Disclaimer: All characters who have appeared in the UPN-TV series, "The Sentinel" are the properties of UPN and Pet Fly Productions. All original characters belong to the author. No infringement on the rights held by any to "The Sentinel" characters, name or stories is intended. No money is changing hands or profit being made on this story.
Author's Comments: This is for Wolfpup, the hardest working webmistress I know. And for my Monkey Buddies, whose love and friendship mean everything to me.
Rated PG-13.
Feedback may be sent to Crideon@aol.com
Carolyn
Anger is a brief lunacy.
-- Horace
Jim was not nearly drunk enough to suit his tastes when Simon Banks appeared at his door. In fact, Jim had managed just a few more swallows of liquor before he smelled the captain's aftershave and the lingering scent of cigars in the hallway. With a deep sigh, he capped the bottle and returned it to its shelf before opening the door.
"Simon," he stated simply by way of greeting.
"Jim," Simon returned, striding through the door. He stood still for a moment, scanning the apartment before pulling a chair out and settling at the table.
"Looking for broken glass, captain?" Jim asked sarcastically.
"Honestly? Yes. You were pretty out of it this afternoon, and I would hate to see you take out your aggression on poor, defenseless crockery."
"Not funny, sir," Jim retorted, although a hint of a smile played across his face. "So, besides your obvious concern for my dishes, why did you come over here?"
"Concern for my friend, Jim. I didn't think you should be alone tonight."
Jim scrubbed a hand over his face and paced into the kitchen. Simon wasn't telling him the whole truth. Jim was still angry with his captain for the way he had been treated earlier, not to mention worried about Blair. The hospital staff had promised to call him immediately if there was any change in the anthropologist's condition, so thoughts that Simon had come to break bad news to him were unlikely. He could sense that his captain still held Jim partly responsible for Sandburg's injury, and did not seem to have resolved that enough in his mind to discuss it with the detective. That was one thing he had noticed about Simon. Until he had a grasp on strong emotions of any kind, he bottled them up. It was still too soon to expect any kind of fruitful discussion about the shooting. So there had to be another reason he was here at the loft.
"Is that all?" he asked, turning to face Simon.
"No. I have some news."
Jim walked to the table and sat opposite his captain, indicating with raised eyebrows that he was prepared to listen.
"Forensics came up with some pretty disturbing evidence this afternoon."
He proceeded to tell Jim about the third individual at the crime scene, the one who had fired the shot that wounded Sandburg. He pulled out the reports and handed them over to his best detective, silently watching him as he poured over the data, his knuckles growing whiter by the minute. He absently thought that it had been a good idea to bring copies. He doubted the papers would survive the night.
"Leads?"
"None yet. I have some people working on it."
"Who?"
"Blake, Truffaut, Sigerson and Juarez are handling this one, Jim. As soon as they have anything concrete to share, you'll be filled in.
"Not good enough, Simon. I want in."
"You know I can't allow that, Jim. You're too close to this one. Those men are good. They'll figure this out and get the collar. The only thing you should be worrying about right now is Sandburg."
"I am worrying about Sandburg, sir. I'm worrying that the asshole who took a shot at him is walking free, probably bragging about it in some seedy bar those half-witted detectives will never think to case. I'm worrying that this clown will kill someone else because he's so jacked from nabbing my partner this afternoon."
"Relax, Jim. Blair's not dead. The doctors say he's got a good chance of coming through this. And you are way out of line criticizing those detectives."
"Save it, Simon. Go placate someone else and leave me the hell alone."
"Jesus, Jim, the kid getting shot has got you more off balance than I've ever seen you." Simon backed up a step as the Sentinel turned and advanced on him.
"He's not a kid, Simon!" he roared, inches away from his captain's face.
"Jim, you know what I meant." Simon watched the detective's mouth open and shut a few times, clearly struggling to put into words whatever was on his mind but seemingly not finding the right ones. Finally, he spoke more softly.
"I do know what you meant, Simon, but he's not a kid. He's nearly thirty years old -- most definitely a man. He's a teaching fellow, a researcher, and a Ph.D. candidate. He's the smartest person I ever met. And he's a police observer, Simon, not a cop."
Simon kept his mouth shut. He had bellowed those very words in the young man's face enough times in front of Jim that the detective had to know that he knew that.
"Simon, what he did today. . .he acted like a veteran cop. He saved his partner's life. He saved my life. Can you honestly say that any of those men on this case would have done that for me? How can I let this lie while people who don't give a damn about him are grasping at straws? You have to let me in on this one. I didn't do much to help him today, the least I can do is put the man responsible for this behind bars."
Simon stood with pursed lips, studying Jim. The barely checked rage which seethed through every pore in the Sentinel's body was clearly visible. No way was he letting Jim go out into the field like this. He person responsible for the shooting would never make it behind bars. He'd end up in a body bag, and Simon would be forced to turn his friend over to IA. What kind of a police captain would he be if he knowingly sent this deeply disturbed man out onto the streets of Cascade? With a gun, no less. No, the only place Jim would be heading was to the department shrink.
"If I thought you were in any condition to help the detectives working this case, I would assign you to assist them. But you're not, so I won't do it." He held up a hand to stop the protest he saw in Jim's eyes. "Don't make me suspend you, Jim. You're already on administrative leave until you have your session with the precinct psychologist. If she clears you, I'll reconsider my decision."
Jim's eyes grew impossibly colder.
"When can I expect an appointment, captain?" The words were clipped and emotionless, and he was back to calling him 'captain.' Not good. Not good at all.
"I'll tell her to clear a place in her schedule for tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, sir. If there's nothing else, I'd like to go to the hospital, now."
"I'll join you, if you don't mind." Who was he kidding, of course Jim minded. He was probably going to call up one of Naomi's friends and have a voodoo doll made up to look just like him and stick pins in it all night.
The granite-faced detective shook his head, although those eyes of his told a very different story. Thank God they were driving in separate cars. Simon knew he'd need to blast the heater the whole way to Mercy Hospital in order to erase the chill in his bones from this all too disturbing meeting.
Anger is one of the sinews of the soul; he that wants it hath a maimed mind.
-- Thomas Fuller
On the way to the hospital, Simon called in to the station and was updated on the progress his detectives were making. Several possible suspects had been identified, and warrants were issued for the questioning of these suspects. When it was determined that Jim had been the intended target, his case files were reviewed. Three men stood out on the list. All the possibles were skilled in sharp shooting, and all had reason to hate Jim Ellison.
Rhonda was still at her desk, coordinating the detective's efforts. Despite the late hour, she had remained at work and arranged for the warrants. Simon promised himself he would review his budget to see if he could manage a raise for her while she assured him she would update him as soon as the detectives checked in.
His mood slightly improved, he parked his sedan and mentally prepared to reenter the lion's den.
Jim was still practically shaking with anger as he approached the doors to the ICU ward of Mercy Hospital. He stopped and breathed deeply a few times before entering. He knew the nurses on duty, and knew they would kick his ass right out of the hospital if it appeared he would be anything less than calm and comforting to the unconscious man in their care. Jim almost smiled at the thought. As much as it pained him to see Blair in the hospital, he couldn't ask for better nurses and doctors.
After waving a greeting at the three nurses at the monitoring station, he entered the anthropologist's room and felt every ounce of the grief he had been suppressing at the loft settle over his heart.
"Oh, Chief," he whispered as he seated himself in the chair at Blair's bedside. The young man was propped on his side, facing the door to the room. Heavy bandages covered his torso, and his left arm had been secured to his chest. A vast array of medical equipment surrounded his partner. Two separate IV lines led into his extended right arm. A chest tube protruded from below his ribs, and a respirator trailed from his mouth, its rise and fall sending a soft hiss through the room. There were more instruments connected to the pale young man, some he was familiar with, others he could not name.
He was sure, if given the figures, Blair could tell him just how many expeditions to Borneo could be funded by the devices keeping him alive at that moment. Borneo could sink into the Pacific, for all Jim cared, as long as it meant that Blair could continue to be fed oxygen and nutrients, and the hospital staff could remain apprised of his every change in condition.
He looked up when he saw Simon at the windows. A momentary pang of regret at the harsh words they shared was quashed. Blair needed him to be there for him for the ten minutes he was allotted, not worrying over a fight with his captain.
Taking his partner's hand, he spoke quietly to him, offering words of encouragement. He stressed his deep need for Blair to wake up and tell him that everything would be okay. His senses catalogued the deep unconsciousness of his friend. He could detect no signs of imminent waking at all. One of the nurses rapped gently on the glass and tapped her watch when he looked up. He nodded to her and looked back at his friend.
"Time's up, buddy. I want you to know that I'm only a few minutes away if you decide to wake up between visits." He squeezed the limp, cold hand in his and then gently replaced it on the bed. Sighing, he walked out of the room.
Simon stood with one of the nurses, getting updated on Blair's condition. Seeing Jim, he excused himself from her and strode to where Jim stood outside the glass, looking in at Blair. Before he could open his mouth to speak, his cellphone rang. He walked quickly towards the elevators in the hallway before he answered, not sure if the signal would cause problems with the equipment nearby. The call was brief, but grim. How many things could go so wrong in one day? He ran back into the ICU ward, calling for his best detective, who still stood watch over his partner.
"Christ, Jim, he's shot Juarez and Sigerson! They are en route, critical but alive." Jim faced his captain, confusion and alarm written all over his face.
"Tell me everything."
"They went to check up on a possible lead, Dominic Altavista. He was released a few weeks ago from prison."
"I remember him. I put him away four years ago on an attempted murder charge."
"Well, he's out. I have no idea why we were not specifically informed of his release, but that doesn't matter now. Juarez knocked on the door and asked to speak to him. The bastard fired through the door, striking Jon in the chest. Pete Sigerson returned fire and was shot in the hip while dragging Juarez away."
"He's our man, Simon, he's got to be," Jim growled, his fists clenching to the point of shaking.
"Whether he had anything to do with Sandburg getting shot or not, the man has fired on two officers. Blake and Truffaut have him holed up at his house. I have an address."
"Simon, please, I need to. . .you need me. . ." The tall captain could see the helpless pleading in those fierce eyes, and knew he was helpless, as well.
"I know, Jim. God help me, but I need you to be there." Jim's eyes softened for all of two seconds before the mask of rage covered his face again.
"This has to be by the book, detective." Simon hoped to appeal to the innate sense of justice that tended to prevail whenever Jim was in a tough situation. Unfortunately, he had never seen Jim like this. It was a whole new set of rules when Sandburg was involved, and especially when he had been injured. With the young man's survival still a question mark, there were no rules to speak of. Jim met his gaze for a long time, and Simon was at a loss to discern his intentions. Suppressing a sigh, he motioned to the door.
"Let's go. We'll take my car."
"Thank you, sir." With a final glance at Blair, he turned to leave.
"Detective!"
Jim turned to face his captain, determination set in his features.
"We're going to get this son of a bitch, but you be careful. Do you understand me?"
Nodding jerkily, Jim strode from the room, Simon following close behind him. Of course he understood. He had a man to kill.
Intellectual despair results in neither weakness nor dreams, but in violence. . . . It is only
a matter of knowing how to give vent to one's rage; whether one only wants to wander like
madmen around prisons, or whether one wants to overturn them.
-- Georges Bataille
Blair's body lay immobile, still deep in a coma, but his unconscious mind was howling in fury. He kicked and punched at the barriers which kept him from his Sentinel's side. He fought against the drugs and the trauma, desperate to open his eyes and look at Jim, to speak to his friend and give him the assurances he needed so badly.
The walls held. His screams went unheard, his pounding fists did no damage to the barriers which kept him in this terrible place. Where there was peace before, now there were frantic unrest, unholy anger and desperation. He cried out again, hoping against hope to be heard. If anyone could hear him, Jim could.
Nothing happened. His anger became boiling rage.
Dammit, he had chosen! He had chosen to live -- to suffer his wounds, to heal, to remain with his friends, with his Sentinel. What was keeping him here?
After a final ineffectual punch, he slid down the wall to curl at its base, a ball of misery. He had failed.
We praise a man who feels angry on the right grounds and against the right persons and
also in the right manner at the right moment and for the right length of time.
-- Aristotle
"God dammit Jim, you had better have a damned good explanation for what went down here tonight!" Simon was beyond livid, and every ounce of that hostility was directed at the man at his feet.
"Simon, I don't know. I honestly don't know what happened."
Jim was drained. His burning anger had been defused, but by what he did not know. Altavista was dead, and it appeared he had shot him. One shot, to the forehead. Instant death.
Had it been instant retribution or a justified kill? Revenge or justice?
His mind was too tired to process anything. Sandburg would have been able to dissect it and have a palatable solution ready for him by now. But Blair was still in a coma at the hospital, the victim of the dead man's bullet.
Jim remembered the frantic drive with Simon to the scene. The captain had stayed with Officers Blake and Truffaut when Jim had stormed into the man's house. His fury had fueled his recklessness. After seeing the man responsible for the shootings of Officers Sigerson and Juarez, and most likely that of Blair Sandburg, a gray haze had taken hold of the Sentinel.
The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the gravel in the driveway, one arm wrapped around a bullet wound in his arm, and his captain shouting in his face. Altavista's body lay in the middle of the street. He vaguely heard the EMTs urging Simon to move aside so they could treat Jim's injury, and Officer Blake adding to their pleas.
Before he would be moved, Simon wrenched Jim's gun out of his hand. Leaning back slightly, he held out his hand.
"Your shield, mister."
Jim complied. Until he could figure out whether he had turned vigilante or simply done his job, he knew Simon was justified in pulling his badge and gun. Simon strode away, barking orders to the forensics team and officers who had gathered. Jim watched Andre Truffaut approach the infuriated captain, and wondered if the man had a death wish. Not even Jim would dare to go near Simon Banks when he was this pissed off.
He allowed the EMTs to cut away his sleeve and begin treatment on the bleeding wound to his upper arm, wondering how long it would be before he could go see Blair again. Whether he went to jail or received a commendation on this one, his partner needed to know that his injuries had been avenged.
In the ambulance, on the way to the same hospital where Sandburg still lay in ICU, Jim prayed that it would not be his best friend's death Jim had just avenged.
Rage cannot be hidden, it can only be dissembled. This dissembling deludes the
thoughtless, and strengthens rage and adds, to rage, contempt.
-- James Baldwin
End of "Rage"
(to be continued in "Guilt")