so."

  "Blair's proven to be a real asset to the department. He has a different slant on the world and on people. He's made us old 'set-in-our-ways' cops sit up and take notice," Jim said proudly.

  "I'm looking forward to meeting him," Heller murmured.

  "You still haven't asked your question," Jim prodded.

  Heller drew a deep breath and tightened his grip on the wheel. "Your captain suggested -- rather forcefully, I might add -- that when I found you, that I give you my complete cooperation. He said that you tend to be somewhat 'protective' of your partner, and that if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn't get in your way if he was in trouble. Banks also mentioned that there might be some things that would happen that would be hard to believe. That you have some special 'skills' that I shouldn't question. That I should just trust you."

  "And you're not sure you can do that?"

  "I just want to be sure that we're not going to have a problem, here, Detective. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to find your missing friend, but I want your assurance that you're going to stay within the law. I want both Hollands brought in to stand trial. I appreciate how you must feel about your partner, but I don't condone vigilante justice."

  "Neither do I, Sheriff. But what Simon said is true -- Blair is my responsibility. He's my partner in more than just the conventional sense. And he's my best friend. I won't stand by and let anything happen to him if I can prevent it. It's in our contract."

  "Contract?"

  Jim shook his head and a grim smile crossed his face. "Just an inside joke, Sheriff. Between Sandburg and myself."

  "One of those things I'd be better off not knowing or questioning?"

  "Very likely."

  Ten minutes later, Jim stiffened and shifted to full attention, his eyes locked on the highway in front of them.

  "Get ready to stop, Sheriff."

  "You think we're near where you met up with Bowden?" Heller asked.

  "No. There's someone about a mile ahead."

  Dave stared into the distance. "I don't see..."

  "He's on foot... pushing a small cycle. It's Bowden," Jim announced grimly.

  Heller finally saw a small black speck shimmering in the haze of the heat-drenched highway. As they drew closer, he could see that it was indeed Bowden. How the hell did Ellison see and recognize him from over a mile away? Heller opened his mouth, saw the look of barely controlled rage on the detective's face, and shut it with a snap, deciding that if this was one of Ellison's special 'skills', he was indeed better off not questioning the man. At least not now.

  He pulled the cruiser to a stop about twenty feet from the young man. Ellison was out of the car before it stopped. He'd crossed the distance to Bowden and had his fists buried in the youth's shirt before Heller could call out a warning.

  "Where's Sandburg!" Jim demanded, shaking the younger man angrily.

  Wide frightened eyes met the Sentinel's. Bowden gasped for breath, trying to find the words to answer the enraged man.

  "Ellison, back off!" Heller barked.

  Jim ignored him and fixed the black youth with an icy blue stare. "I made you a promise when you took him. If anything's happened to Blair --"

  "That's enough, Detective. Let him go!" Heller thrust himself into the middle of the confrontation. After a few frantic tries, he managed to pry Jim's grip free, pushing the Sentinel away.

  "Take it easy, Ellison," Heller cautioned. "You and I had an understanding, remember?"

  Jim's jaw clenched and Dave could see the effort he was making to control his emotions. Hands balled into fists at his sides and he stood ramrod straight. It took a few moments, but finally the Sentinel met his eyes and gave him a terse nod. Satisfied that the detective had himself under control, Heller turned his attention back to the younger man.

  "Talk to me, Bowden," he said quietly.

  "The
y took him," Bowden said softly, eyeing Jim anxiously when the detective stepped forward at his words.

  "Bob Holland and his son?" Heller asked, moving between the two men to keep them apart.

  Bowden swallowed hard and nodded, his eyes flickering to the Sheriff and then back to Jim. "We were looking for you. Blair... he... he convinced me to go back and get you."

  Haltingly, Bowden told them what had happened. Jim listened intently, closing his eyes to hide the anguish he was sure was visible as the younger man described the sequence of events.

  "When I lost control of the bike, we both went down. The Hollands were almost on top of us. Blair told me to go... told me that I had to find you, Detective. That you'd know what to do. I didn't want to leave him," Bowden whispered, shaking his head.

  "You'd probably be dead if you hadn't," Dave said softly, patting the younger man on the arm. "Well, we know that they've got him. Question is, what's their next move?"

  "Dark Springs," Bowden said quickly. "They were going to take him to Dark Springs and leave him there."

  "How do you know that?" Jim asked sharply.

  "I told you. I didn't want to leave him," Bowden said defensively. "I managed to hide the bike in one of the washes and crawled back to where they were. I wanted to help, but Deputy Holland had his gun out. I thought if I listened in maybe I could find out something. Holland talked to Blair for a few minutes. I overheard him say that they'd captured you. I stuck around until they put him in the trunk of the squad car and took off. I hightailed it back to the bike and got to the highway. Ran out of gas a ways back."

  "Joseph Spiritwalker and his people found Ellison at Harold's old place. They had everything well in hand by the time I got there," Heller explained. "Jens and Harvey had Connie Phillips a prisoner there, too. Dark Springs, huh? Still gives us a lot of miles to cover, but it narrows the search area down considerably. I'll call this in and we'll get you gassed up before we take off after them."