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by
(Posted 08-15-98)
Chapter One
The ramshackle hut was dark but the inhabitants didn't care. In fact the dark made it easier to face their fears and hide the evidence of what had gone on before... in the light.
"It's nearly time for you to go," she said, her high-pitched voice revealing her age but the words full of maturity. She felt the arms close around her tighter in defiance of her statement but she didn't protest. The safety she felt in his embrace weakened her will and she struggled to find the strength to let him go.
"Why do you always send me away?" he asked the small figure, wondering if this was what it would feel like to have a child of his own. To feel so much, so quickly for someone else.
"Because you don't belong here. I should be strong enough to handle this on my own. I shouldn't call to you."
"You shouldn't ask for help?" His finger brushed lightly across the bruise that mottled her cheek. "As if I am providing any," he added bitterly.
"Tell that to your shirt which has dried my tears and your heart which had absorbed my pain. You have helped me survive this with dignity. Remember that when you need to."
His heart skipped a beat. "Why will I need to remember that?"
She closed her eyes, knowing that he wouldn't understand but it wouldn't be fair not to warn him. "Tomorrow night will be our last time together... like this anyway."
"You're going to send me away for good?" He didn't like the sound of that. Not that he believed he was helping her, but at least he could pretend... at least he knew she wasn't alone.
"Tomorrow, they will kill me."
"No!" He crushed her so tightly she could barely breathe, but she didn't say anything, merely reveling in the comfort his presence provided. "Please," he pleaded. "Let me help you."
She placed a hand on his chest and felt the heartbeat she would continue to sense as she spent her final day on earth. Then she gently reached up and waved her hand across his eyes. "Forget," she said softly and sent him on his way.
Then blinking back tears, she faced her new companions-- the shadows.
*****
Detective Jim Ellison woke with a start. Not again, he thought as he pulled the damp sheets from his body. For the past four days he had awakened drenched in his own sweat, his body full of tension, and sporting a headache that refused to respond to the standard over-the-counter stuff. Worse than the headache was the feeling of helplessness that seemed to have taken up residence in his chest.
Helpless was not a word generally associated with Jim Ellison. He was over six feet tall and kept his body in perfectly fit condition. He was a former Army Ranger captain, had worked covert ops a time or two and was now a fairly successful Major Crimes detective for the Cascade, Washington Police Department. All the training, from Army to cop, had made him one lethal man who excelled in rescuing fair damsels, saving the day for various Cascade residents, and yes, on one occasion, he had even gotten a cat down from a tree. Some people wanted to call him a hero, but Jim figured he was just doing his job; after all, wasn't he the Sentinel of the Great City?
He smiled sadly as he remembered the day he had been given that title. On that day a cherished friend had died trying to mete out justice in the only way he knew. He had felt helpless on that day too, but he'd had a reason for the feeling and with the help of an even dearer friend, he had put the impotence aside and completed the task of dispensing justice. It was the least he could do for the man who had nurtured his Sentinel talents even before he was aware of them.
A Sentinel, according to his limited knowledge, was a person with genetically enhanced senses. In olden, more tribal days, these individuals had used the senses to watch out for their people, to make sure the bad guys were caught and put away. Just like modern-day cops, except there wasn't a rule book they had to follow and death was usually more immediate than a ten-year wait on death row, Jim thought with a dry chuckle, as he padded downstairs to the bathroom. Oh, to have been born a century earlier.
He stripped out of the T-shirt and boxers that smelled of sweat and fear, then stood beneath the shower and let the hot water sluice away the stains of another bad night. What's the matter with me, he thought, unused to the lack of control he was exhibiting. He knew he wasn't experiencing ordinary night terrors. Because of his work, he had suffered them before, knew the symptoms-- the covers clawed from the bed as if they were strangling vines, the eyes gummed shut from shed tears, the throat raw from screams that the unconscious couldn't hold back. But that wasn't the case this time. If not for the sweat stains, his bed would appear unslept in. His eyes were bloodshot but dry. And if he had emitted screams or mere groans, his roommate would have been at his side when he awakened.
Blair Sandburg was zealous when it came to the care of his friend, partner, and roommate. He believed Jim's welfare was his personal responsibility. Jim tolerated the attitude because it was one he shared in reverse. Blair was an anthropology grad student at Cascade's Rainier University. He was doing his dissertation on Sentinels and was the resident expert-- literally. Jim had asked him to move in because of that knowledge, but he'd made him feel welcome, let him know the loft was his home because now they were friends... No, more than that. They were brothers, connected at a level Jim hadn't realized was even possible to reach.
Blair had become his Guide, a companion to the Sentinel whose job was to watch the Sentinel's back and take care of him. The Guide was a necessary accessory for the Sentinel because he was prone to zoning, which meant if he focused too hard on one of his senses he could find himself losing contact with reality. The Guide then became either his anchor or his lifeline back to the real world. Because he needed his Guide especially when he was on the job, Jim had confessed his special talents to his captain, Simon Banks. It had helped that Simon was also a friend and together, they had gotten Blair the credentials to be a police observer and had integrated him so well into the department that now Jim and Blair were more likely to get puzzled stares when apart than together.
Just thinking about Blair caused Jim to focus his senses on his partner and he could tell he was nearing waking. He quickly finished his morning routine and left the bathroom, wanting to make it up to his room before Blair could begin with the questions his friend always seemed to have. However, he didn't make it.
"Morning, Jim," Blair called from the doorway of his downstairs bedroom. He'd heard the shower stop and knew his roommate would be passing by.
"Morning, Chief," Jim said obligingly as he checked the towel around his waist to keep from meeting Blair's searching eyes.
"It happened again, didn't it?" Blair accused softly and Jim reluctantly raised his head.
"Yeah."
"We need to find out what causing this," Blair replied, tousling his long dark curls in frustration. "Whether it's physical or mental, we have to make it stop. Although you appear to be sleeping soundly, you're not. You're exhausted and tense. That's not good, Jim."
"I know." As a former medic, Jim was aware there could be an underlying physical condition responsible for what he was going through, but he suspected the answer wasn't that simple. But before he got into that with Blair, there was something else he needed to ask. "What did you mean by 'you appear to be sleeping soundly'?"
Blair's eyes were the ones to break contact. "I watched you for a few minutes last night."
"You what?" Jim was uncomfortable with the thought, even though they had watched each other sleep before-- usually during and immediately following a hospital stay.
"You didn't even know I was there, did you?" Blair asked before Jim could tell him he was being overprotective.
A ridge formed along Jim's jawline, signaling tension as he realized what his partner was saying. As a Sentinel, he should have known Blair was there. "I didn't react?"
Blair shook his head. "You were so still, I almost woke you up just to make sure you were okay. But your breathing seemed even and I convinced myself you were just sleeping soundly because of the lack of sleep the nights before. But that wasn't it, was it?" His roommate was silent. "You still have a headache?"
Jim grimaced. "I've had it so long, I'm hardly aware of it."
Blair forced Jim's blue eyes to look into his. "How long are we going to dance around this, Jim?" In the past year or so, Jim's heightened five senses had increased by one. This particular sense allowed the dead to contact him. So far, the ghosts had all been brutally murdered as children and the Sentinel had been the conduit they used to deal with their killers. Whenever the ghosts made contact with Jim, he experienced severe headaches. The last time it had happened, he hadn't even been able to keep food on his stomach.
Jim shrugged, not wanting to consider the possibility that a ghost was contacting him in his sleep. He had sort of resigned himself to being a Sentinel; he had the gifts and they helped him with his job as a Major Crimes detective. Anyway, every time he tried to reject his destiny, something awful came up and he would need the enhancements. So he gave up trying to be normal. But this ghost shit was something else. Blair made the hypersenses seem like a mere genetic fluke. However, talking to ghosts couldn't be blamed on an aberrant allele. No. This was up there (or was it down there) with psychic hotlines and the yearly predictions in the National Enquirer. "If I am having spooky conversations while I sleep, I don't remember them, Chief."
"Yet, they haunt you all day." He had deliberately chosen the word and was prepared to see the walls his roommate quickly slammed into place.
"I have a job to go to. If you're coming in with me today, you better get a move on." With that, Jim stalked to his room.
The silence continued between them as they entered the Major Crimes bullpen at the downtown police headquarters. Captain Simon Banks watched them as they settled at Jim's desk and knew that whatever situation the two had been involved in most of the week, had not resolved itself. He hated prying into their business; he had been uncomfortable learning about Jim's status as a Sentinel and this latest psychic activity hadn't endeared itself to him either.
Before, when things like this happened, he would mumble something that was supposed to be understanding and send them away-- camping, fishing, someplace away from him while they figured out what was wrong and how to fix it. But now he was their Watcher. He looked out for the Sentinel and Guide, protecting them from minor enemies like bureaucracy with creative paperwork and from major ones with prompt backup. All in all, he considered his role minor in the Sentinel realm but it was a responsibility he never ignored.
With a sigh, he went to his door and called them into his office. "Same ol' crappy night?" he asked as they plopped into the chairs in front of his desk.
"Yes, sir," his detective replied sullenly.
"And you're sure a visit to the department shrink wouldn't help?" He trusted Jim and Blair to make that decision. They had visited the psychologist before when circumstances had bordered on the extreme and had found her helpful.
Blair shook his head. "Jim can't remember anything. I've even tried hypnosis and you know he's goes under better for me than anyone else."
"Well, something has to be done. You don't look like you can handle much more, Jim," Simon said with the honesty of a real friend.
"I won't screw up on the job, Simon."
"Hell, I know that, Jim. I'm not worrying about you and the job. I'm just worried about you. The last time something like this happened, I had to scoop both of you up at the airport and pour you into my car. I don't want that to happen again. You two got a plan?"
"I want to monitor his sleep tonight," Blair said.
"I thought you did that last night," Jim replied edgily.
Blair rolled his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait. Jim deserved to be crabby. "I want to get an idea of the timeframe. Does whatever it is occur as soon as you fall asleep or maybe at a particular hour during the night, that sort of thing."
Jim shook his head. "Not tonight. You have that date with Tiffany, remember?"
"I'll just have to cancel."
"No, Chief," Jim argued. He put up his hand for silence when Blair would have protested. "Listen to me, Blair, please. When we find out what all this is about, I'm pretty certain things are going to get... intense. There won't be time for Tiffanies, or smiles, or laughter. Enjoy yourself tonight. And remember it over the next few days, okay?"
"Jim, are you sure?" Blair asked as he stood at the door of the loft much later, his keys jangling nervously in one hand.
"Sandburg, if you don't leave now, Tiffany is going to think you're standing her up and from what you've told me, I don't think she's the type you want mad at you," Jim pointed out from his position on the sofa.
Blair grimaced. That Tiffany had one hell of a temper was commonly known around Rainier University. But there was something about her that had guys vying for a date with her. After several unsuccessful tries, he'd finally made it on the "good enough" list. Still... "Jim, this feels really, really, wrong."
"I've never had such a long warning or anticipation before, Chief. We can't be sure of what's going on. But it's been going on for several days now. Whatever it is, it probably won't come to a head tonight."
Blair nodded and reluctantly left, only later discovering how wrong his partner had been.
Chapter Two
He went to her side as he had every night, brushing his hand gently across her cheek which was mottled with even more bruises. The sight made him angry, but he knew how much she disliked the emotion so he calmed himself and pasted on a smile as her brown eyes opened.
She smiled and struggled to sit up, hampered by the chains that bound her wrists. He reached out and helped her, sitting down beside her on the rickety cot and allowing her to rest against him. To her, he was solid. He could touch her, hold her, and she could take his hand when the fear ran though her body. But that was the extent of his contact with her world. If he reached for the cold metal that kept her captive, his hands went through them. If he grabbed the necks of her tormentors, they felt nothing...
"This is a good night to die," she said softly.
"No," he objected, although he vaguely remembered her warning him. "No night is a good one to die. Not when one is so young." He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the shivering that was evident only to one as skilled as he. "Why won't you let me help you?" he asked again.
"You *are* helping. Don't you know why I am so calm, so at peace even when my death approaches? It's because you are here. You absorb my fear. You give me comfort. They touch me and leave me dirty. You wash me clean with your tears. Tonight..." She paused, the words difficult to say. She had lived with the thoughts, knew what was to happen, but now what had been imagined was about to become reality. "Tonight, one of them will violate me, spill my virginal blood upon the evil altar they have devised. But you will be there to make me whole again. Remember that, please?"
He nodded his head, not because he understood but because she seemed to need his acceptance. "I will remember," he lied.
"Then those who taste of my blood will kill me, expecting to receive my power... But the power will be yours alone. You will use it to make sure this never happens again, that no more human sacrifices occur, that these fiends will receive the justice they deserve."
His eyes filled with tears. "But I could do so much more. I could contact the authorities. I could save you myself."
She reached out for his hand and he placed it in hers. She inspected it closely, mesmerized by the long fingers, the sworls on each tip that in a language known only to a few, told of his purpose, of what he was and what he would be. "The word has been written. Who am I to change it? You were born for a reason, as was I. This is mine... But it is not written that you have to be at my side. You may go and the power will still be yours."
"I am not here because of the power."
"I know."
"I will stay."
And he did. He marched by her side as they came for her. He shielded her naked body as they exposed her to the crowd. He sang softly to her as they reveled around the rock altar and took her pain upon himself as one of the evil ones plunged into her, tearing flesh she should have had the chance to give willingly. Even though she felt no pain, she sobbed for what she was losing, for the degradation she was suffering. And he sobbed with her and told her it was okay to cry, even as the watchers cheered her tears.
When the first ritual was finished, while they celebrated the shedding of her blood with song and dance, he did what he could to soothe her. Using his shirt, he wiped their filth from her, nearly blinded by the tears that refused to stop falling from his eyes. He had hoped to be stronger, but when he looked inside himself he could find no more strength.
"This hurts you," she said softly and he nodded. "Then go. You have suffered enough. My pain plus yours may be too much to bear."
"No." His voice cracked and he had to pause, to check his emotions, before he continued. "I will not break. They," he swept his arms out to indicate the robed figures swirling around them, "will not break me nor you." He took a deep breath and searched his soul, finding one little spark of energy that he hadn't expended, the final reserve. He plucked it from its resting place and offered it to her. "Whatever strength I have is yours. Take it as the final ritual approaches. Use it and it will come back to me ten-fold with your power."
"Je t'aime."
"I love you too."
He kneeled at her head as the killers neared. He leaned over and kissed her forehead as the stone dagger was raised high in the air. As it made contact with the skin above her heart, she gasped out one final word, "Remember."
Then her world exploded and flung him back to his own.
*****
Blair tried but he couldn't enjoy himself.
He had barely missed being late picking Tiffany up at her apartment. Thankfully, Jim had prompted him to make reservations at the expensive restaurant he'd chosen so when they arrived, they were escorted directly to their table-- definitely a plus in Tiffany's book. So that's how Jim gets all the women, he thought, as he listened to Tiffany talk mainly about herself. Class. His partner had class. He was going to have to remember that.
Perhaps that had been his first mistake; to think about Jim. After that, his thoughts never left the man. The evening dragged on and Tiffany had gotten angrier and angrier as he fixated on Jim and what was troubling him. Even when she'd picked up her purse and stormed out of the restaurant, telling him to call her when hell froze over or he finished his dissertation (whichever came last), he hadn't been upset because something was telling him to get home to Jim. He looked at his watch and cursed as he saw how late it was. Good old Tiffany had waited until after dessert to throw her tantrum. Swell girl.
As he drove home, he prepared a cover story in case Jim called him on coming back early. Actually, the story wasn't far from the truth. Tiffany had turned out to be a self-centered bitch and although he could do worse, he could also do much better. Feeling more at ease than he had all evening, he was humming as he slipped his key into the lock. He stopped the sound when he noticed the lights were all on as well as the television. That was odd, not because he expected Jim to be in bed already but because Jim was always quick to turn out the lights when his roommate wasn't home. His Sentinel sight made them unnecessary and with the headache, the artificial lights probably caused him pain. Why hadn't Jim made himself comfortable?
He thought he knew the answer as he peeked over the back of the sofa and saw his roommate sprawled along its length. Jim had fallen asleep so quickly he hadn't managed to make the loft more "Sentinel friendly". He started to smile, then realized he was seeing what he had the night before. Jim was too still. Whatever plagued him was doing it again. He reached out to shake his partner awake. At first Jim didn't respond and then he saw a sight that sent his blood pressure skyrocketing; tears were leaking from Jim's closed eyes.
Knowing that whatever was going on he couldn't handle by himself, he ran to the phone.
*****
Simon hung up the receiver and reached for the clothes he always kept nearby. Thanks to his job, he was always prepared to go out at any time of the night. Briefly, he wished that it had been the job calling this time. But even as the phone was ringing, he knew who would be on the other end. Sandburg would say it was his Watcher alert kicking in, picking up some residual vibes from the Sentinel and Guide. But Simon liked to believe his precognition came from having worked with them for so long. Denial was an awesome river.
He shivered as he drove through the dark streets of Cascade. He had been with Jim the first time the detective had gone through one of the spectral episodes. They had been helping Narcotics with a drug bust and he had stayed with Jim as he used his senses to make sure all the drugs had been confiscated. That had been the moment forty-two ghosts had cried out for the Sentinel's help-- forty-two children who had been abused and killed by a serial murderer. The FBI had been real interested in the case and had sent a profiler, Dr. Tony Bozeman, to help out. By the end of the case, Bozeman had been convinced that Jim was some kind of extraordinary psychic.
Which had led to Jim's second ghostly visitation. Bozeman wanted his help after the discovery of skeletal remains of children in Baltimore. The captain had been reluctant to let his detective go on that one and his reservations had been right on the money; Jim had suffered horribly during that investigation and he had nearly damn well been a ghost himself when he got off the plane safe at home in Cascade. And now there was this.
Simon found a parking space and took the familiar elevator ride up to the loft. He used the key they had given him some time ago to let himself in. Blair stood across the room, hugging himself as he stared down at the sofa. "Sandburg?"
"Thank God, you're here, man!" he said with undisguised relief. "You have to wake him up. I don't think he's doing too good where he is."
Simon hurried over to the sofa and saw what Sandburg meant. Jim looked to be in deep pain and anguish. Using his considerably booming voice, he ordered his detective to wake up. When that didn't work, he took his massive hands and shook him. That had no effect either. "Have you tried smelling salts?" he asked, refusing to panic.
"On Jim?" Blair looked at him as if he were the unconscious one. "Way too big a risk, captain. One whiff could send him into a coma with those senses of his."
"And how would that be any different from this?" Simon questioned gruffly. "I think this is beyond our capabilities, Sandburg. We need professional help. Call 911."
Blair froze. "I don't think we want to do that, Simon. They're liable to run all sorts of neurological tests on him and that could just make things worse."
"So what do you suggest? We leave him here on the sofa and let him dehydrate or starve to death?" Simon asked dryly, although he knew the kid was doing his best to serve his Sentinel's interests.
Blair knew the captain was right; if Jim didn't come out of it soon, he would have to be hospitalized. "Let me try one more time, Simon, please?" Simon nodded and Blair leaned over Jim, carefully modulating his voice to what Jim liked to call "Guide mode." That was when he noticed Jim's chest was no longer rising and falling. Not the time to panic yet. The Sentinel had zoned like this before; he at times concentrated so much on one sense that he forgot to breathe. "Okay, Jim, you need to listen to me and come back. Follow the sound of my voice, man." No reaction. Blair placed his hand on the familiar broad chest in frustration and that was when he realized things had gone from bad to worse.
"We have to do something, Simon!" Blair yelled frantically. "I can't feel a heartbeat, damn it!"
"Goddamnit! I told you we should have called 911!" Simon was reaching for the phone in the kitchen when suddenly Jim sat up, flinging Blair nearly across the room. The phone was forgotten as he scrambled over to check on his young friend. "Blair, you better be okay," he threatened breathlessly.
"I'm fine, Simon," Blair mumbled, briefly confused as to the reason he was lying in the floor. Then he remembered. "Jim!" he yelled, allowing the captain to pull him to his feet.
The object of their concern sat slumped on the sofa but straightened partially as he heard the concern in their voices. "I need a piece of paper and a pencil, Chief."
Blair hurried to do what he'd been asked, then stood silently waiting for more orders. When none was forthcoming, he went into the kitchen and collapsed into one of the chairs at the table. He wasn't surprised to see his hands trembling since he'd barely made it to the chair before his legs gave out. He'd never been so frightened in all his life.
"You okay, Sandburg?" Simon asked, laying his hand on the younger man's shoulder. The observer had grown on him in the years he'd worked at the department. He was extremely intelligent and seemed to have unlimited energy which he shared with those around him. He willingly helped out all the officers in the Major Crimes Unit, but they, as well as the captain, knew that when the chips were down, Sandburg would be at Jim's side. They were a pair and everyone accepted that that was how it was to be.
"What's going on, captain?" he asked , lacking the energy to raise his head. "These encounters have left him in pain before, but never dead. What if..."
"Stop it, Blair," Simon said sharply, then his voice gentled. "That doesn't look like a dead man over there sketching away."
Blair's head turned quickly. "Sketching? Jim doesn't sketch, Simon. Anything beyond the basic outline of a crime scene is out of his league. He swears he flunked arts and crafts three years in a row at summer camp."
"But he's doing it," Simon said in a hushed voice and they walked over to their friend. Half a second later, Jim handed them the paper.
It was a sketch, no, a detailed drawing, of a young African-American girl. She was maybe twelve or thirteen with long braids, a nice smile, and very sad eyes. Knowing how things operated when Jim was in this mode, Blair knew past tense verbs were to be used in connection with the sweet, innocent child staring up at him from the paper. "Who was she, Jim?" he asked softly.
"Alicia Delacroix. Age twelve," Jim said, his voice emotionless.
"What... what happened to her?" Blair sat down beside him.
"She was grabbed on her way home from school. She was taken to a cabin where for four days, she was sexually molested and beaten. On the fifth day, she was raped and killed."
Oh shit. Blair was grateful when Simon took the picture out of his trembling hand. He had known it was going to be bad, but that did nothing to lessen the shock.
"When did this happen, Jim? When did she die?" Simon asked in preparation of making some calls. Before, Jim's "visitors" were all old cases. Someone was probably going to be sent to the archives.
Jim looked at his watch. "Less than an hour ago."
This time it was Simon's hand that trembled. "Jim, are you saying this murder just occurred? Why the hell hadn't we been notified this child was missing?" he yelled. The entire department was supposed to be on alert when a child disappeared.
"She wasn't from Cascade."
Blair opened his mouth to say that wasn't right. Previously, the ghosts had attached themselves to the Sentinel when he accidently wandered upon their burial ground. But he was saying Alicia wasn't even from Cascade, yet they hadn't left town for a while. How the hell had she found his partner? "Where was she from, Jim?"
"New Orleans."
"Louisiana?" Blair and Simon shared a glance. That was a hell of a long way from Washington. And that was something else too. "Jim, how did she contact you so quickly? You say she died only an hour ago, but you were out of it when I got home and that's been longer than an hour. She was in your head before she died?" Not a spectral contact then, but a psychic one.
Jim looked at them sadly. "I have been with her every night since she was abducted. I watched what they did to her. I dried her tears. I rocked her to sleep."
"Who are 'they'?" Simon asked.
"I... I don't know. They were always masked with long robes." He shook his head, trying to unjumble all the images. "I was there, but I wasn't there. I could see and feel what Lici was experiencing, but she was the only one I could touch. She was the only one I was real to." He dropped his head into his hands. "I wanted to help her so badly. But she wouldn't let me."
"What do you mean?" Blair inquired.
"Toward morning, as she would fall asleep in my arms, she would tell me to forget. I would wake up here, with no knowledge of her. There was just this vague feeling that something was wrong, somewhere. If I could have remembered, I could have contacted the NOPD, maybe given them some clue to her location. But she didn't want to be saved. She said it was her destiny that this happened to her... She was just twelve years old, Chief. How could those people, how could that man, do that to her? What kind of sickness has to live inside someone to be able..." He stumbled to his feet and made his way to the bathroom.
Blair grabbed one of the pillows on the sofa and threw it against the wall. "Why, Simon? Why the hell does he have to go through this? For God's sake, he's accepted the responsibility of being a Sentinel. He puts his life on the line for people each and every day. He tracks killers and lunatics and dealers, not just because he's a cop or because he's a Sentinel, but because he truly cares what happens to those around him."
"I know, Blair," Simon agreed.
"Do you, Simon?" Blair questioned. "You send us out on these cases, you tell us to get the bad guys, and we do. But do you know how we do it? Do you know the risks he takes by using his senses even a little? He opens up his ears and he could be assaulted by an airplane thundering overhead or maybe a child has a whistle nearby. He focuses his sight and some reporter takes a flash photo or the sun hits a pane of glass the wrong way. He sniffs the wrong thing and he passes out. He eats the wrong thing and suddenly he doesn't know which way is up. His hand brushes what appears to be dust and he's flying higher than a kite. The senses make him a better detective and a greater target, Simon. But that doesn't matter to him. The only time he gets angry about being a Sentinel is when it interferes with his work. Like when he shot the security guard by mistake or went blind with the Golden."
"You accusing me of using him?" the captain asked, wondering if it was true. He'd gotten quite used to having a Sentinel on the payroll. Who would have thought he would get so comfortable with Jim's gifts. But he would find himself looking to his detective for all the hard answers. What did you hear, Jim? What can you see? What's written on the back of this? What can you tell me that forensics can't?
"You use him as much as he wants to be used, Simon." Blair shook his head. "He is what he is and we both love him for that, captain. But I don't think this is something he bargained for. The headaches, the ghosties snuggling up in his brain, their constant cries for vengeance... It eats away at him. I know it does. And now we have this new wrinkle... Man, can you imagine what he's been through? To stand around and watch a child being raped..."
"Jim hates being helpless," Simon murmured. "If someone wanted to find the greatest way to torture him, I would think that would be it."
"So two people have been tortured this week. One is dead, the other is alive with survivor's guilt, not to mention a big helping of plain ol' Jim guilt," Blair pointed out. He looked around solicitously as Jim wandered back into the room. "You gonna be okay, big guy?"
"I'm just really tired," Jim croaked. "Thankfully, I have an understanding captain who won't be too pissed if I report in late tomorrow," he added, looking at Simon.
"You have a captain that doesn't want to see you downtown at all," Simon clarified. "I'll call New Orleans, see what I can find out about the case, okay? If you remember any details after your nap, just let me know."
"Okay, Simon." Jim started on the first stair to his bedroom and wobbled precariously. In a flash, the other two were on either side of him, supporting him until he was safely in his bed and fast asleep. Really asleep this time, for when Blair smoothed the covers over him, he smiled. Then they tiptoed back down the stairs.
"You know," Simon began, "I was always taught God didn't give you more than you could bear. But I'm starting to wonder about that. Jim has strong shoulders, but..." He looked up at the bed next to the loft railing. "Anyway, let me get home and try to get a few hours of sleep in before heading to my office. You going to need anything? When do you have to be at the university?"
Blair shook his head. "I'm not going in today. I don't want him alone, not with the memories he has."
"If you need a break, give me a call. You know I'll come."
Blair smiled. "I know, Simon. And hey, about God screwing up with the payload? Maybe that's why He gives us friends... to help with it, you know?"
Simon patted his shoulder. "Jim's always the first one to admit who has the brains in the partnership. I'm starting to see why. Goodnight, Blair."
"Night.
Chapter Three
He couldn't believe his eyes. In front of him three goons in long robes and feathered masks were attacking a little girl. Immediately he surged forward and grabbed the first one he came to. But something was wrong. Instead of feeling something solid beneath his hands, flesh he could pummel and necks he could break, he felt nothing. In fact, his hands just sliced through them as if they weren't there.
That was when he realized he must be dreaming. The images weren't real. They were just there to torture him. He went limp, ceasing to struggle with the imagined demons. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to it. Hell, for a period of his life nightmares were more common than dreams. The things he'd done in the name of his country, the situations he had seen, the actions others had taken and forced him to watch... He thought he was beyond that now but apparently, that was never meant to be. With a groan of despair, he crouched down in a corner and dropped his head into his hands. The one good thing about nightmares was that morning had to come eventually.
The soft brush of lips on his forehead made him look up. The child stood before him, her tattered clothes held together with one hand while the other traced the tracks of tears on his face. "I'm sorry," she said gently.
He smiled wryly. "Now my dreams are apologizing. I must be in bad shape."
She smiled too. "Mais non. You have it backward. You are the dream."
He stared up at her, then reached out and gently held her wrist. "I can touch you," he said in amazement.
"Because you are my dream and I will it to be. But to the others, you do not exist."
"Why am I here? Why did you create me?"
She turned away and if it wasn't for his special senses, he would not have heard her. "I did not want to be alone."
*****
"Hi, captain. Running a little late this morning, huh?" Detective Henri Brown said as Simon made his way through the bullpen.
"Ellison got sick in the middle of the night."
No more explanation was needed. Everyone knew if something happened to Jim, Blair would call the captain and the captain would come running. There was great comfort in knowing how things operated. "It finally caught him, huh?"
Simon stopped in his tracks. No one in the office knew about Jim being a Sentinel or his being able to talk to ghosts. Well, at least no one admitted to knowing. "What are you talking about, Brown?"
The detective shrugged. "He's looked like something was coming down on him all week. What is it? The flu? Some nasty virus?"
"Some combination no doubt," Simon said, hiding his relief.
"He's not in the hospital, is he?"
Simon shook his head. "There was a time last night when we thought..."
"But you and Hair Boy got him through the crisis, huh?" Brown said with a smile. Ellison's partner never minded the nickname.
"Through this one," Simon said meaningfully and Brown realized Jim wasn't out of the woods.
"Hey, if they need something, captain, just let one of us know, okay? I'll pass on the word to the others."
Simon nodded and continued into his office. He picked up the phone and asked his secretary to get the New Orleans Police Department on the line. Five minutes later, she was transferring the call to him. "This is Captain Simon Banks of the Cascade, Washington Police Department. I'd like to talk to someone in charge of the disappearance of Alicia Delacroix. Thank you," he said politely as he heard the switchboard shuffle begin.
"Detective Joey Allen."
"Det. Allen, I'm Captain Banks, Cascade, Washington, P.D. Could you tell me a little about the Delacroix kidnaping?"
Joey choked on the chocolate milk he'd been drinking and looked around wildly for his partner. Mike Rankin was the primary on the case, not only because it was a high profile one but because he was the senior member of the partnership since Joey had been promoted to detective just two months ago. But Mike was nowhere to be found. Great. What a way to start the day. Joey caught the attention of Shelly Thomas, another detective and motioned for her to have his call traced. "Uh, we're not really calling it a kidnaping at this time, sir. Unless you have additional information you'd like to give us? By the way, could you give me your name again?"
Simon sighed and obeyed. Then he answered several questions about his interest in the case. He took it all in stride until he realized everything he had to say to the cop, the man made him repeat. Enough benefit of doubt. He voiced his suspicions. "You tracing this call, Allen?"
"Uh, what makes you think that, sir?" Joey replied, wondering what was taking the trace so long.
"Because I'm a cop and I know the sounds of a trace when I hear one," Simon replied testily. "If you wanted the phone number all you had to do was ask!"
"Please calm down, sir," Joey said soothingly. "This is just standard operating procedure."
"Not where I come from!" Simon said and angrily slammed the phone down. Well, hell, he swore to himself. Looked like they were going to have to do this the hard way.
*****
"Hi, Jim," Blair called as his roommate came groggily down the stairs just before noon.
Jim yawned. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you in class?"
"Someone's covering for me," Blair replied as he worked on a paper that was due in two weeks. He'd learned that he had to take advantage of every free moment he had in order to get his schoolwork done. Being a Guide didn't lend itself well to scheduling.
"Stuck at home, babysitting me again, huh?"
"You had some heavy shit laid on you, man. I thought you shouldn't wake up alone," Blair admitted, knowing Jim would have done the same if their situations had been reversed. "You wanna talk or anything?"
"Maybe after a shower, okay?"
Blair nodded and didn't say anything. At least Jim had hinted at the possibility that he might actually discuss what had happened. The first time he had awakened, at about seven o'clock, he hadn't said a word to his roommate. He had merely gone into the bathroom, showered, then returned to bed. Now he was heading for shower number two, but talking. Definitely an improvement.
"The rape is doing a number on you, isn't it?" he asked as Jim padded by him on his return to his room.
Jim started to deny it, but knew holding it in was doing him no good. "The rape, the murder, the abuse... The images just keep swirling around in my head, Chief," he admitted as he got dressed. "You heard from Simon yet?"
"No. But you know he'll let us know when he has some information. Jim, I don't understand this connection you had to Alicia," he said, not letting him change the subject.
"She controlled it, Chief. I think she was an actual psychic or something like that."
"Why did she contact you?"
Jim came partially down the stairs, then sat. "I seem to have a ... reputation among the dead."
Blair ignored the ball forming in the pit of his stomach. "What kind of reputation?"
"As a champion of children's causes. Alicia spoke to the dead easily. They told her to contact me if she needed help."
"But you said she wouldn't let you help."
"She wouldn't let me remember so I could get help to her," he clarified. "But she swore to me I was helping her by just being there. I... I did what I could, Chief."
Blair came over to him. "Believe me, Jim, I know just how much your being there comforted her. I've been where she was, man, or at least close to it. Your presence is the second best thing to the cavalry charging over the hill."
Jim shook his head like he didn't understand. "She was so peaceful about the whole thing, especially in front of the others. They would undress her and fondle her and she would just lay there as if nothing they could do would really touch her. They would beat her and she wouldn't make a sound, just stare at them defiantly. When they would finally leave, she would crawl into my arms, and most of the time she wouldn't even cry... God help me, that first night I felt such a murderous rage, she shrank away from me. I never let her feel that again."
"No wonder you would be so tense in the mornings," Blair sympathized. "By the way, how is the headache this morning?"
"The same."
Blair didn't like that answer. "So you're still in contact with Alicia?"
"No. She pushed me away last night because she knew I would have died with her if she hadn't."
"How?"
"Because I physically took her pain, Chief. I don't know how, but I could absorb it into me and away from her. If she hadn't pushed me away, I would have felt the knife slice into my heart and the shock probably would have killed me."
"Then I thank Alicia wherever she is. Other people need you too, big guy," Blair asserted, almost angry at his friend for taking such a chance. "So why is it that you still have a headache?"
Jim closed his eyes and searched inside himself. "There are others."
"What do you mean there are others?" Blair squeaked.
Jim shrugged. "Anything around here to eat?" he asked, rising from the stair and heading toward the kitchen.
Blair wanted to reach out, grab him, and demand to know what the hell he meant by "others". But he'd been fortunate to get out of him what he had. Patience, Sandburg, he chided himself. The man's been through an ordeal. If he needs to tell you stuff in bite-sized pieces, let him. "Have a seat, Jim, and I'll fix something for you," he offered, somehow finding a smile to add to it.
Two hours later, someone knocked on the door and he hurried to open it.
"If I had a penny for every asshole in the world, I'm be a fucking millionaire," Simon griped as Blair let him into the loft.
"Bad day?" Blair hazarded with a grin. It was late afternoon, plenty of time for someone to have ticked the captain off.
Simon started to reply, then angled his head toward Jim's room. "Is he sleeping?"
"Nah. He's taking a shower-- his third today," he said meaningfully. "So who stepped on your tail?"
"The sons of bitches down in the New Orleans department. I call, I identify myself, and then I ask to speak to someone about the Alicia Delacroix disappearance. They wanted to know my connection to the case and why was I trying to get involved and didn't we have enough crime in Cascade to take care of... I understood that. Hell, I'm a cop too, right? But the next thing I know the idiots are trying to get a trace on the call. I told them all they had to do was ask... Well, at least I get a new phone out of it," Simon ended in a huff.
"How's that?"
"I cracked the one I had when I hung up on them." He smiled in satisfaction.
"So what happens now?" Jim said as he stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and apparently having overheard the entire conversation.
"We go to New Orleans."
Jim nodded in complete agreement and padded on to his room. "We?" Blair asked with a curious smile.
"You prepared to kick NOPD butt, Sandburg?" Blair shook his head. "Then I guess I'm going. A messenger should be by with the tickets soon. I'm going home to pack a bag and I'll swing by here to pick you up."
"Thanks, Simon. I have a feeling this isn't going to be a walk in the park."
"Don't worry about it, Sandburg. Your only concern on this trip is to take care of Jim. I'll handle the rest," Simon vowed. He angled his voice up toward the loft. "I'm going to need something to give to the NOPD. Got anything solid, Jim?" he asked.
"I can tell them what Alicia was wearing when she was taken. When they retrieve the... body... the medical examiner can confirm what was done to her."
"Can you locate the remains?"
"Yes."
"And where they were holding her?"
"When I see it."
Simon nodded, pleased with the answers. "Back in a couple of hours. Be ready."
"We will be, Simon," Blair said as he walked the captain to the door. He wondered if he should tell him about the "others", but he had no idea what Jim meant. Therefore, maybe he should keep his mouth shut for a while longer.
"Don't look so solemn, Sandburg. Jim's going to tell the NOPD what he knows. They'll find the girl's body and hopefully they can take it from there."
"From what you've said, are you sure the detective you talked to can find his ass with his hand?" Blair teased, trying to lighten the mood as well.
"Well, maybe if he uses both of them." His laughter rumbled down the hallway.
Chapter Four
"Who are you?" he asked the petite figure who had turned away from him.
"My name is Alicia Delacroix, Lici to my friends. I am twelve years old and I have been kidnaped."
He searched his pockets for his usual pad and pen... then remembered this was just a dream-- and it wasn't even his. "Why?"
"Because of who I am... or maybe it should be what I am."
"Your family has money?"
"Oui. My father comes from old money as does my mother. Theirs is a marriage of bloodlines and wealth."
"Has there been a ransom demand?"
"They already have what they want."
"Which is?"
"Me."
"Why?"
She shrugged and plopped down on the rusty cot that appeared to be her bed. "Because I have a power within me that they want."
He moved from the corner and sat on the cot as well, but far from her because he had seen what they had done to her and he didn't want her frightened of him. "They want you to use your power for them?"
"They want to take my power from me."
"How?" he asked as if he didn't have some idea.
She stretched out and laid her head in his lap. "Do not force me to say it yet."
His fingers traveled gently along one her braids. "I will not force you to do anything," he promised.
*****
Mike Rankin took in the hangdog expression his partner currently wore and wondered what the rookie had gotten into this time. They had been working together for a couple of months and while he could see glimmers of greatness ready to be brought out of him, more often he saw a gangly young man who tripped over his own two feet. Maybe that's why they had given Joey to him for safe handling. Mike was part of New Orleans the way Joey never could be. The dark detective had grown up in the French Quarter, had played trumpet on the street corner for coins as a kid, and had watched the goings on of Bourbon Street from its doorways.
"So I'm gone one day and you look like your girl ran off with the bartender from that honky tonk you so fond of. What's rattlin' y'cage, Joey?"
Joey Allen looked up into the warm brown face of his partner and blanched an even lighter shade of pale. "I think I managed to make an enemy for life and screw up our biggest case at the same time," he said miserably.
"The Delacroix case?" Mike asked anxiously and Joey nodded. Shit. The Delacroix case was a red ball because Edouard Delacroix was not only some high-falutin' mathematician at Loyola University in the Garden District of the city, but he was also a resident of that expensive area as well, living in a mansion which had been in his family for a century. His ancestor had been one of the free men of color inhabiting the city long before slavery was an issue in the new country. So New Orleans Society was watching the case very closely, which made the current administration edgy. And Loyola's faculty and staff were just waiting for the NOPD to fuck the case up so that there would be proof of how ineffectual the department was. Then the foreigners (most were from up North-- Chicago, New York, wherever) would vote in their candidates to the city offices and New Orleans would cease to be as it was. "Straighten up, Joey, and tell me what you've done," he ordered.
"There was this call transferred to me from a guy claiming to be from Washington--"
"D.C.?" Mike interrupted, dreading having the feds come into this.
"No, man. The state." Mike relaxed. "He wanted to know what information we had on the Delacroix kidnaping. That's the first thing that made me suspicious. We've been careful not to call it a kidnaping because we really don't know and we don't want the FBI in it right now."
"You get a name on this guy?"
"That was the second suspicious thing. He said he was a police captain and that he had some information for us."
"Why was that suspicious, Joey? Maybe he had a prisoner that knew something and was trying to make a deal," Mike pointed out in frustration. One personal leave day in six years and this had to happen.
"Then why didn't he just say so? He just danced around the subject until..."
Mike rubbed his temple. "Until what, Joey?"
"Until he figured out I was tracing the call. That's when he got pissed and hung up on me."
"Did you get it?" Mike asked quickly.
"Get what?"
"The fuckin' trace!"
"The trace to the Cascade, Washington Police Department where yes, there is a Captain Simon Banks, and no, he isn't known for his sense of humor? Yeah, I got the trace." Joey knew his partner was angry from the amount of profanity he used. He did his best to remove the street from his voice when he was in the office, saving the language for when he met with an informant or hung out with his friends.
"You try calling and apologizing?"
Joey nodded. "They said he wasn't in, but I'm thinking he won't talk to me."
"Gimme the number and let me try." He dialed the phone and waited. "I don't know what trailer park you grew up in, Joey. But you're going have to learn some manners if you're gonna work with me," Mike warned. "Yes, I would like to speak to Captain Simon Banks, please... Detective Michael Rankin from the New Orleans department... Thank you." He looked at his partner. "I'm being transferred to his office... Captain Banks isn't in? Well, could you... Thanks for shit," he said into the dead receiver.
"What happened?"
"His secretary said he wasn't in. Then she started laughing and said he'd be in touch. Some crazy folk up there in Washington." Mike sighed and moved around to his desk. "Well, the ball's in Banks' court now. We'll just have to see how it plays, Joey," he said wearily.
Joey nodded and accepted that he'd been forgiven. That was the nice thing about Mike; he always forgave him his mistakes, unless he dared to repeat them again. Now only if one Captain Simon Banks was just as forgiving...
*****
"You know, the next time I'm bitching about how cold it is in Cascade, I want you to remind me of this," Simon said as he and Blair followed Jim down the narrow streets of the French Quarter. It was a typical Southern summer day which meant hot and muggy. Simon had already shed his usual jacket and vest and now he rolled up his shirtsleeves. He was seriously debating the idea of dashing into one the numerous souvenir shops and picking up a T-shirt to slip into.
"Despite the temperature, it is a beautiful city, isn't it?" Blair asked as he stared at the lacy ironwork adorning most of the buildings.
"Yeah, but no one told me we were going to be touring the whole thing on foot," Simon continued to gripe. "Want to tell me one more time why we aren't at the air-conditioned police station making our report?"
Blair shook his head. Simon knew as much as he did. They had arrived in New Orleans last night. They had checked into the hotel and Jim's headache had been so bad, he had been forced to take one of the pills Tony Bozeman had prescribed the last time he'd had such an episode. Thankfully, the pill allowed him to sleep the whole night and he had awakened pain-free for the first time in a week. The three of them had had breakfast and Blair assumed, as Simon had, that the next stop would be the police station. But Jim had driven the rental car to the Quarter and for the past forty-five minutes, they had been in and out of dark, tiny stores that boasted of love potions and assorted voodoo paraphernalia. Simon had laughed in the first store and Blair had been mildly curious at the stuff that tourists would buy, driving the clerk crazy with questions.
The second store Jim had made them both promise to behave or he was going to leave them baking in the sun outside. Both men had complied. But it was the third store that was responsible for Simon's attitude. In the third store, a large, obviously bored woman was standing by the cash register that said Yes, We Take MasterCard, Visa, and Novus. I.D. Required. Jim looked at her and without a word, she took a key from her ample bosom and opened a back room. Before Blair and Simon could react, she and Jim were locked behind that door. Ten minutes later, he was out with a shopping bag and the woman was anxiously fingering what looked to be rosary beads and muttering in some language even the anthropologist couldn't identify.
Simon had demanded answers and Jim had given him none. Just when he was about to pull rank on him, Blair had pulled the captain aside and asked him gently to back off. He had had to explain that it wasn't just Alicia in contact with Jim, but others whom Jim wouldn't, or more than likely couldn't, identify and that their presence could be affecting the Sentinel's behavior. Hence, the Watcher's really bad mood.
"Why is he doing that?" Simon muttered, bringing Blair's thoughts back to the present.
"Doing what?" He looked at the man striding ahead of them, on some personal agenda that didn't include consulting his companions.
"Watch him. As we pass certain places, he cocks his head to one side like he's listening to something. But most of these buildings are boarded up."
"Then he's probably just greeting a ghost or two. You know, this city must be full of them. Everywhere you look around, you can just imagine the spirits, can't you? No wonder there are five or six ghost and supernatural tours offered. Wonder if the ghosts get a cut?" Blair asked excitedly. "Oh, and the vampires too. I guess with above ground burial, you don't have to worry about your comings and goings, huh?"
"Sandburg, shut up," Simon said, knowing the anthropologist was trying to get him to react. "I've read Anne Rice, you know."
Blair was mildly astonished. "I had no idea, Simon. You just don't seem like the type to fool with stuff like that."
"Oh, I don't?" Simon replied, then turned to glare at his shorter friend. "Then why the hell do you and Ellison come to me with your wild tales of Sentinels, spirit guides, and ghostly chats?"
"But that's different. That's real."
"Yeah, well, maybe that's why I need the fiction," Simon admitted gruffly. He focused on their troop leader for the day. "Jim doesn't have a drop of sweat on him."
"He automatically adjusts to temperatures," Blair said, glad to finally have an answer for the captain.
Simon tugged at his tie. "You certainly know enough about him."
"Yeah, enough to fill a book," Blair said teasingly.
"Or at least a dissertation," Simon pointed out. "Why haven't you finished it yet, Sandburg? Surely by now you know having the paper done won't affect the relationship you have with Jim. So get the degree. I'm sure Rainier can find a place for you."
"Yeah, but when you start paying people full-time money, they expect you to put in full-time hours, captain. That's something I can't promise. As Jim's Guide, I have to be able to drop everything when he needs me."
"What about a job at the department then?" Simon stuck his tie in the jacket draped over his arm.
"Seriously, Simon?" The captain nodded. "That would be ideal but..."
"But?"
"I honestly can't see it happening. Look how easily Finkelman pulled my observer status."
Simon frowned. He hadn't liked that one bit and if it hadn't been resolved while he was still in the hospital from being shot, he would have raised holy hell when he was discharged. "Have faith, Sandburg. Have faith."
"Sure, Simon. It's gotten me this far, hasn't it?"
"Even farther than you know, Sandburg. It's gotten you back to the car," Simon said with a grin as the man striding ahead of them turned into the parking lot where they had left the rental. The captain grimaced at the sweat stains beneath both pits and resisted the urge to sniff them. "Hey, Jim! Can we stop back by the hotel? I think I need to freshen up a bit."
*****
"So did I read the report right? You have something on the Delacroix case?"
Mike Rankin looked up to see Stanley Arcenaux, Chief of Police, standing over him. Behind him was Police Commissioner Lawrence Tizzoner. Both were looking at him expectantly. Shit. "Uh, we're working on having something, Chief. We're waiting on someone to get back to us on some information."
"The cop your partner had traced yesterday?"
Well, this just gets better and better. He glanced around the commissioner to see why his partner was being so quiet. Had Joey passed out? Seeing the empty desk, he remembered he had sent the younger detective down to the evidence room to clear up another case. "Det. Allen was just trying to be thorough, sir. Captain Banks, being a cop himself, understood and I'm sure he'll contact us the moment he's free."
"You know how important this case is, don't you, Mike?" The chief subtlely angled his head toward the commissioner.
"Yes, sir. I assure you we're doing everything possible to see that Miss Delacroix is returned safely to her family."
"Good, Det. Rankin. We'll check in with you later then."
Mike nodded and gave a tight smile as they left. Fifteen years on the force, five years from being able to retire with full benefits and he gets handed this red ball. Apparently he had stepped on someone's grave and now they were pissing mad.
"Dare I assume from the look I got from the Chief and the Commissioner that they've been asking our case?" Joey asked as he laid down the file Mike had requested.
"Getting psychic on me, Joe?" Mike asked dryly. "They heard about the cop and the trace. We really need to get in contact with this Captain Banks. Maybe I can get somebody other than that crazy secretary..."
"Umm, I don't think we have to worry about her, Mike. And I think I know why she was laughing."
Mike followed his partner' panicked gaze and saw coming toward their desks a huge African-American man, followed by a slightly less huge White man, with a smaller man bouncing along after them. Definitely non-natives. "You think that's Banks?" he asked in a hushed whisper.
Joey nodded. "If I had to put a face to the voice, that's the face I would give it." He straightened the files on his desk nervously as the tall White guy said something and all three broke into smiles.
"Detective Allen?" Simon boomed, enjoying the look of terror that crossed the pale features. "I'm Captain Banks. We spoke on the phone yesterday?"
Before Joey could soil himself, Mike stepped forward. "Good afternoon, Captain Banks. I'm Det. Allen's partner, Mike Rankin. I'm the primary on the Delacroix case. I was out yesterday."
"I see. Well, it seemed we were just confusing each other on the phone, so I thought it was wise to do this face-to-face," Simon explained, thinking that this may not go as badly as he thought. "Detectives Rankin and Allen, these are my men, Det. Jim Ellison and his partner Blair Sandburg."
Everyone shook hands. "Det. Allen said you had information on the disappearance of Alicia Delacroix? We're eager to hear what you have for us, sir," Mike said, showing Joey the way to handle those of greater rank and bulk.
Simon looked around the busy bullpen. "Is there somewhere we could talk more privately?"
Mike shrugged. "If you don't mind one of the interrogation rooms..."
"That will be fine."
Joey brought in extra chairs and everyone gathered around the table. Simon took out a card and scribbled two numbers on the back before sliding it to Mike. "One number is to Lt. Al Giardello of the Baltimore Homicide Division. The other is to the F.B.I. Both can confirm what we are about to tell you." He looked at Jim and the man nodded. "Ellison here has an affinity for child murders. In Cascade, he solved a case of one man killing forty-two children over a period of twelve years. In Baltimore, it was ten kids."
"That's impressive," Mike said. "Wanna share your secret?"
Jim shrugged. "The dead talk to me."
Chapter Five
"Who are they?" His mind flashed back to the feathered masks and the faces they covered.
"A cult, a coven, whatever you wish to call their evil little group. They worship a dark altar which requires human sacrifice."
"Do you know who they are individually?" he asked, a cop in this world as he was in his.
"Only that they are wealthy and powerful. That's how they have survived for over fifty years without notice."
"Fifty years?" He frowned. "And how often are these human sacrifices?"
"Once a year. I am to be number fifty. It is an honor in a strange way, I suppose."
"And who do they sacrifice?"
"Always young girls who have certain talents."
"Psychic gifts?"
She smiled. "I should have known you would understand."
"But I don't. How could a child go missing each year and no one notice?"
"They have money and the power they take from each girl feeds their own."
"This needs to stop!" She flinched and immediately he calmed down. "I'm sorry."
She inched back toward him. "That is why you are here. You will stop them."
He looked at his useless hands. "I can do nothing."
"For now. But there will be a later... and a reckoning."
*****
"We got a problem." The voice on the phone sounded frantic.
"What do you mean?" was the calm, assured reply.
"There are three men down at the station saying they have information about the Delacroix case."
"Local men?"
"Nah. Washington."
"D.C. or the state?"
"There's a state? Oh, right. Probably the state. They didn't flash any federal I.D. or anything, but they do have badges."
"It's probably nothing. What could they possibly know?"
"I was hoping you would have the answer to that. You were the one who said you thought she may have been talking to someone during the rituals. Maybe it was one of them. She was extremely talented."
"Which is why she was chosen. If she was in contact with one of the visitors, that would mean he's the one who has her power. Excellent. I thought it was lost to us. Now we have a chance to get it back."
"But that means..."
"Exactly."
"But they're cops!"
"Cops can't die? By accident, of course. Or maybe if they stumble into a bad situation? How utterly tragic."
Cold. "But we don't know which one it is."
"Then get rid of all three." The transmission was disconnected.
*****
Jim was surprised that he hadn't choked on the words. He had actually admitted he held conversations with the dead. Remarkable. These ghosts were definitely getting the better of him this time around. He looked to his companions to get their reactions. A light in Blair's eyes revealed how proud he was of his partner. And Simon just sat back as if the confession was nothing out of the ordinary.
Mike exchanged glances with Joey, wondering if the visitors were playing with them. He waited for one of them to smile, laugh, or say, "Gotcha". But none of that happened. "Uh, by this you mean you hold seances or something?"
"I mean the dead talk to me." Jim tapped the side of his head for emphasis. "They come in, look around, and sit for a spell. Then we talk."
Joey cleared his throat. "So, uh, what do you talk about?"
"Mainly death. Who did what when."
"I see," Mike said slowly. "And you've talked to Alicia Delacroix? You're telling us she's dead?"
Jim nodded. "She was murdered two nights ago."
"By who?"
"People in robes and masks with feathers."
"That's rather convenient, isn't it?" Mike asked tightly. "You come in here, declare you've talked to a missing girl who has been killed but you have no details?"
Jim saw Simon start to reply and raised his hand to halt him. "I have details. You just haven't asked the right questions."
"Listen, mister! I don't know who the hell you think you are or how stupid you think we are--"
"Can I answer that one?" Blair interjected.
"Just a minute, you--" Joey said in automatic defense of his partner.
"You want to stop right there, mister," Simon declared. "Do you think these men have nothing better to do than come down here and solve your case? They have a stack of files of their own that they're working on and I should know, because I'm the one who assigned them. But even knowing how many cases he has in Cascade, and how many more he'll have when he gets back, Det. Ellison volunteered to come down here and give you the information he has. If you don't want it, fine. We can be on the next plane to Cascade and you can add one more to your list of unsolved cases."
Jim fought a smirk coming to his face. Blair always talked about him being in protect mode, but Simon in the same "condition" was formidable as well. He'd known from the minute Simon said he was coming with them he had slipped into his Watcher routine, making sure his team had the room they needed to operate in their own weird way. Without the captain as a firewall, the secret of the Sentinel would have gone down in flames long ago.
"Look, sir, you have to understand--" Mike began, sorry for losing his temper. Growing up in the Quarter, he had seen a lot of unexplainable things and maybe Ellison fell into that realm. It was just that they were so desperate for "real" information.
"No. We don't have to understand anything," Simon interrupted. "We are here out of the goodness of our hearts. Unlike you, we aren't getting paid for working this case. Unlike you, we don't have anything riding on solving it. Our reputations will not suffer. We do not have distraught parents asking us questions, begging for information. A lost little girl is not on our consciences." So that part was a lie but they didn't have to know that, Simon reasoned.
"Does this look like a fabrication?" Blair asked as he reached into his backpack and pulled out the sketch Jim had drawn.
Joey paled and Mike shrugged. "So you've seen a picture of Alicia Delacroix and made a copy. So what?"
"So none of us has ever seen a picture of Alicia," Blair informed him. "I didn't know until I saw your reactions that this even remotely resembled her."
"But that's impossible," Joey said. "Who drew this?"
"I did," Jim said.
Joey opened the file Mike had brought into the interrogation room and pulled out a photo. "This is Alicia Delacroix."
Jim, who had "seen" Alicia didn't need to look at the photo, but Blair and Simon eagerly studied it. Jim's sketch was unbelievably too perfect, although she looked a bit older. "When was this picture taken?" Blair asked.
"Two years ago. She missed taking her school pictures this year," Joey explained.
"She was having her appendix out," Jim further clarified.
Mike looked at Joey and signaled defeat. "What can you tell us about the death of Alicia Delacroix, Det. Ellison?"
Jim sat there with a blank look in his eyes, his head slightly tilted. "What are you hearing, Jim?" Blair asked, recognizing the signs.
Suddenly Jim's eyes focused. "Get down, Chief!"
Blair dropped to the floor and Simon reached for his gun.
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