When the phone rang I groaned in disbelief. The sandwich of my dreams was clenched in my hands, the product of twenty minutes intense labor in the kitchen and the damn thing went off before the first bite.
Swear to God, for a second I thought Sandburg had somehow telepathically figured out I had assembled this gutbuster and was calling to harass me. But that couldn't be—he was in Spokane, visiting his buddy Neal from the academy and wouldn't be home until I picked him up from the airport Monday night. I had another forty-eight hours or so before that so I was planning on enjoying every minute of my solitude.
Not that I didn't miss the kid when he was gone, far from it. Everything always seemed like it was put on hold until he got back, waiting for all that energy to fill up the space he inevitably left. However, I had been able to arrange a romantic dinner with Lisa last night here in the loft, sleep in until nine this morning and prepare a lunchtime masterpiece without interference from my well-meaning but occasionally annoying partner.
It was with real regret that I set the sandwich back on the plate and wiped my hands on the paper towel I had grabbed for a napkin. The cordless phone was sitting on the kitchen table so I snagged it and thumbed it on.
"Ellison," I said suspiciously, still harboring the weird idea that this was going to be Sandburg, ready to lay into me for my less than healthy eating habits. I figured, with all the brown rice that kid forced me to eat, this little two-pound ode to sandwich perfection would do little harm. However, I did have the Zantac standing by—my fortysomething digestive system wasn't what it used to be, as Sandburg liked to gleefully remind me.
"May I speak to Blair Sandburg, please?" It was a female voice, unremarkable and steady.
"Sorry, not here. Can I take a message?" I eyed the sandwich, wondering if I could sneak a bite during this hopefully brief conversation.
"Do you know when he'll be back?" she replied calmly.
"Yeah, Monday night, coming back from Spokane. You wanna leave a number?" Come on lady, I've got God's gift to the sandwich world here, don't drag this out.
There was a pause, then a slight hitching of breath, almost like a small sob. That effectively diverted my attention from my food.
"Monday? That—that will be too late." I heard a tiny sigh and thoughts of lunch were pushed away. I was intrigued.
"Too late for what? I'm sorry, who is this again?" I turned in my chair, facing the balcony doors, propping an elbow on the chair back.
"I'm sorry, this is Cathy Stoddard, Eli Stoddard's daughter-in-law? You must be Jim, Blair's friend."
"Yeah," I acknowledged curtly, trying to subdue the anger that curled in my gut at the mention of the name of Blair's old mentor. To say that man was on my shit list was an understatement. "Look, I don't know why you're calling but I'd appreciate if you and your family would leave Blair alone. Your father-in-law made it pretty clear how he felt about Blair the last time they spoke and I have no intention of letting him take another shot at my partner. You tell your Dr. Stoddard—"
"He's dying, Mr. Ellison."
That effectively took the wind out of my sails but didn't change my opinion about the old man.
"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am, but what does that have to do with Blair?" I tried to soften my tone but I doubt it came out that way. My occasional attempts at sensitivity towards other people tend to take a backseat when Sandburg's wellbeing was threatened.
Another sigh came over the line. "Everything, I'm afraid. Dad's being moved to a hospice in Vancouver Monday morning but all he can talk about is making things right with Blair. Can he be reached at all?" There was a faint note of desperation to her voice now and I felt myself responding to it with a slight twinge of sympathy.
"I don't think so. He and a buddy were heading out on a hike first thing this morning, and weren't expected to be back until tonight. I can call and leave a message but I don't think there's any way he can be back before tomorrow sometime." That's if he wanted to, I added silently. The last conversation with Stoddard had been a disaster and I held the old man personally responsible. There was no way I was going to allow him to upset Sandburg again, deathbed or not.
There was a pause, one I felt no compunction to fill. This was her dime, not mine.
"Ok, Mr. Ellison, thank you. Please tell Blair I called."
"Yeah, ok. Is there a number where he can reach you?" I added perfunctorily, not really wanting to ask but extending the courtesy out of habit.
"No, that's ok, thanks anyway. Just let him know I called?"
"Will do." What else could I say? We made goodbye noises and I turned the phone off, my appetite pretty much shot at this point. Waste of a damn good sandwich.
I rose from the kitchen table and carried the plate over to the counter, yanking out the drawer that held the plastic wrap. I pulled off a length and tucked it around the sandwich and plate, my hands moving mechanically as my mind drifted back three months ago, to the last time the name Stoddard had entered our home.
It was around October, I remember, leaves turning, temperature dropping, the whole autumn routine. Sandburg was still recuperating from the gunshot wound to his leg, pulling part-time duty at the station and relegated to paperwork for the duration of his convalescence. I was caught up in a trial that had me effectively cut off from fieldwork and hating every minute of it. Late one afternoon I had come home after spending way too many hours on the stand; my back was aching from the damn straight-backed chair inside the witness box and my head was pounding from frustration and boredom. The trial wasn't going well. Sandburg was already home, sitting on the couch watching TV while something pretty good-smelling and familiar bubbled on the stove.
"Hey, Jim!" came his greeting. He looked comfortable and relaxed, bad leg up the coffee table, supported by a couch pillow.
"Hey, Chief," I responded quietly as I hung up my jacket. I wandered into the kitchen and plucked the lid off the pot on the stove, grabbing the spoon and giving the contents a stir. Great, one of my favorites, burgundy stew. Things were looking up.
I recovered the pot and joined Sandburg in the living room, just leaning over the couch he occupied. "How's the leg?" I asked, not quite sure if I should beat him up about being on his feet too long preparing dinner. He hadn't propped it up in a few days, making me think he was hurting more than usual tonight.
He muted the commercial and looked up at me, one eye closing in a comical grimace. "Sore. Overdid physical therapy, I think. That's why I just grabbed the stew from the freezer." He smiled and tossed me the remote, moving as if to rise. I tossed it back to him and waved him off.
"Sit still. I'm gonna run upstairs and change before I dish up dinner. Then I'll fill you in on what that dumbass attorney tried to pull—" I was cut off by the shrill of the phone. Loosening my tie I answered it.
"Ellison."
"Blair Sandburg, please." The tone was abrupt, coming from what sounded like an older man.
"Sure, hold on." I tossed the phone to Sandburg and headed up the stairs to change, my mind moving on to everyday concerns, blocking out the conversation going on below me. Just changing into sweats took a monumental effort; I was tired, worn down by endless grilling on the stand by a fast-tracking, Armani-wearing defense lawyer with the personal warmth of a pit viper. We'd met up before under similar circumstances and had taken an instant dislike of each other. The good guys had won that case and DiFalco hadn't forgotten it. I've been in enough trials to guess he was working his way up to manipulating the dissertation fiasco into his questioning so I had to constantly stay on my guard. Luckily we had a good DA who had also seen this coming and was doing her best to keep the questioning from heading in that direction. It was exhausting, worrying work and that's the only slack I cut myself for not immediately noticing, when I returned to the living room, that Sandburg was upset.
The news was back on and the weather guy was predicting rain. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose, predicting rain in the Pacific Northwest. I moved into the kitchen and gave dinner another stir, then began setting the table. Sandburg was where I had left him, phone on the table beside his leg. He was staring at the TV, arms crossed against his chest. Something in his expression was off, I thought, but I didn't pause to really think about it. I grabbed some French bread and stacked it on a plate, then grabbed the bowls. Finally, as I spooned up the stew the TV went silent and Sandburg took his place at the table.
For a few minutes we ate in silence. With a belly full of warm food and a cold beer I started to relax. I ran a piece of bread around the rim of my bowl, soaking up some of the broth and popped it into my mouth.
"So," Sandburg said, "tell me about court. That DiFalco guy still being a bastard?" He grabbed another slice of bread and broke it into pieces on top of his stew, then stirred the whole mess together. Starting to answer, I took a good look at his face and stopped. Something was wrong here. There was a strained look around his eyes and mouth, one that wasn't there when I got home.
"Sandburg, what's wrong? Why do you look funny?"
The expressive brows shot up. "Gee, Jim, haven't we been over this? Thirty some years ago, Naomi and a player to be named later, ok, much later, got together and—"
I gave the side of his head a gentle shove with my fingertips. "Smartass. You look, I dunno, upset or something. Your leg that bad?"
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "No, the leg's ok."
I set my spoon down. "So, what's up? You were ok when I got home—" I snapped my fingers. "Phone call. Who was that on the phone?" I had no qualms about prying into his personal life; he could be as close-mouthed as the next guy if he wanted and just as quickly tell me to back off if he didn't want me to know.
Sandburg looked at me, then returned his eyes to his dinner. I took a bite and watched him chew his lip, then pick up his napkin and wipe his mouth. Then he looked at me again, eyes sad but clear.
"Eli Stoddard."
The name rang a bell but I couldn't place the circumstance. I must have looked confused so Sandburg filled me in.
"He's the guy that led that expedition to Borneo a couple of years ago, the one I was invited to go on." His voice was calm, giving no hint to whatever was bothering him.
I nodded, remembering. "Yeah, right, you turned that down when we got back from Peru." Ok, so I didn't remember the guy's name but I did remember when Blair turned the offer down. Remembered it very clearly, in fact. "What did he want?"
Sandburg hesitated, then picked up his spoon. "Um, a book he gave me a couple of years ago. He's gonna come by later and pick it up. He's, uh, not real happy with my recent career choices." He turned his attention back to his dinner, subject obviously closed.
I didn't push it; we ran up against stuff like this occasionally and Blair inevitably handled it better than I did. Whereas I was still harboring a huge grudge against someone or something about the way things had turned out for us, Sandburg had moved along with his life, becoming a detective and taking his place beside me. Not to say he didn't have his down times; nobody's so adaptable they can turn their back on fifteen years of their life without regret, but we worked it out as it came and in the long run it strengthened that indefinable bond we had, the one that I now accepted without question. Despite my inclination to probe a little further, I let the subject drop and began filling him in on my day at court. We finished dinner up soon after and I offered to do the dishes while he went to retrieve the book this guy wanted.
I was just slipping the last bowl in the drying rack when Sandburg emerged from his room, a large, leather bound book held in his two hands. I watched as he moved to the loveseat and sat down, beginning to turn the pages slowly and reverently, the thin brown sheets making only a whisper of sound. I dried my hands on a towel and then moved over to where Sandburg sat, leaning my elbows on the loveseat to look over his shoulder at what he held with such respect.
"Pretty old looking book there, Chief. What is it?"
He pulled the cover over so I could see the gold embossed title. Matheson's Translations, by Keir Ahmanson.
"Professor Stoddard gave this to me about five years ago. One of the few things I had to make sure made it out of that warehouse, you remember?" He turned to me and we shared a grin. I jerked my head towards the book in his lap.
"Must be something special, aside from its obvious age. Something for your research?"
The hands that had returned to gently turning the pages stilled uncharacteristically, laying flat on the dense text. "Yeah, it was. Ahmanson traveled extensively throughout South America in the twenties, living in the bush and revisiting many of the ruins Sir Colin Matheson had written about in the late eighteen hundreds. Ahmanson eventually had to return to Denmark due to ill health. Dr. Stoddard met him many years later at a symposium in Germany. Guess they really hit it off and Ahmanson gave him one of his personal copies of his book. See?" He flipped back to the front page and there, in faded fountain pen ink, was an inscription. It looked to me like it was in a Slavic language but beyond that I couldn't make out the inscription beyond the obvious "Eli" at the top, the word "Berlin" and the date, 1956, at the bottom.
"Eli gave it to me," Blair continued, but the inflection in his tone had changed markedly. There was pain in his voice and I moved a comforting hand to his shoulder. "When my research hit a wall, he came by one night with this in his hand, kind of a way to keep me going. There's a small but constant narrative throughout Ahmanson's travels, stories about a watchman or a scout, nothing conclusive or even evidentiary but still—it's very cool."
He closed the book and lightly caressed the cracked leather with his fingertips. I cleared my throat, gave his shoulder a slight squeeze and straightened up.
"So, I take it he needs to borrow it back for a while." I moved into the kitchen, intent on starting a pot of decaf, and almost missed his next words, spoken softly and painfully.
"Um, not exactly. He's asked to have it back permanently. Says he has a student that will appreciate it a little more than I seem to have." I froze, coffeepot in hand, watching as he set the book down on the table and rose, turning to me and running a hand through his hair. "Guess I can't blame him for that."
I stared at him.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered.
"Son of a bitch," I echoed some three months later. Sandburg out of town and now the old man wants a reconciliation. I wavered, trying to decide if I should try contacting Blair or just let it go. There actually wasn't much to consider; it was his decision if he wanted to try this, not mine. I sighed and reached for the phone, walking over to the corner table between the couches. There was a pad with the phone number of Sandburg's buddy Neal in Spokane resting there; I grabbed it and started dialing.
Five minutes late I hung up the phone, feeling defeated but relieved. Sandburg, Neal and a group of friends had decided to camp out overnight according to Neal's wife Tara. She had remained behind, her work schedule not allowing for the time off, she told me. I asked her to have Sandburg call me when he returned but beyond that there wasn't much more to the conversation so we said goodbye. I grabbed my gym bag, tossed the cell into the side pocket and headed out.
A few hours later I made my way back home, a couple sacks of groceries in tow. Simon was coming over for chicken curry and then we were going to go over a couple of cases while the Jags game was on. The way their season was going the paperwork was probably going to be more exciting.
Right on time Simon showed up, twelve pack in one hand and file folders in the other.
"So," he said as he stuffed all the bottles save two into the refrigerator, "you hear from Sandburg? He having a good time?"
I shook my head and twisted the top off the Hefeweisen he handed me. "Nah, he's off camping in the Palouse somewhere, no doubt scaring the hell outta the wildlife. Hey, you want a salad with this?"
As predicted, the Jags had rolled over by the third quarter and Simon and I were parked at the kitchen table, drinking after dinner coffee and flipping through financial records and bank statements. It was tedious but necessary, like so much detective work. It was just nicer to do it at home once in a while instead of the chaos of the squad room. The basketball game was muted; only the soft rustle of papers and the clicking of the keys on Sandburg's laptop—appropriated with permission for the evening—sounded in the loft. Conversation was at a minimum as we both worked steadily, building a paper case against our suspect in a murder-for-hire case. Finally, about 10:00, I stretched my arms high overhead and sighed. Simon pulled off his glasses and tossed them onto the paper-covered table, rubbing his eyes.
"I think I've had it, Jim," he said tiredly. "My eyes are beginning to cross, looking at all these numbers. Why the hell couldn't this guy have a plain old money market account like the rest of us working stiffs instead of investments in every single brokerage house in Cascade." He gestured at the pile of statements, a testament to crime paying pretty damn well.
I was about to say as much to him when the phone at my elbow rang. As I answered Simon rose and made his way to the refrigerator, no doubt in search of that cheesecake I had promised him for dessert.
"Ellison."
"Yes, Mr. Ellison—it's Cathy Stoddard again. I hope I'm not calling too late?"
I closed my eyes and sighed. I really wished these people would leave us alone.
"No, but Blair still isn't home. I told you he won't be back—"
She cut me off, sounding a little pissed. "Yes, I know what you said, and that's not why I'm calling. Dad has rallied a little and he wanted me to call you." Something in her tone told me she wasn't liking whatever this was leading to.
I nodded at Simon who was preparing to cut the cheesecake, pointing the knife at me with a question in his eyes. I indicated I wanted a small piece by the space between my thumb and forefinger, then turned my attention back to my caller.
"Ok, so he wanted you to call me. What can I do for you, Mrs. Stoddard?" Yeah, I knew my tone wasn't very sympathetic but it was late, I was tired and becoming annoyed at this second intrusion.
There was a pause on the other end, then she continued. "My father-in-law wants to see you."
I was floored. I couldn't think of any conceivable reason Dr. Eli Stoddard would want to talk to me from his deathbed. The few words we exchanged the night he retrieved that damn book had not been conducive to a friendly relationship and I had heartily wished him in hell by the time he left.
"I'm sorry, what did you say? Why the hell would he want to see me?" I scowled at the plate put in front of me, noting the huge portion of cheesecake it held. Beside me Simon sat down, digging in with enthusiasm but watching me with concern in his eyes.
"Because of Blair, because of what happened between them the last time they spoke."
I picked up my fork and jabbed it into the air for emphasis. "Listen, lady, I told you—"
"Will you please be quiet and listen to me? Dad wants to apologize, all right? And if he can't do it to Blair's face he thinks you're the next best thing! Can you do that for them, Mr. Ellison? Can you?" Her voice held an edge of weary grief and I found myself beginning to respond to it. Her next words caught me off guard. "Dad wants to give the Ahmanson book back to Blair."
"I'm sorry," I replied with a little more sincerity, "Look, I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but are you sure? When Stoddard took that book back from Blair it hurt him, badly. I'd just as soon not let him in for something like that again, ok?"
A little warmth crept into her voice. "I understand, I do. Dad told us all about it a few weeks ago. He feels very badly about this and had always intended on contacting Blair to talk things over, but he became ill so quickly—" There was a pause, followed by a sniffle. "Anyway, we're here at St. Anthony's, room 218 in the oncology ward. I have the book here also. Will you come?"
I debated but again there really wasn't a choice. "Yeah, gimme about half an hour. I'll be there."
I turned off the phone and caught Simon's curious glance. I took a bite of cheesecake and a sip of coffee before answering the unspoken question.
"Old acquaintance of Sandburg's, his mentor I guess you'd call him, wants to see me." I hadn't told him about the book thing from last fall so I filled him in quickly, bringing him up to the current situation. By the time I was done, he was shaking his head.
"Helluva thing, Jim, having your professional hero chop you off at the knees like that. And now he wants to fix things?" He rose and gathered the empty plates and mugs, carrying them into the kitchen. "So, guess you're leaving, right?
I nodded unhappily. "Yeah, I'd better. Believe me, I really don't want to but..." I shrugged again and Simon smiled. He got my inference; if it was good for Sandburg, I was there.
Simon walked over and pulled both our coats from the hooks. "You want some company?"
That took me by surprise as I automatically reached for the jacket. "Well, yeah, if you're offering. You don't have to, you know. This isn't gonna be very pleasant."
Simon paused in the act of reaching for the front door handle. He turned and looked me straight in the eye, a hint of sternness in his expression.
"I know I don't have to, Jim, that's not the point. Look, you're not the only one with a bad case of the guilts over what happened to Sandburg last May. If I can help out just by going along and being there for you, why not?" He reached again for the handle and turned it. "If that's ok with you, that is?" His tone held a note of humor. I spread my hands in acceptance.
"Far be it from me to argue with a superior officer," I said mockingly as I locked the door behind us, but in reality I was touched. Wouldn't do to let him know it, though.
"Yeah, right," Simon replied from halfway down the hallway. "That'll be a nice change, detective."
"So," Simon began as he pulled onto the freeway, headed for St. Anthony's, "you say this Stoddard guy once offered Sandburg a job?"
I paused before answering, eyes fixed on the city skyline as we circled downtown. "I don't know if it was a job, exactly, more like a place on some expedition. He was asked to go right before your little joyride down in Peru and turned it down when we got back." I made a vague gesture with my hands. "Sandburg and I, we were still trying to figure this sentinel stuff out and when he told me about the offer, it was like a kick in the gut, you know? Two, three weeks maybe, that woulda been ok but he up and tells me it was for a year, at least. I didn't say anything, I mean, what could I say? Kid's a scientist, this is the chance of a lifetime to study with his guru, make a name for himself in his chosen field. Hell, I shoulda told him to go for it, but then he jumps out of a damn plane to follow me, for God's sake, and with his fear of heights—"
I stopped when I heard the deep chuckle beside me. "Yeah," Simon was nodding as he took the hospital exit. "I can still hear him telling Daryl about the lizard down his pants. Gotta hand it to Sandburg, he never does anything halfway, does he?"
I rolled my eyes. That was one way to describe it. "Yeah, he's got his own style, if you wanna call it that. Which is one reason this Stoddard character really pisses me off. Just like the rest of the world, he was ready to write Blair off instead of giving him the benefit of any doubt. Strangers, yeah, sure, you'd expect them to be judgmental, but this guy? C'mon, he's known Sandburg for years and still gave him nothing but crap."
Simon nodded as we pulled into the hospital parking lot. "Yeah, I guess since we know the truth, it's hard for us to sit back and let people think what they like."
His words hit me like a knife between the shoulder blades. Sandburg sacrificed one truth to keep another safe. My truth, his sacrifice. Well, not tonight, I thought suddenly, my hands clenching into fists. Tonight, somebody was gonna hear the truth.
Ten minutes later we exited the elevator to the second floor oncology ward. The lights were soft and the corridors were pretty much empty of people as Simon and I made our way to the nurses' station. I spoke quietly to the duty nurse and he led us to the room used for family members. It was a nice, comfortable lounge, occupied by a single figure. It was a woman, looking out the window into the darkness, holding a Styrofoam cup. I cleared my throat to get her attention.
"'Scuse me, Mrs. Stoddard?"
She turned and smiled, setting the cup down on an end table. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Ellison. And please, call me Cathy." She extended her hand to me and we shook, both of us giving the other the once over. Cathy Stoddard was my age, maybe a little older, with short-cropped gray hair and a clean-scrubbed, no nonsense kind of face.
"Jim, please." I turned to Simon. "This is Simon Banks, my captain. And a good friend." They shook hands and then Cathy turned to me.
"I'll tell Dad you're here. Be right back." She moved off, leaving the two of us in the lounge. Simon wandered over and grabbed the remote for the TV, finding a spot on the couch and settling in. He turned it on and found ESPN, pitching the sound low.
Cathy came back and stood in the doorway, motioning to me. I glanced back at Simon who waved a hand in dismissal.
"Take your time, Jim. I'll be right here."
I smile inwardly as Cathy led me into the corridor. That was a nice thing to hear.
We pulled up outside of room 218. Cathy laid a hand on my forearm, preventing me from turning the handle.
"I don't know if you've seen a last stages cancer patient before but it's very hard sometimes. Please don't be uncomfortable—Dad's long past caring about what he looks like."
I patted her hand. "Thanks, but I'll be ok." No point in bringing up the fact that this was nothing new to me, hospital visits and the like. Try sitting next to your best friend while he's in a Golden-induced coma, not being able to see him, only able to hear the sound of oxygen as it was forced into his ravaged lungs.
Imagination can be a horrible thing sometimes.
I gave her a reassuring smile and pushed through, my eyes automatically adjusting to the low light as she shut the door, leaving us alone. I pulled close to the single bed in the room and sat on the tall stool someone had thoughtfully supplied. Although I was prepared, the changes to this man were immense. The condemning, cold-eyed giant that showed up at the loft last fall had been replaced by a shell, seemingly so thin his body resembled nothing so much as another wrinkle in the blanket. Only the hair remained the same, a bushy cloud of reddish gray that stood out darkly against the blue pillow. My anger at this man faded away but not my determination to set some things straight.
"Professor Stoddard," I said softly. "It's Jim Ellison."
He opened his eyes slowly, turning his head to the sound of my voice. He raised his left hand in greeting and I grasped it between my own. His eyes were a deep, clear brown and he made eye contact with me right away.
"Thank you for coming, Detective Ellison. I won't take up much of your time."
"No problem," I replied, gently laying his hand back at his side. "Blair would have wanted me to come."
"Yes, I suppose he would. Raise the bed a bit, won't you?"
I found the control and did as he asked, trying not to wince in sympathy as he grunted in pain. When he was more upright he gestured behind me.
"There, the book's over there on the table. Please see that Blair gets it."
I nodded but didn't rise. "I can do that but I gotta ask—why? What changed your mind? Blair's gonna wanna know and I think he deserves to."
He sighed and closed his eyes briefly. When he reopened them, I saw a spark of the man who had condemned my partner as a fraud—in his own home, for God's sake!—less than three months ago. "Because he needs to know I forgive him. Whatever mistakes he's made he was still a damn fine student, one of the best. When I returned from the Galapagos last August and heard what he had done, I was furious. It wasn't until another student of mine was looking for a particular reference that I remembered the book I gave to Blair. Unfortunately, my outrage at his actions caused me to act unprofessionally." He stopped, needing to rest after all that.
I rubbed my chin, not sure how to proceed. "You, uh, said some pretty rotten stuff to Blair that night at our apartment."
The brown eyes grew more stern. "He did a rotten thing, Detective Ellison, you know that. Lying about a dissertation is not a—"
"He didn't lie."
I let the statement stand without embellishment—what else was there to say? I watched as he took in my words, working through them and not finding any answers.
"But...but that television program, my assistant showed me a tape! And the articles in the papers all said—"
"That was the real lie, Professor. Everything Blair wrote in his dissertation was true." I swallowed and suddenly couldn't meet his confused expression. As much as I knew this was the right thing to do, my ever present sense of self-preservation was kicking in. Coming outright and saying I was a sentinel was something I still fought against, even after all this time and heartache. But then with sudden clarity I realized this was a test only I could take, one I needed to pass so that maybe, just maybe this could be the first step in reclaiming a little of what Sandburg had lost. My doubts faded, slowly replaced with a growing sense of purpose.
I raised my head and met his brown eyes squarely, ready to test this startlingly new sense of pride. "Not just true, but provable."
I stood up.
"I am a sentinel, Professor. Blair Sandburg's discovery. That's the truth."
I was unprepared for the feelings that overwhelmed me with those simple statements. With all my heart I wished Sandburg was with me; this was something I needed to share with him, this feeling of rightness that came with the outright admission of what I was. That my confession was to a dying man was secondary to the revelation that not only could I begin to live with the consequences of that admission, but that some day the truth would reach out farther than the hospital room of a stranger.
But Dr. Eli Stoddard was having none of it. If he had had the strength he no doubt would have spit in my eye. He was furious, his eyes snapping with outrage.
"Impossible," he said hotly. "There's no such thing. I find it appalling that you've allowed this charade to continue, though I must say I admire your loyalty, however misguided. You did not strike me as a man given over to fantasy, detective."
I crossed my arms and tilted my head to one side. "I'm not. But frankly, I don't have to prove anything to you or anyone else. Blair lied to protect me but it doesn't change the fact that I do
I possess five heightened senses and have spent the last four years trying to control them. Sandburg not only recognized my abilities he's helped me perfect them, walking through hell and back just to make sure I survived this. He's sacrificed more than you could possibly know—" I suddenly faltered with the onslaught of some pretty painful memories and Stoddard caught it. His expression had shifted somehow; there was less hostility and more curiosity, the scientist in him gaining control.
"You are sincere, aren't you? Yes, I can see it in your eyes." He turned away from me, strain and amazement warring in his face. "My God. So Burton was right."
"No," I said softly, "Sandburg was right. You need to know that up front. He was right."
I heard the soft footfalls of rubber soles on linoleum and sure enough the door opened behind me. It was another nurse, one I hadn't seen before. We exchanged smiles and I moved out of the way, turning my back to give an illusion of privacy. I ended up at the table that held a pile of books, along with a vase of flowers and a laptop. The Ahmanson book was on top and I picked it up, idly thumbing through the pages and ignoring the soft conversation behind me.
When the nurse left I turned back. Stoddard seemed to be lightly dozing, arms crossed loosely over his abdomen. I figured this was my time to exit; I had the book and the man needed his rest. I turned to go but was halted by a soft call from the bed.
"Wait."
Stoddard opened his eyes and gestured to the stool. "Please, not yet. I'd like—" he winced as he shifted on the bed "—I'd like to hear more."
"Professor—"
"Please, call me Eli."
"I don't think staying is such a good idea. You need to—"
"Please, Detective. On Monday my son will return to take me home to die. Don't let me leave not understanding this. Blair was special to me, one kindred spirit out of thousands of students. When he turned me down on the Borneo trip I was terribly disappointed but to hear he falsified his dissertation—" he paused and stared at the ceiling before turning back to me. "Please. Help me understand." All anger had left him, leaving only a tired old man at the end of his life. I nodded and parked myself on the stool, laying the book on the nightstand.
"All right," I said, "what do you want to know?"
"Everything."
So I told him.
I started with the way Sandburg and I met. I have to admit, looking back, it was amazing either of us survived, from me tossing him against a wall to him tossing me onto the pavement. Stoddard and I shared a smile as I described my first impression of his student; I was amused with myself that I'd managed to tolerate someone as different from me as, well, fly-fishing is from spear chucking. That autumn was a blur in my memory, so much input, so much to learn, not just about me but about this tofu-eating whirlwind that suddenly was living in my spare room.
Those early memories were pretty good, for the most part, and it was fun sharing them with someone who'd known Sandburg as the weird grad student I'd first met. Stoddard interjected an occasional pithy comment, summing up Blair's overwhelming enthusiasm with a few well-chosen words.
In my story I consciously began to weave a thread about how Blair made himself damn near indispensable to the Major Crimes unit. That was all well and good until I hit up against the painful recollection that was David Lash. God, I hate that man to this day, never mind he was a sick bastard who was buried with five of my bullets imbedded in his chest. I edited that episode a little closely, both for Eli's sake and my own, but I wasn't fooling either of us.
"Sounds like Blair had grown on you by then, Jim." By now we were on a first name basis, having reached an unspoken truce this far into the night. At some point Simon stopped by with some coffee for me and the news Cathy had gone home to catch some shut eye. I introduced the two of them before Simon excused himself to head back to the lounge. I tried to convince him to take off but he just shook his head, muttering something about Princess Bride being on and not wanting to miss the fire swamp scene.
I took a sip of coffee and nodded, answering Eli's inferred question. "Yeah, I guess. Hell, by now he was living with me, working with me...we even went on a retreat together, to a monastery, of all places."
"A monastery? How typical of Blair not to do the expected."
I snorted. "Believe me, that's not even the best vacation story. Let me tell you about this little trip we took to Peru..."
I tried to clean up that story too but somewhere along the line I think that intellect of his really kicked in. He asked me pointed questions about my senses, ones I tried to answer truthfully and not come off sounding like a Saturday morning cartoon character. I've always been uncomfortable about sharing the spiritual side of this whole sentinel thing but he homed in on that too. To get him off that track I pointed out that it was upon our return from Peru that Blair turned down Eli's offer.
There was a small silence then. I watched the old man as he mulled over the implications of that decision.
"Blair always wanted to go to Borneo, you know that, don't you?" There was a curious look in his eye, almost one of challenge. "It would have been an incredible experience and frankly, I needed him there."
"Well, yeah, I figured that's why he was asked. I guess I didn't know it was such a big deal." I shrugged. "I don't think I convinced him one way or the other; it was his choice all the way."
"I see. Go on, what did you two get into next?"
I smiled. "Hey, you ever meet Sandburg's mother?" Apparently he had by the reminiscent smile on his face; that started us off on a whole round of Naomi stories. Interestingly enough, his were stranger than mine, which in retrospect was pretty damn scary.
After a while I stood up and stretched. "Eli, I should take off. You need to rest."
But damn if he didn't shake his head. "I won't sleep for a while. I know it's late but if you wouldn't mind, I'd really like to continue this conversation. The staff won't kick you out, you know, not at this stage of the game. Is that all right?"
What could I say? Frankly, I was kind of enjoying this myself, reliving the past years. Ok, maybe enjoying was too strong a word; there were too many painful memories embedded in the good ones. But there was a definite feeling of comfort in talking about some of this stuff.
"Ok," I nodded, "let me send my friend home and find a bathroom. Then I'll tell you how the Sandburg school of pop psychology helped us out during that church bombing spree a few years back."
Eli chuckled, a dry whispery sound. "I'll look forward to it." He closed his eyes as I left him, the lines of pain settling in his face.
First stop was the lounge, but surprisingly Simon wasn't there. I asked at the nurses' station and found to my amusement Simon had left a message saying he was making a run to the drive-through and would be back shortly.
I made a quick stop at the facilities and made my way back to Eli's room. I felt tired but loose, not daring to actually check the time on my watch. Time had no meaning for the man I was keeping company and so for now it had none for me as well.
I settled back on my stool and waited for Eli to rouse. One skill I've somewhat perfected is the ability to read certain vital signs, like respiration; he wasn't sleeping, just resting.
"Eli," I said softly, "you still with me?"
He stirred and lifted pain-filled eyes to mine. "Yes, of course, Jim. Go on, you were going to tell me about some church bombings? I don't remember hearing about those."
My reward for telling that story was another feathery chuckle as I got to the punch line about Blair never having crossed that damn rope bridge, the example he used to allay Taggert's fears. "Yeah, some psych minor he turned out to be," I ended with a smile, one I quickly lost when that phrase reminded me of another instance where that term had been used. Eli frowned at me as I tried to get my expression somewhere back to neutral.
"What is it, Jim?"
I waved a hand carelessly, trying to sound nonchalant. "Just a rough time, not too long after that, actually." Caving to the curiosity rampant in the pain-ravaged face I reluctantly told him about Galileo and his sadistic little elevator gimmick. I felt a remnant of the blinding terror I experienced when that son of a bitch hit the detonator. Something inside me still thinks I should have dropped his sorry ass off that tower but career wise it probably wouldn't have been a smart move.
"So Blair got into trouble on his own, as well as with you, I see. But explain something to me, Jim. He must have had enough information to submit his dissertation some time ago. Why didn't he?"
I shrugged. "He told me the same thing once, about having enough research to publish. Turns out he also liked the work we did together."
"Being a cop?" he said, scornfully, setting my teeth on edge.
"No, not being a cop, Eli. He liked—likes—the complexities of detective work. Turns out he's damn good at it, too. Hates the idea of carrying a gun but—"
"Blair Sandburg, carrying a gun. I never would have believed it." The tone of the conversation was becoming more intense. I started feeling defensive as he continued. "You must really be something very special for Blair to prefer being your shield bearer despite his obvious talents in other studies. To think he gave up what could have been a distinguished career, to compromise his integrity to become a sidekick—"
Ok, that pissed me off. "Sidekick! Sidekick? That's a hell of a way to describe it, Eli and I don't think you've got an accurate picture here at all. He's my guide, for God's sake!"
He blinked at me, obviously confused. "Your what?"
"My...my guide," I answered, stumbling as I tried to find words to explain. "It's a term somebody used once to describe how we work together. In my mind it just kinda stuck but it's pretty damn accurate."
"And just what does your 'guide' do for you?" I winced at the contemptuous tone.
Rubbing my forehead with my thumb I searched for a way to explain. "Here, let me give you an example. There was this drug, some new designer crap hitting the streets. I accidentally ingested some of it and lost my eyesight for a while. Blair helped me through that by teaching me to concentrate on my other senses. Even while temporarily blind, I was able to work that case through to the end, because of Blair." No way was I gonna tell him the other half of that incident, the part that gave me nightmares to this day. No way. "The stuff he came up saved my life more than once on that case. That's how this partnership works—this so-called gift of enhanced senses would have had me in the loony bin years ago if not for Blair. You follow me here? And all the time he's working with me he's doing double duty at Rainier, keeping up with his own studies, teaching, counseling—hell, I don't know how he did it but he kept it all together. So don't get the idea the kid just stands around holding my cape while I perform magic tricks, Eli. That's not fair to me and sure the hell not fair to Sandburg. You should know better than that."
A little shamefaced, he nodded. "All right, I see I may have made some inaccurate suppositions regarding your relationship. But to know Blair back then, and to see what he is now...it's very hard. I don't expect you to understand, though."
I stared at him then gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, I understand, believe me. I've seen him change too, remember? But not just change—there's been a lot of maturing, too. He's his own man—believe me, we don't always see eye to eye. Sometimes the lines of communication haven't always been great and when they get screwed up things go downhill fast. We've managed to hurt each other pretty good over the years, that's for sure." That was a memory I had no intention of sharing, when those lines had been obliterated almost beyond repair.
Eli's eyes drifted closed as his breathing became a little labored. I rose and came closer, laying a hand on his forearm. "Eli, you ok? You want me to get someone?"
Eyes still closed, he shook his head slightly and I took my seat again and waited. After a few minutes he relaxed and turned back to me. Fatigue was really beginning to pull at him, and I recognized that it was about time for me to leave. I crossed my arms and considered what I was going to say carefully before going on.
Taking a deep breath, I took my best shot at trying to make him understand what Blair and I had. "Look, Eli, the bottom line is when it all went to hell with the accidental release of his dissertation he did what he thought he needed to do to protect me. Not himself, not his reputation or his academic career. Me. Jesus, they were throwing stuff at him like the Nobel prize, huge amounts of money and he walked away. From all of it, not just the career but the friends, the students, the colleagues—you. No way could he explain to you why he did what he did and not compromise me. Do I think it was a great solution to that mess? Not really, but I'll be damned if I'm going to dishonor his sacrifice now. He even let you, his hero, rip him a new one over this stupid book rather than tell you the truth. You wanna talk about integrity? There it is, wrapped up in your former student and my partner. Never been prouder to know somebody in my life, Eli. You should feel the same way."
Aw, crap, the guy had tears in his eyes. And damn if I wasn't far behind him. What can I say? It was late, we were both wiped out and the emotions were too near the surface.
Eli cleared his throat. "All right, Jim, your point is well taken. I'm so sorry I didn't understand before and now there's nothing I can do to make it right, is there?"
I shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I don't know. Vancouver isn't that far away and I know he'd love to visit you when he gets back. Maybe—"
Eli shook his head. "My move to the hospice is a mere formality, Jim. I simply prefer to die in my own country, a sentimental gesture from a world traveler. But there is one thing I can do. Please, bring the book over to me. Do you have a pen?"
I didn't but I searched around until I found one. I raised the bed a little more so he could have enough leverage to write. I stepped over to the windows to give him some privacy. Looking out into the night, I heard the scratching of the pen as he laboriously inscribed something underneath the existing dedication. Finally I heard the pen laid on the nightstand and the book closed with a sigh, so I turned around and walked back towards the bed.
Eli extended the book to me with a shaking hand. I grabbed it and tucked it under one arm, once again taking his hand in both of mine.
I cleared my throat. "Eli, I just want to say—"
"Don't Jim, please. It's enough that you came, especially after what I said to Blair in sheer ignorance of the facts. Tell him I'm sorry, that I understand now, won't you?"
I gave his hand a slight squeeze and let go, nodding because suddenly my mouth was dry. Moving towards the door, I swallowed and tried again.
"I will Eli, I promise." I held up the book. "Thank you for this. It'll mean a lot to Blair." I reached to open the door but paused when Eli spoke out once more.
"Jim. You will...take care of him, won't you?"
I smiled. "We take care of each other. That's how it works. Goodnight, Eli."
"Goodbye, Jim."
I stepped into the corridor and let the door shut behind me. Pausing a minute before going to collect Simon, I fingered the cover of the book but decided against looking inside to see what Eli had written. I stuck the book back under my arm and made my way into the lounge.
Simon was still there, crumpled Wonderburger bags giving evidence of his late night snack. Amazingly enough he was still awake and totally engrossed in whatever was on TV.
"Simon, you about ready to go?"
He looked up at me, then back at the screen. "Yeah, sure, Jim soon as this is part is over, ok? Here." He picked up a greasy bag and shoved it at me without taking his eyes from the TV. "Number three, extra onions, no pickles."
I perched on the arm of the couch and turned my attention to the bag, delving in with enthusiasm. With a contented sigh I slid onto the couch proper and pulled out the burger, mouth already watering in anticipation. I had it unwrapped and half devoured before I paid attention to the show Simon was so caught up in. Seeing what was on, I settled in with a resigned sigh.
"Yeah," I mumbled around a mouthful of lukewarm french fries, "ok, we leave after the part where Indy shoots the guy in the market, ok? I'm beat."
"Sure, sure, whatever. Now be quiet, I like this part."
An hour and a half later we headed for home.
The cell phone rang around two o'clock Sunday afternoon. I had taken it upstairs with me to the rooftop garden, intent on nailing down a couple of the tarps that had gotten loose during last week's windstorm. The weather wasn't too bad so I took the opportunity to get it done, tired of listening to the rub of plastic against wood every night.
"Ellison."
"Jim! Man, you ok? Tara said you'd called but we just got back! Everything all right?" Sandburg sounded winded and concerned.
"Breathe, Chief, yeah, everything's fine. How was camping?"
"Aw man, don't ask! The four by four broke down in the middle of nowhere, it rained the entire time and I am getting too damn old to sleep on the ground! Not to mention the fact I ripped my sleeping bag, we lost half our food crossing a stream and I think I broke my finger. Hurts like hell, anyway."
I smiled, looking out across the rooftops of the neighborhood. "All in all, sounds like one of your less disastrous trips to me."
"Oh, thanks, just what I need, cheap shots from a guy who can't even go fishing by himself without discovering some huge plot to defraud the American monetary system. You have no room to give me any crap about my vacations, Ellison."
"Oh yeah? Well if I remember correctly I wasn't exactly by myself for most of that fishing trip and besides that I think you were the one that got the short end of the stick that time, junior." I parked myself in one of the Adirondack chairs and propped my feet on the other.
"Gee, thanks so much for reminding me. Remind me to show you my next paper cut when you're slicing lemons, ok? So anyway, why'd you call if everything's ok?"
"Tell you in a second. How'd you hurt your hand?"
"Jim! C'mon, why'd you call?" There was that impatient tone in his voice, the one that assured me he was okay and not to bullshit around.
I took a deep breath. "It's about Eli Stoddard, Chief." And I told him the whole story.
There was silence on the other end when I finished.
"Blair?"
"Yeah, I'm still here. Just a lot to take in, you know? Man, I'm just—hey, thanks for going over there last night. You didn't have to do that." His voice was low and subdued as he worked over what I had just told him.
"No problem, Chief, I was glad I did it. So was he."
"You think I should try to catch an earlier flight? I may be able to come back tonight and see him tomorrow before he goes."
I had already considered this. "Nah, I don't think so. I think we had—what do you call it?—closure, so don't come tearing home. He's spending time with his family and tomorrow's gonna be tough on all of them. You stay put and enjoy your friends."
Another silence as he considered my words. I know how his mind works; he was trying to reconcile his need to see his old friend again with his desire for some well-deserved down time. I was glad he had flown to Spokane because he's just the kind of guy that would have driven all night if he thought the situation warranted it.
Finally, I heard a sigh. "Ok, you're right. Maybe it's better this way. I mean, just knowing he decided to give the book back to me is proof enough that he forgives me, right?" There was such vulnerability in those words I felt a lump rise in my throat.
"Just remember, Chief," I said softly, "there was nothing to forgive in the first place." I cleared my throat. "Ok, so I'm picking you up at six tomorrow night and you'd better have that Cougar Gold cheese with you or I'm shipping you back for it, you got that? And I mean in the baggage compartment."
I was rewarded with a chuckle. "Yeah, yeah, I know, like you'd let me forget something that has to do with your appetite. Got it yesterday, all right? Hey, looks like I gotta go. We're headed off to get some Italian food then we're gonna go see Fantasia 2000. I'll see you tomorrow, ok?"
"Yep. Have fun. Get your finger looked at. And Sandburg? Stay out of trouble."
He laughed. "Oh, bite me, Jim. See ya."
"Yeah, see ya." I turned off the phone and sat for a few minutes, thinking over my conversation with Eli and the memories it had evoked. God, it had been a long, hard road to this point in our lives and many times I didn't think we were going to make it. But here we were, four years later, going strong and no end in sight. And now one more person knew the truth about Blair Sandburg. God willing, it was only the beginning.
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