Jim Ellison emerged from the captain's office rubbing the back of his neck as he passed through Major Crimes, trying not to react to the smell of blood that still permeated the room five hours after it had been cleaned up.
Rhonda walked by him, her eyes glancing up to meet his, then looking away quickly. She had been crying -- a close friend was one of the police department staff members gunned down in the communications room -- but she had refused to go home, insisting on staying to help out in any way she could. The building was full of on-duty and off-duty personnel, all reeling from the shock of what had gone down in their own building. Their own turf. Their own people.
Ellison sank down at his desk and powered up the computer, only to realize it was still not working. He lifted the telephone receiver, glad to hear a dial tone at least, and then hung it up. He rifled through the papers on his desk, most of which had been gathered from the floor where they had been knocked during the siege. They were all mixed up, interspersed with documents belonging to other detectives in the bullpen. He pulled out anything that didn't belong to him and stood up long enough to drop the stack on top of the desk next to his. Brown could take his stuff and pass the rest on.
He frowned, going through the papers again. He was missing something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.
"Jim?" Simon Banks stood at the door of his office. "I called the hospital about Joel. He's doing fine. They don't expect any complications, but he's lost a lot of blood. He'll be there for a few days, at least."
Ellison nodded, but couldn't find the energy to even come up with a smile for the haggard police captain. "How's Daryl?" he asked, finally.
"I was just going to call Joan and see how he was doing. She handled the whole thing remarkably well -- or at least she's trying to keep calm about it so Daryl doesn't get any more spooked than he is already. When I spoke with her an hour ago, she agreed that we should make sure he gets some reliable counseling for this; she said she's going to talk to his school counselor and let him know what happened, and I've told her I'd pay for a professional psychologist, someone who's trained to deal with the aftermath of situations like this. I've got a good idea of who I'm going to call. But he was doing fine, she said. Watching TV." Simon leaned against the doorframe and sighed deeply. "Damn it, Jim. Why Daryl?"
"He's a good kid, Simon. He'll make it through this." Ellison shook his head, remembering the sight of the fourteen-year-old boy dangling from the seventh floor window. And the same kid who had attacked one of the men who had been ready to gun them all down. "He showed a lot of nerve tackling Kincaid's gunman. You've a right to be proud."
"So do you. Your cousin's kid -- or whoever he is -- is a quick thinker. What's wrong?" Banks asked swiftly, as Ellison stood up.
"Sandburg. That's what I'm missing. He was sitting out here when I went in to talk to you."
"Jim, we were in there talking to witnesses for close to two hours. Did you just leave him sitting out here?"
"I didn't think we'd be that long, then ... I guess I forgot about him. Hey, I'm not used to keeping track of someone else," Ellison said with a shrug.
"And you wonder why you don't have a partner?" Banks asked, dryly. "Seriously, maybe he got bored and went home." Banks paused at Ellison's slight frown. "Jim, he has a home, doesn't he?"
"I'm sure he does. I just meet him at the university. I've never actually been to his place."
"Where is it? He could have taken a bus."
"I'm not sure. Near the university, I think."
"Please don't tell me he's one of the unofficial residents of the woods around Rainier University. We've been chasing students out of there for years. They camp out in the denser areas."
"No. He's got a place. And a TV that he was complaining about. He mentioned watching the news report of the Switchman and how it kept on going on the blink."
"So, no cable. Hmm . . . He seemed a little dazed when I saw him earlier. How's he dealing with this?"
Ellison shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't had a chance really to talk to him. We came down from the roof and I left him sitting here while I went in with you to debrief. Then we started interviewing the others."
"We'll need to talk to him too. Set something up for tomorrow. He was one-on-one with Kincaid. His testimony will be important."
"I'll tell him. He's got sharp eyes; I'm sure he'll be an excellent witness."
Banks looked up, frowning. "Sharp eyes? Don't tell me he's got this same senses-thing as you."
"No, he's just helping me with--"
"Wait. Not now. Tell me later. I'm going to need something stronger than this coffee when you do." Simon sighed as two more civilian office workers entered Major Crimes. "Tell Sandburg he did okay, it was a hell of a first day on the job for him," Simon muttered to Jim, then turned his attention to the newcomers.
"Captain Banks?" the young man asked, continuing when Simon nodded at him. "We're from Bookings. We were told to report here to give you our reports."
"Thank you. Just go in my office and sit at the conference table. I'll be right in." Simon closed the door after them, looking over to Ellison. "Jim, why don't you go find out if kid is still here and then go home. It's almost seven o'clock."
"Are you sure you don't need me in there?"
"Nah. I think we've got all we're going to get." Banks smiled reassuringly, took a deep breath, and disappeared inside his office.
Ellison picked up his telephone receiver. Shortly after Sandburg began helping him get control of his senses, he insisted Sandburg get a cell phone, because he was almost impossible to reach at the university. Calling him at home was equally difficult -- make that impossible -- since he didn't have a phone. Well, at least that had been taken care of last week when Sandburg had proudly handed him a card with his new telephone number on it. Ellison pulled it from his wallet and punched in the number.
A phone started ringing . . . from below him somewhere. He hung up, bent over, and stared at the familiar battered backpack tucked under his desk. Well, at least he's here somewhere.
But where? He groaned. Do I want to know where he might have wandered to? What he could have said?
Ellison sat up straighter as possibilities presented themselves. Maybe some overeager young rookie arrested him? They had tried to on the station roof earlier, dragging Sandburg off while the kid yelled that he was one of the good guys.
That brought a smile, one of the first ones since this whole thing began. Gulf War vet. Fought in Desert Storm. Right . . .
He liked Sandburg. The young man had an infectious smile, was a fast thinker, and from what Ellison had heard, had handled himself well with Kincaid.
Ellison went out into the corridor and stood, hands on hips, looking around. The station was crowded. Detectives, clerical workers, forensic officers, friends and family trying to find out if their loved ones were still alive, or if they were one of the unlucky few who had been gunned down, as the radio stations had been quick to report.
So how was he going to find the kid in nine floors of offices, holding cells, rest rooms, break rooms, and corridors? He didn't know where to look.
Don't look. Listen.
He could hear the kid even when he wasn't around.
He smiled and closed his eyes, tilting his head unconsciously as he listened, trying to tune in on the voice that had been chirping in his ear for the last two weeks. Soft and soothing, sometimes. Demanding and blunt, other times. But always sincere, always intense and focused . . .
He heard someone crying, a woman . . .
Someone was sick . . .
He could hear the anguish in a hundred different voices, the tension, the pain . . .
Anger. Two rookies swearing.
Wait . . .there . . .
*"So what was he like? I never had the chance to know him."*
Sandburg's voice. Caring. Coaxing the young office worker to talk about one of the communications officers who had been killed.
Ellison tried to pull back a bit to see if he could figure out where Sandburg was, and ended up disoriented, his senses out of whack, dizziness forcing him to lean back against the wall. All his senses reeled as his hearing overloaded, picking up too much at once. He lost Sandburg's voice amid the confusion and shook his head, trying to recapture it with a strange desperation.
"Hey, you okay?"
Ellison opened his eyes. Sandburg was right in front of him, touching his arm, steadying him. "What?" the detective muttered, allowing the younger man to steer him around the corner into the bullpen and over to his desk.
"Everything okay, Jim?" Detective Brown asked, moving to stand in front of his desk. "I saw this guy go flying down the corridor and--"
"He's fine, H. He's with me," Ellison said, leaning back in his chair, stretching his neck.
Sandburg, still hovering at his side, gave a little wave. "Yeah. Hi. Blair Sandburg," he said, introducing himself, then turning his attention back to Ellison, one hand resting on the sentinel's wrist.
"Henri Brown." The detective stared at him, slightly puzzled, then returned to his desk when it appeared no one was going to give him more information.
"What happened?" Sandburg asked softly, his face inches away. "Are you okay?"
Ellison tried to readjust his vision to focus on the concerned face. "Yeah, I just -- I was trying to find you, so I did what you said."
"Which was?"
"I listened until I heard you, but then I couldn't figure out where you were and--" The dizziness returned and Ellison clenched his teeth, fighting back the unpleasant sensations. He could feel fear radiate from the kid, the cold fingers resting against his pulse, the fine tremor of unacknowledged anxiety.
"You heard me?" Hope drifted into the voice.
"But I couldn't keep the sound. I don't know. This isn't working. I can't--"
"You can, Jim. You just need to learn how. And that's pretty cool," Sandburg said, kneeling beside him. "You did what I said. You listened and you found me."
"Where were you?" he asked, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead.
"I don't know exactly. In that room with the candy and pop machines."
"The break room."
"Is that what you call it? Yeah, that's where I was. Why were you looking for me?"
Ellison opened his eyes again, found he could focus properly, and shook his head. "Let's get out of here. I need to clear my head. Has it stopped snowing?"
"I'll check." Sandburg stood up, looked around, then leaned over to him. "How can you work in a place without any windows?"
"There's lots of windows here," Ellison mumbled, rubbing his forehead. "All around us."
"Windows to the outside, man. This is stifling." The chatter started, words too quick. "Your working environment sucks, man. No wonder you have a headache. Recycled air, fluorescent lighting, all the low-level noises from the computers and faxes and printers. Did you know that statistics now prove that--"
"Slow down!" Ellison ordered. "I've been in Simon's office for the last couple of hours and it has a window. My headache has nothing to do with that." He continued before he lost his question. "Sandburg -- how did you know I was looking for you? Did you just happen to come out of the break room and see me?"
"I was talking with Stacy and . . . I . . . just sort of started wondering how you were doing. I told her I'd be right back and -- oh, man. I better go say goodbye to her. I ran out of there rather suddenly." Sandburg jumped up nervously and raced from the room, causing every head in the office to jerk up as they registered the blur of activity.
"It's okay. He's with me," Ellison called out again, already having the feeling that he would be saying that a lot in the weeks to come. He's with me. How did that happen?
But he wasn't home yet and the anger was surfacing. He could feel his jaw tighten, his teeth grind together. His hands gripped the steering wheel. He knew he was driving fast, pushing the speed limit.
He was also aware of Sandburg beside him in the front seat, sitting very still, trying to be invisible. No doubt thinking the anger was aimed at him. "I'm not mad at you," he said, deliberately easing his foot on the gas.
"I know," came the quick reply, hardly louder than a breath. The kid had been strangely quiet once they had reached the truck. Even now, he sat with one hand on the passenger side door handle; at one point Ellison had thought he was going to jump out. Sandburg was trying very hard not to be afraid of something, and Ellison had the sneaking suspicion that the kid would not be around tomorrow. Adios.
And Kincaid would score another victim.
Ellison's fist crashed against the dashboard and Sandburg jumped, edging closer to his door. "It's not you," he repeated, one hand raised in a placating gesture, his eyes glaring at the road and traffic around him.
No answer this time, just a silent sharp nod.
Ellison stifled a groan. He was spooking the kid. He had to pull back, to get a hold of his anger. This wasn't aimed at Sandburg, but the student was sure as hell interpreting it that way.
He parked outside the loft. He'd cook dinner for Sandburg. Talk to him a bit. Make sure he was okay with everything. Maybe prep him for the debriefing the next day. They hadn't spent any time discussing the kind of situations he might find himself in helping him on the job, and it was obviously an issue that needed to be addressed.
Which led his thoughts back to the Kincaid. Ellison stabbed the "open door" button on the elevator, pushing through as soon as the opening was wide enough. Five long strides down the corridor and he was at his apartment, jabbing the key in the lock. "Are you coming?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder.
Sandburg stepped out of the elevator, but kept one hand over the sensor, preventing the door from closing. "Are you sure you're up for making dinner, man? You look kinda beat. Why don't I just call a cab and go to the university and get my car?" A tentative smile accompanied the suggestion.
"Just get inside, Sandburg. I'm hungry and since I'm going to fix something for me to eat, it's just as easy to add enough for you." Ellison waited for the young man to cross the threshold into the loft, then he shut the door behind him. "I can drive you home afterwards. I need to pick up a few groceries, anyway." He dropped his keys on the counter and took off his jacket and hung it up, motioning for the anthropologist to do the same. "It's no problem."
Sandburg set down his backpack on one of the wooden chairs at the dining table, then started to undo the buttons to his jacket. "You don't have to take me home. Dropping me at the university is fine. I want to get my car."
"Whatever." Ellison washed his hands, then opened the fridge to see if he had enough spaghetti sauce left to feed both of them. If he added some vegetables, he would have enough, especially if he added a can of mushrooms or something. Opening the pantry, he took out what he needed and set it on the counter, then pulled out two pots from the cupboard.
Sandburg finally had his coat off and was hanging it up.
Ellison filled one of the pots with water and set it on the stove. He emptied the sauce into the other pot and added the canned mushrooms, giving it a quick stir.
Sandburg was still at the coat rack, frozen in place.
Ellison adjusted the heat, then peered at the kid again. "What are you staring at?" he asked, frowning.
"What? Oh. Nothing." Sandburg patted his jacket absently, but from where Ellison was standing he could see now what had paralyzed the young man. A gunshot hole in the sleeve.
"When did that happen?" the detective asked, his voice even, as though it were no big deal. He'd seen it earlier, but in the confusion of everything going on, he hadn't asked how it had occurred. There was no blood, so the kid hadn't been injured, at least.
"What? That? They shot at me once. Missed," Sandburg said with a little laugh, washing his hands at the sink, hands that were beginning to tremble.
Oh, shit. The kid's going to fall apart on me.
"Uh . . . why don't you just go sit down on the couch? Relax a little. I'll call you when dinner's ready. It'll be at least fifteen minutes."
Sandburg nodded, head down, eyes closed, as he bent over while hanging on to the counter edging the sink. "Sorry," he whispered. "Give me a second," he added, his cheeks flushed against a suddenly pale face.
"Sandburg?" Ellison stepped closer, ready to catch him if he passed out. The stress of the day was just catching up with this kid.
"No, please." Sandburg held one hand up, keeping the Sentinel at bay. "I just never had anyone hold a gun on me before, and this has been twice in two weeks. And they shot at me, man. I guess you're used to it, but I'm not--"
"It's a normal reaction--" Ellison began, launching into a standard talk to a rookie cop or soldier.
"I just wasn't expecting it," Sandburg said, interrupting him, speaking as though he hadn't heard the other man. "One minute I'm in the restroom trying to convince my bladder that it wasn't empty, and the next minute I almost wet my pants. I mean, that was just too freaky, man. What was that about, anyway? What were those guys trying to prove? Can anyone just take over the police headquarters of a city the size of Cascade? How did they know all the ins and outs of how the station worked? What's wrong with this country? Where did they get all those guns? Those guys were going to kill everyone. Kincaid told them to kill all those people! That little boy -- your captain's son! That nice lady. That bomb guy who I met the other day. Oh, man. Oh, man . . ." Sandburg was bent over almost double, still clinging to the counter, panting, having what appeared to be an anxiety attack.
Ellison blinked as he heard Sandburg's staccato breathing. The kid was going to end up with a heart attack if he didn't calm down fairly quick. He took another step closer, pausing as Sandburg jerked away and put his hand up again, motioning the detective to stay back. His hand shook in the air, the wild tremors getting worse. Every time he took a step toward Sandburg, the kid would move away from him, until finally the young man was cornered by the fridge. It was like trying to corner a wild animal.
"Sandburg--"
"You have a gun. Where's your gun?" Sandburg's voice was raspy as he shot out the question.
"What?"
"Your gun? Where is it?"
"Why?" he asked, puzzled.
"Have you killed people with it?" Sandburg stared up at him for a brief second, then gave a strangled cry. "Oh, my God. You have. Oh, my God."
"I use my weapon only to protect myself and others. I have permits and legal permission to have that weapon," he said, gesturing to the table where his gun lay. He took a step closer, now within arm's reach of the kid.
Sandburg looked over at the gun, then shifted again, his back sliding across the front of the fridge. "I'm sorry man, but this is a little too intense, you know? I mean, theoretically I knew you had a gun and everything, but you've actually killed people with it. Maybe that's old stuff to you, but this is a whole new concept to me, okay? I-- I-- stay away from me," Sandburg whispered, his face twisting in anguish when Ellison took a step toward him. "Please. I've-- I've got to figure this out."
"Calm down, Chief. You're getting all worked up over nothing--" Ellison said, instantly regretting his words.
"Over nothing? People are gunned down and it's nothing to you? Don't you care? Don't you give a damn about--"
"Of course, I do!" Ellison snapped at him, frowning when the kid flinched. "I've pledged my life to help them. I risked my life today to rescue them. We can't always stop situations from happening--"
"Why not?" Sandburg said bitterly. "Why the hell not? Doctors practice preventative medicine -- Isn't there something the police can do?"
"There are no easy answers, Chief," Ellison said, keeping his voice level. "We do everything we can--"
Sandburg waved him silent, horrified at his own reactions. "I know. Sorry, man. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said any of it. That was stupid. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." The words came in short pants. Sandburg's eyes were closed now, his face white, his lips colorless. He looked like his knees were about to give out, and Ellison was determined to have him sitting down before that happened. "It's all just churning inside," Sandburg whispered.
"It's okay," the detective responded, hoping to calm him further. "You did good, today, actually. You fast-talked your way out of several dangerous situations. You did good," he repeated, reaching out to snag Sandburg's sleeve.
"Six people fucking died!" Sandburg tore his arm from Ellison's grasp and moved past him down the short hallway. He ran blindly into the door at the end of the hall, then leaned onto it, one fist banging against the flat surface. "They died!" he mumbled, resting his cheek against the door, his eyes closed, clenched tight. "Why?"
"I don't know. Sometimes there's nothing we can do--"
"Where was everyone? How the hell did they just march in and do that?" Sandburg looked over his shoulder and shouted at him, not caring that tears streamed down his face. "Why didn't anyone stop them?"
Ellison shook his head, trying to find some words to reach Sandburg's anguish, but there was little he could say. "We tried. We stopped them from killing anyone else."
"Too late. It was too late," Sandburg murmured, turning back to face the door. He leaned his head on the hard surface, his shoulders shaking as near-silent sobs wracked his body.
Ellison looked around his apartment, trying to think of something to do to help this kid, to get him under control. Often there was nothing one could say to take away the victim's trauma. And he wasn't fooling himself. He knew Sandburg was a victim, just as much as the other hostages. He thought of Daryl's passionate reunion with his father, of how the other hostages had hugged each other when it was over. And Sandburg... there had been no one there for him to turn to, no one offering support. Instead Sandburg had stood off to one side, internalizing everything, trying to push down his own fears and help others instead. Classic avoidance.
Ellison frowned, thinking about it. He knew all about classic avoidance. But he had also had training in recognizing it in himself. Sandburg, for all his degrees, was the innocent here. Sandburg who knew all about sentinels and tribal mating customs and co-ed dorms and had a thousand and one facts at his fingertips... Sandburg didn't know the first thing about coping with post-traumatic stress. Perhaps he'd read about it, but that was different than living it.
Ellison had lived it. In far too many shapes and colors.
But touch sometimes succeeded when words failed. Ellison stepped closer and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, relieved when Sandburg offered no further resistance. Slowly he turned him around and eased him down the hallway, past the kitchen and into the living room. Sandburg let himself be seated on the edge of the couch, then tilted sideways to rest his head on the cushions.
"Can you rest for a few minutes?" Ellison asked, then retrieved a folded blanket on the other couch and draped it over the young man. Sandburg grabbed hold of the blanket and pulled it around him like a protective mantle.
Ellison retreated to the kitchen, standing at the stove. Mechanically, he opened the box of pasta and emptied it into the pot of boiling water. The sauce in the other pot was just starting to bubble, so he stirred it absently, his gaze going constantly back to the man in his living room.
He thought briefly of phoning Simon and asking for advice on how to best handle a civilian in distress, but considering what Daryl was going through, Simon had more than enough to deal with on his own. Besides, he was trying to convince the captain to let Sandburg ride with him, that the kid could handle it.
And there really was no one else he could he talk to. Joel Taggart was in the hospital. Maybe Carolyn? No, not for this.
Danny, maybe? Ellison worked out their ages and realized that Danny and Sandburg were probably within a few years of each other. Maybe Danny could talk to this kid. They'd relate better. He would be seeing Danny next week, so if things worked out, he'd introduce them. He liked the idea of them meeting. His two good friends. Both were--
Ellison froze, then blinked. Friends? Where did that come from? I barely know the kid.
Stress. It's got to me, too. I'm blowing this all out of proportion. In a few weeks, when I get this sentinel thing under control, the kid will be gone.
He looked back to Sandburg. The young man was unmoving. He listened. The breathing was ragged, but Sandburg was sleeping, the nightmare momentarily held at bay.
He'd let him sleep until dinner was ready -- five minutes -- and then he'd wake him up. He didn't want him to get in the habit of hanging out here.
This is my home, he repeated. You belong somewhere else. You need to find someone else to take care of you.
He drained the noodles and put them on two plates, then poured the sauce over them and put the plates on the table. Cutlery, Parmesan cheese, and water glasses. A loaf of bread and some butter. Not fancy, but then this wasn't a restaurant. He liked the kid and didn't mind cooking dinner for him this once, but he needed to draw the line somewhere. The kid obviously wasn't cut out for this kind of work. He needed to toughen up. Maybe if he got some training in firearms, he wouldn't be so afraid of them.
"Sandburg?" Ellison called out loudly, not looking at the couch. "Dinner's ready." He sat with his back to the living room and began to eat. He was halfway through his meal before Sandburg joined him, silently slipping into the chair opposite. "I don't have a microwave to heat it up; it's getting repaired."
"This is fine," Sandburg whispered, not raising his eyes, and Ellison had to listen carefully to catch the faint words. "Thank you."
"Eat up and I'll take you back to your car."
The young man nodded and picked up his fork, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve.
"Want some coffee?" Ellison asked after a few minutes. "Or milk?" he added, trying to think of something to say.
Sandburg only shook his head, then replied softly, "No, thank you. This is fine."
It didn't matter much, since the kid didn't eat more than two mouthfuls. He pushed the food around the plate, twirling the noodles around his fork. Finally, when Ellison cleared his own dishes, Sandburg picked up his plate and carried it to the counter, then disappeared into the bathroom. Ellison could hear the water running in the sink, the long deep breaths Sandburg was taking, then the soft sound of water splashing as he washed his face.
It was late. He would talk to Sandburg tomorrow, try to get him to put it all in perspective. Try to convince him to stick around a while longer. But tonight... tonight Sandburg needed to go home and sleep.
When he came out of the bathroom, Ellison was ready, coat on and keys in hand, and he drove him back to the university.