New
Arrivals
Author-Marilyn
Titles
The Last Experiment
Part Two
by Marilyn
See notes and disclaimer on part one.
"...that is so cool, man!" Blair said, as he and Jim awkwardly guided the large trunk through the open door of the loft. "You can still hear "Oy Como Va" echoing off the elevator walls...?"
"Yep. Which way, Ollie?"
"Over here, Stan," said Blair, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the empty space under the stairs to the loft. "Why am I the one going backwards?"
"Ginger Rodgers did everything Fred Astaire did, wearing high heels and going backwards, you wuss."
Blair laughed. "Wrong movie. Hey, don't forget to tell Trina that. It's inspiring." Jim dropped his side abruptly and reached to rub the back of his neck.
"You OK?"
"Yeah. Just Excedrin Headache Number 52."
"Would that be a 'Santana played at a zillion decibels headache'?"
"That would be the one."
Blair walked over and pulled a bottle of aspirin out of the kitchen cabinet. Shaking out two, he returned to Jim, who swallowed them dry.
"See, it's just that - " Blair hesitated.
"Spit it out, Sandburg."
"Well, it's like you're doing this 'good cop, bad cop' thing and playing both parts...are you sure you don't have a ''the whole world is about to find out I'm a Sentinel' headache? Because if you do..."
Jim looked up into Blair's troubled gaze. "No," Jim replied truthfully. "Although there may be elements of an 'I hope the whole world isn't about to learn the sad truth about my sex life' headache."
Blair smiled, clearly relieved. "Scout's honor. Y'know, Jim, if you were shagging supermodels every night, you'd have begged me to put it in." With that parting shot, Blair disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.
"Great comeback, Chief," Jim muttered to himself. He crossed to the answering machine and retrieved the messages. All four were for Blair. He played the last one twice. Then he reached for his leather jacket and withdrew the small object from the pocket. Blair breezed back in to peer at the baking pizza through the oven window. "I can see it now...Chapter 30 - Sentinel Pick-up Lines: 'Hey baby, did you know jaguars need 60 square feet to make love?' Anything good?" he asked, indicating the machine.
"IBM, Proctor & Gamble, Cascade Pharmaceuticals and another co-ed with incredibly bad eyesight trying to cage you into a private horizontal tutoring session."
"Sorry," said Blair insincerely, grinning.
"Don't be. Listening to your messages saves me the trouble of calling the phone sex line. Listen, Blair...have you decided what offer you're going to take?"
"Well, that last one sounded pretty good."
"Seriously."
"Aw, Jim, you know I'm holding out until Bill Gates calls me personally." Blair picked up his beer and gestured Jim to the couch. "OK, seriously. I just can't see myself working full-time for any corporation. Of course, the money's fantastic. I was thinking I could work as a private consultant on a case-by-case basis. Just as a sideline while I continue to teach. Lots of PhDs do that."
Encouraged, Jim forged ahead, ignoring the bats in his stomach. "Actually, Chief, there's another alternative." With that, he tossed the object in his hand to Blair, who caught it between his palms.
"This...this is a detective badge, Jim. I don't deserve this."
"Hear me out, Chief. When that Alamo thing went down, I cut out the USA Today article, clipped it to a print-out of our arrest record and laid it on Simon's desk. You know Simon, he moved right on it. The mayor loved the idea - hell, he was thrilled to find out he'd been doing something innovative without even realizing it. Called Simon a genius. They're already planning to pitch it to other police departments. There may be some publicity, but nothing we can't handle..."
"Jim, Jim, hold up. What idea?"
"Pairing a cop with an anthropologist. Officially...and permanently."
"Whoa, Jim." Blair got up and paced across the room to the windows. "You sure know how to pick your moments."
"You don't have to decide right away. I know you've got a lot of processing to do. I just wanted to put it out there on the table. I mean, it's not a six-figure salary, but I -"
"One time, I asked Henri to show me how to handle a weapon," said Blair abruptly, without turning around.
Jim blinked at the non-sequiter, but decided to go with it. "I don't get it, Chief. Why didn't you just ask me?"
"You were in the hospital," said Blair quietly, "and I didn't want you to find out, in case I couldn't do it." He turned slowly to face Jim, hands clenched in fists. "H. told me to pretend the target was the guy who shot youŠand I started shooting...and I-I just went berserk, man. Rambo personified. Didn't stop until I was out of ammo, and then some. Scared the shit out of poor H."
Jim was quiet for a moment, savoring this evidence of his Guide's continued loyalty...then realized this must have occurred just before Alex Barnes appeared on the scene.
"I hope you got the bastard," he said, the feeble joke masking his despair. God, we were so close. Blair gave a nervous laugh. "Oh, yeah. Vengeance was mine." He stopped and turned to face Jim, suddenly very still. "That's when I knew I could never carry a gun."
"That's the beauty part, Chief. You don't have to. Don't you see...they want you precisely because you aren't a cop. No gun. No uniform. No haircut. You're free to be you, with no apologies or excuses."
"Jim...I...hah...I don't know what to say. I am seriously weirded out here. I'm - I'm not sure this is the best time for me to be contemplating employment with the Cascade P.D., you know?"
Jim swallowed. "I guess I shouldn't have brought it up tonight, when you've got so much else on your mind."
"Tomorrow, Jim. We'll talk tomorrow, OK? I promise." Blair shoved a nervous hand through his hair. "Look, you're tired. Have a sprawl and dial everything down but taste. Dinner will be ready in a few."
Jim collapsed on the new couch with a sigh, pushing back to a reclining position and switching on the heat control.
You took your one and only shot, Ellison. Only time will tell if you hit this mark.
His ears were ringing. He concentrated and identified the source - tiny bubbles rising to the surface of his beer. Fermented hops, he reminded himself with a grimace. If Sandburg decided to stay at Rainier, he was going to personally see to it that the B. S. Mem Ftn was filled with beer. That way Blair would just float to the top...or die happy.
Blair has had so many close calls...if he stays with you, his luck is bound to run out one day...ow...dammit!
How was he supposed to relax when Sandburg was making such a racket, anyway? It sounded like he was banging pot lids together. Jim focused with an effort and realized the noise was merely the clink of the metal tags on Blair's bracelet.
Oh, no.
"Sandburg," Jim whispered weakly. "Blair..." But Blair couldn't hear him, not over the noise of the bubbles and the charms and the echoes and the crowd cheering Orvelle's three-point shot inside the Coliseum and, oh God, the TV wasn't even on and the rain falling over the sound with a hiss like grilling steaks...
And then he zoned.
***
Sally was calling him for dinner, but he pretended not to hear...whatever she had prepared, it didn't smell very appetizing. Maybe one of those 1,000-year old eggs her family ate to celebrate Chinese New Year. He wrinkled his nose. Blair would say it was no different from eating gorgonzola cheese. Or fat Peruvian grubs. A cultural thing.
Blair...help me...
The opaque, colorless light split and refracted into a rainbow of colors which quickly melted away, leaving only a murky blue-green. It's just an eclipse, he thought. A celestial event.
But the light never returned.
He went in search of it, laboriously pulling his boots free of entangling jungle foliage with every faltering step. With nothing to indicate the way, he wandered in ever-smaller circles, until finally, exhausted, he spiraled down into the dark silence, certain he would never see the light again.
More and less evolved than other men, able to sense other planes of existence even as he himself remained firmly bound to the earth, unable to escape the consequences of his own primitive instincts...only through the eyes of his Guide had he caught a glimpse of a different reality...a paradise in which he was not cursed, but blessed.
That single, seductive glimpse would have to suffice. His Guide would not be tethered as well, a helpless and ready sacrifice. What happened at the fountain would never happen again...even if it meant letting go.
The Sentinel howled in anguish, once again wrenched from the other half of its soul, abandoned to the dark and featureless void of a solitary future...the stillness made all the more profound by the fading memories of color and music and laughter.
This time there would be no repression of his senses, no dulling of his pain...and every tear he shed would serve as a reminder of the moment of his damnation.
***
"...Jim, you sonovabitch, you are not getting out of dinner this way! Not even if I have to blend it up and give it to you intravenously...and I'll throw in some curry, that'll wake you up...and some algae powder...oh, and that can of Spam I bought to polish the furniture with...believe it, man..."
***
Thump - thump. Thump - thump. Thump - thump.
The ground beneath the fallen Sentinel resonated with the regular pulsing of a drumbeat.
The tribe, Jim thought, chest heaving. They're trying to show me the way home.
The deaf and blind Sentinel pushed himself up on trembling arms, pulled off his boots and rose painfully to his feet. A moment to distinguish between the subtle vibrations of the earth and the slight tremors that racked his own body, then he began to walk slowly toward his tribe and the soundless message of the drumsong - "I know you're tired, but come."
This is the way home.
***
His Guide was touching him, holding him, and no sound was ever sweeter than Blair's pounding heartbeat, no color more vivid than the blue of Blair's eyes. Jim blinked and stared, wondering muzzily if he'd acquired the ability to see colors outside of the normal spectrum.
"Thank God." Blair eased back, kneeling on the cushions beside him. "Shush...just breath. BREATH, dammit!", this last exhortation addressed to himself. "Your meditation technique sucks, man."
Jim relaxed under the touch of his Guide's hands, gliding thigh to knee, shoulder to elbow and back again, as though he feared Jim might have broken a bone or two while lying zoned in an overstuffed Barco-lounger.
"OK. You're back. You're good." Blair took a deep, shuddering breath. "This hasn't happened for a while. I didn't...I couldn't figure out what was causing it - "
"Beer," said Jim. "The bubbles. Loud."
Blair reached across Jim for the half-full glass and chugged the contents.
"My hero," said Jim, smiling faintly.
"The least I could do, man," grinned Blair, stifling a belch. "OK, your hearing must be completely shot...let's picture the dial..."
"I'm all right, Blair. Christ, I'm like a little kid." Jim swallowed. "Laying all my problems at your feet. Always looking to you to make things right. Not fair to you." God, had he zoned just to see if Blair would come for him?
Jim abruptly sat up, wanting away from the dual embrace of recliner and Guide. Both stubbornly refused to relinquish him, and he fell back to the cushions with a surprised huff. A small red and black book balanced on the edge of the coffee table clattered to the floor, pages fanning open.
It was a ledger. There, recorded in surprisingly neat script, was an accounting of every penny Blair owed to Jim. Every missed rent payment, every emergency loan, every meal spotted for, every twenty casually left behind on the kitchen counter when the grant money was late. The last entry, the ink barely dry, was for the five dollars he'd given Trina for bus fare. Grand total...
"$16,873," Jim read dully.
"And two cents," Blair added quietly.
Two cents. I'll give him two cents. "Hell, Sandburg. I can't even buy a decent truck for that."
Blair was at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "Maybe with the trade-in," he laughed nervously, "or, um, the salvage value, as the case may be." He gestured with his hands, palms out. "If you don't think it's fair, Jim, I'll be glad to..."
"I owe you my fucking life!" Jim exploded, cutting Blair off. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be in a fucking psyche ward, or a living in a fucking shack on the side of fucking Mt. Saint Helen's, or in a fucking monastery..."
"Now, there's a fate worse than death," Blair tried.
"...or any of the other fucking places you looked for me! Just because I don't have it written down in nice, neat columns doesn't mean I don't know exactly how much I owe you!"
"Jim - chill, man."
But Jim was glad to be angry, glad to have something to put inside of himself, something warm to fill the cold, empty place that would be left when Blair was gone. Something else to thank him for. Thank you, Chief, thank you so very fucking much for making me angry. Jim snapped the ledger shut and tossed it aside. "You want to settle up, Chief? Fine. Forget this. After tomorrow, we're square. No matter what happens..." Jim faltered. "I...I got a hell of a bargain," he finished softly.
Blair looked at the discarded book with disbelief. "My God, Jim - I...look, there's nothing to worry about," Blair said, squeezing Jim's shoulder gingerly, like a lion-tamer petting a big cat. He went into his room, and returned with a slender spiral-bound volume. "I think it's way past time that you read this."
"I'll wait for the movie," said Jim.
"Just look at the title, Jim..."
"NO!" Jim shouted, knocking the dissertation from Blair's hand. "I don't want to. I don't need to. I trust you. That's right - you managed to pull this genetic throwback a few rungs up the evolutionary ladder, Chief. If there's anything in the diss that changes life as I know it, well...maybe that's the way things are supposed to be. Because I find I now believe in spirit and faith and destiny and goddamned aphrodisiacs. So don't screw with me when I'm having a religious experience, OK?"
Blair held up his hands, as if in surrender. "Then what's the problem, Jim - if not the diss? Clue me in. Let me help."
"Chief, I'm sorry - I don't want to need you..."
Blair looked even more shocked, as if the ground was suddenly crumbling away beneath his feet.
Dammit! His world was ending right now, a day too early - and the Sentinel, for all his abilities, was powerless to stop it. But Jim Ellison could, if only he could find the words. God...Blair had written a whole book about him, and he couldn't offer a few simple words in return? The Sentinel within screamed in helpless, incoherent fury.
"Not again...that's it, man," Blair said, reaching for his jacket.
"Wait...where are you going?"
"Out to get you some raw meat."
Jim swallowed. "You don't have any money."
"Yeah, well, with any luck I'll find a fresh kill out on I-9."
"You don't have a car."
"Oh, yeah...that's right. Guess 'dependence' goes both ways, huh?" Blair said bitterly. He stood by the door, fists clenched, like a child who has declared he is running away, only to realize that he has no where to run.
"Listen, Chief," Jim said desperately. "Truth is, I'm contemplating life outside the Sandburg Zone, and I don't much like the view. I've gotten kind of attached to you," Jim said, inwardly wincing at his inept description of a connection more binding than chain, yet so light there was no sense of being tethered at all. "I've discovered that I'm willing to risk more when I can rely on someone being around to pick up the pieces. It doesn't feel like dependence...it's more like...like..." " - freedom?" finished Blair. "The freedom to fly as high as you can, because you know there's someone to catch you if you fall...and a safe place to rest until you find the strength to try again? Is that the feeling, Jim?"
Jim nodded mutely.
Blair broke into a smile.
Apparently Doctor Sandburg did not intend to penalize him for grammatical errors or incomplete sentence structure. Jim heaved a shaky sigh of relief.
"I know that feeling," Blair said. He gestured around the loft. "You gave me a home. The first real home I ever had." He crossed back to the sofa and flopped down beside Jim.
"No, buddy...you gave me one. You helped me cope with the Sentinel thing - but the most important thing you taught me was to have a little humanity."
Blair snorted affectionately. "I didn't teach you that. You feel things in here," he said, touching the center of Jim's chest, "just as strongly as you sense things out here," he said, guiding Jim's hand over his own heart.
The exhausted Sentinel sensed his Guide's beating heart through all the layers of leather and flannel, and was lulled to a state of restfulness. Home.
"You're both very strong and extremely vulnerable. Your capacity to love is as great as your ability to feel betrayed," Blair added softly. "That's why you didn't want to need anybody, isn't it?"
Jim lowered his eyes, recognizing the truth of it. "Anything else, Doctor Freud?"
"You chose professions where you could serve and protect, while maintaining an emotional detachment. You valued structure and authority, then broke the rules at every opportunity. When you were separated from your Guide, you repressed any memory of your senses. You had amazing coping mechanisms, but you were at war with yourself, man. I just helped negotiate the truce."
Jim looked up at Blair. "I don't know what the future holds after tomorrow, or whether it will even be possible for us to continue on as we have in the past...but I just want you to know that I'll be...glad...if that's your decision. You're part of what - of who I am. I saw the black jaguar when I first started to trust my Sentinel abilities. That was in Peru - right before you turned down that offer to go to Borneo. And again when Incacha passed the way of the shaman to you..." Jim trailed off, distracted by thoughts of his first Guide, who'd made an improbable journey of thousands of miles to be reunited with his Sentinel, only to die in his arms.
"I'd theorized that Sentinels would have formidable defenses, so I knew from the get-go what I was getting into," said Blair easily. "But I confess, I was starting to wonder if you'd ever feel comfortable with your senses in this urban context - until you told me about the cat. It signified your kundalini - the reclaiming of your true power."
"I appreciate you sticking it out," said Jim, uncomfortable as always when Sandburg started to spout this mystical stuff. "But listen - I understand that it's not about me any more. It's your turn, now. Time to find your own path. It's not fair to expect you to commit any more time to this thing." But I'll never forget the past three years, Jim pledged silently. I'll never forget you...no matter what.
Blair nodded his agreement, smiling happily. "You're right. It's not about you any more. It's about us."
"Us - what...?!"
Blair got off the sofa ("ouch, ouch, ouch - my foot's asleep") and limped to the balcony doors, looking out over the city. Jim levered himself to a sitting position, watching intently.
"I can't sit back and observe my destiny. I have to LIVE it!" Blair proclaimed to Greater Cascade, arms flung wide. "After tomorrow, I can throw the pretense of objectivity out the window. After tomorrow, I'll never again have to deny what I am - " He turned to face Jim, seemingly in slow motion. " A shaman...and your Guide."
Jim closed his eyes. Oh, God...oh, God, thank you. He was...claimed.
"I came back from the dead for you, Jim. Why would you think I'd leave you now? Do I look like the kind of guy who'd leave a man as soon as he put him through school?" Blair asked with a grin, totally unaffected by the significance of the moment.
"You were packing," he answered, dazed.
"I'm not packing, man. Just reorganizing a little. Picking out things to put on my spirit altar."
"I - what the hell is a spirit altar, and what does my old footlocker have to do with it?"
"A place to assemble objects that symbolize the things you treasure most. A visual reminder of where you are and how you got there. The trunk represents you - the foundation for all the rest."
Jim rose unsteadily, reaching for his Guide, and was swiftly caught and held. He gave in to his emotions - finally, finally unafraid. For here was strength, strength enough to hold him together when he was coming apart; strength that would hold up under the onslaught of his fiercely powerful, potentially dangerous love and return it in equal measure.
"You were working so hard to finish your dissertation," he finally choked out.
"It had outlived its usefulness. I knew I had to get it out of the way. Sticking to the quantifiable is holding us back, man. Now we can explore the mystical aspect of all this."
"Only if we can find a way to make sure Jim Ellison stays in charge the next time my Sentinel instincts kick in. I can't risk it ever happening again. Can you really forgive me for letting it...letting her -"
"Sure. I've got a martyr complex, remember?" Blair teased gently. He began to rub Jim's back in small circles. "Jim...having a genetic mutation doesn't make you a Sentinel. You're a Sentinel because of your heart and soul and the kind of man you are. Your instincts are just fine."
He eased back to look Jim in the face and offered up an apology of his own. "When Alex turned up, I was still trying to convince myself that I was just an impartial researcher. But when I saw my spirit animal for the first time at the fountain," his voice taking on the timbre that resonated in Jim's soul, "and felt it merge with yours...I knew that I really was a shaman, born to be your Guide. It was my kundalini."
Jim looked into his Guide's wide, wondrous eyes, humbled to be the object of such devotion and determined to be worthy of it. It was sweet, heart-breakingly sweet to be the pot of gold at the end of Blair Sandburg's rainbow.
"This is going to mean more experiments, isn't it?" Jim said, trying to appear annoyed and failing miserably.
"Yep. There's all sorts of things I can't wait to find out. Like why you're afraid of water and I'm afraid of heights. Our psychic signals are definitely crossed there, man." He gazed at Jim a moment longer, then pulled away, smacking Jim on the arm. "Now...let's eat and catch what's left of the game."
"Yeah...this stuff can wait until tomorrow," Jim said, gesturing at the clutter. After all, he thought happily, tomorrow is just the beginning. "You should hit the sack early tonight."
"You too? What is this strange power I have that makes people want to get me into bed...?" Blair wondered.
Jim rolled his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, Chief."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Jim...I've just got to get some rest."
He watched as Blair sliced his culinary masterpiece into steaming wedges. Jim had to admit that it looked pretty good. Even if it did smell like old socks.
"Remember, I'll need extra time to get ready in the morning," said Blair.
"Need to make yourself gorgeous for the delectable Doctor Saunderson," he teased. "Don't worry, Sandburg, I can shower, shave, dress, have coffee, read the paper, cook breakfast and wash the dishes while you're still in the cream rinse cycle."
"Ah, Jim...? What would you say if I told you Doctor Saunderson isn't a woman?"
"Too much information, Chief," Jim said, and went to retrieve the plates.
***
Blair opened his eyes, laced his fingers and stretched. He unfolded his crossed legs, hissing softly as the old bullet wound made itself known. He glanced at his watch - a gift from Jim, who had grown tired of waiting on Blair when the "internal rhythms of the Earth" ran twenty minutes late. He took it off and held it close to his eyes.
4:10 am. Three hours...not bad, considering.
He rose to his knees before the spirit altar, contemplating the items he had assembled there. Beeswax candles flickered in multi-colored votives fashioned from beads and bits of glass, casting light and shadows over the odd assortment.
A photo of himself with Jim, taken by Simon during a fishing trip. A Mayan clay pipe, broken to pieces and painstakingly glued back together. An antique inkwell in the shape of a woman's hat. A worn copy of the Talmud resting atop "The Sentinels of Paraguay", with a poignant thank-you letter from one of his students tucked between the leaves. A pot of Peruvian cat's-claw nestled beside a pot of peppermint dug from his grandmother's yard. His Orvelle Wallace NBA card. A $100 bill.
Blair picked up a plastic keychain stamped "Souvenir of Coney Island" and held it to the light. Squinting to look through the peephole, he grinned at the photo inside - he and Naomi dressed like Bonnie and Clyde. He laid it back down next to a carved fetish in the shape of a wolf, letting his fingers trail over the stone. It was warm to his touch.
The centerpiece of the altar was a small fountain. Water flowed over a flat piece of slate suspended from a copper arch into a basin filled with the rocks he'd collected on his journeys. Naomi had frowned upon collections of material things, so Blair had scooped up rocks - which, after all, cost nothing and didn't take up much space. A bit of ancient brick from Jerusalem...cats-eye marbles won from a neighborhood bully in Queens...smooth grey stones from a trout stream.
Blair listened to the sound of the falling water, head tilted, eyes closed in concentration. Now and then he nodded. Later, he rearranged the stones and contemplated the new sound that was created. If he tried, he could hear the slate wearing away and the copper oxidizing to a verdigris patina.
At last, Blair drew back and picked up a delicate circlet of white feathers, found inside the pillow on which Incacha had died. He gazed though it for long minutes, watching the vision it framed. Above him, Jim stirred restlessly and moaned in his sleep.
Finally touching the death crown to the flame of his meditation candle, he consigned it to the heavens, bidding Incacha a safe passing in his broken Quechua.
Sighing, he added two last items to the collection...his Sentinel research...and his dissertation.
"Closed Ranks - The Social Structure of the Cascade Police Department."
He'd changed his research topic over two years ago, shortly after he and Jim returned from Peru...then dug in to wait for Jim to catch up. He was Guide to a Sentinel, and he would gladly spend the rest of his life learning all that entailed. He would not subject the study to artificial deadlines or superficial evaluation. They were only getting started, and there were volumes left to write.
I'm sorry, Jim, he apologized silently. But I had to know for sure.
Blair closed his eyes in regret, thinking of his neighbor, Jean Ashe, and all the other unbonded Sentinels and Guides who did not understand what had happened to them. "Someday," Blair promised, softer than a dreaming Sentinel could hear. "When we're both in the home. And we need the money for condoms and Wonderburgers and six-packs...and good toilet paper."
-Finis-
Thank you for reading! Feedback humbly begged for. :D
Marilyn
mmartin@eurekanet.com