New
Arrivals
Author-Pam Bazemore
Titles
Overload
by Pam Bazemore
Disclaimer: The Sentinel, Blair Sandburg, Jim Ellison, Simon Banks, and all other characters are property of Paramount and Pet Fly. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money has exchanged hands.
Summary: What would Jim do if his extraordinary abilities unexpectedly went into overdrive?
Warnings: Other than a couple of mild swear words, there's a few descriptions of blood and injuries.
Author's Notes: Although I've written other fan fiction, this is my first Sentinel piece. And even though I've read this thing 3 dozen times, I'm sure there are still mistakes I haven't found. My apologies. Thanks loads to Kimberly for a swift beta read. Feedback encouraged and always welcome.
Crouched safely at the edge of the concrete retaining column with his shoulder braced hard against it, Detective James Ellison eased his handgun around the edge and squeezed off another round. He and Blair had chased a pair of suspects from a jewelry store heist to this secondary road beneath a bridge along Highway 5. The bandits, who had crashed their car, were now on foot and running for cover.
Jim automatically opened his senses up fully and was alert and aware of everything around him. The light breeze blowing between the supports of the bridge, the roar of traffic on the highway overhead, the distant sound of sirens miles away, one of the robbers rustling the bushes just off to his right, firing back at the detective with a small caliber handgun.
And although his immediate attention was on the man beyond him in the bushes, in the back of his mind, Jim was also aware of the second suspect somewhere to his left. The pound of his running feet merged with his hammering heartbeat meant that he was getting away. But Jim could only take care of one thing at a time. And the man shooting at him was his first priority.
His perception, peaked, heightened, and finely tuned, was focused on the area where the first man was hidden. Jim heard his madly thumping heart and his quick, shallow breathing as clearly as if his ear were pressed against the man's chest. Jim reached around the column again. Allowing the sound of the man to direct his aim, he fired. A moment later he heard him fall.
"Jim! Look out!"
Over the din of commotion, he heard the familiar but faint sound of his partner's voice yelling at him from the safety behind his Ford truck where he had ordered him to stay and call for backup. There was the sound of scuffle, and it was only a moment later that he heard the click of a key grinding the ignition of a vehicle. He recognized the sound of a 302-engine roaring to life and the gears of the automatic transmission being wrenched into drive.
Jerking his head around in response to Sandburg's warning outcry, it took only a moment for him to realize the imminent danger he was in. And it took only a fraction longer for him to realize he was going to be seconds too slow to sufficiently react to it.
During Jim's adrenaline-filled distraction, he had failed in his awareness that the second member of the pair of suspects had actually circled behind him. Viciously knocking Sandburg away in his desperate attempt to escape, the man was now not only trying to steal Jim's own Ford, he had stomped the accelerator and was aiming the right headlight and front quarter directly at Jim.
Only yards away, the truck was angling toward the wall straight for him. In that instant, Jim knew that the man intended to try to crush him against the barrier. And between the span of a pair of racing heartbeats, he knew without doubt that there was no chance he was going to have enough time to move out of the way.
His only reaction was raise himself to his feet, plant his back firmly against the biting roughness of the concrete, raise his gun, and fire.
He watched the shrieking bullet shear forward, going exactly where he had aimed...
... Bursting through the edge of the rim of the front right wheel, the slug immediately causing the tire to explode and go flat.
The truck began to weave back and forth as the agitated and frightened driver struggled to keep it under control. The man jerked the wheel hard to the left in a last ditch effort to give up his original intentions of crushing the police officer and make a run for it. The heavy pickup truck, with the shredded front tire ripping apart under its weight against the rough asphalt, begin to shift and tilt hard to the right. Unexpectedly, the destroyed front tire dropped off onto the recessed grate of a storm drain that had been incorporated at the edge of the tarmac in front of Jim. The drastic shift of weight of the already tilting truck caused it to tip completely up onto two wheels.
Involuntarily, Jim cringed and threw his arms across his face as the blue hood of his own truck came at him, the momentum still carrying it forward at 30 miles an hour.
And when the Ford finally slammed into the column, bright, searing, nearly unbearable agony pierced and sliced and ripped through the Sentinel's entire system.
The engine sputtered and died. Then there was a ticking and hissing of fumes and gasses as the hot motor began to cool down. The odor of melted rubber, hot anti-freeze, and exhaust fumes permeated the air. The unsuspecting traffic on the bridge above continued to roar by. The screaming sirens of distant police vehicles were continuing their approach, but still far too many miles away to be of any use.
Everything else was still and quiet.
Sometime long ago, long before the construction of Highway 5, a rather attentive engineer drew the plans for the many bridges required along that particular stretch of road. With a little intelligent foresight, he comprised a small recess to be fashioned along the outer structural face on each of the square columns that supported the bridge. Now, to the layman, this small and seemingly inessential inclusion appears to be a pointless waste of time and manpower. But earlier extensive research had shown a different aspect. Time and again it had proved that this hollowed out area actually gave extra strength and countenance to the pillars, and was therefore embodied into each and every bridge construction along the highway.
Only eighteen inches wide and four inches deep, this tiny niche had accidentally become an area of shelter for one particular police officer. For wedged in that tiny and nearly insignificant recess of this support column, combined with the V created between the crumpled hood and the shattered windshield, Jim Ellison was alive.
Unfortunately, he was also conscious.
Although wracked with unbelievable pain, an all-engulfing panic threatened his internal control. His first instinct was to struggle, to free himself from the entrapment. But the harder he struggled, the more excruciating the agony from his pinned legs punished him. Shock was quickly turning into fear and terrifying claustrophobia.
Jim's mind worked at lightning speed. What was he going to do? How the hell was he going to get out of this? God, please don't let me die.
In a tiny, but blessed moment of rationality, Jim knew that first off, he had to get his emotions under control. He stilled his movements and made himself take a moment to evaluate the enormity of his situation. He couldn't afford to panic now because any desperate act on his part could quite possibly get him killed.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Sucking in deep, but jagged breaths, he tried to force himself to relax. He inhaled and exhaled deeply several times until his head began to swim, but the pain was too great. He couldn't seem to get past the raw, piercing agony shooting up through his legs. He opened his eyes again, blinking to clear them.
But when he looked up, he realized that everything had taken on an unreal, surrealistic aura. The deep azure of the clear sky and the different shades of green on the trees were so intensely bright and vivid it was almost as if he could taste them. The cool breeze he had felt earlier now seemed like hurricane winds whipping about his face. He smelled moisture and the musk of wildlife and the sweet composting vegetation from the nearby forest. The strong, sickening stench of hot fluids, steam, and gasoline from the overturned vehicle was thick in his nostrils and nearly made him gag. He heard the moan of the man who tried to kill him, now injured and deposited into a heap on the passenger side of the cab. He smelled his bad breath, heard his labored breathing.
And Jim, fully suffused with the agony of his own body, was fully aware of each cracked bone, every ripped capillary, and every inch of his torn flesh. His head pulsated with the wild beat of his heart as blood surged through his veins.
Still fully engaged in his Sentinel abilities, Jim's awareness had somehow become sharper and more sensitive and all his sensations felt has if they had increased in intensity by tenfold. Everything was in-his-face too close, too strong, and way too loud, coming in at a thousand miles an hour and all at once.
But most of all, beyond anything else he was experiencing, Jim later would swear to himself that he thought he remembered hearing the agonized cry of a large cat.
"Jim? Jim!"
His back was rigid against the rough and jagged pattern of concrete on the retaining wall. A searing, shimmering heat rose from the truck body, the hood almost too hot to touch under his hands, scorching and drawing the flesh of his face and arms. The sharp, metal edge of the gun that was somehow still pressed into his palm was digging painful grooves into his skin. Waves of heat radiated from the overhead bridge that he could see swaying slightly under the weight of the traffic above.
"Jim! My God, I can't believe you're alive! Can you hear me? Say something!"
He was aware of each and every drop of sweat erupting from the pores on the surface of his skin; skin that was tingly and numb at the same time. The coppery smell of his hot blood was making his stomach roil. He tasted brassy, acidic bile rising in his throat, combining with the lingering sharpness of the mint toothpaste he'd used this morning. The salty tears that leaked from the corner of his eyes burned like liquid fire as they streaked tributaries down his cheeks.
"Dammit, Jim! Answer me!"
Somewhere in the mad swirl of this erratic haze, he heard Sandburg calling his name. His partner's voice, with its dozen emotional inflections influenced by a dozen different ancient accents, vibrated the air all around him. He smelled the herbal aroma of his shampoo, the subtle spiciness of his after-shave, and the nervous sweat of his body. In his mind's eye, he pictured his partner's face, more familiar to him than the one he saw reflected in the mirror each morning.
"Too much." Jim heard the raspy hoarseness in his own voice. "Too much."
Sandburg was mumbling frantically to himself on the other side of the truck. "Too much? Too much?" he was repeating. Jim could picture his partner wringing his hands as he struggled internally with the meaning.
"My legs," he grunted, trying desperately to make Sandburg understand. Disjointed, disoriented, and almost totally zoned in on the pain, that uncomfortable sense of panic began to constrict his throat again. "My God, I'm feeling... everything. Colors, sounds, heat, everything's mixing together..."
Blair's voice came back strong with a controlled tenseness. "Shut down, Jim! Shut down everything!"
"Wh-what?" he answered with fuzzy comprehension.
"Listen to me, Jim," Blair commanded in an urgent tone that warranted no objection. "Before, your senses were heightened and alive and turned on full. And maybe it's the pain, or the intensity of the situation, or... or whatever, but somehow your senses have shifted into overdrive! You have to shut them down! Shut them down, now!"
There was logic intermingled with the panic of his voice and in the back of his mind Jim knew what Blair was saying was true. But he discovered that he couldn't find the mastery within himself to try to turn his abilities off. Rational thought was frighteningly elusive as his attention was drawn from one concentrated sensation to the next with blazing velocity. The discipline he prided himself on being able to keep himself centered and alert had gone haywire. The grating torture in his body was clouding his ability to think clearly. Too many sensations were bombarding him at once.
"I... can't." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't do it."
"Yes you can, Jim. You have to!"
"Too much..."
"Jim! We don't know what this could do to you!"
"Blair... God... I'm... I can't."
"Listen to me, man!" Sandburg ordered. "Concentrate on the sound of my voice! You have to try to separate your senses in your mind."
Jim ground his teeth and swallowed hard. This must be what feels like to die, he thought. When the image of them pulling his limp, dead body out afterward swept through his mind, the full measure of it shook him to the core.
He was feeling something he wasn't familiar with, unsure of how to handle: raw fear.
And then came the sudden and bitter realization that in his fear, his emotions were unchecked and that he was dangerously close to insanity.
"Damn..." He whispered the admonishment to himself. Detective James Ellison wasn't used to being out of control. He usually reacted with clear-headed decisions in dire and life-threatening emergencies. Especially if the life-threatening emergency was his own. His fear made him angry.
He drew in a shaky breath and felt an uncontrollable quiver in his brow. "Stay with me, Chief."
"I'm not going anywhere, buddy," Blair answered softly. "Just concentrate on my voice." On the other side of the truck, Sandburg's tone was quieter even though there was still an underlying note of urgency to it. "Take a deep breath. Let it flow out of you. Picture it like the volume knob on the radio. Reach for it in your mind. Turn it, Jim. Turn the pain down."
Jim began trying to force his focus inward where he encountered a dozen different emotional, mental, and physical barriers. It was almost like trying to walk through tornado winds with debris and wreckage battering him on all fronts. Sweat ran off of him in rivulets. He felt his body trembling.
Finally focalizing on his damaged legs, God, the agony was almost unbearable! Hot blood soaked his pants below the knees, and he knew that one, if not both of his legs were broken. Perhaps even one of his hips. One ankle was twisted at an unnatural angle. But even though he was acutely aware of his mangled body, it was still difficult for him to tell the true extent of the damage.
"Center yourself on one thing at a time, Jim. Turn it off. Find the center of your self-control and try to turn the pain off."
Allowing the firm support of Sandburg's voice to guide him, he reached deep within himself. Tentatively stretching inward with his mind, he began the struggle to push the torture back, back to the edges of his perception.
It was hard. God, it felt like the hardest thing he'd ever done! Giving up and quitting were very real possibilities. But Jim Ellison's will to live was strong. It came to him as to how much he didn't want to die. He pushed past everything and dug deep.
On one side of his consciousness, there was a razor-sharpness to his pain that was blistering and cleaving, a torment that nauseated him. But on the extreme, far, far down in the center of his being where he was narrowing his focus, he felt something within him begin to shift.
Centralizing his focal point directly on the tiny speck of movement, he reached deeper. Then he pushed a little harder. The speck grew bigger. Slowly at first, the pain began to dissipate, as the anesthetized speck became a little bigger. Hope began to excite him. It was working!
The image of single drop of falling water formed in Jim's mind. One, and then another, began to join in until a small puddle had formed. The puddle of torture grew bigger and bigger until its edges couldn't hold its mass together any longer. As more drops filled the puddle, it began to run off. The progression turned into a trickle. Following a crooked and strained path, it moved farther away until it reached the edge of a crevasse. There, the trickle flowed out and down and away, leading the puddle -- and the agony -- away, slowly, but successfully leaking it out of Jim's body.
After a few moments Jim's eyes snapped open in surprise. The pain hadn't gone completely away, but had faded to a more bearable level.
He swallowed hard. "It's working, Chief," he breathed. "The pain. It's dissipating."
He heard his partner's groaning sigh. "That's great, Jim."
Mild confusion swept through him. What was that? What had he just heard in Sandburg's voice? Fear? Relief? Pain? What was wrong with his partner? And why was he still on the ground on other side of the truck? Why hadn't his head popped over the top? Jim knew it wasn't like Sandburg for him not to at least be trying to climb up to attempt a rescue. The disoriented whirl in his brain made his reasoning unclear, but this wasn't the time to analyze it.
"Now focus on the next sense," Blair was saying. "Your visual sense, Jim. Localize it. Concentrate."
Over the next few minutes, Blair helped Jim turn down the amplification on each of his powerful Sentinel abilities. Concentrating hard on his focus, somewhere in the back of his mind, Jim was dimly aware of the river of sweat running down his neck and chest. By the time the last of his senses returned to a relatively normal level, although still in fractional pain and somewhat dizzy and a little drowsy, Jim was calm, rational, and thinking clearly again.
"We did it, Chief," he breathed. "It's okay now."
"No, Jim. You did it. All I did was talk you through it." Blair paused for a moment. "You hear those sirens, Jim? Help will be here in a few more minutes. Just hang on. Okay, buddy?"
Jim nodded to himself and closed his eyes again. Weak from exhaustion, he rested his head back against the concrete column, listening vaguely to his partner as he continued to convince and confirm the fact that he was going to be all right. Frustrated and a little angry, he still didn't understand why Sandburg hadn't climbed over the top, even if he couldn't have done anything to free him. Inwardly, he turned his concentration on his breathing in an effort to maintain his calmer state and to begin trying to slow the wild thump of his heart against his chest.
Suddenly, Jim became alert to a different noise - a noise that was very close. There was familiarity in it, but in this slightly detached and buoyant sense of reality, he wasn't alarmed by it, unable to fully recognize what it was.
He opened his eyes and out of the corner of his left, saw movement. He turned his head slowly. What he saw caused his belly to tighten with a paralyzing bolt of dread, sending his senses reeling again.
There inside the cab, staring hard at the Detective through the spidery web of the shattered windshield, was the second robbery suspect from the jewelry store. He had rose unsteadily to one knee, bracing himself upright with one hand gripped on the steering wheel above his head. A streak of blood oozed from his broken nose.
Jim had forgotten all about him!
Although bloody and beat up, the man was alive. And the look on his face was filled with a rage so savage that Jim could feel his intent before he ever saw him raise his handgun and point it directly at him.
Without taking the time to think, Jim automatically swung his own 9 millimeter around and fired point blank through the windshield.
The blast blew glass everywhere. Jerking his head aside, Jim squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth together as flying shards sliced into his shoulder and face.
Blair sucked in a gasp from the other side of the overturned truck. "Jim? God! Jim! What happened? What's going on?"
Jim turned back and watched the man crumple inside the cab. Blood pouring from the gunshot wound between his eyes, Jim knew he was dead before he ever hit the ground.
He closed his eyes again. He felt the sting of imbedded glass in his face and shoulder and the ooze of his own warm blood as it began to trickle into his sweat-soaked shirt. Although relief swept through him in great waves, his heart was hammering a mad tempo. He drew several deep breaths to try to dispel it, discovering quickly that there was still enough control left in him that he was able to turn down his heightened Sentinel abilities easily all on his own.
Soon, though, he discerned that his senses were shutting down further than what he was controlling. His whole body was beginning to yield and his joints felt liquid and rubbery. Suddenly, he realized that he was very cold. He had begun to tremble with such ferocity that his teeth had started to chatter.
With his head spinning and his ears beginning to roar, he knew he was going into shock. And as his limp and diminished body felt as if it were drifting and spiraling downward, a welcome, peaceful darkness began to fill in the fringes around his consciousness.
He moistened his lips again. "It's okay, Chief," he heard himself say, his own voice sounding very far away. "I'm okay."
The last things he heard were the blaring sirens of multiple police cars as they finally arrived, and the frantic, anxiety-ridden voice of his partner nearly screaming his name.
Jim's consciousness began to surface. Stiff and sore, he reveled in the fact that he was lying on a soft mattress in a slightly elevated position and covered with clean, fresh sheets. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
He blinked twice to clear his vision and finally focused on the tall dark figure of his captain towering over the end of the bed.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, Jim," the man said softly.
"Simon," Jim answered with a weak smile.
"How are you feeling?"
Jim lowered his eyes to the exposed toes of his right foot. Then, drew them slowly along the retractable casing, which wrapped snugly around his leg to just above his knee. The doctors had applied the temporary sheath instead of a more permanent plaster cast, Jim guessed, in the event of infection to his wounds. On his left leg beneath the light cover he could feel a heavy swath of bandage, but which obviously lacked a similar encasement. Still, both legs throbbed dully and he also had a bit of a headache.
"Fine, I guess, considering the shape I'm in," he sighed, raising his gaze back to Simon's dark face. "How long have I been here?"
"Five days." Simon leaned over and tapped knuckles lightly on the protective mold at Jim's ankle. "We were worried about you for awhile," he said solemnly thoughtful. "You had some pretty extensive surgery. There was a lot of damage they had to repair." He glanced back at Jim again. "But taking into account what they pulled you out of, you're lucky to even be alive."
Jim nodded his agreement. Sighing, he looked around and realized dismally that the one person he was expecting to see wasn't here.
"You came to a couple of days ago, but it was only for a minute," Simon was saying. "The nurse said you were speaking in some language she didn't understand. Must have been..."
"Where's Sandburg?" Jim asked quietly.
Simon became silent and drew himself upright, pressing his full lips into a tight line. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out slowly. "He had a doctor's appointment."
Then his expression changed as he raised his hand to shake a finger at Jim sternly. "But don't you be giving him a hard time about it. I personally had to make him keep this one. Don't worry, he should be here any minute." He glanced at the cast and then back at the Detective again, studying his face. "Are you sure you're okay, Jim? I can call a nurse for you."
"No, I'm fine, Simon. Just a little tired is all." In truth, the feelings Jim was experiencing wasn't something he wanted to share with his captain. He was disappointed and decided that maybe he was feeling a little self-pity by his partner's absence. He didn't realize until this moment how desperately he longed, needed for Sandburg to be here. It was suddenly very important that he see him, speak to him, let him know how much he appreciated him. But most of all, to somehow try to express his overwhelming gratitude for him to have just been there for him.
It had been a close call out there beneath that bridge. Alone, Jim knew there wasn't anything he could have possibly done to save himself. If Blair hadn't been there with him, to navigate him out of the overwhelming overload of his Sentinel abilities, the damage could have more than a broken leg. He could have very easily have lost his mind, not to mention being killed. But he wanted to keep the embarrassing feelings to himself. Simon would just have to figure it out all by himself.
At that moment, the door to Jim's room opened and Sandburg's familiar, loose mop of thick, unruly dark hair popped into the opening. His first glance at Simon was solemn before brightening into a smile when he looked toward Jim.
"Hey, man! You're awake! Great!"
Glad as he was to see Sandburg's small form as he walked toward the bed, Jim couldn't help but stare at him, dumbfounded by what he saw. Blair's right eye was black and there was a butterfly bandage holding a split closed at his swollen, purpled brow. His right arm was in a rather brightly colored purple plaster cast, hung in a cotton denim sling strapped around his neck. The knuckles of his left hand were wrapped in a thick bandage. He looked like a one-armed boxer that had just come out of the ring from a fight.
He almost laughed out loud. "What... what happened to you, Chief?"
Jim could have sworn that Sandburg blushed. But just as the young man opened his mouth to answer, Simon spoke up first.
"You'd have been proud of him, Jim," he said smiling smugly at Blair. "When the paramedics arrived, they weren't sure at first who their patient really was."
"How's that?" Jim asked in curious wonder.
"They guy that hopped in your truck took a swing at me," Blair volunteered with a laughing smile, sheepishly pointing at his head with his bandaged hand. "And when he knocked me down, I broke my arm against the pavement."
"What did the doctor say about your hand, Sandburg?" Simon asked.
Blair held up the injured limb and flexed his fingers into a fist several times. "He said the infection wasn't serious. Gave me a prescription for it. He said it should clear up in a day or two."
"How did you hurt your hand?" Jim demanded gently.
Sandburg's hesitation was blatantly obvious. Swallowing hard, he stopped flexing his fingers and held his hand still. He stared into the palm and shrugged. "Well, you know, it isn't anything, really. I just... burned it," he answered quietly.
Simon shook his head in his normally constant mood of apparent exasperation and turned to Jim. "What Sandburg isn't trying to tell you is that he burned it on the exhaust pipe on the underside of your truck. When we arrived, he was trying to climb up to get to you. He spent a night in the hospital for observation."
"I couldn't get to you, Jim." Blair's voice broke in half and then he seemed embarrassed because of it. He widened his eyes and blinked several times while drawing in a deep breath. He began to wave his bandaged hand into a tight circle. "All I could picture was that you'd been cut in half when the truck slammed into you. When I heard the gunshot, I thought... I guess I thought..." He finally sighed helplessly and gave up trying to finish. He met Jim's eyes briefly before pursing his lips and dropping his focus back to the floor.
An uncomfortable moment of silence hung in the air. Quick glances were traded all around. It was only then that Jim fully realized why Sandburg hadn't appeared over the top edge of the tipped truck while Jim was trapped behind it. He simply hadn't been able to.
Blair, despite his own grievous injuries, had selflessly stood by in support of Jim, giving him encouragement and the strength to conquer the inundating effects of his potent senses without giving away the depth of pain he himself was in. Jim was humbled by the magnitude of this revelation.
Simon finally broke the silence by clearing his throat. "Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me," he said, moving away from the end of the bed. "Some of us have work to do. It seems that I have some forms lying on my desk waiting for me to sign giving extensive medical leave to a couple of my people."
Partially recovered from his emotional outburst, Blair turned to Jim with a familiar grin lighting his face. "Hey, did you hear that? Does this mean we're going to have a little time to catch up on some fishing?"
"Looks that way, Chief," Jim agreed with a grin of his own. "But you know it takes two hands to fish. I guess that means you're just going to be sitting back watching me haul in the big ones." He made a motion with his hands that mimicked holding a rod in one while reeling with the other.
"Yeah, maybe," Sandburg retorted dryly. "But considering the shape you're in at the moment, that will depend on whether or not your secret fishing spot has handicap access."
They laughed.
Simon laughed, shaking his head. "You two are something else." He reached for his long coat tossed over the back of a chair and slung it across his left forearm. He then stepped forward and offered his hand to Jim. They shook firmly. "Take care of yourself, Jim," he said. "If you need anything, you know where you can find me."
He turned toward the door and paused. He sighed before momentarily resting his hand on Blair's shoulder. "That means you too, Sandburg."
Blair smiled. "Thanks, Simon."
After he left, the two friends looked at each other in silence for a few quiet moments.
"By the way, Chief," Jim began. "When are you going to tell me what you know about my truck?"
Blair's gaze glanced away and Jim saw a shy grin swell his cheeks. He brushed the end of his nose with the back of his hand. Then tilting his head to one side, he shrugged. "You know, Jim, I called your insurance company about that, and... well, they said... ah..."
Sandburg was taking way too long to tell him. That meant it couldn't possibly be good news.
"Well?" Jim prompted again.
His friend winced and shrugged his shoulders again, looking much like a turtle sucking its head back into its shell upon exposure to danger. "They said... well, they said there was too much frame damage. They're going to total it."
Jim stared at him in disbelief. Then he shut his eyes and grunted a moan.
"Hey!" Blair said in a lighter tone. "Look, you're going to get a settlement out of this, aren't you? Surely you'll have enough to buy another one. Won't you?"
"Oh, sure, Chief," Jim growled, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "It's just that I won't be able to drive it."
"How... how come?"
"Because they're going to cancel my insurance after this, that's how come."
"Oh," Blair said quietly.
He moved to sit in the chair beside the bed. The two men then sat in silence again for a few moments, but were comfortable just being in each other's company. After awhile, Jim noticed his friend was staring down at the palm of his left hand again. He saw his throat bob in a hard swallow and a muscle begin to work in his jaw.
Sandburg drew a single breath before moistening his lips slowly with the end of his tongue. "I couldn't reach you, Jim," he said in a voice that sounded strangely airy. When he finally looked up, his pale blue eyes were glistening. Even though he hadn't fully reined in his swelling emotions, he struggled to continue in a shakier tone. "But as long as I could hear your voice, I knew you were alive. When I heard the gunshot, I don't know, I guess I thought maybe the suffering you were going through was more than you could stand and... and..."
"You don't have to apologize. Or feel guilty, Chief," Jim soothed, feeling a little guilty himself about putting his friend through that. "Look, I realize what you did for me out there. And I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am. I couldn't have turned my Sentinel abilities off without your help. You gave me direction and focus. I don't know about you, Junior, but I'm pretty sure I would have died there if it hadn't been for you." Jim pressed his lips together and drew a slow breath. "Thanks," he said quietly. He wanted to add to his response but was unable to think of anything to crown his testimony any more solidly than that. He simply repeated the same word. "Thanks."
Sandburg could only bob his head in acknowledgement, his lips pressed together in a tight line.
"So," Jim said, trying to lighten the seriousness of the suddenly uncomfortable moment. "How did you know I was even alive there in the first place?"
Blair unexpectedly issued a nervous little giggle and shifted in his seat. "I didn't at first. I thought... I thought you were dead." He scooted out to the edge of his chair, obviously in an effort to emphasize his next statement. "It was kind of weird, actually," he said. "I kept hearing this... noise. And it wasn't until I got close to the truck that I even realized it was you."
"A noise? What kind of noise? Was I screaming or something?"
"No, Jim," Blair said quickly as if the revelation was exciting him. "That's the eerie part. The noise... it sounded like... like a cat."
A cold finger of astonishment shivered through Jim's chest. "A cat?" he breathed.
"Yeah," Sandburg confirmed quietly. With eyes wide and locked on Jim, he looked as if he were very aware of the chord he'd touched within his friend. "One of those big jungle cats. Like a tiger." He paused long enough to momentarily press his teeth into his lower lip. "Or maybe a panther."
End