Feet on the Couch Page 4

  It was even more than an expectation. It was more like the kid should be there. That it was only natural that Blair Sandburg occupy his time at the beck and call of one James Ellison.

  And it was back, stronger than ever, a feeling of anticipation raising goosebumps on his arms as he slowed the truck down outside Hargrove Hall. Ellison leaned over to unlock the passenger door. He had spotted Sandburg immediately in the small crowd exiting the lecture hall, walking toward the glass doors of the main entrance talking to another student who looked about the same age as him. Ellison tuned in on the conversation, surprised at the ease he seemed to have focusing in on Sandburg, weeding out the other voices straight to his.

  “—depending on whether the book’s available.”

  “So what are you doing your paper on?” The other speaker was a tall, lanky man with a scruffy beard, shifting an overflowing briefcase from one hand to the other.

  “Don’t know yet, Tomas. Nothing on the list really appealed to me.” Sandburg’s voice, so familiar. Ellison watched him carefully, reaching out tentatively to join his sight and hearing, shutting out the other distracting conversations.

  “What are you going to do then?” Tomas asked.

  Sandburg shrugged, continuing, “I’ll go talk to Clydesdale tomorrow. Maybe we can compromise on a topic.”

  “Why not ask him now? He’s still in the lecture hall.”

  “Nah. I’ll wait until tomorrow. His office is right near my 9:00 class. It’ll keep.”

  “That’s cool. Take it easy though, man. You look beat. What are you doing — pulling all-nighters?”

  “Just not sleeping much these days. Insomnia. Too wired, I guess.”

  “Come on. I’ll treat you to a coffee, then I’ve got to get home. I’m teaching first thing tomorrow and I want to check my notes.”

  “Thanks, Tomas, but I’ll take a rain check. I’m actually meeting someone—” Sandburg glanced out the glass doors and saw the truck. “Sorry — I’ve got to go. He’s here and I don’t want to keep him waiting. See you tomorrow at the tutorial.”

  “Take it slow, Blair. Really, man, you look wiped.”

  Sandburg waved goodbye and ran out of the building and over to the truck, swinging himself up and into the front seat. “Hi. How’s it going?” Sandburg asked, twisting to do up his seatbelt, no trace of weariness in his voice.

  “I’m fine.” Ellison turned the radio off and pulled away from the curb, glancing over to the young man as Sandburg turned to face forward. He did look tired, but he was still smiling, so it couldn’t be that bad, Ellison reasoned. “Do you still have time to do this tonight?” he asked, willing the answer to be ‘yes’.

  “No problem, man. I’ve been looking forward to it. So what happened today? Anything? Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “With my senses?”

  “Of course with your senses!” Sandburg said, leaning over to whack him good-naturedly on the arm.

  “Nah. I was in court all day.”

  “Oh.” He sounded faintly disappointed. “So what are we doing tonight? Off to catch some bad guys?”

  “First, I’ve got a meet with someone. This is his regular reporting night.”

  That seemed to catch Sandburg’s interest. “An informant? What is it — drugs? Insurance scams? Gun runners? What do we do? Is it a drop? Do we shadow him? Wait for flashing lights? Or does he put a big ‘X’ on his window like Mulder on X-Files?”

  Ellison blinked at the rush of questions. “Actually, we drive to a parking lot and wait for him to show up.”

  “That’s it? What’s his name?”

  “His real name is Danny. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Yeah? An informant? Or did you like know him in the army or something?”

  “We were both in Big Brothers.”

  “What’s that? A cartel or consortium — or a syndicate?” Sandburg’s eyes got round. “Mafia?” he whispered.

  “No, I was his ‘big brother’ during college. You know, the ‘Big Brothers of America’ group?”

  “No shit? You?” Sandburg laughed. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “That what? That I couldn’t do volunteer stuff?”

  “No, that it wouldn’t involve guns and someone dying.” The grin fell from Sandburg’s face as he realized what he had said. “Sorry.”

  Ellison felt his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Danny was my ‘little brother’. I needed to do some community service for a course I was taking, and he was matched up with me. His father had just died a few weeks before, and I guess he needed to have an older male around. I took him to some of the university games and stuff, but then when I found out he loved sailing, we would go out on the bay every weekend I was able to use my cousin’s boat.”

  It was quiet in the truck for a few blocks, then Sandburg asked softly, “And he’s your informant now? What did he do?”

  “He’s undercover. He became a cop, like me, and now he’s a detective in Homicide. He’s been under for a while, so you wouldn’t have met him last week at the station.”

  There was a noise, a sound, in the truck. A thumping, like the insistent pounding of … Ellison glanced over to Sandburg, his eyes catching the throb of pulse at the young man’s neck. What’s happening?

  Red light. Ellison pulled up sharply and looked back at his companion. That’s his heartbeat, he realized suddenly. Sandburg was staring straight ahead, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. A deep breath in and out, repeated a few times, and the heart rate slowed to something more normal.

  “The light changed.”

  Ellison looked up, registering the green signal and putting the truck in gear. “You know, Blair, it might be a good idea for you to take some training if you’re going to be around the station.”

  “Not the academy. I’m not cutting my hair and I’m already in school.”

  “Maybe I could teach you a few pointers, then.”

  “Like what?”

  “How to handle a gun.”

  “No. No way, man.” Curls flew as Sandburg shook his head and Ellison listened with interest as the heart rate quickened.

  He made the sound quieter, surprised that he could keep his focus on Sandburg’s heartbeat while carrying on a conversation with him. Split intensity of sound level. It wasn’t something he’d been able to do before without zoning. “It would be safe—”

  “How? How could me carrying a weapon possibly be safe? I don’t believe in—”

  “In what? Protection? It saved your life the other day.”

  “I couldn’t do it.”

  “If you’re trained properly—”

  “You don’t get it. I don’t want to be trained properly. I don’t want to carry a gun of any kind.” Sandburg looked away from him, anger tightening his jaw in stubbornness.

  “Listen, Chief, why don’t you talk to Danny about—”

  “About what? About me packing a gun? Why? I’ve already said I’m not going to carry one. What’s your little clone going to say to change my mind? You’re not going to make me into a cop like you made him. I’m not going to do it, man. It’s so not my scene.”

  “I’m not trying to make you into a cop. It’s for your protection—”

  “No.”

  “I’d really like you to talk to Danny—”

  “I said ‘no’. I don’t want to talk to him.”

  They pulled into the parking lot. “Okay, not tonight. But soon. I’ll take you both out for a drink and you can meet him, at least. I think you’d like him.”

  *

  It was approaching midnight but the Cascade precinct was buzzing. Simon Banks had come in, as had several other members of Major Crimes, officers who had been working on the O’Toole case. Word had traveled fast. The police station was still reeling from the bloodshed Kincaid had inflicted on it a week before and to lose another of their members was hitting them hard. Officers stood in small groups, going over the details, shaking their heads, clearing their throats t
o ease the tight mixture of anger and sorrow.

  In the midst of it all, James Ellison sat at his desk, silent, staring, elbows resting heavily on the paper-strewn surface, his face buried in his hands. He could feel the damp cuffs of his sweater against his skin, from when he had washed the blood off his hands at Simon’s insistence. His throat was clenched tight, making it hard to breathe; it felt like someone was slowly choking him.

  Danny Choi was dead.

  Even sitting at his desk at the station, part of him still saw the body. Ellison had stood, stone-faced, and ignored the crime scene moved around him, all his attention focused on the still body that had been taken from him and laid on a stretcher. There was no heartbeat. He had tried to listen for it. No sign of life. He had tried to resuscitate him, to do CPR, to stop the bleeding, but even before the ambulance arrived and took over, he knew that it was too late, that what the persistent voice beside him said was true. Danny was dead.

  And all the Sentinel abilities in the world wouldn’t bring him back.

  And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again …

  “Henri? Hey, man, I just heard. What went down?” John Armstrong, a narcotics detective was cornering Brown as he got off the elevator and headed into the bullpen. “I heard Choi’s dead.”

  Brown brushed past him. “Yeah. I’ve gotta get this report to the captain, John. Check out the break room — they’ll be able to fill you in.”

  “Sure. Take it easy.”

  Ellison could hear Armstrong wander down the hallway to the break room, repeating his question. And sentinel ears heard the story repeated again. And again. Truth and conjecture mixing until it was hard for him to remember what had happened.

  Still, Danny Choi was dead. There was no way he could deny that.

  “Jim?”

  It took him a moment to realize someone was speaking directly to him, and he lifted his head and looked up at Henri Brown’s concerned face.

  “You need anything?” Brown asked him, leaning over the desk. “Coffee or anything?”

  “No. I don’t need anything.” His voice sounded harsh. He saw the files in Brown’s left hand. “What do you have there?”

  “Scene report.” Brown took one copy and placed it on Ellison’s desk. “That’s the copy of your report. It’s already typed. I picked it up when I got these.”

  “Thanks.” Ellison rested one hand on top of the closed file, but didn’t open it. He didn’t have to. He knew what it said. He’d been doing nothing but reliving every moment of this report for the last several hours.

  “I’ll be right back.” Brown disappeared into Banks’ office, then reappeared, pulling up a chair beside Ellison’s desk. “I thought you should know, I took Sandburg home.”

  Ellison stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “What?”

  “Sandburg? Your cousin’s kid or whoever he is? I took him home.”

  “Oh.” I forgot about Sandburg. Ellison sat up straighter. “Where was he?”

  Brown looked at him, a bit confused. “I guess he missed the ride back to the station. He was still there — at the scene — when I arrived, sitting in the truck, but it was all shot up and he looked a little lost. I asked him if he wanted a ride home and he hedged a bit, but when I said I didn’t think you’d be back tonight, he agreed finally.”

  Ellison nodded absently, trying to hold onto his shaky sense of reality. I forgot about Sandburg. He was with me. Did I leave him there? Did I say anything to him? Ellison frowned; he had no memory of Sandburg’s presence after Danny’s death. “So, Sandburg’s at home?” he asked, stammering.

  Brown shrugged. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t live far from there. Kinda gloomy place, though.”

  Ellison nodded again, not wanting to admit he didn’t have a clue where Sandburg’s apartment was. The anthropologist had been vague about where he lived, preferring to be picked up and dropped off at the university. Ellison had thought it might be because his roommate didn’t like company. What was his name now? Sandburg had mentioned him a few times. Oh, right. Larry.

  Hearing his name called, Brown bounced to his feet, pushing the borrowed chair back to its rightful place. “I’ll be right there,” he called out to another detective, then leaned back over the desk. “Hey, Jim? The captain wants to see you in a minute. He’s talking with Assistant D.A. Sanders.”

  Ellison glanced to Banks’ office. “Sanders? Or Sanchez?” he asked, standing up, feeling the room shift around him.

  Brown shrugged. “Her first name is Beverly. I forget what he said. Anyway, go on in. They’re waiting for you.”

  Ellison put his jacket back on, as though needing the extra protection it offered. As he approached the door, he paused and turned back to Brown. “How was he?”

  “Who? The captain?”

  “No. Sandburg.”

  Brown studied his pen, turning it over in his hand. “Oh. I was surprised actually, that you left him there, but I guess you had other things on your mind. He said you went with Choi’s body. That you – The kid was a bit shaken up, of course. He told me it was the first time he had seen a body, seen somebody die. And it was the second time in less than a week that he was shot at.” Brown scratched his head. “He’s a pretty quiet guy, so it was hard to tell.”

  Quiet? Sandburg? Ellison groaned silently. I’ve got to talk to him tomorrow, he thought. Sorry, Chief. I’ll do better. You’ve got to believe that.

  He mentally prepared himself for the coming confrontation and walked into Simon Banks’ office.

  *

  Two days later

  “Oh, man …”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ellison said tersely, grabbing Sandburg roughly by the arm and steering him away from the commotion. “Move. Don’t look back,” he ordered, long strides pulling them from the scene. They had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar, tracking down Juno by monitoring his phone calls and following him.

  Reporters, lawyers, and cameramen. Not a good combination.

  Sandburg wasn’t holding him back at all, sheer nervousness propelling him toward the car Jim had signed out from the motor pool while the truck was being repaired. “What do we do now?” he whispered, his hands pulled up into the sleeves of his coat, shivering in the damp air.

  “I’ll take you home,” Ellison said, making a decision as he approached the car, mindful of the crowd behind them.

  “I don’t want to go home,” Sandburg replied, just as quickly. “If you want to get rid of me, the university is fine.”

  Ellison unlocked the driver’s door and got in. “Let’s just go back to the loft and figure it out from there.”

  Sandburg slid in and locked the door, pulling his seatbelt on as the car slid out into the street, wheels spinning to put some distance between them and the reporters.

  When the kid didn’t respond, Ellison glanced at him as the car sped around a corner. He brought the car down to a more respectable speed once they reached the cover of traffic. Sandburg looked apprehensive, nervously chewing on his bottom lip. “No one got hurt.”

  Sandburg glanced over at him, then away. “We screwed up, didn’t we?” he asked, dejected.

  “I screwed up. You’re just along for the ride.”

  Sandburg stared through the front windshield of the car. “I don’t want to go to the loft. Just drop me anywhere.”

  “We need to talk about—”

  “Fine. Then we can stop at a coffeeshop and talk. But I don’t want to go to your place. Just somewhere neutral.”

  “Neutral?”

  “Yeah,” Sandburg said, but didn’t elaborate.

  *

  Sandburg in tow, Ellison strode down corridors of the hospital, wanting to get away from everyone — Simon, Beverly Sanchez, and the sight of Juno’s comatose body. Fists clenched at his side, his jaw locked, he was scarcely aware of the hospital staff scurrying out of his way. As he cleared the main entrance, he stopped, listening
to something just at the edge of his hearing, and spun around to glare at the young man behind him. Sandburg had stumbled to a halt, just to one side, waiting, probably wondering what was going to happen next. Probably wondering if Ellison was going to dismiss him as quickly as he had dismissed Sanchez, refusing to discuss the situation further. The detective hadn’t missed Sandburg’s wordless apologetic shrug to Sanchez as they left.

  Sandburg’s heart was thumping in his chest, too fast. It was distracting, irritating, and for some reason, Ellison couldn’t seem to tune it out, which was why he was glaring at Sandburg now. He had been speaking with Beverly when suddenly the sound was there, in the background, and Ellison had looked across the hospital room and connected it to its source.

  Sandburg had been staring through the glass window, staring at Juno, probably just beginning to process what had happened that night. The drive at high speeds through the city to Sanchez’s building, racing up the stairs to her apartment, breaking in — probably terrified that he’d be too late. The window shattering as Juno’s bullets tried to find their target. Diving toward Sanchez, pulling her out of the way, into the back bedroom. Sanchez had thrown on some clothes and when the bullets had stopped, the two had emerged from the building and appeared at Ellison’s side, watching as the paramedics tried to keep Juno alive.

  Now, two hours later, Ellison turned away from Sandburg and glanced around for a moment before heading over to his car, breathing in the cool air. He had an overwhelming need to act. To do something concrete. First, he had to get them to a place of safety, away from everything. “I’m taking you home.” Ellison walked out onto the street, heading to the parking lot.

  “Okay.” The response was quiet, but still loud enough for him to hear. No argument this time. Sandburg got in the car and mumbled off an address, saying nothing else.

  The streets were busy, movie theaters spilling crowds into the night. Neon lights spelled out restaurants and bars, catering to the night life. They drove through the main streets, finally leaving them behind as they entered the seedier part of Cascade, close to the docks. Ellison stopped in the middle of an empty street, not wanting to pull off the road into the parking lot of the address he had been given. “You’re not serious.”