Feet on the Couch Read online

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Sandburg started to open the door when Ellison swung the wheel and moved the car closer to the building.

  Ellison stopped the vehicle and pulled the key from the ignition, opening his door and getting out of the car. Sandburg exited from the passenger side, walking stiffly to the side door of the seemingly abandoned warehouse. He unlocked the door and stomped up the stairs to the second floor, not bothering to see if Ellison followed.

  “It’s a dangerous neighborhood.”

  Sandburg spun around at the top of the stairs and looked back at him defiantly. “I’ve lived here for two months without a problem. It serves my needs. I pay a decent rent for it and have had no complaints. If you come inside, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Understand?” Sandburg managed to keep his raised voice level, but his eyes flashed anger.

  Momentarily taken aback by the harsh response, Ellison nodded succinctly and mounted the stairs, determined to keep any further comments quiet as he cleared the stairs and crossed the wooden floor. He was on Sandburg’s turf now; while the young man was obviously stressed, he was also strong-willed enough to demand his rights. It was something Ellison had come to respect in the student, his sense of who he was, his demand to be treated fairly, not to be ignored or slighted. There was a history underneath it all that Ellison knew nothing about. He knew very little about Sandburg, but what he did know was that the young man was a mixture of sophistication and naivety, great strength and fragility, wisdom beyond his years and an innocent trusting of the world and those who lived in it. Whatever forces had worked together to create such a personality, it was clear that it was certainly benefitting the sentinel-cop now.

  Sandburg was already across the room, withdrawing a beer and a loaf of bread from a half-sized fridge. He dumped both on an old table, then opened the fridge again to take out a brick of cheese and some butter. “I’m making a grilled cheese sandwich. Do you want one?” he asked, curtly, but politely.

  “No, thanks. I’ll grab something later,” Ellison said, his eyes taking in the humble surroundings. It seemed Sandburg only lived in one small area of the large room. Shipping boxes and crates formed walls around furniture, offering only the smallest measure of definition to the room. A kitchen of sorts — a sink, a counter, the small fridge, and a hot plate — a table with one chair, a red over-stuffed couch and armchair, and a television perched on top of a VCR. To one side was a dresser and mattress on the floor. A small doorless room beyond that had a toilet and sink. Be it ever so humble …

  He turned back to the kitchen in time to see Sandburg open the single bottle of beer and fill two small glasses. It occurred to him suddenly that Sandburg meant to share it with him, and he accepted the glass thrust at him, realizing that he had grievously insulted the young man. Sandburg was just as proud as the next person. Ellison may not approve, but he really wasn’t in a position to offer any criticism. That was a right he hadn’t earned yet. He sat down at the single chair at the table while Sandburg busied himself heating his sandwich over the lone burner on the hot plate.

  “Are you sure you don’t want one?” Sandburg asked softly, his anger dissipated, replaced now by weariness.

  “Thank you, but I’m fine.” Ellison scanned the room again. “You’re okay here?” he asked, trying to keep the judgement from his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” The detective sipped at the beer, not wanting to drink it too quickly or he would have no reason to stay longer. “Where’s your roommate?”

  Sandburg looked up at him puzzled.

  “Larry?” Ellison prompted.

  “Oh, him. He’s not always here, you know. He only stays here once in a while if I’m working on a project.”

  Ellison nodded, feeling like he was missing something, and glanced around again. “Mind if I check the news on the television?”

  “Go ahead. The remote’s on the coffee table.”

  Two crates side-by-side made up the coffee table, and Ellison sat at one end of the musty couch and turned on the televison, surfing through the few channels Sandburg could get without cable to find the eleven o’clock news. After a few minutes, Sandburg came to sit at the other end of the couch and ate his grilled cheese sandwich. The national news ended and merged into sports, and Ellison kept watching. Sandburg sighed, got up and put his plate in the sink, then moved back to stand near the couch.

  “I’m pretty beat here, man, so I’m hitting the sack. Leave whenever you want to. I’m fine here, really,” he added, and Ellison looked back to him.

  “The local news should be on at 11:30. Mind if I watch it? I want to see if Juno or O’Toole are mentioned.”

  “Be my guest.” Sandburg sat at the kitchen table and pulled his boots off, then padded over to the mattress and crawled, fully clothed, into the tangle of blankets, settling in with his back to Ellison.

  The detective watched him for a few minutes, his emotions bouncing from anger to concern, to something approaching terror. The warehouse wasn’t safe. It was cold, damp. The neighborhood wasn’t safe. It wasn’t a place someone lived. At best, it was marginally safe during the day, when the buildings around it were busy with workers and trades people. He remembered Sandburg’s reaction at the loft, the eyes taking in everything. Maybe that look of longing had more to do with the apartment itself, rather than studying the living habits of its owner. The loft was filled with light. This place had only a few dirt-encrusted windows. The loft was clean, dry, and warm. While reasonably tidy, there was no chance this place would ever be clean. Two floor heaters, plugged into the perilous electrical system, offered only pockets of warmth.

  The local news held no mention of Juno, and at a quarter to twelve, Ellison switched off the television. Sandburg was asleep, his face buried in the pillow, long hair hiding him from Ellison’s sight. The heartbeat, still audible when he thought about it, was regular.

  Ellison sat in the stillness of the night and listened to the creaking of the building, the wind outside, and the quiet breathing of the sleeping man. Finally, he pushed to his feet and walked down the flight of stairs, carefully closing the door behind him. He sat in his car for a few minutes, looking up to where he knew Sandburg slept, alone in the echoing building, and he listened for a moment to the heartbeat and breathing until he was convinced Sandburg was indeed resting comfortably in the nest of blankets.

  With a heavy heart, he started the car and pulled out onto the road, unable to push away the feeling that he was abandoning the young man. Sandburg was too vulnerable left there and something within Ellison screamed that he should do something about it. But there was nothing he could do. This was Sandburg’s choice of residences, for whatever reasons, and that’s just the way it was.

  Ellison’s stomach made a plea for food and as he approached the neon lights of the city again, he found a sushi cart outside one of the theaters and pulled over to get something to eat. He got out of his car stiffly, unable to shake the persistent conviction that he had abandoned his post.

  *

  The Debt

  (post explosion)

  Sometimes a moment’s warning isn’t enough.

  The building shook as another explosion, not quite as severe this time, rocked the floor beneath them.

  “Blair?” Ellison got to his hands and knees and looked over to where the young man lay, half-covered by what appeared to be part of his table. Larry, the Barbary ape, had got to Sandburg first, trying to get under his hair for safety, and with relief, Ellison saw Sandburg’s hand move to push the little ape away.

  “Sandburg? Are you okay?” he asked, coughing in the thick dust hovering in the air. He started crawling around blasted bits of furniture and other belongings. “Chief?”

  “Larry? Stop that!” Sandburg muttered, eyes still closed as he rolled over onto his back. “Jim?”

  “Right here,” Ellison said, reaching him and helping him sit up. “You okay?”

  Sandburg tried to nod and ended up coughing. He
sat hunched over, his hair forming a curtain and hiding his face. “Yeah. I’m okay,” he said finally. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine,” Ellison said, relieved. “Your monkey looks like he’s okay, too.” Ellison tugged back on Sandburg’s hair, forcing the young man’s face upward.

  “Larry’s not a monkey,” Sandburg groaned as he opened his eyes. He pulled out of Ellison grasp and grabbed hold of Larry, trying to comfort him. “What the hell was that, Jim? It didn’t seem like an earthquake. My ears are still ringing.” He looked up at Ellison. “What about you, man? That must have been painful.”

  “I had a half-second warning. Not enough to get out of the way, but enough to turn down my hearing.” Ellison sniffed the air. “We’ve got a fire happening, Chief. I’ll grab the cage, you grab the monkey, and let’s get out of here.”

  “Sure.” Sandburg tottered to his feet, the Barbary ape wedged under one arm. “Ah, man …” he sighed, looking around at the mess. “What happened?”

  “Just get down the stairs. Hold on to the railing.”

  “What about my stuff?”

  “Forget your stuff. We need to get you to safety. Then we’ll deal with the rest.” Ellison waited until Sandburg was mobile, then headed down the stairs first, his gun ready in his right hand, the cage grasped in his left hand. “Stay close behind me,” he whispered loudly over his shoulder. “I don’t know what caused this and I don’t want to be separated from you.”

  I don’t want to be separated from you.

  The words echoed in his head, but Ellison kept walking down the stairs, aware of Sandburg’s hand on his back, clutching his shoulder. The lightbulb in the stairwell was no longer working, and it was unlikely Sandburg could see anything. Ellison could hear his heartbeat … faster than it should be, but considering the circumstances, acceptable.

  He paused before pushing open the door to the outside, but he couldn’t detect the sound of any voices. Satisfied Sandburg was close behind him, he stepped out into the cold, smoky night and scanned the area where their cars were parked. The explosions had come from the other side of the building from Sandburg’s entrance. It had been almost two minutes since the last explosion, but the fire was still burning through the warehouses; he could feel the shift in temperatures on his skin as they moved away from the building. He set the cage on the ground and pushed Sandburg down beside it, leaning against his Corvair. “Stay there. Don’t move unless I say so. I’m just going to check on things.”

  “Want me to call it in?” Sandburg asked, looking up at him, his face streaked with dirt, still holding on to the monkey.

  “No.” Ellison could hear faint sirens already. “No. Just stay there.” He ran out onto the street to get a better view of the other side of the warehouse. No heartbeats registered from inside the neighboring building. The fire could be seen sprouting through the roof, edging closer to the wall it shared with Sandburg’s building. There was a gaping hole in the side of the burning warehouse, as though a car or truck had driven through it. Recent rainfall had left the streets damp, and the detective could see the distinct marks of tires tracking through puddles leaving circles on the blacktop, showing two, maybe three, cars had turned around there within the last few minutes. For the moment, at least, the area was deserted.

  But not for long. The first fire engine was careening around the corner, sirens wailing and horns blaring. Badge out, Ellison waved them in the direction of the main blaze, then returned to where he had left Sandburg, frowning that the kid had moved, despite the warning. The screeching monkey was in his cage and Sandburg was struggling down the stairs with an obviously too-heavy box of books. Ellison holstered his gun and took it from him, dropping it on the backseat of the Corvair, then he turned and jogged up the stairs, coming back with the camera and the tripod belonging to Carolyn’s department. It had been knocked over, but he had checked it out quickly and it seemed okay. He’d try it out tomorrow.

  He secured it in the back of his vehicle, then frowned again as he caught sight of Sandburg heading back up to the second floor. “Where do you thing you’re going?”

  Sandburg kept moving, but answered him, at least. “To get the rest of my stuff. If the fire spreads, I’ll lose all my notes.”

  “I told you to stay in that spot and not to move!” The monkey was locked in the cage, so he wasn’t going anywhere. I wonder if I could get a bigger cage for Sandburg?

  Sandburg kept talking as he continued to climb the stairs. “And I told you that —”

  “I know. You need your stuff.” With a resigned sigh, Ellison followed him.

  *

  Ninety minutes later, Ellison took the last suitcase downstairs. For all Sandburg’s clutter in the warehouse, there was surprisingly little salvageable once the emergency crews had decided the fire was under control. The kid didn’t really have that much stuff; he just had it spread all over the 10,000 square feet. Water damage or smoke damage had destroyed most of the furniture, but they had been able rescue a suitcase and duffle bag of clothing, four boxes of papers, and two of books.

  There really wasn’t much left. Sandburg had brought almost everything he could downstairs while Ellison was busy with Banks and the investigation in the drug lab building. Sandburg had the hood of the Corvair down, and Larry and his cage took up half of the back seat, along with some of the boxes; the rest Ellison had in the back of his own vehicle.

  < “Is this all your stuff?”> Ellison asked.

  Sandburg nodded, glumly. < “It’s most of it. I’ll have to try to come back tomorrow and put the rest into storage. This is just the worst. Where am I gonna stay?”>

  < “I don’t know. A hostel? Hotel or something?”> Ellison began to retreat. Banks had warned him that Sandburg might hit him up for a place to stay.

  < “That’s fine for me,”> Sandburg said, forlornly.

  < “Put him in a kennel. He’ll figure it out,”> Ellison replied, edging toward his truck. The captain was right. He could see where this conversation was heading.

  < “I can’t do that to him. I mean my project’s due next Friday… Unless…”> Hopeful eyes looked his way.

  Ellison backed away. < “No. No. No. Forget it. Just forget it.”>

  < “Come on, Jim. Jim, please. Please. Please please. My back is up against the wall here, man. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”> The eyes were pleading now, soulfully gazing up at him.

  He scrambled for a response. < “I’m just not a big fan of animals in cages.”> Okay, it was a dumb line. But what was he supposed to say? I’m just not a big fan of anyone camping out at my place? Especially anthropology students.

  But Sandburg wasn’t buying it. < “Larry? Larry? He’s no problem, man. No trouble at all. I mean, he’s been around people his whole life. Heck, he’s more human than most of my friends.”>

  < “And that’s supposed to reassure me?”>

  The final pitch. Sincere. Begging. Desperate. < “Jim, one week. One week and I promise, I promise, we’ll be out of your hair. Come on. One week, man.”>

  Ellison caved. < “All right. Look, one week.”> Sandburg gave a relieved smile, and Ellison felt compelled to add, <“But you or the gorilla act up and you’re out. All right?”>

  < “He’s not a gorilla. Look, you’ve already hurt his feelings.”>

  < “You know, I’m already beginning to regret this.”>

  *

  Sandburg didn’t seem quite as elated as Ellison had imagined he would be. Instead, he nodded wearily. “Thanks, Jim. I’m … um … I’m ready to go now. There’s nothing left.”

  “I’ll follow you, then,” Ellison said, gesturing for Sandburg to get into his car. “Do you have your keys?”

  “Yeah. Just give me a minute to warm her up.” The Corvair sputtered and gasped, but finally caught and began to rumble softly.

  Ellison got in his truck and started it. Now what?

  Why do I feel awkward? It was as if his brain was heading in one direction and his
heart in the other.

  The arguments began as he pulled out onto the street after Sandburg.

  I cannot believe I agreed he could stay at the loft for a week.

  But he’s leaving this place, at least.

  He’s going to be underfoot constantly, in my face, driving me crazy.

  But I’ll know where he is, and that he’s okay.

  I need to have my head examined. That damned monkey. It’s his fault. If it wasn’t for the monkey, Sandburg would be staying at a youth hostel or something.

  Then I would have more reason to worry.

  Why? Why am I so concerned about him? He’s a responsible young man, has a master’s degree in something or other, teaches classes at the university, is well-respected, quick thinking, and has been taking care of himself for a long time.

  But yet I feel responsible. No… that’s not the right word. I feel a need to know he’s okay. I feel an overwhelming need to know he is safe. Protected.

  It’s just the sentinel thing.

  Probably. But what does that mean?

  It’s obvious I have some guilt feelings—

  Guilt? No. Maybe accountability.

  To whom?

  To whomever made me a sentinel.

  So I’m … what? … responsible to… God… for Blair Sandburg.

  Responsible. Accountable.

  That’s ridiculous. The kid just needs a place to stay for a week. I’m just doing him a favor. He’s been helping me out for a few weeks now without asking a penny, so the least I can do is help him out here. His place just blew up!

  So why am I feeling so relieved, if that’s all it is?

  Ellison followed the Corvair through the streets, winding toward Prospect. It was a cold night, but Sandburg had the top down to make room for Larry’s cage. Sandburg had wrapped the monkey in a blanket before they left and Ellison could hear him chatting to the creature, trying to convince it to stay in the warm cocoon.