A Lone Sentinel

The Fugitive Sentinel #2

by Mickey M

© August 1998

October

Late Monday/Early Tuesday

Alone is a scary thing when you're doing something you've never done before. Throughout the entire span of my life, nearly four decades, I've never been on the wrong side of the law. Never.

I watched Blair drive away in that taxi cab, and felt a sense of loss so complete I couldn't breathe for a minute. His hair was still in a pile all over the floor, and I realized we had made a mistake; I should have spread a newspaper under him before cutting. If forensics was unleashed on this place it wouldn't be hard for them to find the clippings. Damn. I'd let emotions cloud my thinking, and that was a very dangerous thing right now. One slip at the wrong time could cost both of us at least our freedom and possibly our lives.

*Our* freedom. *Our* lives. Guilt by association. I wondered if my partner realized yet that he was now as much a fugitive from law as I was.

I wondered about a lot of things that very lonely first night. I didn't sleep; there was too much to do, too many things to finish planning and thinking. I thought about the Blue Moon Café. I hadn't been there in years--not since I'd gotten out of the service--but the Blue Moon was a constant. It had been there forever, and likely would be there in another hundred years. It would be a safe place for us to meet, because no one unfamiliar with the area would know of it, and I had friends there.

First things first. I had about four hours of night left in which to put the rest of my plan into action: ditch the truck, get money, and get my bike. I still needed some clothing, and a few other things to affect my "change". I looked down at the hair again and squatted to gather it into my hands. A strange feeling moved through me; emotions I recognized, but hadn't felt in a long, long time. I couldn't believe I'd cut his hair. Sandburg probably would never know how often I'd lain in bed, fantasizing about his hair. I could picture it in my mind: curls knotted in my fists as I held his head for my kisses; flowing loose and free over my fingers as I raked them through; brushing softly and sensuously like a silken caress over my body as we made love.

That complete, and somehow final, sense of loss assailed me again, and I jerked when I heard a low, animal moan. I started in surprise when I realized it was coming from me. I knelt there, beside his hair, mourning the loss of so many things: friends, life, career, my partner.

Brown and Rafe, Taggart, and a few others wouldn't believe it at first. They would wait; watching the clock tick the minutes off, turning into hours, before they would start to believe that *maybe* I really had something to do with it. McShea would think from the get-go it was me, especially when I didn't showbut I didn't give a rat's ass what he thought anyway. It was my friends, and knowing that I was breaking their trust, their belief in me. That hurt. The pain seared its way into my soul, and in that moment I hated Lee Brackett with a fury that surprised even me.

I wondered, as I began cleaning up the hair, dropping it into the sink, where Simon was. What had Brackett done with him? To him? When had Brackett grabbed him? Most importantly--why Simon? Simon Banks is one of the closest friends I've ever had--but if that was the point, then why not Sandburg? A man who obviously studied me--and Blair--as closely as Brackett would have to know that I'd go to any lengths to get my partner back. Of course, I was going to those to get Simon, too. Or was I? I had to stop for a moment and examine my motives here. I had to be honest and admit I wasn't being completely altruistic There was a part of me that wanted my name clear as well. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, seeing a middle-aged cop with a receding hairline who had a bad temper on his good days. What was it my friends saw in me?

I shook my head and dropped a match into the sink, watching as Blair's hair singed, then smoldered, then burned. I quickly doused the small flames with water and watched with regret as the ashes drained down the sink. Time to go.

*****

I walked a couple of blocks from the hotel to the first pay phone I came to and placed a call I had arranged in advance a while ago, and had hoped never to have to use. The cycle in the car lot had jogged the last bits of detail into place in my tired mind, and although I'd let Sandburg believe I was buying the one we'd seen in that lot, I had something a lot better in mind. The phone was answered after the third ring; a gruff, tired voice I hadn't heard since I set this plan up.

"Yeah?"

"Kenyon. It's me."

There was a brief pause, then the voice got even gruffer. "So that's it then, huh?"

"Yeah." My stomach still tightened, just saying the word. The implications here. "I need everything we talked about."

"It's ready for you. Take state road 4090 north, out of town. Look for a small building on the right, about 15 miles out. Take that right, follow the left forkand I'll be waiting for you."

"Thanks, man. I owe you."

"I can't repay what I owe *you*, Ellison. This is the least I can do."

"I'm a fugitive, Ken. You sure about this?"

"Get off the fucking phone and get your ass out here."

"Yes, sir." Fuck, old habits die hard. I grinned into the phone, but knew I wasn't smiling. "On my way."

"Outta here."

The line disconnected, and I stared at the receiver for just a moment, willing myself to stop the shakes that kept threatening.

I concentrated on the brief directions Ken had given me. Major Kenyon Roberts. My superior before the reassignment that had preluded Peru. A good friend who'd taken several bullets in the back, losing his legs in the process. I'd pulled him out of fire as soon as I could reach him, probably saving his life, but unable to stop the damage. The medic in me had mourned the loss; the friend in me had been determined to set things as right as I could. More guilt to add to the pile I carried every day. Guilt for not getting him out faster, for not doing more I'd spent every waking moment I could after his surgery helping him with his therapy and recovery, but once he was fairly independent again, he'd disappeared. I didn't hear from him again until a few years ago, and hadn't seen him since the last time I'd seen him in the hospital. All our contact had been by phone.

I could depend on him, though. He was a good friend who would help in any way he could. I turned onto the dirt road he'd indicated, drawing in a deep breath. I had another good friend who was counting on me to meet him A good friend who could, hopefully, be so much more than just a friend.

Kenyon was waiting right where he said he'd be, in a battered yellow and white Oldsmobile. He rolled his window down and gave me a lopsided grin.

"You look like shit, Ellison."

"Thanks. You look pretty good, old-timer."

He winced, but the smile deepened. "You talk shit like a grunt. Get it in gear, soldier, and follow me."

I grinned and saluted him, shaking my head. He hadn't changed a bit in all the years since I'd last seen him. For some reason I found that more comforting than anything else that could have been said to me.

The roads leading to Ken's house were all dirt. Hell, I didn't even know people lived out this way. I parked the truck in a pole barn he had, and covered it with the tarp I found laying in one corner. There was another tarped vehicle in there, and I pulled that one off, unveiling my motorcycle.

The 'cycle was still beautiful, and I could feel its power, even quiescent like this. I stroked one hand over the leather on the seat reverently; it had been years, decades, even, since I'd been on a bike. I allowed a brief image of Blair riding pillion with me on this thing, his crotch pressed up against my assand had to force the image from my mind completely before my body embarrassed me.

Ken had parked his car and maneuvered his way out and into his chair, making his way slowly and steadily toward me. The look on his face was grim, but still full of welcome.

"You've made all the radio reports, Ellison," he said by way of greeting, holding his hand out. "Care to explain what all's goin' on?"

"I can't, Ken. The less you know the better. I will say, whatever they're saying about me as a cop killer, it's not true."

"Well, shit, soldier -- I'd'a known that." Even his voice was gruff. Damn, it was good to see him. I squeezed the motorcycle handle, trying to hold everything in. I was running on empty, and needed to recharge and soon. "You need money, man?"

"I-- Yeah." I didn't say more, there wasn't anything else to say. Ken shook his head and reached into a small pouch hanging off his chair.

"I'd be remiss if we didn't take care of this detail," he said carefully, pulling a handful of bills out. He handed me the stack, urging me silently with his eyes. "Go on, soldier. I know you're good for it when you get shit straightened out."

"I am." I nodded, not trusting myself to say much more. I split the money and shoved it into both my front pockets, not bothering to count. Whatever was there, was there. I'd pay him back and then some.

He gave me a sad smile. "I know you're not guilty of what they're saying, Ellison, but you *are* runnin' from the law, man. That makes you 'bout equivalent with most of the scum they deal with. You be careful, you understand?"

"Yes, Sir." I checked the grin that wanted to break through. Kenyon had first and foremost been my superior officer; he'd been a good friend as well, but never had he let me forget which one of us was really in charge when it came down to it. He was, in some ways, worse than a mother-hen, too. But I wouldn't want him any different, especially right now. It was nice to know that someone still thought I was an okay guy; that I wasn't a murderer or worse. I nodded again, and he shoved his hand out for me to shake. I gripped his tightly, wishing for the 100^th time that Blair was here.

Ken watched me start the bike, then mount up. His eyes were dark pools in the night, but I didn't need sentinel vision to see them. I know he was sad, and maybe a little scared. Truth to tell, so was I.

I heard his "Godspeed, friend," as I drove down the driveway.

It was 4:36a.m. on Tuesday morning. I'd been a fugitive now officially for about seven hours. The feeling of total trust given and broken crept over me like dawn breaking over a morning sky. I shook my head and turned the bike toward the interstate, and out of town. The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I watched my city fading in the mirror, and wondered if and when I'd see it again.

*****

Tuesday

There's a very freeing feeling in riding down the road with the wind whipping against you, blowing over and around you. I headed down I-5, toward Portland and Salem, needing the anonymity of a big city for my next purposes. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a bike ride, if the reason behind the ride wasn't so grim. I looked up briefly, wondering where my partner was. I didn't doubt for a minute that he'd be fine on his own; Blair is highly intelligent, resourceful, quick-thinking. He's often underestimated because he looks so non-presupposing. I shook my head, wondering what he'd think of my changes when he saw me next. I prayed we'd both make the rendezvous.

Portland is a great city, and I'd enjoyed weekends there in the past. There's a vast gay/lesbian underground there, if you know where to look, and plenty of "the wilder side" to titillate anyone who wants it. I wasn't there for any of that, but knowing where to look for certain things made it easier to find the piercing and tattoo parlors.

The one I picked was a decent looking place. No way was I going to trust my body and soul to some place that looked like it kept reusing the same needles HIV was an all-too-real issue these days. I didn't want to save my friends and myself, only to end up dying a horrible death down the road. I shook those thoughts out of my head and parked the motorcycle, then headed for the door.

"'Morning," the man behind the counter called to me. He looked pleasant enough. I nodded at him.

"Morning."

"What can I do for you?"

"You do piercings and tattoos?"

He nodded, then added, "I don't do genital piercings. Nipples, ears, nose, mouth, navels. That's it."

I grinned at him. "That's cool. What you don't do, I don't want done."

He laughed at that. "What did you want done, then?"

"I want to get my ear done," I tugged on the lobe that had once held an earring, but not for many years now. "I also want a tattoo--I have a specific design in mind." I did. I'd had all night to think about it.

"If it,s a custom job, it might take longer. How much time do you have?"

"As much as you need."

He looked skeptical at that, and I nodded. "I knowthey take time. I definitely want one, so tell me what to do, so we can get started."

*****

We did the piercing first, and I ended up with a nice little ball-and-hoop; a gold version of what Sandburg wears.

I checked it out in the mirror; he'd done a very good job, and I liked it. It felt odd though. Like a flashback to the past. A past I thought I'd left behind, but that had popped up with startling regularity in the last 36 hours.

"So, bro--tattoo now?" The guy's name was Jason, and I grinned at him.

"You know it." I sat down in the chair he gestured to, and pulled my shirt off. His eyes flickered up over me. I pretended not to see it. There was only one man I wanted anymore; with any luck I'd see him again in about 72 hours.

"So tell me what you want." The heat in the green eyes watching me was almost embarrassing and I narrowed mine just a little. I didn't want Jason getting the wrong idea.

"I want a sword, blade pointing down my arm, with a diamond-back rattlesnake coiled around it, and the words, 'take no prisoners' underneath, in a half-moon shape."

"Inverted?"

"No, like a smiley-face."

"Cool." The heat in his eyes was giving way to something a little more professional now, and I relaxed a bit back against the chair. "Let's do it, dude." He gestured to me to shift, and he moved his stool.

I dialed down on my sense of touch as far as I dared go without my guide there to watch me, and it still hurt like a sonofabitch. I dialed a little bit further, praying I'd be able to bring it back, and relaxed back in the chair, determined not to so much as grunt.

The damn thing took three hours to complete, and I was half-sick to my stomach before that much time had passed. What was I doing? What was I thinking? This wasn't me, was it? Of course, that was the whole point of this exercise. The Jim Ellison that everyone in Major Crimes knew wouldn't ever wear a tattoo. Just like he hadn't worn an earring in, what, five years? A bit longer, maybe? I couldn't remember for sure. I stopped wearing it shortly after Jack and I partnered; once I got the notion to be a "respectable" detective, and to curtail the bad-boy attitude, I'd divorced my Vice persona and left it behind like the bad memory it was. I didn't *like* that Jim Ellison. I didn't always like the Jim Ellison who'd come from thatbut he at least wasn't such a smart-ass, wise-guy kind of person.

I was pretty woozy by the time Jason was finished scraping the shit out of my arm. I'd told him to go ahead and ink in as much as he could; we settled for the lettering being done in solid black, because it was a fairly small area, and part of the snake was inked in, in shades of green. A few drops of blood dripped from the blade, and the rest was a bare outline, which I actually liked better--it was very sparse, kind of stark. Conveyed a message. Maybe I'd finish having it inked in down the road; maybe not. Today wasn't the day to decide that.

I paid, and tipped Jason, thanking him effusively. He'd done a good job. My next stop was an old style clothing shop across the street. I bought a couple pairs of jeans and some T-shirts, and found the most gorgeous leather jacket you could ever imagine. I tried it on, and felt more and more of myself slipping away, becoming thisfugitivethat I didn't want to be. I hardly saw myself when I looked into the mirror now, and added yet another reason to wanting to see Sandburg to my list. He'd help me remember who I *really* am.

*****

The flop house I crashed in rented by the day/night/hour. I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to sleep; as tired as I was, it shouldn't have been a problem. But I could hear bedsprings squeaking, and the soft (and some not-so-soft) grunts and moans of people as they tried to take their pleasure where they found it. I knew it probably wasn't as much pleasure for some as for others; I'd done a short stint as a rent-boy for my first assignment in Vice. I clenched my fists closed on the ratty bedspread when *that* memory welled up over me. I'd managed to pretty much forget about that over the years; to this day I wondered if McShea had given me that assignment because he thought I could do the job, or because he thought I could *do* the job. I shook my head and tried some breathing exercises, tried to center myself.

It worked a lot better when Sandburg coached me through it.

I finally fell asleep, thinking about some of the other things I'd like Sandburg to coach me through, and woke up a frustrated, sticky mess.

*****

That wasn't me, staring back from the dubious reflection in the mirror. It couldn't be me. It was Shit. I looked like a bad-ass. Not in a good way, either. Like someone who was looking for trouble, and not caring if they found it.

The first thing I did when I woke up was to run across the street and get a buzz. I ran my hand over my head now, reflexively, and shivered when the short bristles scratched me. I hadn't worn it this short since I got out of the military. Two days worth of whisker growth. Earring. Tattoo. Black denim, black leather, and white T-shirt. Black boots with metal gleaming at the toes. Who the hell *was* this guy? Even the eyes looked colder*my* eyes. Even my eyes looked colder, less caring.

Would Blair recognize me? I didn't recognize me -- and I was standing here, staring at myself. That thought sent a cool prickle of a shiver down my spine.

The man in the mirror nodded at me, his eyes narrow and cold. He checked himself out from head to toe, then gave a smug, self-satisfied smirk that missed passing for a smile by several degrees of warmth. I stared a little closer and caught the hint of a man I hadn't seen in close on to ten years: the covert operative who'd trained as an Army Ranger. I hadn't been that man in a long time. Didn't want to be him again. I appreciated all the years of training and the survival instincts that had been honed, but this man was far more dangerous than I was comfortable with. Could I find a balance between that Jim Ellison--the one who stared at me from the mirror--and the Jim Ellison I'd become in the ensuing years? The answer was chilling: I wasn't sure.

I spun from the mirror and stalked around the room. I could hear a whore arguing with her john, and dialed down my hearing, again. The cockroaches inside the walls of this trap sounded like they were stomping in size 10 boots. The whole place stank of piss and semen and sweat; overlaying that was the scent of fear and desperation. From me? Was I afraid? What was I afraid of now? I was a shadow figure--no one could see me, any longer. I blended in from dark and light.

My head hurt. My stomach was rolling. I felt out of control, and as in control as I'd ever been. It was the weirdest dichotomy, and extremely unsettling. I wanted Sandburg with me, and I wanted Brackett out of our lives. Forever. Dead. I wanted Simon back from the dead, and healthy, and riding my ass. I was sick and fucking tired of shadows from my past popping up to haunt me. It seemed like there had been an endless succession of them, lately, with no time for rebalancing, afterward.

A low growl of barely-contained rage filled the air around me, and I whipped my head around in surprise, but saw only myself. I watched in horror and shock as *me* shattered, leaving only the stranger I first saw in there--the stranger I'd become.

I left pieces of myself in that nasty little room. Pieces I wasn't entirely certain I'd ever be able to get back.

*****

Late Thursday

The bike ate up the miles, moving me through the beauty of Oregon and out into the vast nothingness of Idaho and Nevada. I stuck to the smaller state highways, for the most part. Those were less patrolled than the interstates, and I didn't want to take a chance. I couldn't afford to take a chance.

There's something starkly beautiful about sleeping on the ground beneath the starlit sky of Idaho in October. The fact that I could see those stars as well as I could was an added bonus. I spent Wednesday night like that; camped unobtrusively under a canopy of stars and moonlight, only the quiet night sounds of Mother Nature to keep me company. This was okay, though. There is a whole symphony to listen to out there, if you have the ears to hear it. I listened gladly, feeling a little less alone. A little less lonely.

I did the same for Thursday. There was no point in eating up money with shabby, trashy hotels when I wasn't going to sleep that much anyway. I bought a blanket and a bedroll at the Salvation Army store in Boise on Wednesday, and left it at that.

The only thing that could have made that stark, quiet beauty any better would have been to have Blair with me. Preferably naked, curled into my arms. I ached, I wanted him so badly. And it wasn't just a physical hunger, though God knows that was there. It was just a need for him. To hold him, touch him, talk with him, soak up his strength and calm and beauty. Yes, beauty. Not feminine in any way; this was pure masculine beauty. Strong, preserving, calmingwords I wouldn't normally associate with Sandburg, but then, my partner didn't fit any of the so-called "norms", either. So why should my descriptions of him? He was everything I admired and loved and wanted out of the male portion of humanity.

****

Friday

Early Friday morning saw me crossing into Nevada, each mile between me and Cascade becoming one more mile I lost a little bit more of Jim Ellison, and gained a little more of Joe Ellers.

I decided on an alias, just in case I needed to have one. The primary rule when undercover, or just out-and-out lying is KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Don't embroider, don't elaborate. Make it as simple and easy to remember as possible, and as close to the truth as you can. Makes it harder to slip up, that way.

It was beautiful out here, in a quiet, desolate kind of way, but I was getting sick and tired of my own company. At noon I stopped in some little two-bit town to refuel and grab a sandwich. I could *feel* peoples' eyes on me when I walked into the gas station/restaurant/dry goods store. I knew what I looked like; I'd stared it down again in a gas station mirror this morning back in Idaho. I could feel *it* creeping over me, eating me up. I tried to smile at the clerk; she looked uncertain. I swallowed the smile and settled for as non-threatening as I could manage, considering by that time I was feeling a little hostile. How much of it was honest feeling, and how much was projection just from the way I felt I should look, I don't know.

I hit the highway again with an almost palpable sense of relief. Just a few more hours, and I'd see Sandburg again. Even if the timing wasn't right to tell him what I was feeling, at least I wouldn't be alone. Never alone, as long as I had him with me.

Friday Night

It was time. Well, it was almost time. Quarter to seven. Could I leave in fifteen minutes? I knew the answer to that as sure as I was standing here. No. I wouldn't ever leave with Sandburg; even if I wasn't in love with him. The guy is my best friend, an extension of myself. To leave him behind would be like leaving behind an arm or leg.

I sat inside the bar for a little while, but it wasn't the bar I remembered. It had changed hands; had a new owner, new faces. Maybe it was for the best -- sometimes, ties to the past are dangerous things. I gave up staying inside when the music and the smoke got to be more of a distraction than I could deal with effectively. I was too tense, too wired to be wasting time and energy this way. I headed outside to wait on the bike, wondering again if my partner would recognize me. I settled in to wait, and scanned the street repeatedly.

A lone figure caught my eye and I felt a grin spread across my face. Sonofabitch, it was Blair. I settled my sunglasses on my face against the last of the sun's rays, and leaned back on the bike to wait for him to get close enough to see me. He was moving quickly, obviously looking around, and I could hear his heartbeat the closer he got to me. It was pounding like a jackhammer. Did he miss me like I'd missed him? He slowed when he saw the neon moon, then looked around cautiously. I know he'd heard me tell him about the bike, but it was obvious he didn't remember specifics. He glanced at the bar, then over at me. I let a slow smile cross my face as I watched him behind the mirrored shades, studying me, trying to decide. I reached upward to take them off.

"Took you long enough, Chief." I waited for his reaction. It wasn't long in coming.

"Jim!" His shout was probably heard in the next county. I winced as it reverberated through my head, then reached out to catch him when he launched himself toward me. Oh, god. I've never felt happier to see or feel anyone as I was him. He felt so good against me when he pulled me into a tight hug, my arms squeezed back reflexively as I wished I could hold him forever.

He let me go finally, and shook his head after giving me a slow, sweeping perusal that warmed me from head to toe. "You--look different."

I shook my head and grinned. "That's the idea, right, partner? You look different too." I raised my eyebrow and waved my hand toward him, taking in the nearly full beard he was sporting now, along with the business clothes that were a definite departure from the Sandburg of just a few days ago. Now, instead of the bright, quirky grad student that I knew, that our friends and collegues knew, he looked *ordinary*. Unassuming. He reached up and stroked his chin and my eyes followed the movement. I know he knew I was *looking* at him, because I saw his pupils dilate as if he were just realizing it. Or realizing that I saw him that way. Whatever it was, we were both aware of it now, at least on some level. Maybe not ready to talk or take action, but there was some sort of awareness there.

I jerked my head. "C'mon, Sandburg. Let's get a move on, its' getting late." We were gonna ride for a while before we stopped for the night. I shifted to mount the bike, waiting patiently while he situated his back pack and climbed on. His voice in my ear was a little breathless when he leaned forward.

"First thing we do tomorrow is find me some other clothes. No way am I going cross country on a motorcycle dressed like Joe Businessman."

"Got it." I grinned and shook my head, then started the bike; tried to pretend that he didn't feel as good as he did, legs vee'd and snugged up to me.

He felt damn good, though, and I made it number two priority, second only to our survival, to follow up on this as soon as possible.

I put the cycle in gear and headed us out of town, and going east. We had a lot of road to cover, and the less time spent doing it, the better. I hated every mile that took me further from Cascade, but I had Sandburg with me again, and in spite of the seriousness of our situation, wherever I was felt good as long as he was with me.

Whatever would happen in the coming days, I could handle it. I was confident in my training, my abilities. But with Blair by my side, it could only be better.

~finis~

 Continued in "Who Guides the Guide", FS #3

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