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Tremble Part2
the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things...
--lewis carroll, the walrus and the carpenter
Eavesdropping wasn't a hobby for Jim. It never had been. His father had told him once that eavesdroppers tended not to like the things they heard, and he had found that to be true. Hell, an overheard conversation hid been the beginning of the end with his ex-wife.
Still, there were times he couldn't resist his curiousity ... and this was one of them.
He had parked himself in the Forensics Lounge, quiet place where he wasn't likely to be bothered. It wasn't as if there was a line up to use a lounge next door to the morgue.
It was easy to tune in to Simon's office, cutting through all the other floors to hear Simon and Blair voices as distinctly is if they were standing next door. There was a slight tinniness, a little distortion, but the words were perfectly clear.
Normally it took at least a little effort to listen from so far away, but this was Simon and Blair, and their voices drew him even when he didn't want to hear them. He shut his eyes and let them in.
"Jim said you wanted to see me?"
"Yeah." Simon was talking around a cigar. Jim heard the snick of a lighter as he flouted the department's non-smoking regulations once again. "Pull up a chair."
The door to Simon's office shut and a chair moved toward the desk. (Lift chairs to move them, Chief. You're scraping up the floor.)
"What's up?"
"Your partner around here anywhere?"
Blair's smile was obvious in his voice.
"What's the difference, Simon? If he wanted to, he could hear this from the loft."
"True," Simon conceded. "What I need is some Kryptonite."
"All you have to do to ask, Blair told him. There was a soft thud as something about half the size of a breadbox was set on Simon's desk.
"What the hell is tha--"
White noise. Simon and Blair's voices disappeared behind it and Jim rained in his hearing before a headache came on. It had been a long time since he'd heard that white noise generator in action. Normally Blair didn't seem to care what Jim overheard ... but this was the all new, secretive Blair, and apparently there were things he didn't want Jim to know.
"You saying you don't trust me, Chief?" Jim asked the wall of the lounge. He smiled, irrationally proud of the little bastard. "Good call."
With nothing to hear and no business in the station, Jim decided to take a late lunch in the hopes that Simon and Blair's talk would be over by the time he got back.
wanting you to reach up from the dark, to wake up from the cold.
and wanted you is all i can do
--moist, believe me
No sign of Blair when he got back from lunch. Simon was there, scowling at a cigar that had been extinguished before its time. Jim took a deep breath and went into the office.
"How..." he cleared his throat and tried to make himself relax "He was many years removed from the military but when he was nervous he still tended to stand at attention. "How did it go with Sandburg?"
"Shut the door." Simon suggested, and Jim did.
"That well?" Jim asked, trying for a smile. Simon rolled his eyes.
"I was right about one thing -- he is definitely moody."
Jim took a chair and waited. After a few moments of silence, Simon started to talk.
"Jim, I realize that you may not want to talk with him about that close call we had a few months ago, but he has to talk to someone. That kid is a mess."
"I'll talk to him," Jim said. Not that he wanted to, not that he was even convinced it was a good idea, but if Blair needed someone to talk to, that was what Jims were for.
Simon shook his head.
"I don't mean you, Jim. I know you have his best interests at heart, but you're too close to this. Did it ever occur to you that he might want to talk about what happened in Sierra Verde? Or about being thrown out of your place?
"I wasn't trying to hurt him," Jim snapped. He'd been out of his mind at the time, and Simon damned well knew it.
"I know, I know ... but that's one more reason he can't discuss this with you. He can't give you hell, and he knows it."
"He can say anything he wants to say," Jim said softly. "He just .. doesn't."
"Tell him to talk to someone. I suggested he talk with the department psychologist, but he won't do it."
Jim raised his brows. if there was one thing Blair was conditioned to take in stride, it was visiting a shrink. After the run-in with Lash, after he'd nearly died from Golden, Blair had agreed to it without hesitation.
"Said he was okay, didn't need it ... what?"
Simon shook his head.
"Now that's the part that bothered me. I told him I thought he was on shaky ground; he didn't argue. I told him I thought he should talk to someone, he said he probably should. I offered to set up an appointment he said no thanks. I don't know what he's thinking, but it's not good. Do you know if he's in trouble at the University?"
Jim thought about that. It was a waste of time, since he'd thought about it plenty and he was always stopped by a complete lack of information but he thought about it anyway.
"I don't know. He says everything's fine, but you don't believe him."
That pretty much summed it up.
"No. I don't." Jim was suddenly uncomfortable in the chair, felt it digging into his flash. "He's dragging around, I don't think he's working on his thesis; he never talks about school anymore ... I was in his office for about two hours last week and no one showed up. Something's wrong. Did he tell you about the break-in?"
Simon did not look pleased.
"Break-in?"
Jim couldn't help smiling. For some reason it pleased him to know that Blair had this affect on other people, too.
"I'll take that as a no. Someone kicked the door in and took a drum that Blair's old professor got from some bloodthirsty South American tribe. And if that's not strange enough, the next day Blair found a bandage in the washroom from some guy who'd cut a design off that drum into him arm."
"This have anything to do with the Sentinel business?"
Jim shook his head.
"We don't think so. Blair says nothing but that drum was even touched. Just another weird story from the Sandburg Zone."
"Weird doesn't even begin to cover it." Simon said. "Why didn't he call us to report the break-in?"
"He did," Jim said, that "at least I'm not alone" smile coming to his lips again. "He called the appropriate department. Said as far as he knew, I hadn't been demoted. How do you like that?"
"I don't." Simon clearly didn't find any of this remotely funny, and Jim was glad. Regardless of the occasional urge to smile, he didn't find it too damned funny either. "Why wasn't he in here, demanding that we find find this burglar and kick his ass? Why isn't he running all over campus trying to find the guy himself?"
"I don't know, Jim said. "He's been reading a lot of books about that tribe, looking up the design ... but he hasn't done anything about it. I just ... don't know."
"I don't know, either." Simon admitted "But I'll tell you something -- he is in no condition to be driving his life right now."
"What do you want me to do?" Jim asked. "I don't think I'd be justified in taking the keys away, and he'd never forgive me for it."
Simon waved a hand.
"Yes he would. But I'm not telling you to do that. I'm not saying lock him in his room ... I'm just saying, keep an eye on him. And for god's sake, get him to talk to somebody. The boy has snakes in his head, and I'm worried about what he's going to do."
Jim had nothing to say to that, so he said it. And left.
all at once it will occur; you never will be what you were ...
you put a chill across my face like the air of december
--edie brickell air of december
Wherever Blair had gone after his talk with Simon, it wasn't the loft. There was no sign that he'd been there since that morning, and the answering machine was blinking quickly enough to cause sezures. Jim hit the play button and let it get everything off its chest while he settled in.
"Hi. I was wondering if you might have a moment to complete a short consumer survey."
Jim hit the skip button.
"This is forty-nine cent video calling. Just letting you know you have four movies over-"
Skip.
"Hey, Blair, about that linguistics text you lent me. I've got some bad news. My roommate thought it was mine, so he put it in his suitcase when he left for this Now Zealand expedition, and ... uh ... he's on a plane right ... yeah, it's after one. He's in the air right now. If you're in a rush to get it back, I can have him mail it to you. I'm really sorry. Call me, 'kay?"
Beep.
"Jim, this is Al. You may remember me -- I'm the guy from Vice who kicked your sorry ass on the basketball court two games out of three. I have not forgotten about the twenty bucks, my friend. You can't avoid me forever."
Beep.
"Blair, sweetie, pick up the phone."
Jim stared at the machine. That was not a voice he heard very often.
"Are you there?" Didn't sound like a casual social call, either. "All right ... fine. You call me when you get in, because I just got a call from Geoff Miller and he says you asked him some very upsetting questions."
Beep.
"You don't have my phone number, do you? I'm in Dublin for the next few days -- I don't remember the country code, but the local number is 781-908. Call me. Please? Okay? Bye."
Jim instructed the machine to save the rest of the messages and got out a phone book to find Ireland's country code. It seemed he and Naomi needed to have a talk.
come to life, and i never thought you'd make it back so
soon. you've always been your own destroyer. as you let
go my hand i was desperate to hold you again but you're
sinking too deep in {the (water) will} freeze here, winter
by morning, and we'll freeze here, solid by morning
--david usher, st. lawrence river
"Hello?"
"Naomi... it's Jim."
Before he could continue, he heard her take in a sharp breath.
"Is he all right?"
"Yeah, he's ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ... I was just playing back the messages and ..."
"He's not home right now, is he?"
Jim knew that tone. Even if he'd never met Naomi he'd know it. It was the one Blair used when his patience had finally snapped and he wanted answers yesterday.
"No. I think he's at the University, but I'm not sure. You said something about a phone call he made to Geoff..."
"Geoffrey Millar. I lived with him for a few months when Blair was ... eleven or twelve. I don't think Blair's spoken with him in years."
Jim flopped down on the couch. He had a feeling this was going to take awhile.
"Why would Blair call him now?"
"That's what I'd like to know,"
Patience, Jim told himself. I am letting this go.
"You said Blair asked him some upsetting questions?"
"Yes. Geoffrey's a thanatologist."
"A thana-whatsis?"
"Thanatologist. An expert on death and dying. Jim, why would Blair call him? Is something wrong?"
This was dangerous ground. Jim didn't know when Blair had last spoken to Naomi and he had no idea how much Blair wanted her to know about the events of the past few months.
"I don't think so," he said slowly "Someone stole one of his souvenir drums, and he's been looking into the tribe the drum came from. I think he's trying to get into the head of the guy who took it. Maybe his phone call had something to do with that."
"Jim." She wasn't even trying to hide her exasperation. "Did you *mean* what you said?"
"I--" He stopped. "His drum did got stolen but ... I don't think that's what's bothering him. What did he ask this guy?"
"He asked what happened if you missed your time to die. He wanted to know if something would come after you to take you away. I don't know why he would ask those things, Jim. Do you?"
Angels and demons coming to tear him from the Earth.
"Look, Naomi ... he isn't in any danger right now. I can tell you that. But I don't think he's talked with you in awhile, has he?"
"I've been away from phones. I guess the last time we talked was ... about eight months ago. Why? What happened?"
"I don't think it's my place to tell you."
"Damn it," she said crisply, "Jim, you can *not* do that. You can't say something like that and not tell me. What happened?"
It occured to Jim that he didn't care all that much what Blair had or hadn't told Naomi. It wasn't as if she and Jim were strangers. He could tell his friend anything he liked.
"He had a close call a few months back." He paused, then bit the bullet. "I wasn't really myself, and I let him get hurt."
She sighed.
"Jim, as his mother, I'm well-qualified to tell you this: you can't keep him from getting hurt. He's always gotten into trouble. Is he all right?"
"Yeah, he's ...well, physically he's fine, but he's been ... I don't think he's very happy."
There were a few seconds where she didn't speak. Jim listened as a continent and an ocean hummed along the phone line.
"How close was it?" she said finally. "This close call?"
"He died," Jim said. The words startled him, sounded unnaturally loud. He'd never admitted it before. "I went after him and I brought him back."
Because she was Naomi, she didn't ask how that was possible. She didn't even sound suprised.
"He doesn't think he should be here," she said. "That's why he phoned Geoff. We have got to convince him that he wasn't supposed to die. I'm going to come out there. Can you find him and talk to him?"
"Look, Naomi, you don't have to come out here. I'll deal with Blair. I didn't haul him back to the land of the living for this."
"I'll be there in thirty-six ... no, there's a layover in Minneapolis. Closer to forty-eight hours. You give Blair my love."
are you grieving over goldengrove unleaving? leaves, like things of
man, you with your fresh thoughts care for, can you? as the heart
grows older, it will come to such sights colder by and by, nor spare
a sigh though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; and yet you will weep
and know why.
--gerald manley hopkins, spring and fall
What Jim mainly thought on his way to the university was that he now had forty-eight hours to put things right with Blair. He liked Naomi, but he would be damned if he was going to allow her to show up and magically fix everything.
First Simon, insisting that Blair might tell him things he wouldn't tell Jim, and now this. Blair was his *partner*. Jim had brought him back from the dead, and that had to count for something. If anyone was going to get through to Blair, it should be him.
When he opened the front door to Hargrove Hall, he nearly choked on the smell. It was that same dark smell he'd picked up from the bandage, but it was everywhere. It came at him from every direction.
He turned the dial until he could stand to breath the air, then headed for Blair's office.
"Chief?"
No answer. Blair wasn't around ... but he *had* been. His backpack was lying beside his desk, and the door was open. The door Blair had sworn he always locked. There was a new lock on the door, had been since the day after the break-in, so there was no reason for the door to be open and Blair's backpack just lying on the floor like that couldn't mean anything good and Jim was hating this.
Something was wrong.
A few sheets of paper were lying en Blair's desk, covered with closely written lines. Jim scanned them and saw that Blair had put together a short essay on the tribe who'd made his drum. Black magic, ritual sacrifice .. as Jim read, his stomach turned. How Blair could spend months with these sorts of tribes, then return home and complain that Cascade was violent ... it was plain crazy. Probably Blair didn't notice the tribal violence because it was all academic to him.
Even when he was living with them and sharing meals with them, Blair had a bad habit of forgetting that the subjects he studied were more than words on a page.
But Jim wasn't going to think about *that* right now, because Blair was in trouble and being riled at him wasn't going to help.
He told his mind to concentrate on why Blair had taken time to write an essay when he should have been looking for his drum. It didn't make a lot of sense for Blair to be taking such an indepth look at the drum's origins considering that all he needed was the name of the nutcase who'd stolen it.
Jim suspected he had his reasons for tackling the investigation from such an unlikely angle. They might be psychotic, "I missed my proper time to die and here comes my punishment-type reasons, but Jim was betting that Blair's cop instincts had nonetheless put him an the right track. He folded up the essay and put it in his jacket pocket.
From the pervasiveness of that very bad smell, Jim had no trouble believing that the person who stole Blair's drum was in or around the building. Obviously it was time to have a talk with him, so Jim set about tracking him down.
i'm stepping on the devil's tail across the stripes of a full moon's head
--tom waits, jockey full of bourbon
It wasn't just one person he found. Standing in a basement hallway of Hargrove Hall, outside a classroom that should have been empty, he could hear eight heartbeats. None of them were Blair's. He filtered out that terrible blood smell and searched for Blair's scent in case he ... in case something had happened. But Blair wasn't in the room, and good enough. That meant Jim didn't have to be too careful about entering.
He took out his gun before pushing the door open, standing cautiously to one side. He was quiet about it, but even so, by the time he could see inside, everyone's eyes had turned to him.
They were sitting at a long table in the centre of the room. Students, by the looks of it. Exclusively male. The only one who didn't look like a student was the one at the head of the table,and that one Jim was pretty sure he'd seen before. A professor or T.A. or something, in Blair's department. He looked fairly young, but not young enough to be a student himself. Not an undergrad, anyway.
Jim hadn't opened the door with a plan in mind. He'd vaguely hoped to catch them in the middle of some nefarious act, so that he could arrest them and go from there. He didn't know what to do with eight people quiety gathered 'round a table minding their own business. He was pretty sure you couldn't arrest people for giving off the scent of insanity and death.
And, oh, god, they did. It wasn't just the smell, either. It was a sickly glow in their eyes, the way their hunched shoulders seemed to arch into the tops of leathery wings. Jim was willing to concede that his imagination might be running away with him, but he only wished he could believe that.
As he struggled for something to say, he noticed their arms, the fresh cuts describing the design from Blair's drum. That fucking drum. It had to be around somewhere.
It didn't take long to spot it. Even without Sentinel senses, it wouldn't have been hard to spot. Jim took a breath and addressed the room in general.
"You're under arrest," he told them, "for possession of stolen property."