This is the first story I ever wrote for "The Sentinel." It was originally posted as dues to the SentinelAngst mailing list. At the time I began writing it, I'd never heard of the episode "Dead Drop." But I like how it turned out anyway, and I hope you like it too.
Thank you, Kira Tomsons, beta-reader extrordinaire, who encouraged me not to beat myself up, even when I really wanted to. If I had a stadium, I'd fill it with people and tell them to jump up and down in unison yelling "Kira! Kira!"
Rating: A mild PG.
Summary: Blair vs. elevator, and Jim doesn't know that he's missing.
Spoilers: Very minor references (don't blink!) to "The Rig," "Black and White," and "Spare Parts."
Really Paranoid Disclaimer: The Sentinel, Blair Sandburg, Jim Ellison, Simon Banks, Rafe (the character), Henri Brown (the character), Samantha, and Rainier University are property of Paramount Studios and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money has exchanged hands. The story itself copyright author (techgrrl@pobox.com) 1999. This is fanfic.
Blair Sandburg sat in an uncomfortable slouch on the edge of the desk, stifling a yawn. He checked his watch, waited a minute more, and hopped down. "All right, everyone. It's past time. Hand 'em in." A chorus of sighs bounced off the brick walls of the lecture hall. About fifty pairs of discouraged eyes met his. "To the left, please," Blair directed, moving to his right to pick up the exams. "Your other left, man," he corrected an overwhelmed-looking student, who blushed good-naturedly in response. The exchange elicited a weak laugh from the others as they gathered their backpacks and jackets.
Ah, frosh. He'd been a TA at Rainier for several semesters now, and this was his third 100-level class. He'd really been hoping to instruct a higher level class. Somewhere, rumor had it, there were students who knew that anthropology was their calling. Someday maybe they'd let him teach such a class. But it had been obvious that Blair's main interest was in research, not teaching, so the department had once again saddled him with the babies. Actually, in some ways he enjoyed working with the freshmen. Most of them were apathetic as hell, taking the course only to meet a humanities requirement. But there were a dozen that miraculously showed interest in his lectures, and a small handful that would actually participate in discussions. That was worthwhile enough, he supposed.
"Remember, no classes Monday, thanks to Chris Columbus. I'll try to have these graded when we meet again on Tuesday," he called after the stampeding undergraduates. "Have a nice long weekend!" They were gone before he finished the sentence.
Blair wrapped a rubber band around the exams and stuffed them in his own backpack. He switched off the lights and locked the door. A three-day weekend sounded wonderful, even if he did have to grade all these stupid exams.
Walking over to the elevator, he punched the up button. He needed to drop off his timesheet at the department office. This was something of a sore point with him, because he was not paid by the hour. The money he made as a teaching fellow barely covered his tuition and books. Through Jim's good graces and some loans, he was able to sleep and eat. But the Rainier campus bureaucrats clearly needed some piece of paper to prove that they were getting their money's worth. So every week Blair filled in the odious grid with numbers, signed it, dropped it off in the required basket, and tried not to be too bitter about the type-'A'-ness of the whole process.
Finally the elevator arrived, and he rode it up to the twelfth floor. It had a disturbing shimmy, which he'd never quite gotten used to. He always stepped off the thing with a sense of relief that only another acrophobe would understand.
The entire floor was deserted and the office was locked. It was after 4:00pm on a Friday; of course nobody was around. Blair slipped his timesheet under the office door. Good riddance, and let the weekend begin!
The elevator was still there, so he didn't have to wait at all. It wobbled its way down, then stopped with a lurch. Whoa! Blair managed to catch himself on the handrail without falling, but his backpack fell off his shoulder and whapped him in the thigh. He gripped the rail for a long minute, breathing fast, terrified to move. According to the lights above the door, he was stuck between the ninth and tenth floors.
Blair struggled not to scream, not to panic. It would be all right. Elevators have at least two sets of cables, so that if one fails, the other will continue to work. Even if the backup cables break-- The anthropologist's throat spasmed in a gulp at the thought. Even if they break, there are failsafe mechanisms so that the compartment cannot possibly-- Anything was possible. --cannot possibly fall with its speed unchecked. This wasn't helping. He couldn't stop shaking, or sweating, or thinking. Elevators are checked every year, by trained technicians-- Oh God.
Blair shuffled with trembling steps to face the closed doors. He jammed his fingers into the crack and struggled to pry the doors open. No go. Redoubling his efforts, he tried again. Despite a great deal of strain, sweat, and grimacing, the doors remained immobile.
Okay, now what? Blair looked around for another exit. The maintenance hatch was unreachably high. Duh! The young anthropologist rolled his eyes at his own narrow thinking. He reached over and hit the "door open" button.
The doors parted about an inch. Then the lights went out, and Blair's feet left the floor as the elevator released into free fall.
For a long second, Blair was suspended in zero-gravity. It was utterly, completely black, and he reached wildly with his arms, searching for purchase to cling to.
An earsplitting shriek seemed to encompass the entire elevator as metal bit into metal. Sandburg hit the floor in an arpeggio: ankle-knee-hip-shoulder. He rolled onto his back, both arms straight out, both palms to the floor's tile, one knee in the air. He didn't move. He didn't even breathe.
Ouch. Oh, ow ow ow.
Nothing happened. No light. No movement. No sound. Nothing.
Okay, eventually he had to breathe. Blair let out a shudderring exhale, and slowly took in another breath. It caught in his throat, and came out fast in a choked scream/sob.
Acrophobia: an abnormal fear of heights. It sounded so simple, so reasonable, when framed into a simple definition. It was the kind of condition that caused others to clap you on the shoulder and say, "Of course you're afraid of heights. It's only natural; you're just overreacting, that's all." No, it was way beyond overreacting. It was beyond words or explaining or talking or screaming or thought itself.
Blair lay there clenching his teeth, while fear sat in the top of his stomach, creeping up into his chest with slow horrific squeeze, up around his throat. Then down and down and down, until every centimeter of his body was frozen with dread.
People had tried to help. Psychologists said it was about issues of trust, about being an only child; that he felt alone, as if nobody was there to catch him. Gym teachers would force him to climb the ropes, thinking that if he faced his terror, he'd see that it was baseless. They didn't realize that it made it worse. He knew it was unwarranted, but he couldn't fight it--he'd tried it all. This phobia was not a phase or a metaphor or a cry for attention. It was a powerful, primitive, basic part of him.
At the moment, it was winning. There was not much between himself and the basement.
"SOMEBODY HELP ME!" Still nothing. "Is anybody out there? PLEASE!" Nothing and nothing and nothing.
This was going to be a really long weekend.
Exhausted from his workout and an especially tough week, Jim walked into the loft, surprised to be the first one there. Maybe Sandburg had arrived earlier and left already. It was, after all, Friday night. Ah yes. Some people have a life. Others of us order pizza. Jim picked up the phone. Maybe Mr. Social would be hungry when he returned. "Hi, I want to order a large pizza for delivery...."
The body can only sit clenched in terror for a while. Even though anger may remain, eventually the hand will no longer be a fist. Even though fear lingers, the mind must eventually begin to think again.
Blair was thinking about getting up. Nothing was happening, and screaming for help was getting him nowhere. The pain in his shoulder, hip, and knee had faded into a hot glow that he'd learned to associate with "deep bruise." The ankle was another story, however, and he gingerly tried to move it. Levering himself into a half-sitting position, he leaned back on the heels of his hands. After some success stretching his foot up-down, he tried for side-side. Oh, *man* did that ever hurt.
Maybe he'd just lie right back down here for a little bit longer.
He closed his eyes, not that it made any difference. It was still dark. He was in a box in a shaft in a cheaply-constructed academic building made of cinder blocks, with as few windows as possible. At night. Really, it couldn't get much darker than that. Blair wasn't even sure which direction was the front of the elevator. He shivered. The room felt a little smaller.
He needed to calm down. Things were bad enough without psyching himself out. He began to breathe evenly, blanking out his mind, relaxing as best he could against the smooth tile beneath his spine. All right. Much better.
The elevator fell another four feet then stopped just as fast as before. Blair's head bounced like a basketball, and the blackness exploded into stars.
The pizza came. Jim ate half. He washed the dishes. Still no Blair. He put the dishes away. He turned on the TV. Jim made three full revolutions through the eighty-some channels. Had his life always been this dull? Somewhere out there, he hoped Blair was living it up enough for the both of them. Jim dozed off, knowing he'd wake up when his roommate's footsteps hit the stairs.
Sandburg could not believe he was still conscious. All things considered, he wasn't sure he wanted to be conscious. He blinked hard twice at the bright light.
What? Bright light?
Dim emergency lighting illuminated the elevator, but to his eyes it looked like the sun. Blair sat up and scooched himself over to lean against the wall by the door, finally able to orient himself. The elevator gauge made it look like he was lodged between the sixth and seventh floors. Like he was going to trust that.
What else was in here? Call buttons: useless. Fire extinguisher: useless. "Open door" button: worse than useless. Emergency phone. Hey, now that was promising. With a groan for his protesting shoulder, he opened the door which housed the phone and picked up the receiver. It was dead. "Why me?" he pleaded to the unlistening spirits. He hung the phone back on its cradle.
Next to the phone was a large button--"emergency stop." That seemed to describe the situation. Sandburg pressed it, and was rewarded with a loud alarm bell. That would save him from screaming for help, at least. It was awful damn loud, though. He tried shut it off for the moment, but it appeared to be permanent.
The phone had given him an idea, though. His backpack was barely in reach, and he *really* didn't want to move again unless he had to. Blair frantically emptied out the satchel, surrounding himself with books and papers. Something was not quite right--the students' exams were dripping and sticky. He reached down further and scored himself a cut finger. Wonderful. What had once been a bottle of carrot-mango juice was now a collection of wet glass shards. He popped the finger in his mouth and resumed his search a little more carefully.
Aha! The cell phone was in there, at the very bottom (where else?). It was dripping wet, and he shook it a little, then wiped it on his jeans. Please please please work. He turned it on, and was glad to see the console light up. Thank God for Jim's insistence that he carry the chunky old cellphone for just such an emergency. Extending the antenna, he started to dial. "Out of range" blinked the message on the console. Oh, yeah; the whole box-in-a-box-in-a-box thing. Out of range would be about right. Stupid elevator. It seemed to be getting smaller again.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wristwatch that he always carried, but never wore. 11:50pm. Blair realized that he'd missed the date he'd set up earlier this week. Damn. He hoped she wouldn't be too angry. Who was he kidding. Of course she would.
Blair leaned his head sideways against the imitation wood paneling that covered the walls. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the endless alarm bell. Jim had better be missing him about now.
"Jim. It's Banks. Look, I know it's your day off, but I've had two officers call in sick today. Can you cover?" That was the thing about Simon. He got right to the point.
Jim knew how hellish it was to work on an understaffed shift--he wanted to help out. Plus, he owed Simon the favor. "Yeah, uhm, but it'll just be me. Sandburg's unavailable." Where the hell was Blair?
"I'll see you about seven, then."
Jim raised his eyebrows in surprise. No questions? No arguments? No smart remarks about Sandburg? Simon must be desperate indeed if he didn't take advantage of the opportunity to remark on the anthropologist's absence. "Yes, sir." The captain had already hung up.
Jim dialed Blair's cell phone. "The person you are trying to reach is either out of range or has turned off their phone," recited the bored-sounding recording. "Please leave a message after the tone." The detective rolled his eyes. The phone would work better if Sandburg actually charged it once in a while.
"Chief, where are you? Simon's pulled me into work. Call me. Oh, and it's your turn to cook tonight." He hung up the phone and headed for the shower. If he hurried, he'd make it just on time.
Blair awoke with a start for about the fiftieth time. This was worse than getting no sleep at all. It was mind versus body, and Blair Sandburg was the arena. His swollen ankle and throbbing head needed healing. His body was all too happy to provide that healing, by shutting down altogether. He was so sleepy; sleepier than any cram session. It was like possession; a demon with a strong nursing instinct had taken over his body and demanded that he rest.
But as his head bobbed down toward his chest, Blair couldn't help remembering that he was suspended hundreds of feet in the air. In the past hour, the elevator had screeched its awful way down another couple inches. At least it was going slowly now, without any falls or jerks, but he feared it was only a precursor to the big drop.
So Blair sat there, in a cycle: head lolling to the side, starting to doze. Then some real or imagined noise would cause him to snap alert. Thought became a carousel--a fast and bumpy ride to nowhere--and eventually he would fade out again. Some scholarly corner of his mind was fascinated by the psychological/physiological significance of the experience. The more prominent portion of his mind (hungry, tired, cranky, in pain) told the scholar in him to take a hike and come back on Tuesday when he got out of this damned elevator. If it didn't plunge to the basement before then.
"It's your turn, Ellison," barked Simon.
Oh, no. Why was this happening to him today? In fact, why was this happening to him at all? "Sir, I'm not even supposed to be here today."
There was no arguing with the frazzled captain. "Get your coat, and get out of here. Everyone else has had to deal with it, and you're next on the list."
Jim was already getting his black leather jacket, which hung on the back of his chair. "Simon, come on, this is hardly a major crime." His protests were flimsy, but a token effort was required.
Because of the weekend holiday, the Cascade Police Department had fewer officers on duty. Columbus Day was the only three-day weekend that the police could take advantage of. On Memorial Day, Labor Day, and New Year's Eve, they had to staff additional officers because of the number of drunks on the roads. But mid-October was hardly "party time." Most people didn't even get the day off.
For whatever reason, there were a lot of low-priority calls this Saturday. Between the calls and a particularly nasty accident downtown, the overload of calls was taxing some of the other departments. As a favor, dispatch had asked Major Crimes to cover some of them. This particular citizen had already called in two false alarms this afternoon. Rafe had responded the first time, Brown the second. Now it was Jim's turn. Lucky Jim.
Ellison began walking toward the door. "What's the address?" the detective asked Simon.
"4607 Randall Street," answered Banks, Rafe, and Brown in unison.
They all laughed weakly at their unexpected chorus. "Okay, but this is NOT what I signed up for!"
Shortly thereafter, Jim's truck pulled up in a quiet residential neighborhood. Adjusting his cap, Jim approached the house, a nondescript two-story with blue siding. He stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. An elderly woman in a yellow housecoat answered.
"Mrs. Parkins?" She nodded. "I'm Detective Ellison with the Cascade P.D." He presented his badge. "I'm responding to a call from this residence reporting a trespasser."
"It took you nearly fifteen minutes to arrive, young man," the woman chided. "It only took those other officers ten minutes. Yesterday an ambulance was able to get here in only seven minutes. Something terrible could have happened!" She looked at him, clearly expecting some explanation.
Unfazed, Jim asked again, "Yes ma'am. About the trespasser."
Her expression drooped in disappointment. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry... it turned out that was my mistake. False alarm, I'm afraid." She looked very sincere. If Jim hadn't been familiar with her record, and her reputation for these wild-goose-chase calls, he might have been fooled. Maybe.
"That's unfortunate," he said stiffly. In his report, he'd write her up as possibly MO (mentally off), and Social Services would eventually pay her a visit. But in the meantime, he'd really like to discourage her from draining public resources and wasting his time. How could he get the message across to this lonely old woman? He wanted to give in to his urge to yell at her, and threaten not to respond to her calls at all. But he couldn't do that; it wasn't true. They had to respond to her calls. Besides, if he really spoke his mind, she'd probably sue, on grounds that he'd threatened her. Frivolous calls like these all too often turned into frivolous lawsuits.
Jim missed Blair. This was a situation where the anthropologist's people skills might have come in handy. He would have somehow found a way to get this solitary woman to stop calling. With the legendary Sandburg gift of gab, he'd make her think it was her own idea. And probably get milk and cookies from her besides. Yes, it would have been wonderful to have his talkative partner along today.
"That's unfortunate, Mrs. Parkins," he repeated himself assertively. "I hope that I haven't been needed elsewhere while responding to this false alarm." It was the best he could do. He turned toward the truck parked on the street.
Affronted, the woman huffed, "Well! It was only a mistake, young man! Better safe than sorry. And don't worry. If he comes back, I won't hesitate to call."
Perhaps he was being unfair. Jim took a moment to listen to the neighborhood with his enhanced hearing. In the next house, he heard a television blaring the football game. On the next block, a group of children were playing tag. Five blocks down, a man was raking leaves. They were all normal sounds. Nothing weird here.
He gave her a glare over his shoulder. She shut the door. MO, for sure.
Jim drove back to the station, irritated as hell. He imagined describing the incident to Blair over dinner. Sandburg would find something funny about this. Or some culturally relevant, enlightening piece of knowledge. But as far as Jim could tell, it was just a dangerous way for a sad old lady to remind herself that she wasn't invisible.
When he got back to the bullpen, there were no messages waiting for him.
Approximately five hundred seven years ago, Columbus had crossed the ocean. He landed in Cuba, said "I claim this land for Spain," and now Americans everywhere were enjoying a long weekend. Well, maybe all of them except Blair. Thanks a lot, Christopher. Old Chris didn't even know where he'd landed, and never found out. Blair wasn't sure where he might land, either.
Blair was thirsty. It had been over thirty hours since he'd had anything to eat or drink. He'd once read that you could live for weeks without food, but only three days without water. Was that true? Would some luckless custodian find him here on Tuesday morning, long since evaporated into powder?
Thirst had exacerbated his headache. Well, that made sense, if you thought about it. Hangovers were actually just the body's reaction to dehydration caused by alcohol. He'd read that somewhere too. Hangover. Hung over. Alone, about to die, in an elevator hung over nothing.
Actually, Blair realized, he probably wasn't actually hanging at all. The cables had obviously all broken. The elevator was wedged into the shaft, because for some reason (probably his own weight all shoved to one side) the compartment had fallen crooked. That was the theory, anyway.
Oh, man, he needed to focus. All his morbid theories were making him panic again, and panic was not helping anything. On the other hand, panicking wouldn't really hurt anything either, as long as he didn't move his ankle and knee.
The ankle was throbbing, still, just like his head. But the ankle was far away from his heart, and his head was closer, so they weren't in synch. Blair Sandburg, man with no rhythm. He wasn't even in beat with himself. *Bored* man with no rhythm.
What could he do to pass the time? He eyed the backpack leaning against his hip. There was an overdue library book poking out of the top. "Statistical experiment design for sociological and anthropological studies." No, thank you. He'd pass out for sure.
Behind the book, his students' essays poked out. They were mostly dry at this point; their earlier juice bath hadn't damaged them much. Hey, there was something to do. Grading fifty frosh essays would kill another five hours or more. It didn't take much concentration--teaching the course was a little different each semester, but the tests were always the same. But hopefully grading the papers would distract him enough to keep from freaking out.
What a perfectly useless day. Absolutely nothing noteworthy accomplished. The citizens of Cascade were not particularly safer, and Jim was just plain tired. It wasn't a physical tiredness, just a mental weariness borne from his general ineffectiveness. Big, tough sentinel, ha. Not much good if he couldn't think of a way to use his enhanced senses to any clear advantage.
He pulled the huge aqua Ford into his parking spot, got out, locked the doors, and headed up to the loft.
Before he made it halfway up the stairs, he knew that Sandburg wasn't home. Dammit, the kid was supposed to cook tonight. At least that pizza was still in the fridge. He could still smell it.
He entered his home, shedding his jacket and dropping the truck's keys in the basket that sat on the occasional table by the door. The answering machine's light blinked, indicating it had messages to share. Jim hit the "play" button.
"Hello, this is Stan with Quality Aluminum Siding. We understand that you are a homeowner, and would like to offer you a free estimate on valuable alum--"
Delete.
"Um, hi, this is Andrea with Comet Cable with a message for...James Ellison. We will be working in your neighborhood this week, and would like to offer you a discount--"
Delete.
"Blair Sandburg! This is Sam. Yeah, Sam, remember me? We were supposed to meet for coffee last night, and where were you? I waited at Mocha's for over an hour. Were you planning on calling me to explain? Apologize, maybe? Well, don't bother. I've had it with your games!"
Jim's stomach shrunk into a tight ball. Blair wasn't with Samantha last night? He'd been talking about their reunion all week. After mix-up on their first attempted date, Blair wasn't about to blow this chance. Blair's infatuation with the high-maintenance forensic analyst sounded like bad news, but Jim knew better than to try to talk his hormonal roommate out of it.
What time was it? 7:00 pm. Ellison forgot his fatigue and hunger, as he realized that Blair had been missing for over twenty-four hours. First things first. He called the station with a missing persons report. He knew the officer who answered the call, Sergeant Tad Pohlman. Tad worked nights, so he probably hadn't met Blair at the station. Jim stepped through the questions, finding it strange to be answering instead of asking.
"You have him on file. Sandburg, with a 'u', not an 'e'. Yeah. Right. Blue. Brown. Yes. Still about shoulder length. Um, jeans and a green sweater, I think. And a brown jacket," he added, noting its absence on the coat rack in front of him. "He was supposed to be home around five last night, and he missed a date. She called, she was livid--what? No, I haven't talked with her. Well, it was Sam, down in forensics. I'm not sure what he's thinking, either. No, I haven't seen him since Friday morning. About nine. On his way to Rainer."
Tad gave him the usual noncommittal explanation. "Thanks Tad. If you find anything, call me on my cell--yeah, thanks. I hope so too." Jim hung up and took a deep breath.
He tried calling Sam, but she wasn't home, and apparently she didn't have an answering machine. Not that he really wanted to talk with her at the moment anyway.
He tried Blair's cell phone, and his office phone, leaving angry where-the-hell-are-you-Chief messages at each number. He was so frustrated, he could scream. How could he have failed to notice that his best friend was missing? Jim Ellison, trained detective, keen observer. Yeah, right.
Sandburg nearly shouted in frustration. Not at his predicament, but at the sheer stupidity of the exams he was grading. The real slackers, the ones who almost never showed up to class at all, didn't bother him. Those, he could write off, guilt-free. There wasn't much he could do, after all. But some of these students had attended every single lecture, and still their essays were just awful! What were they doing while he spoke? If he poured any more energy into his lectures and discussions, he'd probably glow visibly. Maybe if he stood on his head. How did they even get into college?
Blair stopped to listen to his thoughts. Somewhere, he was sure of it, Dr. Baird was laughing at him. Dr. Baird, who'd done her best to teach him introductory physics. He'd tried, he really had... well, sort of. "Look at your answers, Mr. Sandburg," she'd chide him in her thick French accent. "You have calculated this satellite's velocity at faster than the speed of light. What were you thinking? Check your answers next time!" At least he hadn't resorted to "cheat sheets" like half the class. He'd earned his C-minus fair and square, squeaking by with the minimum possible grade, so that he didn't have to take the class again.
He thought of Dr. Baird, and her angry tirades, and her too-fast lectures, and wondered if she'd be happy that the laws of statics and dynamics were finally having their revenge upon him.
Well, he was done grading the tests now. His students would be shocked they were finished so quickly. Holding down two jobs and attending his own classes took up so much time, that it usually took him a full week or more to grade student projects.
He dug out the watch again. It was eight o'clock. He was starving. As hungry as he'd ever been in his life. Hungrier than the two-day bus trips he and Naomi had taken when he was a kid. Those trips when Naomi was almost broke, and she would spend her last hundred dollars to buy tickets to some relative's house or boyfriend's apartment. His eyes stung as he thought about her. Did she know he was in trouble? Did she know he was thinking of her?
Sometimes she embarrassed him, like during her last visit. It was like she didn't think before she spoke, didn't think before she acted. And she talked so much; she'd say anything that came into her head. She even flirted with Jim, his mother flirting with his roommate, for crying out loud! She did it partly to irritate him, maybe, and partly because she was irrepressible, uninhibited Naomi Sandburg.
She knew. She knew he loved her. He'd call her first thing when he got out of here.
A horrible low sound echoed through the small elevator. It rang up and down the elevator shaft, a low, booming vibration, and he could feel the floor move with it. Oh God, stop it, stop stop stop. He instinctively brought both knees up to his chest, and winced at the flare of pain in the right knee where it had impacted last night. The car jerked a couple inches, jerked a couple more, slid/screeched a foot or so, and then stopped altogether again. He could hear the echo for a full minute.
Blair covered his face with his hands and reminded himself to breathe.
First thing. He'd call Naomi first thing. But just in case, maybe he'd better do something else, too.
He dug out a pen, the red one that he'd used to grad the essays, and opened his spiral-bound notebook to the first blank page. He stared at the pale blue lines, searching his mind for the right words.
"Dear Mom," he began.
Think! Jim paced around the living/dining room; the physical activity was an outlet for the nervousness that continued to build up inside him. He'd last seen Blair yesterday morning. Had he returned to the loft at all since then?
Jim stepped into Blair's room. The door was ajar, as it had been last night. Per house rules, the bed was made, albeit a little sloppily. It didn't look like Sandburg had been here, but that was hardly conclusive. Jim took a deep breath through his nose. The air smelled stale to sentinel senses. Nobody had been in this room for some time, though he could smell Blair's old presence on the pillowcase, and from a pile of dirty laundry hidden in the closet.
He could smell the cedar of those closet doors, and something faintly perfumey, or spicy... incense or candles, maybe? It was surrounded by plastic--probably Sandburg's attempt to shield him from the odor. He could smell the cotton of the sheets, and the polyester batting of the worn comforter, and the fresh air which leaked in from the private entrance at the back of the room--
With a start, Jim snapped out of it. A zone? A mini-zone? Blinking dazedly, he checked his watch and was dismayed to see that he'd been out of it for nearly forty-five minutes.
Jim left the bedroom. Without stopping, he grabbed his coat and cap from the rack, and his keys from the basket. He threw on the coat while descending the stairs. He exploded out the door, on a beeline for the truck. He opened the door, but paused before climbing in.
He looked at the parking spot next to him. Wishing to avoid another fadeout, he inspected Blair's spot carefully. As he'd expected, it didn't look like the Corvair had been there recently.
Jim jumped in the truck, and turned the key. The engine started with a roar, and he pulled onto the main roadway. Steering with his left hand, he buckled his seat belt with his right. He sped toward the next logical lead--Rainier University.
Traffic was light, but Jim did his best to get safely to the school. There it was, in staff parking lot M, just as he'd expected. Blair's Corvair was the only car in the lot, looking a sickly green in the fluorescent safety lights. He approached it, and touched the hood. It was cold; in fact, a thin layer of frost had begun to coat the metal as the evening chill deepened.
Blair's office was in the ugly rectangular concrete building to his left. He checked his key ring and fished out the keys that his roommate had given him in case of emergencies. One gave him access to the building. The halls were dark, lit only by the dim red glow of EXIT signs. The diminished lighting did not impede Jim's magnified sight. He found Blair's office (thankfully he had marked the room number on the key for Jim).
The office was dark and black. The latch did not turn immediately; the key was a copy and fit stiffly into the lock. Eventually it turned, and the door opened with a squeal on ill-kept hinges. Some office--what a pit. To his eyes, the office was a mess, filled with hundreds of dusty academic artifacts. Most were kept in cardboard boxes, clearly labeled with block text. But many of the masks and pots were on display, or at least viewable. All the items seemed intact, though, and there was no sign of a struggle.
A light flashed on the desk phone, and Jim wished he could check Blair's messages. But he didn't know his friend's PIN, and wouldn't be able to learn it until Monday--er, Tuesday--morning when the University staff returned from the long weekend. To hell with that. He'd get someone to hack the system right this second. He'd get the University president on the line if he had to.
Jim pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and flipped open the mouthpiece. He turned it on, but then he stopped suddenly. Something seemed out of place--the dial tone sounded funny. No, it wasn't that. His ears were ringing. Oh, no, he couldn't have another zone-out, not here, not now. He had to find Sandburg, and he couldn't afford any more screw-ups.
He turned off the cell phone, but his ears kept ringing. Wait, the sound was directional. It wasn't his ears; there was actually a bell. An alarm bell? Jim followed the sound, trying not to concentrate too hard on it. He let his fingers scrape along the rough brick walls to distract himself enough, so that he didn't lose awareness of his surroundings again. He'd have to remember to tell Blair about the technique. The anthropologist would be proud to hear that his sentinel hadn't been completely ignoring his lessons.
The sound was coming from the tower next door. Jim knew he didn't have a key to the tower, but was relieved to find that the two buildings were connected. Again, the hallways were dark, but Jim, unrelenting, pressed on to the source of the noise. At first he thought it might be the fire alarm, but its source turned out to be the elevator. It seemed to be stuck between the fifth and sixth floors. The detective located a staircase to his left, and ran all the way up to the sixth floor.
All the way, he struggled to hear *around* the alarm bell. He wanted to filter it out and listen for his partner in the elevator. It was a dangerous idea. He'd already lost control once tonight, and he'd never attempted this before. Bracing himself, he let his ears take in all the sounds around him, "turning the dials" to their highest setting. The sounds seemed to travel through him--no, he was *becoming* the sounds--everything threatened to overwhelm him. Fighting nausea, he did his best to master the environment. Breathe in and out slowly. Focus. All that stuff Blair had been trying to drill into him lately.
The incessant alarm covered everything else, and he tried to tune that out. To his surprise, the sound became less important. It was still loud, but somehow it didn't matter as much. Beneath that, he could hear his own breathing and heartbeat. That was easier to block out. He had done it naturally his whole life, just like everyone else.
Next, he heard a scratching noise. Not like fingernails, but something more familiar. Like... like... the scrabbling of a pen on paper. And below that, a raspy dry breathing. Someone was in there! Awake, and writing? Since last night?
"BLAIR!" Jim lunged forward and slammed his fists on the outer metal doors. It didn't make as much noise as he'd hoped. "I'm going to get you out of there," he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Can you hear me, buddy? It's Jim! I'm out here! I'm going to pry open these doors!" He dug his fingers into the crack between the doors, and pulled with all his strength.
Blair stopped writing, pen poised, mid-sentence. Was his mind playing tricks? He tried to call out, "Hey!" but his voice was scratchy from thirst and earlier abuse. He listened again, and this time he was sure. "...'im ...here! ...'ry ...these doors..."
It was Jim, and he was going to pry open the doors. That's what had caused the first big fall. "Jim! No, man! Stop! It'll fall!" The words were hoarse and semi-coherent. It was already too late; he could see fingers pushing the inner set of doors apart. Blair wanted to grab something, but there was nothing to hold onto. He clamped his hands over the back of his head, over the still-tender spot. He could feel the floor thrumming again. Why couldn't Jim feel that?
The opening between the doors widened enough for Jim to poke his head through. "Hey Chief, are you all--"
Blair was frantic and angry and scared, not only for himself, but now for Jim as well. "Get back, you idiot!" he screamed, or squawked. "It's going to go--it'll take your head off--Jim--"
That was all he got to say before the elevator car did go. Not a couple screeching inches, not a foot or two, but the big one he'd been expecting for a couple hours now. The impact knocked him over and smashed him sideways against the tiles.
Jim wasn't sure of the order of events: Blair's screaming, or the car's falling, or the terrible sound, or the low flickery vibration it made as it went by. He didn't remember jerking back, but somehow, he pulled his torso out of the way. He realized dumbly that his left hand was bleeding; he was gripping it with his right. He inspected it quickly, but it looked like he'd just skinned his knuckles.
Jim shook. He couldn't help it. Stupid, stupid. What had he done? He looked at the gauge above the doors. It was between the 4 and the 5, now. How high was one story? Fifteen feet? Twenty? He heard his partner stir below. Jim felt himself exhale in relief. Didn't kill him. Still alive. Didn't kill him. Almost did.
He stood, vaulted himself toward the stairwell, and scrambled down the stairs. Once on the fifth floor, he knelt near the elevator, but was careful not to touch anything. "Chief! Can you hear me?" He swallowed. "I'm sorry, I just thought it was stuck, I didn't know it was unstable...."
The younger man groaned. The sound was muffled through the walls and doors, so Jim concentrated on listening. The sounds became a little clearer as Sandburg groaned again, then made a coughlike sound.
"Hey! Talk to me, buddy!"
"Jim... I can barely hear you, man. You okay?"
He redoubled his efforts. "I'm all right--what about you?"
"What, uh, yeah, I think so. Fell on my elbow, mostly. Damn, hurts, but I can move it. What are we going to do?" He was hiding it well, but Jim could hear the tremor in his partner's voice. "What are we gonna do?" he called again, thickly.
"Don't panic! You're going to be all right, Blair." He did not need to know how scared Jim was, so he put on his best authoritative voice. "I can't pull you out by myself, Blair," Jim kept using the kid's name. He it remembered from his medic training, that repeating the patient's name could have a soothing effect. "Don't move. I'm going to call 911, and we'll pull you out together, okay? Okay, Chief?"
"You can't call from here; there's no signal," he replied. Jim tried anyway, but he was right.
"I'm going to go make the call. Blair, stay calm, all right?"
"Come back after you get ahold of them--"
"You bet, Chief," he interrupted. "It'll just take a minute."
Jim wound his way down the stairs, out the door, around the corner, through the hall, down another set of stairs, and into the parking lot. Finally, he had a signal. What were these buildings made out of? Radioactive material? He could see the Expedition and the Corvair parked side-by-side. He dialed and he interrupted the operator's greeting. "This is Detective Ellison with Cascade P.D. I have an emergency situation in Shaw Tower on Rainier West campus...."
Jim hung up. The cavalry was on its way. Jim dug the spare building keys out of his pocket, and jogged back toward the building, but then he stopped and went to the truck instead. He reached under the rear passenger seat and retrieved the large, black, "construction-worker" lunchbox which he always kept there. It was a first-aid/emergency kit, which he'd prepared himself. At the time, he'd imagined a roadside emergency, but some of these items might be useful here, too.
Jim wound his way through Rainier's maze and made his way back to Sandburg.
Blair pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing as the elbow straightened. He'd first landed on his left funny bone, and the nerves in his forearm still sang from the collision. Blair had rolled immediately, which had probably saved him from a broken elbow. But the net result was that now *both* his shoulders hurt. While some might count themselves lucky, Blair found himself feeling a trifle ungrateful. Enough already!
He was supposed to be happy--after all, somehow Jim had found him--about time! No, that was a negative thought, and besides, what a relief to know that he was going to make it out of here alive--until the bonehead had rattled the compartment loose again--
Now, that wouldn't do at all. He'd read the Reader's Digest "Drama in Real Life" pieces, and this was never the kind of attitude that anyone sported. No, in those stories, all the victims prayed eloquent and well-crafted prayers, and did not call their rescuers "idiots." In the articles, the rugged EMTs and firefighters always knew just what to do. So even though the poor souls had been trapped upside-down beneath boulders in an underwater avalanche, they hung on cheerfully.
So he'd just keep thinking those positive thoughts, and maybe his letter to Naomi counted as a well-crafted prayer, and maybe the one for Jim, too, though he hadn't been able to finish it before Jim had arrived in the flesh.
A voice, or at least he thought so, interrupted his bizarre musings. Maybe Jim had come back with the Rescue Squad, and the SWAT Team, and the Elevator Police, and--oh, whomever you call when something like this happens.
"Sandburg, I'm back!" Jim shouted through the doors.
"What? Jim, is that you, man?" Blair answered in a normal tone of voice, knowing that the sentinel's hearing would pick up his words clearly.
"Yeah, it's me. The troops will be here in ten or fifteen--" Jim stopped, face screwed up in a listening posture.
"What? Hey, who's coming? I was just wondering who exactly they'd send in a case like this. I mean, it's not like this happens very often, I'd imagine--"
"Be quiet a second, Chief. And don't move." Thankfully, Blair shut right up. Now that he knew what to listen for, he heard it, a low rusty scraping sound. That elevator was not going to hold for five more minutes, much less ten or fifteen.
Jim opened the emergency kit, and pulled out the rough hemp rope he had stored there. "It's the fire department," he said, answering Blair's question. "They're sending the fire department, since they're trained evacuation techniques," he continued, unwrapping the brand-new rope from its shrunken plastic packaging. It was only five yards long, but that should be enough. It had to be.
Blair wasn't fooled. "You heard something, man. What was it? Are they here?"
"They're on their way," Jim replied. He wished that he had some of that 'obfuscation' talent that Blair had told him about the other day. The detective's hands worked quickly, tying firm knots in the line. He created two nooses, one at each end of the rope. One for his own hand, and one for Blair's.
He crammed his fingers between the outer elevator doors, and pushed them apart as carefully and smoothly as he could.
"Jim! What are you doing out there, man?"
"Settle down, buddy. I'm just--"
"You're opening the doors, I can hear them banging. Jim, are you INSANE? Just leave them alone--"
He interrupted his roommate, trying to sound commanding and trustworthy. The fact was, this might not work. But it was better than doing nothing. The creaking of the elevator was louder now. Soon Blair would hear it too. "I'm just opening the outer doors. They don't touch the inner doors. I'm not touching the elevator, okay, Blair?" With the doors open, he could hear Blair better. He could hear not only his breathing and heartbeat, but also tiny sounds like swallowing, and long hair rubbing against his shoulders.
"It's going to slip again, isn't it." Blair's voice cracked, and Jim suddenly remembered what he'd said right before the 'obfuscation' comment. He had a problem with heights. The past few days would have been hell for any man, but Jim could only guess at the terror his partner must be feeling. Once again, the kid had shown that surprising, unexpected endurance that Jim couldn't help but admire.
"Listen to me, buddy. This time, you follow *my* voice," he half-joked while reaching for the service panel on top of the compartment. There were two latches, which were firm, but gave way when he applied some sideways pressure. His muscles trembled as he leaned over the space, struggling to not to overbalance, not to push downward on the hatch. "I'm opening up the top hatch. Look up. Can you see me move it?" Had to keep him interactive.
"Yeah."
Jim stood up, and tried to see through the opening. The elevator's interior was illuminated by some kind of dim emergency lighting. He couldn't see Blair, but he could hear him, to the left. The floor of the elevator was covered by with papers and school supplies, which had apparently scattered during the last fall.
"I'm lowering a rope. It has a loop on it, and you're going to use it as a handle."
"I see it."
"Put one wrist through the loop, and then grab tight to the rope with both hands." Silence. "Give it a little tug when you've done that." No tug ensued. "Blair? What's going on?"
"I can't reach it without moving. Can you make it any lower?"
The elevator chose that moment to emit a long metallic groan as it shifted a few millimeters. "You're going to have to move a little to get it. I can't give you any more slack." A second later, he felt a tentative pull on the line. Still standing, Jim leaned over a little and was able to see Sandburg's face through the square hatch. They locked eyes, and the student gave him a quick nervous grin.
"Okay, Junior, the hard part's over, for you. All you have to do is hang on, now." Jim moved to his right, and lay down, bracing his feet against the wall. It wouldn't do either of them any good if Jim overbalanced and fell into the shaft himself. He took a few deep breaths, and then started to pull in earnest. Without benefit of a pulley system, the rope dragged against the edge of the service door. The rope was of good quality, and wouldn't break, but the friction made Blair seem a lot heavier than he actually was.
He heaved and strained, and slowly lifted Blair. Jim's world narrowed to the concentration of gripping the rope, of breathing, of trying not to clench his jaw (failing at that one). Handlength by handlength, Blair began to emerge through the portal.
Jim was right; Blair's task was singular. Hang on. He closed his eyes, and did not think about it as his feet left the floor. He stayed as still as possible, knowing how heavy it must be for Jim to lift him this way. When his hand reached the lip of the hatchway, he kept his mouth clamped shut and did not cry out as his skin grated against the metal edge. It didn't give him a proper cut, but left an angry scrape along his hands. He held his breath while his torso ground against the metal. But when it cut into his right hip (the one he fell on earlier), Blair couldn't help but gasp a little.
His fingers and wrists screamed, as the rope was rough and scratchy. It was meant for tying tent pegs or hauling cars out of muddy spots. Between that and his own weight, the line dug deeply into his flesh, and he tried to get a better grip before the fingers on his right hand went numb altogether, before the loop on his wrist cut off the circulation.
He felt/heard the elevator move again, a strange tick-tick-tick. Then it was gone altogether, and it flew past him, glancing his kneecap on the way down. Some instinct must have made him point his toes, because the car was yanked away instantly with no resistance.
Blair swung forward toward the wall. He tried to slow his fall by partially extending his left leg. For once, he'd done something right, and he was able to gently bump the wall instead of slamming into it face-first. His feet searched the cinderblocks for some kind of foothold, to make it easier for Jim.
With the elevator gone, it was easier for Jim to pull him up, because now he was moving about a foot at a time. Or maybe the fall had just given him a surge of adrenaline. Regardless of the cause, Blair was delighted to be drawn out of the tunnel and into the hallway. He felt Jim's hands on his forearms, dragging him to blessed safety.
They were kneeling, facing each other, smiling, panting. "I was falling. I was hung over dead space, man. You pulled me out, you pulled me out--" Blair leaned forward and embraced his rescuer with shaking arms. Though his arms were just as wobbly, Jim returned the hug, patting his roommate on the back with gusto.
"Trust me, buddy, I know. When you pull me out of a zone, it feels exactly the same." Jim was rubbing his back, but it didn't seem to be a conscious motion. Eventually it was Blair who pulled away.
"Is really like that?" he whispered.
"Just like that, Chief."
They were still waiting for the fire department to arrive, though Jim had called to let them know what had happened. Blair sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. "Hey, man, is there any water in that 'bag of holding' you've got there?" He indicated the lunchbox/first-aid kit by Jim's side.
"Better than water." The detective rummaged around and pulled out a small bottle of bright-blue Gatorade.
Blair snatched the bottle, and took a large mouthful. He made a face. "Ugh."
"Drink slower, Chief. You're dehydrated, and your body can't handle too much too fast."
Rolling his eyes at Mr. Medical Man, Blair took a smaller sip. "Blech. Don't worry, man. Only extreme thirst and desperation leads me to drink something this color."
"What? It's just food coloring. I can taste the difference, but there's no way you could!"
"No natural beverage is this color, Jim," he said, holding up the neon blue substance. "I'm going to need purification after this."
"What, 'there's no such thing as a blue food'? Isn't that an old George Carlin routine?"
"He might have said it first, but I'm saying it now." He twirled the bottle in front of his face. "Blue Gatorade, blue M&Ms, blue raspberry slushees, they're all an aberration. They are evidence of the evils of modern society." His face was flat, with no hint of humor.
Jim couldn't help laughing as he watched his grimacing roommate take another swig. Then he heard the sirens baying in the distance. "Drink up. The cavalry's almost here."
"I'm hocking my soul, drinking this stuff."
Jim forestalled any further sour comments from Blair by going to meet the authorities. He laughed all the way down the stairs.
By the time Blair left the emergency room, it was going on 4:00am. The verdict was one badly sprained ankle, and one twisted knee. The sentence was light, though: two weeks on crutches, and two more with a support brace. The lump on his head was painful, but didn't seem to indicate concussion. Jim promised to awaken Blair every two hours, just in case. Other than that, he was a mass of bruises and moderately dehydrated. Rest and fluids for that.
Hospital policy required that Blair be wheeled to the exit, but after that, he insisted on navigating himself. Blair wobbled unsteadily toward the truck, crutches glinting dully in the parking lot lighting. "Slow down, Sandburg. I do not relish the thought of carrying you back in there if you slip."
"I'm fine," Blair didn't stop moving, "just rusty." They arrived at the truck, and Jim opened the passenger door for him. Blair eyed the distance with a critical eye. The Expedition had never seemed quite so... big. Jim reached over to assist, but Blair shook his head and tossed his crutches in the truck. He scrambled in before the detective could do anything to help. First he sat on the floor, then stiffly raised himself up onto the seat.
The drive back to the loft was uneventful. Neither man spoke; Blair was exhausted, and Jim's arms that felt unusually heavy, a testament to his exertions. He would have to stretch tonight, or there'd be hell to pay in the morning.
"Sandburg, wake up," Jim gently touched Blair's shoulder, "We're home." Blair winced at the touch, but groggily slid out. They slowly made their way to the loft's outer door, which Jim opened. Blair blinked dumbly at the choice ahead of them. Three flights of stairs, or the elevator.
With an involuntary sigh, he sat on the lowest step, and started to scoot himself backwards up the staircase, one step at a time.
"Sandburg, come on--"
"I'm not taking the elevator--"
"Of course not! But let me help you up the stairs, at least."
Blair gazed up at him in a mix of frustration and embarrassment. "You've done enough for me today, man. Your arms must be about ready to fall off. Go on ahead. I'll be up in a little while."
"My arms *are* tired, but I do not have time for this." He leaned down and picked Blair up, sack-of-potatoes style, so that the younger man's head faced Jim's back, just above the waist. "Tomorrow, He-Man, *you* can be the action hero, and scoot around Cascade all you want." With a little grunt, he started up the steps. "Tonight, you are going to sleep, and that's it."
"Who am I to argue?" Blair knew when a battle was lost.
"Exactly."
Jim set Sandburg on the edge of his bed, and stood, stretching toward the ceiling. Blair leaned forward, and took off his left boot (the right one was probably in the truck with the rest of their stuff). He toppled over and practically fell into his pillow.
"Ahh. Dark. Quiet. Finally."
"Chief, I'm going to get you some water. Do you want anything else?"
"Phone."
"The phone?! What for?" Was his roommate already asleep and dreaming?
"Call my mom. Promised. First thing."
"It's four-thirty."
"Promised."
"Whatever you say, buddy."
Jim got a plastic cup of water and placed it on the floor next to the bed. The kid needed a bedstand. He was likely to just knock the cup over, right now. He held the phone, and started to hand it to his roommate, but realized that his roommate was already asleep, not even under the covers.
"You call her first thing in the morning," Jim said to the inert form. He pulled a spare blanket out of the storage closet on the other side of the room and tossed it over Sandburg's body.
Then he went to bed himself. The sunrise would wake him in time to check Blair for signs of concussion.
Other than the two-hour checks, Blair slept until two the next afternoon. Jim came in to check on him, but found his roommate sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Mmm. Hi." He yawned.
"Hi," Jim lurked in the doorway. "How do you feel?"
"Hungry." He leaned over to pick up the crutches, which lay alongside the bed. "Oh! And sore!" His back and shoulders felt stiff and hot, but he didn't sit up again. Instead, he reached further to touch his toes. He was rewarded with a slight stretch, but (wow!) his head sparkled from the blood rush. He slowly pulled his posture upright. Whoa.
"Hungry and sore and *smelly*," Jim taunted. "Hit the showers, and I'll get you something to eat."
"That sounds like a plan," Blair agreed. He leaned forward again--more carefully--and this time he saw the phone that Jim had thoughtfully left on the floor, near the head of the bed. First things first. The shower could wait a few minutes more.
Forty-five minutes later, Blair lurched into the kitchen, smelling of shampoo and shaving cream. He wore his biggest pair of jeans and a green henley. His damp hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. He perched himself on one of the barstools and rested his elbows on the island's countertop. "What is that wonderful smell?"
"Sausage and potatoes." Jim plunked a plate of buttered toast in front of him. "But while you're waiting, munch on this." Blair dug into it immediately.
"How's Naomi?"
"Like you didn't hear."
"I was trying not to eavesdrop."
Sandburg's eyebrows shot up. "I appreciate that, man. And it worked?"
"Yep."
"Cool!" Blair grinned proudly. "She's fine, and effusively thanks you for saving her only child."
"Excellent. Will she be visiting anytime soon?" Jim bit back a smile.
"You are incorrigible," Blair said with exasperation.
Jim chose the wiser path, and changed the subject. "Tad Pohlman called while you were asleep--"
"Who?"
"Lieutenant down in Missing Persons; he was in charge of your case."
"Oh."
"Anyway, they pulled all your stuff out of the elevator. I'm going to go pick it up in a few minutes."
"Uh, do you care if I, uh," Blair trailed off uncertainly, gesturing ineffectively with a half-eaten piece of toast.
"--Don't come with me?" Jim finished for him. "No problem. I'm going to stop off and run some errands too, and you are in no condition to be riding over Cascade's finest potholes all afternoon."
"Thanks. I am not going *anywhere* if I can help it."
Jim scraped some sausage and potatoes onto Blair's plate, and served himself a smaller portion. He'd already eaten lunch while Sandburg slept, but he sat down and ate with his roommate before going downtown.
"There you go, Ellison," Tad Pohlman dropped a medium-sized box into Jim's arms. It was filled with papers, books, and Blair's crumpled, empty backpack. The papers were disorganized and unbound. Jim pulled a book from the bottom of the stack and placed it on top so that the wind wouldn't blow everything into the streets.
"Thanks, Tad. You say 'hi' to Ellen and the kids for me," Jim called as he backed out the door.
"Will do. And you give your roommate our best. I'm glad you found him before it was too late."
"Me too."
Jim balanced the box on one arm while he opened the truck door. Climbing in, he frowned at the box's disarrayed contents. He took a few minutes to put it in order. All the students' exams were in blue books, so he put all those together easily. Jim shuddered, remembering his own undergrad days. He'd leap onto the top of a moving train, no problem, but don't ask him to write another essay, *ever.*
The books stacked neatly on top of the exams, and he let Sandburg's various knickknacks, including the now-dead cellphone, rattle loose around the sides of the box. He picked up the last item, a spiral-bound notebook. It was open to a page in the middle, and he paused when his own name caught his attention. A little ashamed, but unable to help himself, he read on. It was *addressed* to him, after all, and he'd been very good earlier about not eavesdropping on Blair's conversation with Naomi...
...aww, Chief.
Jim touched the red ink with sensitive fingertips. He read it again. And again. He closed his eyes and traced the indentations that Sandburg's pen had scrawled. Blair had thought they would be his last words. And they were addressed to Jim. He could not imagine a higher honor.
It was well past dark by the time Jim returned, and the cloudless fall evening had turned cold. As always, chill air enhanced his sense of smell, and dinnertime odors from the surrounding apartments nearly made him drool with pleasure. His arms were still tired and achy from their ordeal the night before, but he wedged the box against one hip and hugged several grocery bags against his chest with the other arm. He battled his way up the stairs; a strange masculine pride had overtaken him, and he was NOT going to make two trips.
Blair must have heard him banging and cursing his way up the steps, because the becrutched anthropologist pulled the door open for him. He stepped into the warm living room (Blair always had the heat set to "tropical") and set down his cargo. The box went onto the coffee table, for the moment. The bags went in to the kitchen, where he began to unpack them.
"Any calls while I was gone?"
"Nope. I heard that message you saved from Sam, though." Blair gave a low whistle of amazement. "Am I in the doghouse or what?" He started rummaging through the neatly packed box.
"Are you going to hook up with her tomorrow and change her mind?" Jim knew his roommate. He'd win her back quickly, and then their rocky courtship would begin again. Same old Sam. Same old Blair.
"Um," Blair hesitated, and Jim glanced up from the groceries to see him looking at the notebook. Damn! He'd left it open to Blair's half-finished note. Jim cringed, ready for the awkward silence or the stay-out-of-my-stuff lecture. But Sandburg just looked up at him. "No way, man. Tomorrow's Columbus Day. A federal holiday; a rare day off. We've got better things to do."
END
Please pick a part of this story that you liked. Or one that you didn't like. And tell me about it. Copy'n'paste. You can do that!
techgrrl@pobox.com