Crowswork
Part One: Retreat
I am a cop, after all.
First, I was a soldier. An officer and a gentleman, by the grace of the US government.
Then I became a cop. A good cop. A detective.
Then things started to go wrong. My senses went wild and I thought I was going insane.
I met a man who said he could help.
And he did. He told me I was special, a Sentinel. Then, he took an ice water pissing bastard and turned him human.
Almost.
I always end up betraying the people I love and he was no exception.
I let him destroy himself and then fumbled it when I tried to make it right.
I went public in a fit of reciprocal self-immolation. The disgraced student became an instant sensation. Celebrity took him into a world apart from me. I could no longer protect my city. because I was a freak. My father had been right after all.
My senses slowly disappeared, slipping away, as if I had betrayed them, too.
I no longer needed a guide. And it was obvious that the guide no longer needed me. He had followed me through hell and paid with his blood, his life.
He deserved to be happy.
The last time I used my senses, before they faltered, I heard a very bad thing.
I heard an international crime boss kill a man, with his bare hands.
I testified. He was killed by his cohorts before he could cut a deal to save his life. But they still wanted me dead. Just me. My guide was in Sweden, accepting an award.
The FBI offered me an out. A new identity. Somewhere away from my friends.
They would be safer without me here. My city would be safer too.
In my new life, I tried to be happy. I made friends with the officers who were assigned to watch over me. I even loved the woman after a fashion, enough to marry her.
The man -- well, he wasn't my guide, but he became my friend and partner.
I should have been expecting it. Betrayal follows me like a ghost. The great Sentinel. The guardian who couldn't guard his own wife. Whose senses were so weak that he had to see them in bed together, before he caught on.
Pathetic.
So I stopped being a detective. I wear a suit and I wonder if my friends would even recognize me now.
I am Internal Affairs now. A captain. What a joke. A cold, ice water pissing bastard. The dark side of the force.
My hearing is still sharp enough to hear what they say about me. I don't care if they hate me. In fact, I use words to keep them away. The whole bunch of them are just too... nice.
The new boss is a touchy feelie type. Even he, knows nothing about my real past. I feared I would be recognized, but no one ever really looks at me anymore.
I do my job. I have a nice, if Spartan apartment and a private office. I catch the bad guys.
I am a cop after all.
Part Two: Reproach
I am an observer.
I am also the darling of the Anthropological world. The new Mead. The Second Coming of Burton. (Not the actor.)
Rainier's new chancellor just stopped by to personally check on me. He said something about a bigger office if I needed one.
I don't.
I spend most of my time at the station. Hanging around the bullpen. It's where I feel, (not happy... I never feel that anymore,) it's where I feel best.
Once I thought of my self as a free spirit. Blair the outsider. The non-conformist. What a load of crap.
I had the brass ring, and I tossed it into the garbage. Blair, the egotist, exchanged it for a pretentious prize and a pile of fool's gold.
Two years earlier:
I returned from Sweden, already disgusted by the fawning, phony adulation.
Angry, mostly with myself.
At the station Simon told me about Jim.
"Blair." I remember shivering as he called me by my first name. "Ellison heard Bass Carding murder one of his under-bosses. The FBI used Jim's testimony to force Carding to turn on his mob. He spilled his guts before someone got to him and cut his throat."
"Is Jim in danger?" I was so eager to help him. To return to our lives. To be simply, Guide to my Sentinel, once more.
"There were two attempts on Jim's life. A cop, Billy Anderson, was killed backing him up." Simon leaned back and I knew whatever was coming was bad. "The FBI asked him to go into Witness Protection. His senses were failing, and he was afraid he was going to get someone else killed."
"Damn it all, Simon! Why didn't anyone call me?"
"He wouldn't let us."
"Where is he? Tell the FBI that I'll do whatever I have to. Just let me go with him, OK?"
"Blair, he's gone."
"I know. But he needs me. I have to explain..."
"He's dead!" Simon looked away before scuffing at his eyes. "They put him on a plane. It was supposed to be a secret, but someone... it blew up over the bay. Dozens of witnesses saw it."
"NO!" I stood so quickly that my chair overturned.
"I'm so sorry, kid. The Feds kept it out of the press, but...."
"But I would know if he were dead!" Wouldn't I? Or had the link between us shattered even before that plane went down? "I should have been here."
"Jim... he left you a letter." Simon handed me a thin envelope, then left me alone in his office.
'Blair', it said.
I stood there staring at Jim's small precise handwriting. Almost reluctantly, I tore open the envelope.
I know I should have told you about all this. But you would have come back and gotten involved. I couldn't risk that. I won't let you lose everything you worked for.
I'm sorry I couldn't tell you this myself, but the feebies are only giving me few minutes.
The senses are all gone now, so I guess we can both go back to our lives. Please don't try to find me. You stay famous and I'll keep track of you. And I'll be proud that I knew you.
Jim
The roof was a place where Jim and I had shared a victory. Where we beat the devil and watched him fall. That's the only reason I went up there.
I swear.
Later, in the hospital, Simon told me that I'd been standing on the balustrade when he and Joel tackled me and dragged me away from the edge.
Now:
I didn't try it again. Not really. Oh, I hit the bottle for about six months, but that didn't kill me, it just made me so sick I wished I were dead.
Suicide is hard for a person with so many phobias.
Bullet to the head? Guns? Me?
Drowning? Oh... I don't think so.
Drugs? Can you say 'golden fire people'?
Besides, Jim would never forgive me. So I teach and write and teach some more. At the academy. At the U. I even teach a night classes at an inner-city high school. Anything to keep my mind off the past.
And I hang out in the bullpen in my spare time.
I really did write a book about my experiences as an observer of police officers. It was a best seller, even bigger than The Sentinel.
Now, I'm considered an Expert on Law Enforcement Officers.
I'm wealthy and famous and successful beyond my wildest dreams. Now that I ignore them, women find me elusive and glamorous, and seek out my company.
I live alone in the loft. I kept a few of Jim's things as mementos. His books and fishing gear. And the worn leather jacket I wear when it gets cold. In the pocket, I found the unopened bottle of painkillers from when Zeller shot him. I keep the pills, just in case the pain gets too bad.
The phone rings. It's Simon.
He's been pestering me. He wants me to go to Washington. The city, not the state, he says.
(That's Simon trying to cheer me up.)
He wants me to meet the new Police Chief there. Find out if his innovations can work in Cascade.
"On my way, Simon." I know he worries about me and I try to reassure him. "I'm going to the airport, right now." As Simon lectures, I take one last look at the loft.
If Jim had a grave he'd be turning over in it. I make a note to have the housekeeper come in more often.
Good-bye's said, I hang up and grab my suitcase. As an afterthought I snag the leather jacket. As sling it over my shoulder I hear the comforting rattle from the pocket. But not right now, I tell myself.
For now, I'll go and look around the Washington Police Department.
I am an Observer, after all.
Part Three: Reunion
I am a Sentinel.
I had almost forgotten that.
Except for rare flashes, the senses are gone.
Oh, sometimes lately, I hear fleeting bits of whispered conversations. Things that I'd rather not know.
I don't want to hear a young man praying for his murdered love.
Or a sweet woman getting bad news from her doctor.
Or Manion talking to that powder-puff dog of his. I don't want to care about any of them. I just want to be left alone.
Being in IA makes that easy. Being "The Insufferable Prick" in charge of IA, makes it inevitable. But the senses remind me. I remember what it was like to exist in a place where someone cared about me. I had that once.
I had Blair.
I'm not a guide.
I remind Simon of this when he starts to vent about my map reading skills. Besides, Virginia is pretty this time of year. Maryland too.
By the time we get back to the city, we've missed our appointment with Chief Manion. Simon goes in search of a restroom, leaving me to the hard chairs in the reception area.
Weary, I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. The long flight has taken its toll. Some sound makes me turn my head and I see a tall figure approaching. A fair, square jawed face, with a receding hairline. My heart stops as I fumble with my glasses and stand.
"Jack Manion." He reaches for my hand and I see that he really doesn't resemble Jim at all. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Sandburg."
I'm losing my mind.
I've been seeing Jim, for the past week or so. A passing resemblance turns into surety. A glimpse of a tall figure reflected in a store window, that vanishes when I turn. My hand goes into my jacket pocket, and I am comforted by the sound and feel of the tablets rolling in their plastic container.
"Hello." I stammer, seeing the concern in his eyes. "Blair... please."
Simon returns and we're invited into Manion's office.
He's a very nice man.
But he isn't Jim.
I should go home.
What home? The sarcastic voice in my head sneers. That chrome-on-white nightmare you call an apartment?
Alone in my office, I turn on the radio. I don't want to hear what's going on in the building around me. I turn off the lights because I don't need them. My 'Sentinel-vision' has chosen today to come back on line.
At the computer, I log on and click onto Blair's website. The computer is secure. The FBI guarantees it. No one can ever use it to find me... or connect me with Blair.
At the top of the page is a line drawing. Two men, fishing. The taller of the two is showing his friend how to cast.
Eagerly, I read each post. Some are from people with one or more hyper senses. Some are from fans. Blair answers each one with humor and compassion. He shares stories from his students. He seems very happy.
One post catches my eye.
'Guess what? I'm going on an official fact finding trip.'
"Bad, Chief," I mutter. "You don't ever tell people you're leaving town."
'I'll be jetting off to the Nation's Capital.'
I stare at the words until they disappear in a haze of multi-hued dots. "Blair's here?" The words are a whisper as I realize I can feel his presence in the building.
"BLAIR'S HERE!"
I can hear him over the hum of voices, over the sound of the radio, over the pounding of my own heart. I stand and throw open my door, only to be confronted by Kenneth Webster, the FBI agent in charge of my case.
"Blair's here." I try to push past him. "I want to see him."
"You'll get him killed!" Webster's voice stops me cold.
"What the hell are you talking about? With the exception of Blair, Simon, Steven, and my Dad, everyone in the world thinks I'm dead." It was Webster's idea.
If the mob thinks that I'm sleeping with the fishes in Puget Sound, they'll stop looking for me. He promised to keep me updated on all their lives, and he kept his word. I get reports on my Dad's golf games, Stevie's latest deals, Simon's recent promotion, and Blair's active professional and social life.
Webster promised that I could still be a cop, and he kept his word. In IA, I have little contact with the criminal world, and I do most of my work from my office. But I am still a cop. And the cop in me realizes that Webster may be right. "Isn't there some way?" I asked as I stretched my hearing. Blair's voice sounded so strange. So unhappy.
Two floors down, and still it drowned out Webster's hectorin. And what was that odd noise? A soft percussive, rattling noise, like a Chopec Shaman's gourd. "We could bring him up here... just for a minute. Or use a safe house."
"No Vince!" We've gotten word from an informant that Carding's people have been snooping around the District. We have to..."
The rattle drowned out Webster's voice and for the first time in years, I saw the Panther as it morphed into The Sentinel.
"Your Guide is in danger." It was my voice... and yet it wasn't.
"My presence has put him at risk?"
"Your absence has put him at risk." The ice blue eyes burned into my soul. "Sentinel! See to your guide!"
Webster was still blocking the door. Then he was across the hall, sliding limply down the marble wall.
I can't go home.
I've made a decision. I've decided that I just can't face going back to Cascade.
Manion is expounding on his theories about crime and humanity. Simon is enjoying the conversation, batting around ideas with the likeable, voluble chief. I answer their questions and ask some of my own.
The lid of the pill bottle cuts into my thumb and I loosen my grip, letting the bottle roll in my fingers.
Back and forth. Rattling like a snake.
I decide that I'm not afraid of snakes.
I decide that I just can't go home. There is peace in finally making the decision.
I'm sorry Jim. I tried.
Manion ushers us out of his office and we agree to meet for lunch the next day. I smile and shake his hand. He really is a nice man. He looks over my shoulder and frowns as he says. "Captain Hunter?" Simon follows his gaze and staggers back, his face gray with shock.
"Blair?" The voice makes my stomach clench painfully.
No! I won't turn around. I'm afraid to.
He's just standing there. When I turn and look, he's just standing there.
Jim. My knees buckle when he reaches out and touches my face. This time, I can even feel the warmth of his hand. I have truly lost my mind. I just stand there, looking at him.
Manion's look reminds me that I'm not in his circle of friends.
Simon's look... My God! The man looks like he's seen a ghost. I know I've changed. I know it's been a while, but...
But, I can't think about that now.
"Blair?"
His shoulders tense as he buries his hands in the pockets of his too large jacket. Still cold blooded. I smile at the thought.
Reluctantly, he turns and looks at me. The familiar face is too thin, the eyes sunken in shadow. He's dying. My guide is dying. The scent of despair pours off him like a miasma.
I touch his cheek and he seems to shrink. His hands come out of his pockets, and clutch at my jacket. As I catch him, a small brown vial falls to the floor. It rolls for a moment, before being crushed under one of Manion's huge, funny-looking shoes as he rushes forward to help.
As delusions go, this one is a pip.
It feels, smells and sounds... just like Jim. Though why, I imagine him wearing an expensive suit, I don't know. It's so... not Jim.
Strong hands lift me and hold me upright. "It's me Chief. Jim."
I try to laugh at the extreme stupidity of that statement, but the sound I make scares me. A keening whimper of a sound. Like something lost. "Jim?"
"My God, Chief. What's happened to you?"
"They killed you. I wanted to die too... but I..." My throat closes around the words. Shame and grief overwhelm me as I wrap my arms around his waist.
"They told us you were dead, Ellison." Simon's words sound angry. "And you better have a goddamned good reason for letting him think that." If looks could kill, the glare from Simon would have put me six foot under.
Blair's grip on me belies his frail appearance. As I stroke the thick curly hair, I look around. Manion, Nancy, and Temple are looking at me like I've grown another head. Webster elbows past me and storms up to the Chief. "Get your people out of here, Manion!" Then, he points at Simon, Blair and me. "I want these three placed in protective custody."
"And I want to know WHAT is going on?" Manion shouted.
"Can we go into your office, sir?" I have to urge Blair to walk with me. We are followed by a curious Manion, a furious Simon, and a seething Webster. "Come on, Chief. Time for the truth to come out."
Part Four: Resoluntion
Jim IS here. I mean it's not just me.
Everyone sees him.
The shock starts to wear off as we go back into the office.
I hear the newcomer say that he's from the FBI, then he begins to rant again.
"I can't fucking believe you, Ellison. We're on the verge of bringing down half the crime bosses on the West Coast, and you piss it all away. And why? To make kissy-face with this little fruit."
I think that's no way for a federal agent to talk.
Jim tenses and I wonder if the bland looking fellow realizes how close he is to death. "Did you tell them I died?" Jim's voice takes on that even, indifferent tone it gets when he is really pissed.
"We had a man undercover in the organization. It was too late for him to stop the hit on Carding, but he 'arranged' the hit on you. It cemented his position, helped him rise in the ranks." Webster looked to the two senior officers for support. "Surely you see my point. One of the most prominent figures in Organized Crime is working for me... I mean us!"
"We had a deal, Webster." Jim was almost whispering. "I let you fake my death, but only if you told..."
"I couldn't trust them. I couldn't trust HIM!" The agent interrupted, pointing at me. "He's a flake. He's spent half his life on some shrink's couch. Been hospitalized for a drug overdose..."
"That's enough!" Simon roared, towering over the smaller man. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
I didn't say anything. I was too busy holding onto Jim's arm as he dragged me across the office.
"No, Jim. Stop, please." It's been so long since I used that tone. I was relieved that it was still effective.
Webster looked at Manion. "You see. He's turned all of them into his pawns. He learned sedition at his mother's Communist breast."
This time when I laughed -- it worked.
Webster scowled at me. "Yeah, laugh you little psycho. I know all about the suicide attempt. I know about you ending up in detox." The look in Jim's eyes when he heard that, made me want to hide in shame.
I should have let him kill the man.
"I read your book, Sandburg." Webster, seeing weakness, closed in for the kill. "I used what I learned there to finesse Ellison. Poor 'caveman'. All those fear based responses kicked in like clockwork." Webster snapped his fingers as his tone got even more sarcastic. "I couldn't have done it without you..." His last words were choked off by my hands around his throat.
I would have let him kill the little S.O.B.
But he would have felt bad about it later.
It was amazingly difficult to pry Blair's hands from Webster's neck. "Come on, Chief," I whispered. "He isn't worth it."
I held the trembling hands in mine and traced the backs of the fingers with my thumbs. The bones and tendons moved under the thin skin. What happened to the square, sturdy hands that could draw pictures in the air, or throw a baseball with deadly accuracy?
"You're gonna to be OK now." I promise as we back away from the others.
"I'll see you both in prison." Webster croaked out the threat as he drew his weapon. "Assaulting a Federal Officer. I'll bury you both so deep in Leavenworth they'll need fucking bloodhounds to find you."
"I didn't see an assault." Simon was using his official tone of voice. "Did you see an assault, Chief Manion?"
Manion gave them a cake eating grin. "Nope. I don't believe I did."
"Pull your man out, Webster." I pin him with my best glare. I would enjoy bringing him down -- right now -- but I won't risk another cop's life. "I'll give you two weeks."
"What?" Webster sputters as he tries to take charge of the situation.
"You aren't calling the shots here, Ellison."
"Two weeks! Or my partner and I give one last press conference." I wink at Blair and catch his answering grin. "You know... I'm beginning to think your bosses know what you've been up to in this case."
Webster goes pale and I realize I've hit on the truth. "They'll kill you." He squeaks, seemingly desperate now. "The organization will kill you both."
Blair's grin gets even broader, as he answers lightly. "Who wants to live forever?"
"Not me, Chief." Jim tugs off his necktie as he looks down at me. He smiles that rare, stupid/beautiful, face stretching smile of his and I start to breathe, really breathe, for the first time in years.
Poor Chief Manion looks so shocked. "Could somebody please explain WHAT is going on?
Ignoring the question, Simon says almost conversationally, "Thank you, God."
I am no longer an observer.
I am a Shaman. I am a Guide. I am Jim's partner.
To be an observer means keeping a distance, and I will never be separated from my Sentinel again.
Death could be waiting for us.
Us.
Stand or fall. We'll be together.
In the end, it's all that matters.
The End