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Mackie's Fanfic
Disclaimer: The Sentinel and all its trimmings belong to Pet Fly Productions and Paramount. I'm just passin' through...
Note: This story, like the first in the series, was conceived back at the turn of the century -- no, make that the turn of 1998. Anyway, it was back when I thought what I was writing was filled with new ideas. Silly me; I've since discovered dozens of other writers got there before me in the examination of the growing relationship between Sentinel and Guide. This story is a bit closer to canon than "Revelations", but it's still AU for the inclusion of Thomas as Jim's brother and the heightened sentinel abilities I describe. I was supposed to have written an Interlude by now about Thomas Ellison's return to Cascade for Christmas. Obviously, the story didn't happen. Let's pretend the visit did....
Evolution -
Part One
Jim slowed the borrowed Expedition to a crawl and downshifted into low four-wheel drive. The dirt road was steep and ungraded; the truck's wheels bounced in and out of deep, water-scored ruts while he kept a lookout for rocks too large for the undercarriage to clear.
"You've been awfully quiet, Chief," he observed mildly.
"Trying to keep my teeth attached to my jaws," Blair murmured ungraciously as the truck rocked hard through another hole, causing him to bang his shoulder into the door. "Are we having fun yet?"
There was a sharp edge to his tone that Jim didn't miss. "What's the problem, Sandburg? You're normally not so negative about going into the backcountry."
Blair remained stubbornly silent, his eyes focused on the dense brush and scrub oak bordering the road.
Outside, winter still claimed the high mountains to the north and east. Here, in the densely wooded front range, deciduous trees had yet to sprout the first leaves of spring, and snow blanketed the ground beneath every spot of shade. Noonday highs here would rise above freezing, but the nights would drop into the single digits.
Blair Sandburg did not want to be out here in the wilderness, even with a heavy down parka and a sleeping bag rated to well below zero. He hated the cold, he hated the isolation, and he really, really hated the woods. It had become almost a phobia.
The truck finally reached the summit, and Jim braked to a stop. All around them, the somber green of the forest rolled outward in all directions beneath a lowering gray sky. A large lake, a smooth oval of burnished silver, shone brilliantly in a single shaft of sunlight piercing the clouds.
Even Blair sullenly had to admit it was beautiful in a stark, untamed sort of way.
"You've done nothing but grumble about this trip from the beginning," Jim said without a trace of accusation in his voice. "Now you won't say a word. What's up?"
"It's nothing."
"'Nothing' can't keep you down this long," Jim disagreed.
"OK, then it's stupid."
Jim shrugged. "Stupid I can buy."
Blair restrained a sudden chuckle and looked across the seat at his friend. "That was really cold, man."
Jim just smiled innocently and waited.
After a minute, Blair let out a long breath and blurted, "Did you ever get the feeling we have some sort of microcosmic hellmouth following us around, ready to spew up villains every time we go near the woods?"
Jim didn't have a clue what Blair had just said, but he thought maybe he grasped the concept. With Sandburg, understanding the words themselves was sometimes less important than understanding the meaning behind them. "If we do, then it's been working overtime lately," he agreed. "That's what's bothering you?"
"Yeah. I told you it was stupid," Blair replied, embarrassed by his confession. "Jim, I know this weekend is important to you, and I'm sorry if I'm screwing it up - "
"You're not screwing up anything," Jim interrupted firmly. "I just don't understand why you came along when really didn't want to. We're not joined at the hip, you know."
Blair looked away abruptly, every nerve in his body jerking as if shocked.
Even Jim turned away, remembering his last visit with his brother, Thomas, and realizing again the truth that both stirred and troubled him so deeply: Sentinel and Guide were one soul, joined forever.
The very concept was a little unnerving, Jim had to admit. Whatever path his life took: marriage, family, a different career, even a different guide -- whatever he loved and held dear would never fill the place forever labeled Blair in his spirit. Even more disquieting was the realization that, at some level, he'd known this from the beginning but had kept it buried. Feeling that connected to someone else was anathema to him; even Carolyn, much as he had loved her, had never felt a part of him.
If Jim felt uncomfortable with this strange and wondrous new chapter in his life, Blair was even more unsettled. He was still overwhelmed with self-doubt; he didn't feel worthy of the privilege and the concomitant responsibility of being shaman and guide. It scared the hell out of him.
"So that's what's been bothering you," Jim said quietly.
"And you," Blair returned.
"Maybe," Jim admitted, then added truthfully, "Yeah, a little. But I don't dwell on it. I just keep moving forward, trusting my subconscious to connect all the dots and make some sense of it. There's just no point in worrying it to death."
"I guess that's what I've been doing," Blair admitted.
"As long as we can say we've done the best we can do, there's nothing to be ashamed of."
Blair smiled slightly. "You learned that in team sports, didn't you?"
"While you were in the library studying the gastronomic habits of some tribe in New Guinea," Jim returned with a smile.
"Yeah, they make this loaf thing out of the pulp of sago palm - " his partner began with enthusiasm.
"No pulp of palm!" Jim protested. "I want steak, cooked on a grill over an open flame, skillet cornbread, and plenty of hot coffee."
"You brought all that?"
"What did you think - that we'd be huddled around a sterno can cooking freeze-dried noodles romanoff and nibbling on trail mix?"
"Cool. Where's camp?"
The interior of the sport utility was cooling off, and Jim restarted the engine and turned on the heater. Releasing the brake, he started the truck down the bumpy track.
Blair went back to watching the scenery, more spectacular now that there was a real view.
He to admit they both needed this trip. It had been a rough several weeks. A cold front had descended upon Cascade in the middle of January with a fury unanticipated by the weather forecasters. Almost overnight, the city had taken on a siege mentality as power and phone lines broke from the weight of ice that coated every external surface. Tree branches split and toppled onto roofs and into streets, storm drains became clogged and frozen until rainwater backed up onto the pavement and then froze during the night.
There hadn't been much major crime to speak of; even the crooks preferred staying warm and dry during the savage weather. But like all city employees, Jim had worked many hours of overtime, Blair at his side, answering more than their share of routine calls normally handled by the badly overextended resources of the uniform division.
Jim had swapped his old, two-wheel-drive pickup for a police-owned four-wheel-drive sport utility, then he and Blair had gone out to patrol the beleaguered city, their police radio never silent.
Many times, they had crossed the blurring lines of responsibility to aid fire fighters, telephone repairmen, paramedics, power line repairmen and others, anyone who needed a helping hand. Blair had spent many frustrating hours volunteering on the additional phone lines installed by the city's emergency response department, setting priorities and trying to send help where it was needed most. Unfortunately, help was needed everywhere.
Twenty-four hours later, a fourteen-car pileup on I-5 would have added them to the wreckage if not for Jim's quick reflexes. The hours spent administering to the injured alongside paramedics and state patrol had left them both drained physically and emotionally. Seven people had died that night, four of them children. The images still lingered.
The cold and its unlikely cousin, fire, had rampaged through the city, claiming the elderly and infirm, the homeless and the poor. City resources had been stretched to the limit and beyond, and politicians, looking for something to alleviate their helplessness during the crisis, had begun talking about the new taxes that would be needed to make up the budget deficit.
No one had listened.
After a week, the worst of it was over, and Jim had felt a need to get away before another crisis struck. It had seemed like a good idea to Blair, but when Jim suggested camping, of all things, he had felt an irrational surge of dread.
Bad things happened to them in the woods.
Resolutely, Blair thrust aside his foreboding and concentrated on the beauty around them. The winter landscape was desolate and quiet. He thought of the wailing sirens of emergency vehicles, the blaring horns of snarled traffic, the shouts of lost tempers, the roar of heavy equipment clearing the flood channels, and sighed in sudden contentment. "This is nice," he said softly.
"Yeah," Jim agreed. "It's gonna be colder then hell, though."
Blair reached into his book backpack, which he'd stowed by his feet, and pulled out his absurd, woolly gray hat with the earflaps. "I'm ready," he announced.
Jim shook his head, bemused. "I'd hoped I'd seen the first and last of that thing," he muttered.
Part Two
Several hours later, Jim pulled off the bumpy road and parked in a tiny clear spot between two scrub oak. He didn't really expect any other traffic, but he wanted to leave enough room for another vehicle to get past just in case.
"This is it?" Blair asked, looking around at the scraggly trees and dense brush. "Wow." He sounded less than thrilled.
"The campsite is a few hundred yards east," Jim explained. Blair looked around. Jim pointed. "That way."
"Oh."
Jim climbed out and promptly reached for his heavy jacket. "It's cold out here," he reported needlessly, because Blair could feel cold air surging into the warm interior of the truck.
He grabbed his book bag off the floor, snared his jacket from behind the seat, and climbed out to join his partner at the tailgate.
Jim nodded toward the small pack. "Why are you taking that?"
"I've got some books along I want to read," Blair answered simply. He grabbed his heavy-duty backpack and slung it over one shoulder, slipping his book bag onto the other. It was awkward, but Jim had said it was only a few hundred yards. He could manage.
Then Jim plopped a large stuff sack into his arms and topped it with a hard rectangular box. "Can you handle all that, Chief?"
"Umph," Blair acknowledged faintly.
"Good, I'll get the rest."
Blair couldn't see over the top of all the stuff piled in his arms. "Uh - Jim?"
The pile diminished, and Jim grinned at him. "Maybe we should make two trips."
"Good idea," Blair retorted dryly, realizing his partner had been teasing him. "What is all this stuff anyway? We never take this much when we go camping."
"The temperature is going to drop to around zero tonight," Jim answered simply. "I figured a few creature comforts wouldn't be unwelcome."
Zero? "Blankets. Do we have enough blankets?"
"We have enough of everything," Jim promised. "Even if we get snowed in, we'll be OK."
"Snowed in? Did the weather report -- ?"
"Clear for at least the next four days."
Blair sighed. "Good."
They set up camp at the edge of the trees. The ground beneath was dirt and rock, part of a wide riverbed whose current flowed at a mere trickle now. When the snowmelt started in earnest, the river would swell to engulf the dry land upon which they stood, but that time was still several months away.
They made the second haul from the truck, then Jim gathered fallen wood for a fire while Blair unpacked the tent. Together, they cleared as many of the larger rocks as possible from their chosen site, spread a ground tarp, and pitched the tent on top of it. The sun was starting to drop low over the foothills to the west, turning the snowcapped peaks to the east a brilliant pink. It was a beautiful sunset - and turning cold quickly.
Admiring the shifting colors of sunset while they worked, Blair began to appreciate the extra provisions Jim had packed. A large, self-inflating mattress went over the tent floor, and this was topped by an unzipped spare sleeping bag. Both would help buffer them from the cold ground beneath. On top of this foundation went their own sleeping bags and pillows, then more blankets to be used as needed during the night. All in all, it looked rather cozy, a little less like roughing it than Blair had anticipated.
Jim started the fire and assembled the rocks around it to support the cooking grill while Blair hunted in the small ice chest for the steaks. As they marinated, he mixed up the skillet cornbread mix and put it on the fire to cook, alongside the ubiquitous pot of coffee no camping trip could be without. They also had a single-burner propane stove to heat water for their breakfast, but for tonight, the campfire, with its crackling flame and generous warmth, was all they would require.
Later, as they sipped coffee and huddled side by side on a large fallen log by the fire, Jim gazed skyward and saw the Milky Way as a bright white swath across the heavens. The night was moonless, and the sky was a solid canopy of stars, with no city lights to dim their brilliance. Even the faintest stars glittered in the clear, crisp air.
"I haven't seen that in awhile," Blair murmured softly, enjoying the night more than he would have thought possible. In his heavy parka, gloves, neck scarf, and hat he felt warm enough except for his feet; even heavy socks and hiking boots could not quite defeat the chill seeping upward from the frozen earth.
"Me either," Jim agreed. "Too much light pollution in the city."
After that, they sat in companionable silence, the night so still Blair could hear nothing at all beyond his own breathing and the crackle of the fire. He was curious to know what Jim could detect with his heightened senses, but he didn't want to ask; the question would seem too much like a test, and he didn't want to break the moment. It was perfect.
Instead, it was Jim who broke the silence. "Are you ready to tell me about it yet?"
"About what?" Blair asked languidly.
"About what's been bothering you."
Blair tensed. "Bothering me? I thought this little getaway was to find you a little peace and quiet after the last couple of weeks."
"It is," Jim admitted. "But you've been uncommonly quiet since Thomas left, and I don't believe you're missing my brother. The two of you aren't exactly buddies."
"It's just been hectic," Blair countered quietly.
"It was hectic before the cold snap hit," Jim pointed out. "You were staying at the University until all hours, acting all weirded out about something. You weren't sleeping, you were barely eating, and our phone bill is going to be a record setter from all the overseas phone calls you've been making at two in the morning." He paused, trying to get the accusation out of his tone. More lightly, he added, "I was planning to beat the truth out of you, but then the cold front hit, and we got sidetracked."
Blair stared into his coffee cup for a long minute, the weight of his burden an aching tightness across his shoulders. "He died," he whispered at last.
Jim was startled. "Who died?"
"The Sentinel in the Portuguese sailor's journal."
Jim silently cursed the few inarticulate pages written by a stranded seaman over four hundred years before. At first, they'd appeared pure nonsense, a shipwrecked sailor's haphazard ramblings. And then one seemingly innocuous entry had given Blair the means to help Jim's brother during a period of crisis, and it had opened a whole new realm of sentinel acuity heretofore unsuspected. The pages had become an obsession with Blair, who'd spent a great deal of money to have more of the journal entries translated.
"So he must have been injured in battle," Jim said at last.
"Why couldn't that damned sailor have thought more like a scientist?" Blair raged suddenly. "He didn't write any dates in his journal or make connections between any of his entries. The first part of his story made it sound as if the Sentinel hadn't been injured at all. Wouldn't he have mentioned it if he'd seen wounds or blood? And then, just a couple of pages later, he says the Sentinel died and the whole village went into a month-long period of mourning. Damn, the whole thing is just so frustrating!"
"So you've been trying to fill in the gaps in his story with all your nocturnal research," Jim concluded. "Aren't you reading an awful lot into the tales of a homesick sailor? You said yourself his observations were unreliable."
"That may be," Blair argued, "but you figured out his report of reeds being stroked over a hollow log were an ancient form of white-noise generator. That part was right. So was the part about the village women having to nurse the Sentinel back to health after the battle - we know now that the aftereffects of the heightened level of sentinel acuity rendered him helpless." Blair shook his head in agitation. "You saw Thomas after he came down off that plateau. He was disoriented, weak, in pain. What if that ancient Sentinel died of an aneurysm or something? What if Thomas risks his life every time he goes into that altered state? What will happen to you if you go there?"
"We'll deal with it," Jim said. "You helped Tommy when he needed you. Even his own Guide hadn't thought about espresso for the caffeine, but you were quick on your feet, and Tommy recovered faster because of it. The Inca didn't have the potency of aspirin or caffeine we have today. They worked with what they had; you just improved on the remedy." Suddenly, he eyed Blair's book bag with suspicion. "What else do you have stashed in there?"
Blair frowned, embarrassed at being found out. "A large bottle of aspirin, a jar of instant coffee, a bottle of chocolate extract, and some caffeine candy," he admitted reluctantly.
"This thing really has you freaked, doesn't it?" Jim asked gently. At least now he understood his roommate's sleepless nights and lengthy library forays. Almost absently, he patted his partner's arm; even his heavy gloves could not lessen the comfort offered by the simple gesture. "I wish you'd said something."
"Why? So you could tell me I'm over-reacting? I know that, but I seem to be stuck on some sort of obsessive-compulsive roller coaster, and I can't make it stop." Blair poked a stick into the fire to hide his embarrassment, and watched the sparks flicker upward into the darkness. Finally, he murmured, "Some shaman, huh?"
"Pushing yourself until you fall apart won't accomplish anything."
Blair was calm but earnest. "Don't you understand, Jim? There's so much I don't know, so much potential harm I can cause. Did you know a person can overdose on caffeine? I didn't know that when I gave Thomas the espresso."
"He didn't overdose on espresso."
"No, but what if I'd tried something more radical -- like too many of the caffeine pills or something?" Blair countered insistently. "This whole sentinel thing is rocketing away from us, and I feel like I don't have a clue how to keep up."
"Tommy's sending you his Guide's journals, right?" Jim returned patiently. "I'm sure you're gonna find out you're doing everything just fine."
"I hope you're right," Blair murmured, unconvinced. Still, there wasn't much he could do about his frustration except keep going on as he had been -- scouring every source the world over for sentinel references. "Anyway, thanks for dragging me out into the middle of nowhere so I can freeze my ass off."
Jim chuckled. "Yeah, it's great, isn't it?"
Part Three
He felt as if he'd only been asleep a few minutes when he jerked awake, his gasp of surprise muffled by a hand over his mouth.
"Shhh, it's me," Jim whispered, removing his hand when he was certain Blair was fully awake.
"What's wrong?"
"Four, maybe five, men on the other side of the river," Jim reported succinctly, quietly unzipping Blair's sleeping bag and handing him his boots. "I think they spotted the tent -- probably with a night scope. They're moving toward us. They have a vehicle, but it's hanging back a bit, probably because they didn't want the engine noise to wake us up."
Blair quickly pulled on his boots and shrugged into his parka. "Why are they coming after us?"
"I think they killed someone," Jim answered, only turning to his own boots and parka once he was certain his partner was getting ready. "I dreamed I heard a shout, but I think it was real. I was pretty sound asleep."
"What do we do?"
"I want you to slip out the back of the tent and get to the truck. The cell's in the glove compartment. If you can't get a signal out, take the truck back down the road as quickly as you can. They'll probably come after you. When you're in cell range, call for help."
"What about you?" Blair protested, his low whisper unable to hide his worry. Furthermore, he didn't know if he could find the truck in the dark.
Jim pressed the ignition keys into his hand. "I've got to see if they have any more hostages." Quietly, he unzipped the rear of the tent and peered out cautiously, looking left toward the river. "Two are coming this way," he said. "They have rifles. Use the tent to block their view, walk in a straight line into the trees and keep going till you find the road. Turn right, and follow the road to the truck. Remember, it'll be parked in some trees on your right just a few yards down the road; don't overshoot it. It'll be dark, so be careful."
"You, too," Blair replied uncertainly. He should have known something like this would happen. If they survived, he made a silent vow to never, ever venture into the woods again.
Jim's hand clasped his arm, stilling the haphazard thoughts. Blair was frustrated that he couldn't make out his friend's expression in the dark, but he nodded in response to the reassurance he felt certain he would have seen. Satisfied, Jim released his grip and gave him a tiny push to get him moving.
Keeping low and close to the tent, Blair slipped outside, placing each foot carefully to avoid dislodging a stone or snapping a twig. He inched around until the tent was between him and the approaching gunmen, then headed cautiously toward the trees. Their mass was simply a darker shade of black near the dimly starlit riverbed.
He couldn't see his feet and moved slowly, testing each footfall. If their stalkers were using night scopes, would they see him? He felt a strange tickle between his shoulder blades as he imagined taking a bullet at any moment.
Instead, he suddenly saw his shadow leap out in front of him as he was caught in the high beams of a truck. For a moment, he froze like a startled deer, but the trees were only a few feet ahead, so he dove wildly toward them.
Gunshots rang out, but he realized as he scrambled deeper into the shadows that they were not aimed at him. The sound of breaking glass followed immediately upon the sound of the shots. Shouted curses rent the air as the approaching men dove for cover.
Jim had fired at the headlights and taken one of them out.
Blair hadn't realized his partner had brought a weapon, but on reflection, it really wasn't that much of a surprise.
The vehicle, a huge Suburban, roared forward across the river rocks. Blair stopped and turned when he'd reached the cover of a large pine. The truck had turned upstream, toward Jim; he was already a good distance away because his enhanced vision had enabled him to travel more easily in the dark. Now, he was drawing the gunfire away from Blair. Pinned for a moment in the beam of the remaining headlight, he waited until the last moment, then dove into the underbrush, a hail of bullets from high-powered rifles following him.
Blair fled toward the road. What little night vision he'd had was gone after the blinding headlights, but there was a faint glow from those lights even here in the deep growth, so he was able to push on quickly.
Far behind him, he heard a crash and whoops of merriment as the Suburban rolled over their campsite.
As he pushed on through the undergrowth, the helpful glow of light faded behind him, and he found himself feeling strangely disoriented as darkness enveloped him. He stopped for a second, not shifting so much as an inch, to avoid the temptation to turn back toward its scant comfort. When the sensation passed, he put his arms up in front of his face and proceeded more slowly, pushing aside low-hanging tree branches and stumbling over fallen logs.
Finally, he reached the road, visible as a single shade of gray lighter than the surrounding forest. Resolutely, he turned right, his mind frantic with visions of overshooting the truck and being lost in this freezing, inhospitable world forever.
The iced-over mud holes caused him to stagger and trip frequently, and belatedly he thought of the hazard of broken ankles. But he pressed on as quickly as he dared and finally saw the faintest glint of metal in the starlight.
He had found the truck.
Quietly, he inserted the key in the passenger door. Unlocking it, he opened the door quickly and sought the pressure switch by the hinges that would turn out the automatic interior lights. Within a second, the truck cab was plunged back into darkness. Holding down the switch with one hand, he searched for the glove compartment latch, aware that opening it would activate yet another light. He'd have to snatch the cell phone out quickly and reclose the panel.
The plan became moot, however, as he felt the ice-cold muzzle of a gun press into the base of his neck.
"Howdy," said a conversational voice behind him. "I've been waiting for you to show up. Put your hands up and turn around."
Cautiously, Blair did as instructed, the interior lights snapping on as he removed his hand from the pressure switch. He turned slowly, and the rifle barrel was suddenly thrust under his chin, forcing him to lean backward against the front seat.
His captor was about 40, dressed in heavy cold-weather camouflage gear. Scraggly hair dipped into his pock-marked, grizzled face, and his smile showed several chipped teeth that looked badly discolored in the light from the truck's interior.
"Well, look here," the man said happily. "Fate is smiling upon us. We lost one cutie and found us another."
Blair felt a surge of dread wash over him. "If you're going to rob us, we don't have much," he managed to stammer, keeping his voice level.
"Oh, you have enough," the man assured him. "You have everything we want." Abruptly, he added, "Hold out your right hand."
Blair complied, and a handcuff snared around his wrist. Then he was yanked forward, off balance, and spun around into the side of the truck. "Now the other hand."
Within a moment, his hands were cuffed behind him.
His captor closed the door on the Expedition and then lowered night-vision goggles over his eyes. Blair hadn't noticed them perched on top of the man's head.
"OK, let's go."
Unable to hold his arms out in front of him, Blair was at the mercy of his captor to guide him through the undergrowth. The man held him firmly by the back of his parka and pushed him through the brush, not smacking him into any trees, but not too concerned about smaller branches. Blair closed his eyes as small limbs whipped at his face and tangled in his hair.
When they finally emerged on the riverbank at last, Blair's face was raw from dozens of tiny scrapes and cuts.
The Suburban had rolled over the tent, flattening it. Now, the truck was parked near the remnants of the campfire, and the men were using the large vehicle for cover as they calmly enjoyed the last of the lukewarm coffee.
"Guy's armed with a handgun," one of them said. He was youngish, with a full, untrimmed beard that gave him a wild look. "Don't know how many rounds he has, but his shooting is damned accurate for long distance."
Blair's captor nodded. "OK, Ray, loop a rope around the kid and tie the end to the back of the truck." He grinned at Blair. "Let's just see how good a friend you got, huh?" He shouted into the darkness. "You better come out now, or we'll drag your buddy up the river. If the rocks don't kill him, you know the cold will."
Ray returned with a long rope. He looped one end under Blair's arms and tied a secure knot against his chest. His breath smelled of cigarettes and old booze. In the flicker of the campfire, his eyes glinted with feral anticipation. "God, I hope your friend gives himself up," he whispered, his face only inches away. "It would be a real waste to kill you so soon."
Blair flinched away from the sour breath and averted his eyes.
Ray played out the rope and secured the other end to the trailer hitch on the Suburban's rear bumper. The other three men, acting without instructions from the fifth man, who still held his rifle on Blair, kicked dirt and rocks over the embers of the campfire, extinguishing it. They lowered their night vision goggles, rifles ready as they scanned the forest upstream where Jim had disappeared into the darkness.
Unconcerned, Ray climbed behind the wheel and fired the engine.
Blair tensed with fear, certain he was about to meet a very cold and unpleasant death, when a voice from surprisingly close by said, "OK, I'm coming out."
Part Four
Jim came out of the bushes just slightly downstream of the camp, which startled everyone. He'd worked his way silently around to approach from the rear, but Blair's capture had made him uncertain of his chances against five heavily armed men, especially since their night goggles would eliminate the advantage of his enhanced sight.
He had his hands raised, his pistol dangling from his middle finger. With three rifles trained on him, and the fourth still covering his partner, he walked slowly toward his adversaries.
Ray shut down the engine and climbed down from the driver's seat. He walked up to Jim and took the weapon, then quickly frisked him. His gaze was insolent as he tied Jim's hands behind his back with a short length of leather cord and led him to join the group. "This one's dangerous, Bry," he said to the man who'd captured Blair. "He'll make for a good hunt tomorrow."
"Good." Bry was obviously the leader of the gang. He shook Blair by his parka. "And this one will make for a good party tonight," he agreed. "Let's get 'em back to camp."
A second rope was quickly looped around Jim and secured to the rear bumper. Ray climbed behind the wheel, Bry beside him, and the other three spread out, one on either side, the third behind so they could cover their prisoners.
Ray drove slowly, but it was still awkward walking over the river rocks, then through the freezing water trickling down the center of the streambed.
"Sorry, Jim," Blair murmured. "He was waiting at the truck."
"It's OK," Jim answered just as softly, cursing himself for not sensing the danger sooner. He'd been so relaxed after the hectic workweek, and he'd slept far too soundly to detect the gunmen until it was too late.
Unfortunately, he knew who these men were. An APB had been issued all across the northwest for five men who had robbed, raped, and murdered back and forth across Montana and Idaho for the past four months. They'd generally rob a bank or check-cashing facility in a small town, beat up customers and employees without provocation, or shoot up the place. Usually the same day, they'd snatch a young man, a male prostitute or anyone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and flee the area. Occasionally, the victim would be found, brutalized and shot to death; more often, the victim was never seen again.
Now the gang had moved into Washington.
Their camp was about half a mile away, beside the dirt road at a point where it veered away from the river and headed toward the broad meadows beyond. It was the same road Jim had used, although he had come in from the Cascade side, travelling northeast through the foothills, while the others had come from that direction, heading southwest. The road forded the river at a bridge about a mile farther upstream.
They had a large tent, a portable table with a large camp stove, and an ice chest. Beside the table sprawled the body of a young man clothed only in a flannel shirt, smears of blood shockingly dark against the almost ivory whiteness of his buttocks and thighs.
One of the men noticed Blair's sickened gaze. "We picked him up three days ago in Tylerville for a little fun 'n' games. Damn kid had asthma or something, croaked on us."
"'Cept now we got you," Bry added, lowering the tailgate and shoving Jim to sit on it. When Blair tried to join him, he was jerked back by Ray.
Bry searched through Jim's pockets, an intrusion Jim endured stoically, and came up with his ID. "Well, well, boys, we got us a Cascade po-lice detective," he announced. Off one man's worried glance, he asked mildly, "Something on your mind, Chewie?"
Chewie, a short, heavy-set man with a beer belly, muttered, "A cop? I think we should just kill 'em now."
"Playing it safe?" Ray scoffed. His left hand gripped Blair's arm tightly, but his right was exploring up under Blair's parka and flannel shirt until it found skin. Blair tried to jerk away from the icy touch, but the hand just kept exploring, finally stopping at the base of his spine. "We never play it safe," Ray continued, addressing Chewie but looking at Blair. "Hunting a cop will just make it more interestin'." He insinuated the tip of one finger into the sensitive dimple at the base of the spine, and Blair jumped, struggling uselessly against the repulsive touch.
Jim started to get up, but Bry just shoved him back onto the tailgate. He untied the rope from around Jim's chest and drew it around the leather cord binding his hands. Pulling up all the slack until the rope was taut from trailer hitch to captive, he tied it off. The tether was so short now that Jim could stand but not move more than a foot away from the Suburban.
Jim didn't say a word, his eyes studying his adversaries, looking for weaknesses, waiting for an opportunity. His expression was cold, almost neutral in its rigid composure.
Blair knew that expression did not bode well for these five men, but it didn't ease his fear any. Even a sentinel couldn't take on so many heavily-armed opponents.
And then he remembered Thomas and the warehouse, when Thomas had killed seven armed and well-trained adversaries. He had done it by entering an altered state of sentinel acuity Blair's research hadn't uncovered. The results had been devastating, but the aftereffects, and Thomas' subsequent collapse, had been equally frightening.
Blair didn't know if he was prepared to help Jim under the same circumstances, especially out here in the middle of the forest, with any possible help hours away.
He was suddenly jerked from Ray's grasp by Bry, who pulled him close and leered into his face. "I reckon I get first dibs since I'm the leader."
Blair tried to pull away, but Bry had looped one arm firmly around his captive's right arm, pinning him almost snugly to his side. With his other hand, he unzipped Blair's parka. From behind, Ray pulled the parka off Blair's shoulders until it bundled against the handcuffed wrists.
Immediately, the cold snagged at him, almost taking his breath away.
Then, with growing anticipation, Bry went to work on the buttons of Blair's flannel shirt, unbuttoning them slowly from top to bottom. A minute later, the shirt had been pulled down to rest atop the parka.
Blair was shivering in earnest now, his bare arms puckering with goosebumps as the frigid air touched his skin. Only his tee shirt offered any sort of protection, and it was no protection at all.
Bry gripped the waistband of Blair's jeans, his gloved fingers icy cold against the warmth of Blair's abdomen. "You gonna cooperate, or do I strip you naked and leave you in the cold until you learn your lesson?"
With a snarl of anger, Blair butted his tormentor in the face.
Bry fell backwards, but he kept his grip and dragged his prisoner down with him. They both landed hard on the frozen ground, Blair on top, but Bry quickly rolled him off and straddled him. Cursing unintelligibly, the large man backhanded his captive twice across the face, rocking Blair's head from side to side with the force of the blows.
Then Bry stood up, bunching his hands in Blair's tee and hauling him up. Blair had barely caught his balance before he was down again, slammed to his knees by a powerful blow to his abdomen.
Desperate for air, he curled forward around the pain and tried to draw breath into his lungs, but Bry grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back until his weight was against the larger man's thighs. For one horrible instant, Blair was eye-level with his captor's crotch, but almost before the terrible possibilities could register, he was dragged to his feet and spun around.
Bry had him in a bear hug from behind. "God, I love it when they fight," he breathed, nuzzling into his victim's hair and savoring the futile struggles.
Blair writhed as he felt the repulsive touch of Bry's lips against his neck. He butted backwards, but the man was too quick. A slight shift of Bry's head permitted the blow to graze his cheek harmlessly, but now Blair's head was back, exposing the side of his neck, and the moist lips eagerly sought new pleasures. Blair's struggles became more desperate as the lips moved to his cheeks, approaching his mouth, but he could not release himself from a savage grip in his hair that held his head motionless.
Abruptly, Bry threw him aside, and Blair fell hard, the air going out of him with a grunt. He'd landed in front of the tent flap.
"Time to get serious," Bry said with grim satisfaction, stepping toward him. "We'll be more comfy inside."
Blair tore his eyes away from the huge hands reaching for him and looked beseechingly toward Jim, still bound on the tailgate of the Suburban.
What he saw sent a different sort of chill stabbing into his very soul.
The Jim Ellison he saw was utterly cold, devoid of any hint of human compassion. At some point, he had crossed the threshold to that altered state where a sentinel ceased to be a protector and became an avenger.
Part Five
Although it was one of the most difficult things he'd ever done, Jim closed his eyes against Blair's suffering at the hands of their captors. He took several deep, calming breaths, concentrating on each inhalation and slow exhalation until the sound of his lungs filled his mind and focused his thoughts. Everything else -- the cold, Blair's frantic struggles, the grunts and laughter of their captors, faded to nothing. For Jim, the world became as silent as starlight.
A veil.
Thomas has said he'd found a veil at the calm center of his mind. Beyond it, just a tiny push away, lay that other level of sentinel power. One had to use it sparingly; it had a painful downside.
Jim searched now for that center.
When he found it, he saw a gossamer curtain, shimmering like sunlight on water that was streaming down a windowpane. He couldn't see beyond it, and yet it beckoned with a tantalizing promise of power.
Tentatively, he touched the curtain in his mind, and a tingle of pure energy coursed from his fingertips and up his arm. It felt good, and he knew he would be invulnerable on the other side.
Taking another step, he stepped through the curtain.
And opened his eyes.
Blair was still struggling futilely in Bry's rough grip. Stripped to the waist except for his tee, his skin was mottled and covered with goosebumps from the extreme cold. Chuckling, Bry had him almost to the tent flap; in moments, they would be inside, where Blair's real terror would begin. The others watched, laughing, their combined breaths creating a cloud of vapor that hung above their heads like cartoon bubbles.
With one part of his mind, Jim was a little surprised to realize he didn't feel any sense of urgency. He felt no sympathy or compassion for Blair's plight, although the mandate was absolute in his mind: protect the Guide. He was indifferent to the threatened indignities because he knew they were not going to happen.
Simple as that.
As long as a breath of air remained in his body, his Guide would not be harmed.
The extreme cold had made the leather binding his wrists stiff and unwieldy, and yet the knots loosened quickly under his questing fingers.
Time seemed to stop. He saw everything in slow motion and with perfect clarity; he knew there was no need to rush. Funny, but by some weird trick, sound didn't slow down -- the laughter coming from their captors was still at normal pitch, as were their words. How could something move at a normal pace and appear to be moving in slow motion at the same time?
It was something Blair would have to figure out later.
Jim climbed off the tailgate and reached for his nearest adversary. Grabbing two fistfuls of coat, he hauled the man backward off balance, then shifted his grip to break the man's neck as he fell.
The second man had a knife.
With ridiculous ease, Jim batted the weapon aside, his other hand connecting solidly against the exposed trachea, crushing it. Knowing his second opponent was already dying, Jim dismissed him and turned toward the beer-bellied man, Chewie.
Chewie and Ray came at him together. Both had rifles, but Jim was unconcerned. He felt as if he'd seen this move a hundred times and practiced it to well-honed perfection. They couldn't touch him.
The loud crack of rifle shots split the air, but he already knew the trajectory of the bullets and didn't have to waste time avoiding them. The slugs missed him by mere inches, and by then he was within reach of the two men. He threw Chewie into Ray, staggering them both, and grabbed Chewie's rifle, flipping it with the ease of a drum major with a baton. He fired the weapon almost negligently. The bullet caught Chewie under the nose and tore off the top of his head.
Jim barely noticed. Ray was scrambling away frantically, trying to get to his feet. Without a twinge of remorse, Jim shot him in the back of the head.
That left Bry and his hostage, both shocked into virtual immobility under the microscope of Jim's perfectly attuned senses.
Jim raised the rifle. He didn't say a word -- no urging the man to release his hostage and surrender, no calm admonition that Bry was under arrest.
The thug was opening his mouth to say something, probably a threat, but Jim simply aimed and fired, the bullet narrowly missing Blair but catching the gang leader dead center between the eyes.
Dead center.
Jim rather liked that.
The man's body crumbled against the tent, which sagged and buckled as the dead man dragged Blair down with him.
Jim discarded the rifle and walked over. He pulled Blair to his feet. "You OK?" he asked mildly.
Blair was shivering uncontrollably, his joints and muscles aching under the involuntary tremors, but he struggled to keep his voice calm. "I'm freezing, Jim. Can you get these cuffs off?"
His hands were hidden beneath layers of fabric that had been stripped from his upper body. Obligingly, Jim untangled the flannel shirt and slipped it back over Blair's shoulders. The heavy folds of the parka proved more challenging, but soon the coat was back where it belonged, although both garments remained unfastened, leaving Blair's chest still covered only by the thin tee.
Jim examined the handcuffs, then pulled a spare set of keys out of his pocket. The set included a handcuff key.
It didn't fit.
The sense of invulnerability was draining away, leaving behind a mental thickness through which his thoughts were drifting sluggishly. "Damn," he muttered, swaying slightly as weakness gradually claimed his coordination.
"Come on, Jim," Blair said more urgently. "You've got to get these cuffs off. I can't help you otherwise."
"OK." Jim went to Bry's body and began to search through the dead man's pockets. Suddenly, he felt as if he were the one moving in slow motion. Translating thought into action required extreme concentration.
He found the key, but when he straightened, he lost his balance and staggered backwards, falling to the frozen ground.
Blair rushed to him and dropped to his knees. "Jim! Come on, man, please!" Horrible visions of them both freezing to death gave his voice an edge of panic.
Jim heard the plea and struggled to sit up.
Blair quickly turned around to offer his shackled wrists. "Hurry."
Jim fumbled with the key. His eyesight was starting to spike with brilliant explosions of color, and his stomach churned with something that felt very much like motion sickness. Impaired vision could cause nausea, he recalled irrelevantly.
Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against Blair's back and relied on touch to mate lock and key.
He'd almost dozed off when the first cuff snapped open.
Blair's hands were suddenly ice cold against his cheeks. "Jim, stay with me here!"
Jim opened his eyes, but the pain growing in his skull was more than he could bear. "Can't," he mumbled, fighting against unconsciousness.
Blair scrambled to his feet. Hastily buttoning his clothing, he dashed to the Suburban and leaped into the cab to start the engine. He noticed the big vehicle had a flat rear tire, probably from a stray bullet, but he didn't care.
Hopping down from the cab, he resolutely ignored the bloody carnage scattered around him and hastened back to Jim. He urged the larger man to stand up. "Jim, we've got to get back to our campsite. I have stuff there that will help you."
Obediently, Jim allowed himself to be led to the truck. Blair helped him into the passenger seat, slammed the door without thinking, and rushed back around to climb behind the wheel.
Damn, he was freezing! His fingertips were numb, but his hands ached. He switched on the headlights and maneuvered the big truck around until they were pointed back across the river. Switching on the heater fan to its highest setting, he was rewarded with a strong blast of lukewarm air, but at least it was warm and infinitely better than the raw cold outside.
Although he drove very slowly, the truck still bounced and rocked over the uneven riverbed. He tried to keep one eye on his path and the other on his passenger, but it was difficult going with only one headlight to guide his path. As the big Suburban crawled across the rocks, the light dipped up and down, seldom pointing where he really wanted it.
Jim was fading quickly. He alternated between holding the dash, the door, or his head as he was jarred around inside the truck cab. Finally, with a groan, he simply curled up on the seat, his legs still under the dash and his body bent at what must have been a very uncomfortable angle.
Sympathetically, Blair reached down and stroked the top of his partner's head. "We'll be there soon," he promised quietly, then had to return both hands to the steering wheel as a particularly hard jolt rocked the frame.
The flat tire didn't help matters. The undercarriage scraped bottom numerous times, the solid crunch of rocks against metal an almost constant torment. Blair's only concern was to get to camp and get Jim to drink some high-potency caffeine with aspirin. Then he planned to bundle them both up inside the cab with the heater running and wait for dawn.
Part Six
Once again, events conspired against him. They were within a hundred yards or so of their destroyed camp when the Suburban's engine overheat light came on.
Apparently, they'd struck a rock with enough force to puncture the oil pan or break a radiator hose. Whatever the cause, they wouldn't be able to rely on the truck's heater to keep them warm.
The engine coughed and died. Foul fumes filled the cab, and Jim suddenly gagged.
"I should've known it couldn't be this easy," Blair murmured, jumping into the cold again and hurrying to the passenger side. Already, he was thinking of the things he should have done differently. He should have taken at least one of the lanterns from the other camp; he didn't know if their own was broken or lost, but he suspected he wouldn't find it where they'd left it before going to bed so many hours ago. The Suburban's headlight would last awhile, but once the battery went dead, they'd be plunged back into darkness. And he should have picked up at least one of the weapons scattered around the bloody scene.
Instead, he'd focused so completely on Jim, he hadn't considered the other things he should have been doing.
Jim was practically unconscious, but Blair coaxed him into climbing off the seat. He braced himself for Jim's weight and managed to keep them both upright as they staggered toward their camp.
"Just a few more feet," he said confidently. He could see the fallen log where they'd sat to admire the night sky, and it looked an interminable distance away. In the lone headlight of the sport utility, however, they were able to find their way easily and made good time.
Blair helped Jim sit down on the log. "Can you sit here a minute?" he asked anxiously.
"Think so," Jim responded wearily. "Feel funny."
"I know. I'll just be a sec."
Blair kicked at the fire pit until an ember flared. He piled wood loosely atop the meager flame, which licked hungrily at the old, dry wood. Allowing the fire to tend itself for the moment, he dashed to their downed tent and struggled to unzip the front. The headlight, now so far away, helped a bit, but it was at the wrong angle to be truly useful. Cold had numbed his feet and made his hands thick and clumsy.
Successful at last, he hauled out everything he could grab. Working like a madman, he pulled the mostly-deflated mattress to the log and folded it over twice until it formed a thick pad on the ground. He opened one of the sleeping bags and helped Jim sit down on its fleecy warmth, then tucked it around him. Tossing the rest of the sleeping bags and blankets in a haphazard pile around his shivering friend, he opened his book bag.
The fire was blazing quite cheerfully now, its heat teasing them as it wafted toward them, then away, then back again as it drifted on minutely shifting air currents.
Blair didn't have time to heat water. Instead, he mixed instant coffee crystals with cold water and opened the aspirin bottle.
Snuggling down next to Jim, he pressed the tablets into his partner's hand. "You've gotta swallow these, Jim. The coffee's gonna taste like hell, but it will help you feel better."
"I'm cold," Jim murmured, then slowly put the tablets in his mouth. He grimaced as he drank the foul, half-dissolved coffee mixture. "Terrible," he protested, trying to push the mug away.
"No, you have to drink it," Blair insisted quietly, holding the cup firmly against Jim's lips.
A few more swallows, and Jim looked on the brink of throwing up, thus undoing any good the aspirin and caffeine might provide, so Blair stopped his ministrations.
Putting the mug aside, he pulled off Jim's hiking boots and wet socks. God, his partner's feet were like blocks of ice, but they were still a healthy pink, however badly mottled with cold. At least they weren't the flaccid, dead white of frostbite. With one of the blankets, he rubbed Jim's feet dry, then wrapped them in the heavy wool before tucking them under another layer of sleeping bag.
Opening more sleeping bags, he cuddled up close and wrapped his arms around Jim, drawing the larger man against his chest. "You need to sleep now," he said quietly into the ear that was only an inch from his lips. I gotta do a couple of things yet, but you just try to relax. I'll try not to disturb you too much."
Jim trembled against him, still shivering from the cold, but the sleeping bags were warming them both quickly.
Now, Blair took a moment for himself. Awkwardly, trying to maintain his grip on Jim, who seemed disoriented and struggled feebly against the arms holding him, he managed to get out of his boots. He could barely feel his toes, but barely was enough. Satisfied, he dried his feet with another blanket and wrapped them up. Exposing one hand to the cold, he stood the two pair of boots near the fire and draped the sodden socks over them. He hoped they would be dry by morning, because he didn't relish the thought of running around the campsite in his bare feet.
The shadows cast by the headlight of the Suburban were growing dim as the battery died. Blair didn't care. The light had served its purpose, and while it would have been nice to keep it until dawn, he'd known it would be gone sooner or later.
"Quit squirming, Jim," he ordered softly, working the sleeping bags over and around them to form a cozy cocoon. He eased Jim into a semi-reclining position against his chest and held him there, cradling his partner's head and shoulders in his arms.
"Can't," Jim murmured rebelliously, refusing to succumb to sleep.
Blair kept his voice low and persuasive. "Jim, we both heard what Thomas said. You have to let go. You can't fight the pain or it will only get worse. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, I promise. Trust me."
He almost heard the sudden smile in Jim's voice. "Coming from you -- " came a slurred whisper.
Blair chuckled. "I know -- the two scariest words in the English language."
"Yeah," Jim murmured, still unwilling to surrender to the pain hammering at him.
Blair settled him a little more comfortably. The shudders were going away, permitting him to relax a bit. He'd forgotten how painful prolonged shivering could be. It was getting warmer inside their little pyramid of sleeping bags and blankets, and for the first time, Blair could honestly admit he wasn't cold.
With one hand, he began to knead the tension from the back of Jim's neck. Using firm but gentle strength, he worked his fingers upward until they massaged just behind the ears, forcing Jim's tense jaw to relax. Successful, the fingers continued upward, working across the scalp until they could rub gently at the temples, where he could feel the blood pounding beneath the thin layer of skin.
All the while, he spoke soothingly, his voice a hypnotic lure that captured Jim's attention and finally led him unresisting into the depths of sleep.
Only when Jim was completely limp in his arms did Blair stop his ministrations. His fingers were stiff after all their work, but he felt warm and snug in the little nest he had assembled. Emerging just enough to make certain nothing unexpected could catch in the fire, he drew back under the covers and rested his cheek atop Jim's head.
Sleep took its time coming. Thoughts tumbled lazily over one another, some lost while still half-formed.
Mentally, he made notes of the questions he needed to ask Jim when they were safely back in the loft and the horrors of this night were behind them. How had Jim triggered the heightened state? What did it feel like (with a detailed examination of every sense)? What were the physical sensations as he came down off that "sentinel high"?
For now, the images were too fresh in his mind. Jim had become an efficient, impersonal killing machine, just as Thomas had done. Blair had thought Thomas' deadly, unemotional state had resulted from his background, but seeing Jim act with that same total disregard convinced him it was part of the altered state itself. Never would the Jim Ellison he knew have shot a man in the back, but Jim had shot Ray with total disregard.
Belatedly, he thought of more practical matters. They'd better get their stories straight to justify the evidence of Ray's death. At some point during his construction of a plausible scenario, he fell asleep, snug inside his little cocoon, his arms wrapped protectively around his Sentinel.
The temperature crept toward its nadir as the night wore on.
Part Seven
He didn't know what woke him, but he was suddenly fully alert, his heart pounding, his eyes wide as he fought clear of the warm folds of the sleeping bag covering his head.
In his arms, Jim stirred, groaning with effort as he struggled toward consciousness.
Blair tightened his hold. "It's OK, Jim," he murmured reassuringly, cursing his fear response to whatever had roused him from sleep. "There's no danger. You know me -- I jump at shadows. Just ignore the wild thudding of my heart. If there's a problem, I'll tell you when you need to wake up."
Jim's subconscious absorbed the words, and he immediately relaxed again, the deep lines of pain smoothing from his face as he returned to the pain-free peace of deep sleep.
Blair held the sleeping bag closed around his neck. Only his head was exposed to the night air, and he shivered at how unbelievably cold it felt. He finally heard again the sound that had startled him awake.
"Help me!"
The voice was distant, barely audible, but tinged with such panic and desperation that Blair felt fear cut through him to the bone.
Ray.
It had sounded like Ray.
Jim had shot the young man in the back of the head, or maybe at the base of the neck. Certainly, it was an incapacitating, mortal wound under these conditions. But somehow, Ray was still alive, helpless and possibly paralyzed.
Or was he hearing cries for help from the kidnapped youth, the one they'd thought was dead? Jim certainly knew if the boy was dead, didn't he? Then again, he wouldn't have wanted to call attention to that fact had it been true; Bry and the others might have finished what they'd started. And once Jim entered that heightened state, he wouldn't have given another thought to the other captive. His focus had been too concentrated on taking out his adversaries.
What if it was the other hostage?
For one insane moment, Blair debated going to help, but reason finally prevailed.
The Suburban's headlight was completely dark now, so the truck battery was dead. The night was black, with only starlight to discern a faint separation between riverbed and tree line, tree line and mountain, mountain and sky. Even if by some miracle, he could find his way across the river and reach the injured young man, no power on earth could have guided him back to Jim.
And he would not leave Jim.
If his conviction meant Ray or the young man would die alone and unprotected, then so be it. He only hoped his conscience was strong enough to accept the callousness of that decision.
"Help me!"
The plea came again, carried clearly on the still, crisp air.
Blair closed his eyes against his natural inclination to help, but he could not shut his ears to the others sounds that drifted to him.
He could hear animals prowling the night, their soft growls and screeches filling him with dread.
The scavengers were drawn to the smell of death, the hunters to the lure of an easy kill. In frozen horror, he listened to the snarls and cries as the larger carnivores of the night descended upon the camp across the river, their exploration tentative at first as they scouted the unusual bounty in their midst, then with fervor as they realized the dreaded scent of man forecast no dangers this time.
Ray's final cry was a scream of terror, mercifully cut off.
Blair trembled as he listened to the sounds he could not shut out. When the larger beasts had finished, the smaller animals would venture forth to claim the leavings. When the night was once more quiet, he drew his head under the warmth of the sleeping bag and tried to forget the horrific images conjured by the gruesome sounds.
The unexpected snuffle of nearby breathing caused him to pop out of his nest again. Beyond the dim glow of the fire embers, he could see the shine of eyes peering back at him.
Fear renewed his chill. Animals, even large ones, rarely attacked humans. But perhaps the feast on human flesh had left a predator hungry for more. And Blair didn't know what had happened to Jim's weapon. He only knew he didn't have it.
Emboldened, the animal stepped forward, and he realized it was one of the smaller cats, a lynx, if he saw the face correctly. It sat down at the very edge of the fire's glow and watched him, perhaps assessing the likelihood of another easy meal.
"No dead or dying here," he assured firmly, surprised at how strong his voice sounded.
The lynx watched for awhile longer, then calmly walked off into the night.
Too shaken to think of going back to sleep, Blair liberated one arm and tossed the last of the logs onto the fire. Sparks shot skyward, crackling angrily, and in the sudden glare, he saw other animals watching from the perimeter of the camp.
Wolves.
Three of them.
They sat together, their thick winter coats full and lush.
Blair didn't know if he and Jim were being sized up as a potential meal or being thanked for providing such a plethora of fresh meat across the river, but the presence of the tiny pack unnerved him.
Maybe those three were just a distraction, he thought wildly, and other members of the pack were even now creeping closer from behind, preparing to lunge for the kill.
He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. Instead, he gauged his potential weapons -- a few charred logs big enough to wield a mean punch, a few rocks suitable for throwing. Pretty pathetic, really, against a determined onslaught.
He debated on waking Jim. However, a little niggling doubt made him wonder what he'd do if he were unable to rouse Jim. It was easier to believe the danger wasn't great enough yet than risk the panic certain to follow if Jim couldn't regain consciousness.
So, in the end, he did nothing.
But the wolves made no move, and nothing pounced on them from behind.
Somewhere in the wee hours just before dawn, the wolves left and Blair fell asleep.
Part Eight
He awoke to a morning filled with gray. The sky was overcast with low clouds that hid the snow-capped mountains to the north and east. The winter landscape varied in shades of gray, light along the riverbed, darker and more menacing at the tree line. Shapes were indistinct through a thin mist too vaporous to be called fog. The muted sunlight gave the scene a two-dimensional quality.
The fire was nothing but gray ash, and all of Blair's poking and prodding with a stick couldn't elicit so much as an ember. Resigned to venturing forth into the cold, he eased Jim's weight off his chest and got him settled on the cushion of sleeping bags. Then, still pretty much tented inside the pyramid of warmth, he pulled his socks and boots under the covers to warm them a bit and finally put them on. The socks were slightly damp, but they'd have to do for now.
He checked Jim again and found him unresponsive, but to all appearances still sleeping peacefully. He felt certain his partner was not in any sort of distress; Thomas had slept for many hours as well, so Blair figured it was just part of the recovery process.
When he couldn't ignore the urgent pressure in his bladder any longer, he struggled unwillingly out of the warmth. Aches assailed him from every quarter. The pain of everything -- all the shivering, the blows from Bry, the awkward sleeping conditions -- descended at once, and he froze where he was, halfway to his feet, a groan imprisoned in his throat by a sheer act of willpower. Then he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath of the glacial air, and pushed himself up.
If it hadn't hurt so much, the creak and crackle of his stiffened joints would have made him laugh.
The cold snapped at him, and he bundled his jacket around him. Hastily, he found a tree, took care of business, and returned to camp. Scurrying around the ruins of their camp drove away the aches and warmed his body. He found the camp stove, dented but still functional, and soon had a pot of water heating over a propane flame. The ice chest and dry goods box remained surprisingly untouched, so he soon had cups ready to receive the hot water that would dissolve the slow-roasted crystals of pure Colombian coffee...well, instant was instant in his book, but anything would do in a pinch. The aroma alone was enough to make him groan in anticipation.
When the water had boiled, he poured some over the instant coffee and chanced a cautious sip. The heat burned his mouth, and he muttered a little curse as he put the cup aside to cool. With his luck he'd forget about it and have ice-cold coffee by the time he got back to it!
He dug out the frying pan, melted a pat of butter, broke an egg into it to fry, and tipped the cooked result onto a slice of bread. Topping it with some salt, pepper and another slice of bread, he reckoned no breakfast had ever tasted so fine. He even remembered the coffee before it got too cold.
The various food aromas caused a tentative quiver in the pile of sleeping bags.
Quickly, Blair put the water back on the flame and stirred up another cup of coffee while he finished his sandwich.
By the time he carried the cup over to the mound, a bleary-eyed face had emerged, blinking owlishly against the daylight.
Blair restrained a chuckle. He could not remember a time when he had seen Jim more tousled. "Good morning," he said, offering the mug.
Grunting with the effort, Jim managed to sit up and extricate an arm to grasp the mug. Gratefully, he took a sip. "That's good," he murmured, closing his eyes to savor the taste.
"How's your head?"
"Thomas described it perfectly," Jim said, his voice still thick with sleep. "There's no more pain, but I feel -- disconnected."
"That's probably your brain chemistry settling back to normal limits or something," Blair mused.
"Whatever," Jim agreed groggily. "Damn, it's cold."
"Yeah, and the only thing keeping me from crawling back in there with you is the thought of getting our stuff packed up and hitting the road with the heater turned up full blast."
"Sounds like a plan." Jim finished his coffee and reached for his boots.
"There's no need to rush," Blair hastened to add. "If you need to rest awhile longer -- ?"
"No, I don't feel bad, just not really good, you know?" Jim fumbled to tie his bootlaces. "It's the way I imagine someone waking up after a long fever might feel."
"Are you hungry? I can cook up some bacon and eggs."
"That sounds wonderful." Tackling the layers of sleeping bags and blankets proved to be too great a challenge, and Blair finally had to help get him untangled.
"Sure," the younger man said sarcastically, "you're doing just fine."
"Now I know how I'm going to feel when I'm eighty," Jim admitted ruefully, climbing very carefully to his feet. "Back in a minute."
He headed for the tree line, his progress slow as he tottered with the uncertain balance of an old man. Blair watched him anxiously, but Jim didn't look in danger of falling. Twice, he stopped, once rubbing his face with both hands as if in an attempt to drive away the cobwebs clouding his thoughts. Blair almost took a step to help him, but then Jim straightened and continued without further difficulty.
When he returned a few minutes later, Blair had breakfast ready, including a helping of bacon and eggs for himself. After all, no mortal could resist the aroma of cooking bacon wafting on crisp mountain air.
He caught Jim looking at him with an expression so profoundly sad that he stopped what he was doing. "Jim, what's wrong?" he asked calmly, his voice slipping naturally into its Guide tone, quiet and composed.
Jim looked startled for a moment, as if he'd started to zone. His eyebrows furrowed, and he gave a little shake of his head. "Do you know where the first aid kit is?" he asked abruptly.
A bit startled, Blair glanced around. "Probably in the box with the dry goods," he guessed, then finally connected the way Jim had looked at him to what he had said. Reaching up, he felt the welts and scabs crisscrossing his face. There was probably some bruising, too, from when Bry had slapped him.
"I'm OK, Jim," he said simply. "I'd rather eat and pack up the truck, OK?"
After a moment, Jim sighed and nodded.
They carried their plates and cups to the log and settled down to enjoy their meal.
Jim seemed to regain strength with every bite. "We had a visitor last night, didn't we?" he asked between mouthfuls.
Just for a moment, Blair panicked, thinking Jim had forgotten the whole ordeal with their captors. Then he realized. "Oh, yeah, several of them."
"What were they?"
"No lions or tigers or bears, but almost every other critter of the forest stopped by to give us the once over."
Jim smiled slightly. "Well, that's OK then." He examined his friend casually. Blair was too pale, with dark circles under his eyes and a haunted expression that even his attempts at humor could not hide. "Are you sure you're OK?"
Blair shrugged. "Yeah. It was just -- it was just pretty bad last night, you know? Not just with what happened, but afterward...I was scared I wouldn't be able to help you."
"You did a good job," Jim said softly. He didn't know what horrors the darkness had held for his partner, but he knew the long night could not have been pleasant.
Blair chuckled. "A good job?" He gestured derisively toward the Suburban out on the riverbed. "A busted oil pan and a dead battery -- so much for using the car heater to keep us warm. And I didn't even grab a lantern or gun from the other campsite."
Jim looked quizzically amused. "You have a thing for guilt, don't you?"
Blair wound down abruptly, then grinned. "Yeah, I'm a bottomless font, or haven't you noticed?"
"I've noticed." Jim sipped some more coffee, enjoying the warmth more than the flavor. "You kept us alive and warm, no easy chore in this weather." A bit hesitantly, he added, "And you kept me safe. I mean, I felt safe, so I was able to finally let go." He struggled to find the words to describe what it had been like. "It felt strange, like falling into a bottomless pit filled with spider webs. The spider webs were the pain, but with each layer I fell through, my descent was slowed just a little, and the pain wrapped just a little tighter. When I finally embraced it, allowed myself to become a part of it, it didn't hurt so much any more. I don't think I've ever slept so deeply in my life. It was scary, but knowing you were taking care of me made it all right." He grimaced a bit in embarrassment after his difficult admission, but Blair's warm smile of gratitude made it worthwhile.
He finished his breakfast and stood up. "Uh, I'm gonna take a walk over to that other camp. I want to find my pistol."
Blair's good mood faded. "It -- uh -- I mean, there were animals over there last night, too."
Jim nodded grimly. "Still, I gotta do it. I don't think anyone else will come along, but I want to gather up the weapons." He rubbed his hair, then dug a knitted cap out of his jacket pocket and put it on. "Do you have a notebook and pen? I'd like to sketch the scene -- the way I remember it, and the way it looks now, after the scavengers have been at it. By the time the investigators get up here, the bodies may have been moved even more."
Blair dug into his book bag and produced the requested items. Very quietly, he said, "Jim, I need to know something."
"What?"
"That kid -- the first hostage." Blair raised his eyes to look into Jim's, and his voice filled with dread. "He was dead, wasn't he?"
Jim looked startled. "Yeah, he was dead. Why?"
It felt as if a great weight had been lifted, and Blair sighed in relief. "Nothing. I'll tell you about it later, when we're home again."
"OK." Jim took the notepad and pencil. "I'll be back in an hour. You gonna be OK here?"
"Sure." Blair pulled on his gloves. "I'll start packing things up, so we'll be ready to leave when you get back."
"Good idea.'
"And, um, I'll drive on the way back."
Jim cocked his head slightly to one side. "Nervous about my driving?" he asked.
Blair smiled and shook his head. "No, I just feel kinda bad that I made you do all the driving yesterday. I mean, we'd had a bad couple of weeks with work, and I knew you were tired, but I was just too upset to think about doing my share of the work."
Jim sighed. "That font's overflowing again, isn't it?"
"It's self-renewing," Blair admitted with a wry grin. "Get rid of one guilt, and two more rush in to take its place."
"We're gonna have to work on that." Jim turned toward the river. "I'll be back soon."
Blair watched him for awhile to make sure he was OK, but Jim's footsteps, although a bit slow, were confident and sure. Whatever residual weakness remained after his ordeal was fading rapidly.
He turned his attention back to their campsite and began to organize their stuff. He salvaged the tarp from beneath the tent and spread it out near their sleeping bags. He knelt atop it to roll up all the sleeping bags, then folded it and the blankets into a neat pile. The dry goods went back into the box after a quick wipe to remove the bulk of the grease from the frypan.
When Jim returned within the promised time limit, he saw an energetic lump moving around beneath the collapsed tent. Depositing the various weapons he had confiscated from the other camp beside their pile of gear, he commented, "I sure hope that's you in there, and not some grizzly looking for a free meal."
The lump bounced even more enthusiastically until at last Blair's head popped through the doorway. The silly furry hat was snugged firmly in place. "Look what I found!"
"Buried treasure," Jim agreed mildly, shaking his head at how absurd the hat looked atop his partner's head. "Anything else salvageable?"
Blair stood up and dusted off his knees. "I got everything out of the tent. Some of the tent poles are broken or bent, and a few of the seams are ripped. You probably don't want to bother trying to fix it."
"You're right. Let's stuff it back in its sack. I'll toss it when we get back to Cascade."
"Everything else survived pretty well," Blair commented, noting his partner looked a bit drawn and pale. Seriously, he asked, "Was it bad over there?"
"Bad enough," Jim admitted. "Anyway, it's a matter for the medical examiner's office and forensics now. With a little luck, I'll never have to look at that place again." His gaze was distant, replaying the images in his mind. Abruptly, he shook off the feeling and grabbed Blair in a bear hug, a surprising move that left the younger man nearly breathless. "And no more going into the woods without an armed escort," he promised in a soft whisper. "Bad things happen to us in the woods."
Blair laughed against the cool smoothness of Jim's parka. "Glad you finally agree with me."
Jim released his grip and took one last look around the campsite. "OK, let's get this stuff back to the truck, and then we're outta here."
THE END
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