Set 31 years post TsbyBS -- everyone's alive and well. :-) Thanks to JenR and Linda for all the help!
Audrey Lynne
I was rushing across my college campus, bag slung over one shoulder, laptop tucked under one arm, cell phone between my shoulder and cheek -- and one thought kept running through my head.
Damn, it's cold.
You think there would have been other things on my mind at the moment... oh, say, my class in twenty minutes, my office hours after that, the case I was profiling in my consultant's position with the police department... but, no, the ambient temperature was pretty much all that was on my mind right now. I didn't care if I had on a coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves -- it was November in the Pacific Northwest, and I was cold. This intolerance for low temperatures is a Sandburg genetic trait; I'm convinced of it. Heaven knows Jim loves to explain my eccentricity through genetics.
Focusing off of the fact that I was going to turn into a human icicle before I got to Hargrove Hall, I tried to pay attention to the conversation I was having on the cell phone. "Well, have you done anything?"
"Yeah, I took a couple of aspirin. They tasted nasty; that chewable kid stuff was all we had left. You and your 'less is the best' trip."
That's my Sentinel, better living through chemistry. I deliberately ignored the personal jibe, and somehow managed to check my watch as I ducked inside Hargrove Hall and began to head upstairs to my office. All this technology, and the damn cell phone still won't work in the building's elevator. It will across campus, though -- go figure. "Just relax, okay? I'll do what I can; I'm gonna try to get off, but I've got a class in twenty minutes. I'll see if I can get a cover or cancel it. When did these spikes start?"
"About a day ago."
"A DAY?!" I exclaimed. "And you didn't tell me?!" Damn stubborn Sentinels. "I'm your--"
"I know. You're my Guide; you need to know these things. Well, now you know, so just FIX it!"
Yup, that's me. Superhuman on demand. It was nearly 4:30 in the afternoon; there was no realistic way in hell I was going to get someone to cover my class, especially on such short notice. So, I either cancelled the class, screwed my office hours, and went home... or stayed, taught the class, held the hours, and worried about my Sentinel who was at home having weird sensory spikes. The Guide was warring with the college professor.
By the time I left the stairwell at my floor and got halfway to my office, the Guide had told the college professor to go to hell. My Sentinel needed me. Of course, the whole reason I would be hauling butt home and not to the Central Precinct was probably that the Sentinel had told the police detective to go to hell.
On my way to my office to collect a few books, I passed Debbie, the Liberal Arts division secretary. "Debbie, hi."
She nodded in greeting. "Hello, Dr. Sandburg."
Geez, after a few years you think she'd start using my first name. Oh, well. "You know my 4:50 Intro class? I've got to cancel it; family emergency." This wasn't really a lie, per say... it WAS family of a sort.
We'll call it a good obfuscation.
"Sure. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, it will be. I'll have to cancel the office hours afterwards, too." Okay, so it was only one hour, and students rarely came to see me at 6 p.m. anyway. But, still.
Debbie laughed. "The students will be heartbroken."
"Yeah, I'm sure." That was the beauty of Gen Ed classes; you could cancel them and have maybe two students actually care. Now, if I were trying to cancel a higher-level course...
Debbie and I chatted for a few minutes, and then I jetted to my office to pick up a couple of books I needed. The paperback version of my thesis was lying on my desk; I sighed and replaced it on the shelf behind the desk. I'd been thumbing through it to refresh my memory for anything useful for the case I'd been working on at the PD. That was going to be momentarily delayed; not that it had been going anywhere in the first place.
My cell phone rang just as I got near my car. I had maybe three guesses as to who it was. Shifting things around a bit, I grabbed the phone and shook it to flip it open. "Relax; I'm on my way home! You are SO bitchy when your senses are on the fritz..."
The chuckle on the other end of the line was my first clue that I'd guessed wrong. "Yeah, well, I just hate when I start tasting colors, you know? Might I guess that all is not well in paradise?"
I sighed. "Yeah, Lexa's having weird spikes again and I don't know why..."
"And she expects you to know and fix it immediately," he finished.
"Yes!" It was so nice to have someone who understood.
"Get used to it. That doesn't stop."
"Gee, thanks, Daddy." I laughed; I'd been used to it for some time now. Lexa and I had bonded as teens, so her expectations were nothing new to me. And I knew Daddy knew that. "What is that, advice from the shaman?"
"Something like that," he replied. "Hey, if you can't figure it out, I'll be happy to help."
I turned the key in my ignition, nodding though I knew the gesture meant nothing to him. "Good -- I may need it. You're the expert here; I'm just winging it."
"I hate to break it to you, Jamie," my father answered -- after he'd stopped laughing, "but this Guide thing is about 75% winging it."
"This, from the leading expert in the field."
"It's a small field. I'm the only 'expert', if you want to call it that. And, hey, did I tell you? The Sentinel book just went into its fourth printing the other day."
I smiled. His thesis had been a disaster when it had first come out, but after the press died down and it was re-released quietly, without any identifying details that time, it had been well-received by those who came upon it. At least, in studying serial killers, I had chosen a thesis topic that few would debate the existence of. "That's great."
He laughed again, but this time it was his more maniacal-sounding chuckle; he usually only did that when really amused. "Yeah, the book review calls it a -- get this -- 'cult classic work of science fiction detailing the adventures of a genetically superior cop and the sociologist who studied him'. When did I become a sociologist?"
"Probably around the time I became a psychiatrist," I told him. When The Sentinel had actually hit bookshelves, many readers took it for truth, but another group found it a fascinating fictional novel. Daddy hadn't minded either way; Jim's identity was well-protected in it. He preferred it if they realized it was non-fiction, and the modern Sentinel DID exist, but he understood that some would never buy it. He couldn't change the world, so he settled for doing what he could. However, it never failed to drive him a little bit nuts when he was described as a sociologist. Sure, a lot of sociologists taught Anthropology, but he was an anthropologist and quite happy with it. Of course, I can relate. I'm a psychologist -- with a specialization in criminal behavior -- but my Ph.D. leads many people to believe that 'Doctor' makes me a psychiatrist. "So, how's Uncle Jim like being described as genetically superior?"
"He's not complaining. Actually, he's been really quiet lately... Sentinels are like little kids sometimes; you've got to worry when they get too quiet... gimme a second..."
I heard some scuffling and set my own phone down for a second as I pulled into my parking sport outside of the apartment complex Lexa and I lived in. When I picked it up, Daddy hadn't yet returned to the phone, but I still had to laugh at what I was hearing.
"Okay, you're going too far this time if you ask me. I mean... color-coded M&M's, Jim?! All exactly one centimeter apart?! Good God, man, GET A HOBBY!"
"This is it, Chief. It's kind of fun, actually."
"Great. You gotta get out more."
Needless to say, since his retirement from the police force, Uncle Jim had been a little bit bored. Boredom and hyperactive senses are not a good combination, as I discovered when Lexa was home from work due to a shoulder injury and I came home to find the entire apartment rearranged so that the light from the front window reflected off of each piece of furniture perfectly, creating a prism effect in the center of the living room. You wouldn't think a Homicide detective would have such an intense appreciation for Nature's art... and she usually doesn't, but... as she said... "There was nothing good on TV!"
A moment later, he came back. "Well, it looks like I'm going to have to find something for him to do -- either that, or let him drive me crazy. Not a far trip, I'll concede... but... good luck with Lexa; call me if you need me."
"Sure... take care."
"You too."
I fumbled around for my key, then hung up the phone with one hand as I manipulated the key into the lock with my other. "Lexa, it's me," I called, just in case her senses were acting up enough to keep her from recognizing me. It's never a good idea to surprise the woman who has a gun.
She looked to be fine when I found her in the kitchen, but that was the thing with these spikes; they came and went. "I knew it was you."
I shrugged. "I just fear that one day you'll be off-kilter and I'll open the door to find a gun at my throat."
"And you're the shrink," she teased. "Gonna analyze yourself on that one?"
I shook my head, lifting the lid on a pot to see what she was cooking. "Nah, I haven't done clinical work in years. I just figure out what makes bad guys tick now. That won't help our situation much."
"Might have helped my mother," she muttered, and I wasn't sure if she intended for me to hear or not, but I decided to pursue it.
"Lexa, how many times do I have to tell you that you and your mother are completely different people?!"
"Is this going to be that nature versus nurture thing again?" she challenged, her green eyes defiant.
"No, since you obviously didn't listen to me the last time I brought it up," I said, crossing to the refrigerator for a drink. "But think about this logically. Your mother ditched you at the first chance she got, and didn't check on you for years. She felt you'd have gotten in the way of her plans. I'd say that does kind of indicate that you're not cursed with criminal tendencies. Hell, you're a POLICE OFFICER!"
"And IA can probably tell you of dozens of cops involved with shady things," Lexa insisted. "I'm just saying, some aspects of personality are genetic; you've admitted that. Hell, you and your father are almost living proof!"
"And Daddy raised me since I was two, so it's quite probable that I picked up some of his traits by association."
Lexa ran a hand through her golden-blonde hair. "Thank you, Dr. Freud. But what I'm trying to say is, I picked up the Sentinel thing through genetics. I just worry, that's all, about what else I might have gotten from 'Mommy Dearest'." Pure sarcasm dripped from her last two words, and I could definitely understand. Lexa had spent her first 15 years of life in and out of foster homes, and not always with people who understood her and her senses. "I mean, come on. She kidnapped your father for two years, tried to kidnap and kill YOU... hell, she even tried to kill your father years before that!"
"Well, technically, I think she DID kill him..." I wanted to slap myself as soon as I'd said it. So much for the psych degree; it was overwhelmed by another Sandburg trait -- open mouth, insert foot.
Just ask my grandmother.
Naomi (my grandmother; she's always had me calling her by her first name) might as well have pioneered the idea of speaking one's mind. She told you what she thought straight-out, no punches pulled... and often reconsidered her words shortly afterwards. Daddy picked up the knack from her, and passed it on to me. If I ever have a kid, maybe he or she will break the cycle. Though considering how strong the traits in this family seem to run, I'd venture a guess that it's, as Megan Connor would put it, "Not bloody likely."
Yeah, I'm rambling again. Another of those traits I mentioned.
Anyway, back to Lexa. She gave me a look that clearly told me what she thought about the drowning, and her mother in general, then sighed. "Whatever, Jay. I'm just... there are days I wish I'd never found out who she was. Or... maybe if I'd just been satisfied with the name on the birth certificate, her real name... Alicia Bannquer... you know, it doesn't help a hell of a lot to know that she based one of her aliases on my name!"
I walked into the living room and sat back on the couch, nodding. Psych degree, nothing. I knew Lexa, and I knew that if I let her vent for awhile, she'd feel better. Besides, it gave me some time to thing about her sensory spikes. I knew her internal debate about the issues surrounding her mother had nothing to do with those -- she went through this debate every couple of months, and there hadn't been any spikes those other times.
The phone rang, stopping my Sentinel's diatribe for the moment. She picked it up. "Hello?"
There are times I wish I had Sentinel hearing, because the look on Lexa's face as she listened to the caller was quite interesting. Then I remembered that I had something almost as good: an extension in my bedroom. Hey, what's a little breach of privacy between friends? We've kind of come to expect this from each other -- of course, she doesn't use an extension; she just sits in the living room with her head cocked slightly to one side so she can catch everything. Same difference; I'm just more obvious about it.
As it turned out, my curiosity wasn't worth it -- stupid telemarketers.
A couple hours later, Lexa was calmer... but what was more, I thought I had figured out the reason for her spikes. There was a new detective in Homicide that she had been working closely with lately, and the spikes had started around the same time she had begun to work with him. There must have been something about him, unless these spikes WEREN'T the 'early warning system' they had been in the past. The only thing I couldn't figure out was why she was spiking without him around. Did he live near to us, setting off her Sentinel radar at random intervals? Or was it something else? I needed some help -- so I decided to consult my most obvious resource.
I pulled a few things out of my purse, and shoved them into the back pocket of my jeans. "Lex, I'm going out. I need to do a bit of research."
"Fine, just leave your cell phone on," she replied, not looking away from the movie she was watching. She hadn't responded otherwise until I'd spoken, so I figured her senses must have been dialed down to just below a normal human level (otherwise, she'd have watched me when I was puttering around while I got ready; she always does).
"Don't dial your senses too low; you do at least need them functional," I advised, knowing she had a tendency to do just that when they were bothering her.
She wrinkled her nose. "Yes, Master."
"Hey, I just don't want to be running to the ER over you," I called over my shoulder as I headed out the door.
I didn't need to be a Sentinel to hear her reply as the door shut behind me. "Yeah, this from the trouble magnet herself."
I couldn't exactly protest. Remember those genetic traits I was talking about?
About a half later, I pulled up in front of 852 Prospect. This place held a lot of fond memories for me -- we'd been here a lot before I moved in with Uncle Jim after Daddy was kidnapped that one time... and Daddy and I had moved into an apartment on the second floor once he got back, so I'd essentially lived in the building itself from the time I was eight until I was eighteen. My father and Jim still lived there -- and when Lexa (she had spent a few years living with Jim when we were teenagers) and I both moved out, they decided they might as well go back to their original living arrangement, sharing the third-floor loft. And so it had stayed since then, and everyone was happy. Lexa and I had realized that living together was a pretty good deal, too -- it was more for peace of mind than anything. This Sentinel-Guide thing can get darn complicated at times, and it seemed only prudent that we should have each other close.
I took the elevator to the third floor, hoping they'd be home -- or at least Daddy would be. I hadn't looked to see if their vehicles were parked in front. I raised my hand to knock on the door, and it opened before my fist even contacted the door. I pulled my hand back to avoid hitting Jim in the chest. He grinned at me, and I had absolutely no doubt that he was the one who had taught Lexa that little trick.
I really hate it when they do that. It surprises the hell out of me every time.
"Hey." I grinned at him.
"Hiya, Shortcake." He's called me that since I was a baby -- and considering that I'm barely 5'3" and he's 6'2", I can't really argue with it even now. "Come on in."
I did, and accepted the quick hug, but I was also a woman on a mission. I waved to my father, who was browsing some anthropological journal. He waved back. "Figure out the issue yet?"
I shrugged. "I think so, but there's some aspects of it that are just NOT making any sense to me. I was hoping I could get your input."
"Sure." He nodded, and set the journal aside. "Has anything new come into her environment lately?"
"Sort of -- though it's a someone, not a something," I explained. "I don't know if that's the stimulus for the events, though, because she's had these sensory episodes with him nowhere in the area."
I recognized the grin creeping across Jim's face; it was that one he always got when he decided he was simply going to leave us to 'do our thing', as he put it once. "You two talk. I'll be upstairs."
"You can stay," Daddy told him.
He shook his head. "No, that's all right. I'll let you figure out how to soothe the bad vibes, or whatever the hell that voodoo you do is."
The sparkle in Jim's eyes made it obvious he was teasing, but my father decided to take the bait anyway. "Watch it, Jim, or I might just take Kyle up on his offer of that African expedition. Think about it. Me -- four months in the Serengeti... what'll you do then, huh?" Now, all three of us knew he'd never really do it, but that didn't matter, the fun was in the threat.
"With your luck, they'd be in need of a village shaman and wouldn't let you go." With a final grin, Jim walked over toward the stairs and headed upstairs.
Daddy waited a moment, allowing Jim to think he'd had the last word, then smiled devilishly at me and whispered, "That's just the risk you run, Jimmy. Deal with it."
Jim's voice floated to us from his bedroom upstairs. "I heard that, Sandburg."
"Yeah -- I kinda figured you would."
"Hippie punk," Jim accused, sounding as though he were trying not to laugh.
"Caveman," Daddy replied, chuckling to himself. "Admit it, Ellison, you're not going to win." When no reply -- audible to us, anyway -- was forthcoming, he turned to me. "So... sit down, by the way. Tell me more."
I explained what I knew to him, trying not to smile at how he looked with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, about to fall off, and his hair loose and surrounding his face. When he was younger, that long hair combined with just his unique look made him look a bit like what one girlfriend of his had described as "a punk angel". Now, he's lost that baby face, and the years have turned those dark brown curls slate grey. He still hasn't cut his hair, and now he looks much less like an angel and much more like a wizard of some sort. Of course, a friend of mine once said that she couldn't find much of a difference -- except perhaps in method -- between a wizard and a shaman, so I suppose it's appropriate. Even Freud said that sometimes a dream is just a dream -- and sometimes, magic is just magic, no matter the form.
After I finished, Daddy nodded thoughtfully, which finally sent his glasses tumbling. He retrieved them, and looked back at me. I could almost see the thoughts processing in his mind. I'm constantly amazed by my father. I guess I just forgot to outgrow that "my daddy is so amazing" stage. He's been a shaman technically since before I was born, when a Chopec shaman named Incacha passed the Way to him. But, since I was about 10 or so, he's really grown into the role, so to speak. It stopped scaring him, and he began truly exploring and embracing it rather than using it just when he had to. He's begun to teach me the basics, explaining that he doesn't want me to feel overwhelmed the time comes for me to take over for him (and that's something I really don't like to dwell on much), and I can get the concepts. We've had some awesome shared experiences in the spirit world, but I doubt I'll ever know everything about it that he does. It just goes to show you, there really can be shamans in a nine-to-five world. "So, any thoughts?" I asked, knowing he'd probably have at least a couple.
"Yeah... does Lexa have anything this guy's touched? Something that his scent might be on, even if it's not enough for her to consciously register? If he's the trigger, that might be what's setting off the episodes at home."
Bingo. "Yes!" I exclaimed, once I thought about it. "Yes, she does. It's some token charm; he said it was for good luck." It was all coming together now -- it had taken him two minutes to solve a problem I'd been puzzling over for hours.
He seemed to be able to tell what I was thinking. "Hey, you did the field work; I just put the pieces in place for you. Don't discount yourself -- you're a smart girl... and like I said, the greater part of working with Sentinels is a long series of trial and error -- hopefully with as little error as possible." He put a hand on my shoulder. "Just remember, you're likely to screw up one day. Everyone does. Fix the mess, put out the fire, and go on. Don't dwell on it. I learned that lesson the hard way." He smiled at me, then retreated to his bedroom for a few minutes. When he came back, he had a folded piece of paper in his hand. "Here. I've been meaning to show you this. Megan gave it to me once when I was being particularly stubborn after I made a mistake with Jim. Try to keep it in mind -- and not just with the Sentinel stuff. It's good advice."
I read it over. It looked like some kind of poem, but as I read it, I realized it was the lyrics to "Stuck in a Moment".
It's just a moment; this time will pass.
I smiled at him, and handed it back. "Yeah, it's good. Who did that song, anyway?"
"U2," he answered. "I wasn't really heavily into them, but they had some good stuff." He smiled, and his eyes took on a reminiscent look. "Those were some good days. Not that these days aren't... but it was a special time. Enjoy it, Sweetheart."
I nodded. "I intend to." I checked my watch. "I'd better get home and see if we can't figure out what's up with our mystery detective and his charm..." I thought back to what he'd said just a few minutes earlier, about making mistakes being only natural. "Daddy? What if I make a mistake... and it's a life-or-death, thing? What do I do then?"
He hugged me. "Just trust your instincts, Jamie, and you shouldn't end up in that scenario. You're a psychologist; you should know that instincts are there for a reason. And watch for the spirit guides; they'll help you when things get really hairy if you let them."
That made me feel at least a little better. I returned the hug. "Thanks. You take care, now. I love you."
"I love you too... and you'd better be careful!" Daddy squeezed my hand.
I said goodbye to Jim, too, and headed out. I knew Lexa and I could figure out what was going on now that we knew where to look, and I probably couldn't have done it without a little of my father's help. He always seemed to know just what to say or do.
We're similar in a lot of ways due to the DNA we share, but he still leaves me in awe so often. I know it sounds a bit child-like, but I don't care.... someday, I want to be just like him.
When I grow up, I want to be just like you...
Daddy's little girl, through and through.
The End