Promises in the Dark Read online

  “And I appreciate your offer, believe me. Both of us do.”

  Simon tugged absently on the blanket covering Sandburg, tucking it closer around his neck as though outraged that the nurses were not keeping a better eye on him. “Jim, I’m not claiming to understand for one minute what dynamics are happening here. I know enough to know that I don’t want to know anything more. It all sounds too hocus-pocus to me already. But I know what it’s like in the office and in the field when you two are connected right. I’ve come to count on that. So if you think you can reconnect, or whatever, in that amount of time, you’ve got it.”

  *

  He opened his eyes, letting the low light gradually reveal his own bedroom. I’m home again. His eyes drifted closed and he rolled over, getting comfortable, smiling as he recognized he was no longer connected to IV needles and tubes. As he settled into the warmth of his bed, he took stock: His arm throbbed quietly, feeling bruised from the IV. He had the lingering sensation of a headache that was probably masked by pain killers. His throat was sore, as was his chest and stomach—the aftermath of being sick.

  Beyond the open door of his room, he could hear only silence. No … Jim was snoring in the loft above him. It was a comforting sound, because it meant Jim was relaxed enough to sleep, and that meant he was well enough for Jim to relax. He focused on the faint sound, listening to the rhythmic snore, letting it lull him to sleep. Is this what Jim does with my heart beat sometimes? Easier than counting sheep.

  He hovered on the edge of consciousness, enjoying being at home and out of the hospital. There was something about the smell and sound of an emergency ward that sent his blood pressure into the stratosphere.

  Hold on to that thought, Sandburg … Blair’s eyes opened wide. He didn’t seem to have any memory of coming back to the apartment, and only the vaguest of memories of going to the hospital in the first place. He slowly pushed himself upright, shifting in bed until he was leaning against the wall.

  Bits and pieces. He remembered sitting in a wheelchair while Jim brought the car around to him. The cool evening air had felt nice. He vaguely remembered Jim fixing the seatbelt—it was stuck or something. The lights of the city blurring past the side window that his head rested against. Nothing after that.

  Nothing. Except being half-carried up the stairs … Yes, the memory was there, but he had been ninety-eight percent asleep at the time.

  He swung his feet over the side of the bed, suddenly wide awake. It was five in the morning, according to the clock. He had no idea how long he had been home. Maybe since after dinner. He had eaten something in the hospital, hadn’t he? Something they called dinner?

  And there had been a phone call from Naomi sometime after they had come home. He had a vague memory of hearing her voice and realizing Jim had a telephone receiver up against his ear, telling him to say hello to his mother and reassure her that he was going to be fine. Great. What other tidbits did I tell her? No fair, Ellison. Next time, make sure I’m completely awake before doing that.

  Well, now he really was awake. Of course, he had spent the last twenty-four hours more or less asleep, so he wasn’t surprised to be wide awake at this hour. He eased out of the bed and wandered toward the bathroom. No showers or flushing the toilet with Jim still asleep. He wandered out again and put the kettle on for tea. His stomach was still feeling a little queasy, so coffee was out of the question, despite his caffeine addiction insisting it would be fine.

  He waited until the water was just starting to bubble, then pulled the kettle off the stove before the whistle started. Close enough. He dropped an orange pekoe tea bag in the mug, got a spoon and dunked it a few times impatiently, then tossed the tea bag into the trash. He needed whatever caffeine he could get and the herbal teas weren’t going to help him there.

  Back in his room, he carefully closed his door to keep whatever sound in he could. It was a wonder Jim wasn’t downstairs already, which only showed how tired the big guy must be. The least Blair could do was let him sleep as long as possible.

  He crawled back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, leaning back into the corner junction of the walls. The mug felt warm in his hands as he looked around at his personal space. It was a nice room, actually. Small but all his—he seldom had that growing up. Whenever Naomi got an apartment, a bachelor or one-bedroom was all she could usually afford, so he inevitably ended up on the couch or bunkered down on a mattress in the corner somewhere. It wasn’t so bad, really. She made wherever they lived fun—tents, apartments, or with others. City, rural, small town, wilderness. United States, Mexico, Guatemala, for a while. Nicaragua. Canada. There were other places, too, but he had been too young to really know where they were. Naomi always told him that where you were, didn’t matter. It was where you are, that counted.

  And I’m here now, he thought. Home from the hospital.

  Home.

  He sipped on the hot tea, his gaze falling on the stack of books on the dresser and on his desk. Great. He was supposed to have returned some of those to the reference library on Saturday. The per-day fines were horrendous. It was already Monday and he’d hardly had a chance to read any of them. He put the tea aside carefully and scooted down the bed to extract the three dusty tomes he had managed to uncover while on a whirlwind rush through the library last Thursday. He’d phoned ahead and the librarian—who owed him more than a few favors herself—had grudgingly agreed to pull some books for him, supposedly for a class he was preparing.

  Well, there was no way he could have said to her, “I need to find out all about being a Peruvian-Amazon-tribal-shaman quick before something happens and I get Jim killed.”

  He had a lot of reading to do, it seemed. The word ‘shaman’ was used by several different cultures, enough so that he couldn’t count on any definition other than what Incacha would have been using. That meant putting aside all his pre-conceived notions of medicine men and witch doctors, and shelving his previous research on similar topics, plus any first-hand knowledge he had of the subject, and he had to concentrate on what exactly it was that Incacha had meant. He knew it wasn’t a title handed down, so it was something that Incacha thought he was, or thought he was capable of being, or he never would have said all that stuff to him.

  So … He scanned the titles, ending by choosing the narrowest of the books, one by Charles Darwin describing his travels in the Peruvian Amazon. An hour later, he put it aside, rubbed at his burning eyes, and tackled the next book, wading through chapters, trying to find the little pieces that might make the difference between life and death. He definitely had a lot of material to cover.

  *

  Morning sunlight was pouring into the loft from the upper windows, the warmth a healing blanket on Ellison’s nerves. He had slept peacefully, waking at eight to listen to his partner’s steady breathing, pages turning, the scratch of pen on paper. So Sandburg was feeling well enough to do a little university work … That meant he could turn over and go back to sleep for a while longer. He did, enjoying a morning off. It was almost nine-thirty before he got up, lazily making his way down the stairs and into the shower. On his way back up to his room, he paused long enough to listen to Sandburg, now asleep, and he let a brief smile touch his face.

  By ten, he’d had breakfast and was debating how to tackle the rest of the day. He would have to rent a truck or four-wheel drive of some kind. He wasn’t sure how far he wanted to drive—that depended on how Sandburg was feeling, but he wanted to make sure that at least their vehicle was equipped to handle whatever they encountered. Once that was done, he could load up the tent, sleeping bags, and other camping equipment directly from the storage locker to the truck and save time. He’d have to pack a bit more than they usually used, as keeping the kid warm and dry was a high priority, especially to the hospital staff who had reluctantly released him.

  Rather than wake Blair, Ellison penned a quick note and left it on the table. Halfway to the door, he changed his mind and went back, quietly pushing open Sandburg’s
door. He changed his mind again about waking him; the kid looked exhausted. For some reason, what looked like dried tears stained the pale cheeks. The tension on Sandburg’s face dissolved as Ellison reached out and touched him, as though taking immediate comfort from the familiar presence. Blair didn’t awaken when Ellison gently withdrew the encyclopedia-sized book from his lap and maneuvered the limp body down on the mattress. Once horizontal, Blair rolled over on his own, his head nestled in the pillow, sound asleep under the quilt Ellison tried to straighten over him, awkwardly.

  That’s when he noticed the title of the book. And the books on the floor, and on the desk, and on the dresser. Every single one of them about one topic. He picked up the scribbled notes, scattered about the bed, trying to put them together in a pile. What he could read of them revealed pages and pages of material Sandburg had copied, probably thirty or more lined sheets of paper, filled from edge to edge in information, the writing growing more frantic as the pages had filled.

  No. Ellison deposited the notes on the desk and tried not to pace in the tiny room.

  This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

  Instinctual behavior, Sandburg. That’s what you said it came down to. Instinctual behavior.

  Academia was not the way to find answers here, although it was probably the only route Sandburg felt was available to him at this time. What else could he do, really? Field studies were out of the question, due to their other commitments. The anthropologist was a researcher and had spent months living with various tribes throughout the world as he learned his trade. His master’s thesis had been based on tribal studies, which in turn had led him to Burton’s work, which in turn had prompted Sandburg’s quest to find a present-day sentinel.

  Books and theories and studies of tribal cultures were not going to help them here, however. When things worked for them, it was when they figured it out for themselves There were no textbooks on the mysteries of the Sentinel/Guide relationship, so they’d had no choice before but to work things out between them. Ellison looked around Sandburg’s room. Shamans, it appeared, were a whole different kettle of fish. Research was available. At least a roomful.

  Ellison shook his head, frustrated. Why this? Why now? Sandburg had always been the one most comfortable with who he was in relation to the Sentinel. Sure of his position. Demanding that Ellison pay attention to what he had to say, using an authority and assurance that was rooted in his soul. For over a year and a half, Sandburg had been a pillar to him, firm in his belief in the Sentinel/Guide partnership. There had been some insecurities about their friendship and about his place as Jim’s partner in police work, but time had won out there. Or so he thought.

  Apparently, Incacha had changed the rules, and Sandburg’s confidence in who he was, was shaken.

  Ellison placed the book on top of the stack by the bed and sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. He rested his hand on Blair’s shoulder, listening as Blair’s breathing and sleeping pattern relaxed even further at his light touch. Instinctively, Sandburg was still connected with him, there was no doubt. The instinctive behavior was functioning fine. So … as long as Blair didn’t over-analyze everything, maybe they’d be okay. All the time in the hospital, the kid had been too sick to do anything other than coast on instinctual behavior, believing he was safe when Jim was around. But once home, the mind went back into gear and the original problem posed itself, demanding that Blair find an answer.

  We are definitely getting out of here, away from all this.

  If they needed answers, they would find them together. And not from a book.

  *

  When Ellison returned home a few hours later, Sandburg was sitting on the floor of the living room, leaning back against the couch, absorbed reading one of his texts. Ellison had deposited the large box of food on the kitchen counter, taken his coat off, and then put away the groceries before his presence was even noted. Blair glanced up only when he cleared his throat.

  “Oh. Hi, Jim.” The young man carefully finished the page, then closed the old volume.

  “Hi, yourself. You’re looking tired. Have you been reading all afternoon?” Ellison asked, making note of the title.

  Sandburg shrugged, fighting off a yawn. “Most of it.”

  “Did you take your pills?”

  “Yeah. I saw your note.”

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “Couldn’t. I gave up and grabbed a book.”

  “Looks like you grabbed several.” He sat down on the couch, deliberately sitting where Incacha had died. Blair’s eyes drifted over to him, and then away. Jim stretched, leaning back, his arms resting on the back of the couch. “What’s the topic?”

  “Of what?” Sandburg asked, startled.

  “Your books.”

  “Oh. This and that.”

  “For your courses? They look like they’re from the reference library.”

  “Yeah. Just some research.”

  “On what?”

  Sandburg shrugged, “Just some boring stuff you wouldn’t be interested in.”

  “Tell you what I am interested in, Chief. Do you have anything here on shamanism?” Ellison noted the tension that froze his partner. “Just curious if you had anything on it.” There was no reaction. It felt like he was asking a kid if he could see his report card, knowing there would be a row of ‘F’s on it. Sandburg had no idea what to do. “Hey, Chief. Wake up. Why don’t you bring me all your books and other things that you’ve accumulated on shamanism? I’d like to see them.” When Blair still didn’t move, he stood up. “Wait, don’t get up. You look comfortable down there. I’ll get them. Just on your desk in there?” Several strides took him to the door of Sandburg’s bedroom.

  He went over to the pile of books on the desk, the ones he had seen earlier that morning. They seemed to have multiplied. Someone had obviously been by, dropping off yet more volumes. Books, old and new. Anthropological texts were alongside pop culture and New Age philosophies. He brought out an armful, deposited them on the coffee table, and then went back for more, adding those on the floor and on the chair.

  “Is this it?”

  Sandburg was staring blankly at the floor, seeming to shrink in size on the carpet. He was embarrassed, yes, but there was a growing fear within him that was rising to the surface.

  Ellison grabbed Blair’s backpack from the kitchen table and placed it on top of the pile. He wasn’t about to open it, but it was crammed full of books, and he had no doubt what the topic was. “That’s quite a bit, wouldn’t you say?” Jim took in all the titles, reading a few of them aloud. “How much of this have you acquired in the last few days?”

  “Most of it.” Sandburg had the book he had been reading when Jim came in, clutched against his chest. Waiting.

  Jim placed the empty grocery box on the floor by Blair, then sat down on the couch, lowering his voice, making sure it was gentle and unthreatening. “Chief, I’d like you to do something for me.”

  Sandburg looked up, eyes widening slowly at the solemn request. “What?”

  “I want you to take this box and put all these texts away for a bit. I’m not saying forever, but for the next few days, maybe weeks even.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to miss the point.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “None of this stuff will work here in Cascade.”

  “How do you know that? You don’t know that, Jim. You don’t know anything about what makes someone a shaman or—”

  “The hell I don’t.” Ellison’s tone hardened, despite his intentions. “I lived under the same roof as one for eighteen months. And I’ve lived with you now, for over a year. Incacha was a shaman. You are not.”

  From Sandburg’s reaction, he might as well have punched him in the gut. The young man struggled to his feet, reeling from what Ellison had said. “I’m doing my best here, Jim. I’m trying to figure it out. You just have to give me some time. I—”

  “There’s
nothing to figure out. Case closed. I don’t need a shaman.” Ellison started putting the books in the box.

  “How am I supposed to guide you by your animal spirit if—”

  “You did, damn it,” Ellison snapped. “How do you think I got my senses back?”

  “But I had no idea what I was doing! That’s not being a shaman—”

  “I don’t need a shaman!” Ellison repeated, his voice covering Blair’s. “Now help me out,” he demanded, pointing to the books.

  Sandburg stood in the middle of the living room floor, hands over his face, too tired to even stand without wavering. “What’s happening here, man? Jim? What do you want from me?”

  “Help me pack up these books.”

  “No.”

  “Then get packed. Take this stuff out and throw some things in your backpack.”

  Blair stumbled backward. “You’re throwing me out?”

  Ellison blinked, then shook his head. “No, you and I are going camping. Now move it. I want to get there before dark. It’s already four o’clock.”

  “Camping? Camping? I just got out of the hospital last night and we’re suddenly going camping?”

  “I told them at the hospital and I told Simon. I’ve got a few days coming to me, and while you are recuperating from this, we might as well get away from the city. It might be our last chance for a while.”

  “I thought I had to take pills and stuff.”

  “I’ve got them packed already. I rented a Jeep. Bought a new tent. I’m all packed. Now get a move on. I want to be on the road in a few minutes.”

  “I don’t have any say in this?”

  Ellison paused. “Actually, you do. Either you come with me, or you’re going back to the hospital. I sprung you on the condition that I was a medic and able to take care of you. So if you’d rather go back there—”

  Blair stared at him, the anger in his eyes evident. “No. Fresh air with a psycho sounds much more relaxing.”