A Step Backwards Read online

  A Step Backwards

  Sentinel original story by

  LRH Balzer

  Comments to: [email protected]

  Story Notes:

  "A Step Backwards" ties up the themes from previous stories.

  Author's Notes:

  Many thanks to my wonderful beta readers and encouragers: CJ, EJ, Cathy, & Marcelle.

  Part One

  Damn, what the hell am I missing here?

  The file lay open before him, the list of suspects spread out over his desk. Photos of the bodies. Photos of the crime scene. The victims were strangled. There were no known motives. But there were bodies.

  Some of the pictures were blurred. He blinked several times, bringing them into focus.

  Focus. Yes. Need to focus. Need to . . . do something.

  He closed the file and picked restlessly at the plastic corner of his desk blotter.

  Need to . . . something. Yeah.

  Maybe a coffee would help. Or even a mug of tea. Something cinnamon. Hot chocolate with cinnamon. Made with soy vanilla milk. And coffee. A double mocha vanilla soy latte with cinnamon sprinkles.

  Yeah.

  Unfortunately, the break room was too far away, and Starbucks was even farther.

  "Sandburg, get in here right now."

  "Huh?" Blair Sandburg turned from where he was staring blankly at his desk blotter, slowly registering Simon Banks' order. "What?" he asked, as the door to the captain's office closed. "What did he say?"

  "He wants you to go see him," Jim Ellison provided, without looking up from the report he was reading on his computer.

  "Oh." Sandburg grabbed another tissue as he got up from his desk. A mild cold had gradually worsened over the last day, and his concentration was scraping ground. "Uh . . . be right back, Jim." He slid into the captain's office, shutting the door behind him as he sneezed, belatedly mopping his face with the tissue before turning to the head of Major Crimes. "Can I help you with something, Simon?"

  "Go home." Captain Banks didn't look up either. There were a lot of papers on his desk, covering the surface, cleared in one spot for a monster mug of coffee. Just plain coffee, nothing fancy. It looked hot, though, and even with his stuffed nasal passages, Blair could tell it was one of those nice blends the captain favored. Must make reading all those files bearable. There were two stacks of files with little, yellow stick-it notes stuck out of the tops of them.

  Sticky stuck-outs. Stuck-out stickies.

  The steam from the coffee made some of them flutter.

  Fluttery yellow stick-it notes. Buttery-yellow stuck-out notes.

  Sandburg blinked. Had the captain said something? "Sir?"

  "Go home."

  "Pardon?"

  "Major Crimes is off limits to you for the next few days." Banks flipped a file shut, moved it to his 'out' box, then opened the next one.

  The little yellow stick-it notes fluttered butterly in the breeze.

  Sandburg sank down into a chair, leaning into the solidness of the long briefing table. He felt suspiciously like asking for, or maybe even 'demanding' clarification on what Simon meant, but settled for an almost whiny, "Why? What did I do?"

  Banks peered at Sandburg over his reading glasses. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're sick."

  "It's just a little cold--"

  "And I can't chance the rest of the department coming down with the same bug."

  "It's nothing, sir." Sandburg groaned as he sneezed twice more into an already soggy tissue. "Really. I've got it under control."

  "Right. Go home." Banks stood up from behind his desk, his chair rolling away from him amid a flurry of fluttery buttery stickies, and simply pointed to the door. "Get out. Now."

  With a defeated sigh, Sandburg complied, struggling to his feet and trudging out the office door. He sniffled his way over to Ellison's desk. When he opened his mouth to complain, he sneezed instead, hastily spinning to grab another tissue from the dwindling supply on his desk.

  Oh, man. Spinning was so not a good idea. The room kept rotating even after he had stopped. Or maybe he hadn't stopped.

  Maybe Simon was right. Maybe he was still . . .

  "Okay, Jim, okay!" Hands up, Sandburg hushed any remarks the senior detective had been about to offer. "I'm going."

  Ellison stared down at the reams of paperwork on his desk. "Listen, it's not that I don't want you here, it's just that--"

  "I know. You don't want me here in my delicate 'condition'." Sandburg dropped to his chair and leaned forward, his head down on arms that rested on the closed file filled with pictures of dead bodies and suspects. "I feel like shit."

  "I thought you said you were fine. That's what you told Simon." Ellison waited a moment, staring at his computer screen and the list of questions he needed to fill in. When there was no response to his gentle jibe, he looked back to his partner's desk. "Sandburg?"

  The young man sat up with a groan. "Yeah, I'm here." He leaned back in his chair dejected, his shoulders slumped. "You know what? It's not so much this cold. I just feel . . . out of sorts. Edgy," he whispered, his voice keyed only to the hearing of the sentinel.

  Ellison entered the data needed for the first set of queries, then looked over to Sandburg's desk again, alerted by his partner's tone. He rolled his chair closer, blocking the aisle. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice equally low, eyes scanning Sandburg's face, his head tilted to one side.

  Listening to my lungs again, Blair thought.

  He breathed carefully in and out, letting the sentinel do his thing. It was easier to go along with it, than fight it. At least on that issue. "I don't know why I feel like this, exactly. Maybe it is just this cold." He touched Ellison's arm. "And it is just a cold," he added, making eye contact. "Got it? No other symptoms. I'm just tired."

  But he knew he hadn't sounded convincing. He stared at Ellison and as he did he felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the brush of unease unsettling his stomach. There was a fear behind it all pushing that feeling forward, a fear that something was going to happen. And it was going to happen to Jim.

  "Just." Ellison whispered the word, as though it gave his mouth a bad taste. "Just a cold. Just tired. And are you 'just' feverish?"

  "I don't think so. I admit my concentration is a bit off. And I'm a little achy, I guess."

  "How little?"

  "Just a little. Don't do the whole temperature thing, here, okay? You look like you're my mother or something when you do that."

  "Are you saying I resemble Naomi?" Ellison growled at him affectionately, trying to look tough.

  "You do when the mother hen thing starts. It really is just a cold, Jim. Don't make it something more. I'm not going anywhere." Despite his words, Sandburg shivered slightly, although for no particular reason he wanted to mention.

  "Okay, then, if it's not the cold setting you off, what else could it be?" Ellison asked, trying for casual as he rolled back to his desk, looked at the computer screen, and typed in another short sentence for his report.

  Sandburg stared at the back of Ellison's head. "It's like I'm missing something, Jim. Like there's something I should have figured out already. Or maybe something I should be doing, and I'm not getting it." Sandburg sat silent for a few seconds, sneezed, then added, "And it's important."

  "One of our cases?" Ellison reached in his desk drawer and handed Sandburg another box of tissues just in time for another sneeze.

  "Thanks." Sniff. Drip. Sniff. "I thought so at first, Jim, but now I'm not sure. It's like maybe I saw something, and part of my brain has made a connection, but the rest of my brain is too congested or something and hasn't figured it out yet. I've looked through everything twice, but nothing twinges."

  Ellison turned around a
gain and stared back at him. Sandburg knew he was seeing the effects of the cold that had worsened in the last few hours, sapping his guide's already limited resources. "At the risk of sounding egotistical, Sneezy, is it sentinel-related?" the detective asked, his voice low.

  Sandburg shook his head wearily. "I don't think so." He sighed. "Maybe guide or shaman related, though. It's me that's off, not you."

  But my being 'off' affects you, so I guess it is sentinel-related.

  With a louder sigh, Sandburg pushed himself to his feet. "Okay. I'll go home, have a shower. Maybe meditating will clear my head. And if that doesn't work," he added, "I'll use the time to work up the framework for a paper I've been thinking of doing."

  "No way, Chief. Not working means just that: not working. Get some rest. I'll drive you home. I don't want to get this cold."

  "You already had it. Who do you think I got it from?"

  "I just had a little cold, hardly anything."

  "Stupid flu bug wouldn't dare mess with you," Sandburg muttered.

  He started walking to the door, then turned to say something more to Jim. But there was only a dead body sitting where Jim had been a second before, blood dripping from eyes and nose and mouth, lips stretched tight in agony over skeletal remains.

  "Jim!" he yelled, stumbling backward, his head whirling. "JIM!" He landed against the half-open door of Major Crimes and fell to the ground, rolling to his side.

  "Easy there, Chief." What sounded eerily like Ellison's voice whispered through the fog around him. "Are you dizzy? What's wrong? You lose your balance?" the familiar, soothing voice asked.

  Eyes still shut tightly, Sandburg grabbed hold of the strong arms helping him sit up. "Jim?" he whispered.

  "What is it? What's wrong?"

  It sounded like Jim.

  Rafe's voice: "Jim? What's wrong with Sandburg?"

  Brown's voice: "Should we call 911?"

  Okay, if Rafe thinks Jim is here, and Brown thinks Jim is here . . . Please please please . . .

  Blair opened his eyes carefully, squinting as the overhead fluorescent lights sent stabbing pains behind his eyes. The face hovering over his -- fortunately -- looked like Jim. Not like that . . . whatever it was.

  "Yeah, just lost my balance," Sandburg said, allowing Ellison and Brown to help him to his feet. "I'd kinda like to go home and lie down now."

  "Good plan." Ellison made sure that Henri Brown had a good grip on him, then moved over to his desk, finished closing down his computer and grabbed his jacket and Sandburg's. The two detectives bundled him into his denim jacket, and Ellison helped him down to the truck.

  By the time the truck headed out into the bleary, rain-sodden October streets, he felt a lot better. By the time they'd gone a few blocks, he had cranked the window down and the cool air seemed to clear his head of cobwebs. And by the time they reached the bridge that would take them to the loft, he found he was capable of carrying on a conversation, and turned to Jim. "Thanks. I'm okay now. Just a bit woozy there for a minute."

  Ellison glanced over to him, eyes still worried. "What happened there? You sounded frightened -- terrified. That wasn't just losing your balance."

  No, just hallucinating you as a dead body.

  "I just need to go home and sleep." He met Jim's intent gaze and smiled reassuringly, relieved when the sentinel let the matter drop. Sandburg changed the topic to what groceries needed to be purchased later, and what they were going to do about dinner. Fortunately, his partner went along with the diversion, although none too happily, agreeing to get the groceries later and take care of the meal so Sandburg could concentrate on sleeping.

  He rested his head against the window, closing his eyes until he flashed on the face again. It had been Jim's face. That hideous skeletal face, covered in peeling skin and caked blood, had been Jim's face. Oh, God. Please. No.

  He opened his eyes and looked at Jim's rain-distorted reflection in the side window. If he just turned his head, he would be able to look at him. Just look at him, and you'll see he's okay!

  "Blair?" The sentinel's voice cut into his frantic thoughts. "Chief, what's wrong?" A warm - and very alive - hand reached over to him, covering his icy cold fingers.

  As he felt the truck swerve off to the side of the road, Sandburg turned his head so quickly to the left that he ended up with a kink in his neck, but he was rewarded with the beautiful sight of Jim Ellison in full-protective mode.

  "Chief?" The truck came to an abrupt halt in a no-parking zone in front of a bank. Ellison let go of his hand to put the truck into park, then reestablished contact, leaning across with his left hand to turn Sandburg's face toward him. "Hey, buddy. What was that about? You okay there?"

  Sandburg smiled reassuringly as Ellison's hand squeezed his. "I'm okay, Jim. Really." More or less. Close enough.

  Ellison wasn't convinced though. "Your heart's still racing."

  I know. "I'm just a little disoriented. Sleep is what I need, right?" Like I'm going to get any sleep whatsoever. He rested his head back against the window, savoring the cool glass against his aching head.

  "You're congested."

  "Yes, Jim."

  "You should see a doctor."

  "No, Jim."

  "Wrong answer." Ellison removed his hand and turned back into traffic.

  Sandburg opened his eyes just long enough to make sure his partner was still heading home and hadn't detoured to the hospital. No, he turned left at the street that would take them home.

  "At least take something for the congestion."

  "Yes, Jim."

  "I don't want it to get worse."

  "No, Jim."

  "I'm serious here!" The harshly whispered words shook Sandburg out of his blissful escape.

  "I know, Jim," he whispered back, without lifting his head. "I'm not going to die, okay? It's just a cold."

  "It's in your lungs." It almost took sentinel-hearing to catch Jim's words, but he heard them, and he heard the fear behind them.

  "That doesn't mean anything." The silence stretched between them, and finally Blair tilted his head so he could look at his partner. "Jim?"

  "It's in your lungs," Ellison repeated, louder this time. Stubborn.

  "I'll go to the doctor tomorrow, okay? If it's not better?" He really didn't want to go, but this wasn't for him. It was for Jim. Jim needed him to go, so he would, to put the man at ease again. For a hard-nosed cop, James Ellison had been through a hell of a lot of emotional crap over the last few weeks, and he didn't process events well. If at all.

  "Okay." Jim seemed mollified. Ten seconds went by. "Have you called Harvey lately?"

  The sentinel's question took him off guard.

  Harvey Leek, a Special Investigations detective from San Francisco, had helped them a month previous when they had been -- for lack of another word -- stuck in a dream.

  Blair looked carefully at his partner. "No, I haven't. Why? Some reason in particular I should talk to him? Is he a cold expert?"

  "Just wondering if you've talked to him lately."

  "Jim, is there something you want to talk about? Do you want to talk about the dream?" That's what they were calling it. The dream. Many nightmares, but only one dream. I have a dream ... Who said that? Naomi had a poster she carted around wherever we went. I remember it. 'I have a dream...' How did that go... Blair closed his eyes, wearily. 'I have a dream that ... that... one day this nation will rise up, live out the true meaning of its creed.' Martin Luther King. Yeah. That's it.

  "Do you?" The truck stopped a little abruptly at a red light. Jim was looking at him.

  "Do I what?"

  "Do you want to talk about the dream?"

  Great. Here we go again, the 'do you want to talk about it' merry-go-round. "Jim, if my head wasn't so clogged, I'd love to talk about what happened back then, but I think we've more or less beaten that topic to death. Neither one of us knows what happened. You dreamed, you sucked me into your dream somehow, then you woke up and I woke up and everything was
back to normal."

  The windshield wipers squeaked a little as they fought to clear the rain off the window. The police radio sputtered to life, calling off some meaningless numbers and locations, but the sound was down too low to hear it.

  Ellison turned it off, then turned on the FM radio, listened for a moment, changed stations a few times, then turned it off, too. He hit the steering wheel sharply with the palm of his hand.

  "What's that for?" Sandburg opened his eyes and peered at his partner.

  "What if I do it again?"