WARNING: This story is incomplete. You can read volume one at http://netdump.com/users/grwc/ The third volume (of three total) will follow in the fullness of time, Grasshopper. All disclaimers & warnings for volume one still apply. *** And He Leads Them vol. 2 by Gina Collum *** SATURDAY AFTERNOON Sandburg was avoiding his eyes again. Jim had barely been able to button his shirt this morning (damn painkillers!) -- he had no idea how to keep the kid present. While Banks talked to the medical personnel at the nurses' station, Jim took advantage of the momentary privacy to clutch the hem of Sandburg's jacket. Yeah, and the drugs made him do it. "Huh?" Sandburg said, but already Banks had returned and Jim's hand was on the arm of his wheelchair again. "We're all set," Banks said. He pushed the chair toward the elevator shaft, where Brown and Rafe waited, making a damn parade out of Jim's release from the hospital. As they descended, Jim told himself not to ask, not to ask, not to ask a fucking thing, if you really wanted to know don't you think you'd remember? The elevator lurched to the lobby and he bit his tongue against both his curiosity and the sensation (as faint and clear as Molly the ghost) of hands on his body, his thighs... A mountain of cushions under his butt made the wheelchair tolerable and Rafe fussed with getting them just right on the passenger seat of Banks' car while Sandburg helped Jim stay on his feet. Brown threw Jim and Blair's overnight bags in the trunk. After getting Jim in the car, Brown, Rafe, and Sandburg piled into the back. Half way to the loft, curiosity won out. "Did you catch them?" Sandburg stared. Banks said, "Who?" "The -- ones responsible for this." "He's dead," Rafe said. Jim tilted his head back. "How?" "Rafe shot him," Sandburg said quietly. Jim heard cloth whisking against cloth as Rafe shifted. "I never killed anyone before." Sandburg helped Jim walk from the curb to the loft. Jim was sweating by the time they reached the elevator; the unseen hands pressed closest when it was Sandburg touching him. He thought he must look like Molly, dead but still trapped, mirror-bound. *** When I eased him down onto my bed, he let his breath out and went limp completely, the tension he'd been carrying finally visible by its absence. No wonder he felt so heavy. I pulled the blankets over him, and before I could straighten up, he gripped my arms, holding me bent over the bed with my forehead on his shoulder. I squeezed my eyes shut and made fists. After a minute or two, he let go. "Comfortable?" I asked. Brown came in with the bag of my possessions that had migrated to the hospital. "Yeah," said Jim, flicking his eyes at Brown and tensing up again. I waved for the other detective to leave the stuff just inside the door and get out. "What about the Sandretti bust?" Jim said when Brown was gone. "What about it?" "Did Captain give the case to someone else?" I blinked. "Jim, we *did* the bust. The case is pretty much nailed. You got the collar. Tim Sandretti sang like a canary the day that -- you told me on the phone, remember?" "Oh." He dropped his shoulders. I turned away, rubbing the heel of my hand over my eyes. *** While Rafe put away another bag of groceries, Brown spread the sheets and blankets across the longer sofa. Simon Banks stood in front of the door with an unlit cigar and a facial expression Rafe had never seen before. Sandburg edged out of his room, closed the glass doors behind him, and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "You can go now. We'll be fine." Brown set the overnight bags on the table. "Are, uh, are you sure, Hairboy?" "Yeah." "I got everything on the list," Rafe said. "And I made some stew and chilled it in the fridge, in case you get hungry and don't feel like cooking." "Thanks," Sandburg murmured. "Do you guys have everything you need?" asked Brown. "Yeah. Really. Thanks. You can go now." Rafe and his partner looked at Banks. Sandburg started toward the longer sofa, then stopped and looked at the shorter, which also had sheets on it. "Two?" "You boys are not staying alone tonight," Banks said. Sandburg started to say something. Then he dropped his eyes. "Whatever." Rafe flinched. *** The door closed softly behind them. I glared at Simon. Sort-of at him anyway. It's hard to glare at a man who owes you a thorough reaming for your stupidity. Simon took everything personally, everything to do with his detectives, at any rate. I poked around in the refrigerator. Rafe had not been kidding about the stew. Where did the man learn to cook, in the army? There must be enough stew for ten guys in here. I spotted a couple of casseroles, too. Simon made himself comfortable. I could tell he was trying to not let me notice him watching me. God damn it, did they draw straws or something? All three of them had been hovering like vultures -- and with about the same disposition as vultures, too. I grabbed Jim's stuff and took it upstairs. Jim had left some things on the bed -- a lightweight coat, a small notebook, an extra pen. I knew where everything belonged, except the velvet box. The box. A box of that shape, with blue velvet on the outside, meant only one thing: a fancy necklace. Who was Jim buying fancy necklaces for? I looked at the bottom for a logo. World's Jewelers. Weren't those the people who bought out Robert Crown's stock? The box fell from my hand to the bed. "Oh shit," I whispered. He must have bought it the day it happened. I could picture him, prowling around the loft, waiting for me, then emptying his pockets in his room. Not putting things away because he was in a hurry, he was worried, he was going hunting for me. Had he been holding it at the restaurant while he waited for me? I dropped to my knees, pressing my shaky hands onto the mattress. "Oh shit," I said. "Oh shit." *** Simon barely heard it. He listened for two minutes before he was sure of the sound, the sound of Sandburg moaning, or crying. Hesitating half way up the stairs, he bit his cigar hard enough to break it, and then went on, the cigar bits in his pocket. *** "Blair?" Jim said. He hurt everywhere from the waist down; gravity defeated him. "Blair?" *** The kid sagged half on the mattress, face in his arms like a penitent sinner before the Lord. "Hey, Blair," Simon said. //What do I say?// His division full of detectives had managed to dump a wide variety of stupid and/or personal shit on him over the years -- never anything like this. Then he thought of Daryl and Blair bent over the dining room table, anthropologist helping teen prepare for Sociology finals. The Dad role. Right. *** "Blair, son." Simon seated himself, with a grunt, on the floor next to me. "You have more courage and balls than most of the men I've ever met -- cops included. Actually, I'm proud of you... little as I've done to make you the incredible asset to the department that you are." I turned slightly away from Simon, pulling the jewelry box closer. "I'm still proud of you. You've carried on since -- carried on like a real trooper." "So why are you falling apart now." "What?" "Isn't that what comes next?" I liked the rough texture of the bedspread on my cheek. "I'm too courageous for this whimpering shit. Keep a stiff upper lip and all that. That *is* what you had in mind, right?" "No, Sandburg. I was thinking -- it's okay, kid, cry yourself out, you deserve it, and it won't make me lose any respect for you. I *know* you, son, get it? You don't have to be alone." My fingers curled against the blanket. "I'm... God, Simon, I'm sick of myself. Why aren't you yelling at me?" "You've done nothing to be ashamed of, Blair, nothing." "Tell that to Jim." "It wasn't your fault." Simon put a hand on my shoulder. "Did Jim say anything like that to you?" "No." But he would, sooner or later. The man was a human lie detector. "His judgement under these circumstances will certainly be skewed, Blair." "You think he'll blame me." "I think you blame you." Crap. I knotted my fingers. Continue to lie, and I'd have to hear more of this; tell the truth, and Jim would find out. "Who knows, he may say some insensitive things in the near future. Don't believe it. You know how he can be." Yeah. I did know how Jim could be. *** FIVE WEEKS AGO William "Call me Bill" Ellison blotted his mouth with a napkin, and said, "I know of a great apartment opening up north of downtown, Blair." "Huh?" I put down my glass of sparkling cider. "Oh, I'm not looking for a place to live." It was one of a series of stilted Country Club luncheons between Jim and his father. I always suspected my presence served as a mutually face-saving excuse for their awkwardness with each other. Bill glanced at Jim. "My son said you moved into his loft when your place -- blew up." I opened my mouth, but Jim beat me to the punch. "I didn't mention this before, Dad, but Sandburg nearly bit the farm a short while back. I've been looking after him." Bill and I spoke simultaneously: "He looks recovered to me, Jimmy," and, "You worry too much, Jim." Then we blinked at each other, and I grunted for Bill to go on. Bill understood manly grunting. It was almost a foreign language to me. Jim's father said, "You two depend on each other in way that -- it isn't what men do, Jimmy. It's open to misinterpretation." I stared at Bill. People joked about our partnership -- I'd been referred to as "Ellison's girlfriend" since I first came to the station -- but cops joked like that about every partnership. Jim cleared his throat. "Sandburg may not be a cop, Dad, but he's my partner. A full partner. In my work, and in my life." Whiplash. "...People can 'interpret' it however they wish, Dad. It's none of their business in any case." Bill's mouth fell open. Suddenly I knew exactly where Jim had picked up that particular slack-jawed expression. Jim hustled me out of the club before I could collect my wits. "I hope you don't mind that," Jim said, jerking his head toward the dining hall. "I plan to tell him you're studying my senses. I think this way he won't throw a fit -- in fact, he'll probably be relieved." "It's okay," I said. Life partners. The idea rolled around in my head for days. *** THE PRESENT "You know how he can be." Simon fiddled with the cigar bits in his pocket, watching the distraction in Sandburg's eyes shift, the hint of a first smile since the -- abduction -- curving his mouth. "Blair?" "Yeah." The kid glanced around. "Did you call your mother?" "No! No, I'd rather be alone." "She could help -- " "I don't want help." Simon nudged Sandburg's arm. Flinch. Right. Bad idea. *** When Simon eventually retreated down the stairs, I unfolded my arms and put the velvet box in Jim's nightstand. Jim needs me, I repeated, sure and firm. God, if it was this bad now, how was it going to be with the therapist? Dr. Thornton had offered to make house calls until Jim's physical problems were better healed, but Jim had flatly refused and I'd gone along with it. Okay, so I had time to make something up. *** Jim dreamed of voices above him. He needed to act, to put an end to the pain in that one particular voice, but it was saying, "No, no, I'd rather be alone." Footsteps moved away from the voice and down the stairs, and the voice murmured a shapeless and disconsolate phrase. In his sleep, Jim's hand spread over the Blair-scented pillow and twitched. *** Two men, one with a receding hairline and the other stooped and gray, stood alone in the mortuary chapel. The gray one had a hand on the other's shoulder, while the balding one clenched his mouth, touching the edge of the open casket. "Davy wrote boastful letters," he said. "'See how independent I am, Dad. Look how well I can get along without you.' He never said that right out, of course, but it was what he meant." His voice dropped. "I always thought he'd come home some day." Then he lifted his head. "He wrote that he had many friends." The gray man, too, glanced around the flower-decked chamber. "They must have been confused by the circumstances of his passing." "Scared away? Reverend, when someone you care about is accused of a heinous crime, you don't run off as if worried you'll get tarred with the same brush. You rally around the accused... or his... memory." "The investigation will clear his name, sonny." The bald man walked away, rubbing his mouth. He sat in a pew. "What if it doesn't?" "Surely you don't think your boy --" "Of course not. But obviously he was dragged into something untoward by that fat slut, this Taylor bitch --" "Jonathon James Palmer, this is a house of God." Palmer took a deep breath. "Apologies for my language, Reverend. Davy... Davy wrote about her obsession with the professor. I should have seen this coming. I blame myself." "He made his own choices, sonny." Palmer rubbed his mouth again. "There'll be a trial. I'm going to stay in town." *** SUNDAY MORNING I woke up when Simon stirred around, folding the blankets on the larger couch. "Time is it?" "Time for me to get to church. How are you?" "Fine. We'll be fine. Go'wan." I dropped back into sleep, then woke about an hour later to discover my shoulder muscles a touch worse for wear from sleeping on the shorter couch. I peeked in on Jim. "Morning," he said. "Morning, Jim." "I need to piss." I helped him to his feet and walked him to the bathroom. When we got back to my room, he asked, "How much am I missing?" "What do you mean?" "We arrested Sandretti, you said. How many days did I forget?" "That was the day before -- before." *** Jim picked at lint on the bedspread. "And, uh, how long were we, uh, there?" "I'm not sure." Sandburg rubbed his wrist. "I think they grabbed me in the late afternoon. We -- we didn't get out until dawn." "It was less than a whole day, then." "Yeah." Jim tried to draw more of the story out of Sandburg, but stopped when the kid started to look ill. A few images remained (as sharp and as distinct as if, by turning the dials up one more notch, he'd find it again, the painful evidence of Sandburg's violation and Jim's helplessness against it), but anything more than that was disconnected sensation. As soon as Jim let him go, Sandburg fussed over him some more, then fled to the living room and sat. Jim knew from the pattern of his breathing and heart beat that Sandburg was trying to meditate; he also knew from the irregular acceleration of both that Sandburg was failing. Later Jim's partner brought in a breakfast of warm cereal. Watching that face, unshaven and still creased from the fabric of the sofa Sandburg had slept on, Jim managed to eat more than he wanted, almost the whole bowl, while Sandburg made faces of approval. "Chief?" "Yeah?" "Would you guide me through a relaxation exercise?" Jim couldn't read the emotions his request evoked. Sandburg settled in his chair by the bed and talked Jim down into a familiar place, a warm, quiet place. *** MONDAY Will's office is located in a quiet complex occupied by opthamologists and other unexciting varieties of doctors. He hears a car pulling into the lot. A glance out the window confirms it's his two new patients. Sandburg hops out of the driver's side of the truck and tries to run around the front fender and open the other door for his partner, but Ellison is already half way out when Sandburg gets there. Then Sandburg offers a hand, but the bigger man waves him away, choosing to walk alone, with a slow, careful gait that suggests exactly the kind of pain that Will wishes he knew less about. *** Jim knew he'd have to talk to Thornton (better him than the department shrink) sooner or later. And better sooner; he could get back to work all that much faster. In the waiting room, Jim stared at the secretary until the man started dropping pens. The moment he'd stepped out of the loft, all his dials had twisted down, down, his sense of smell at half of what Sandburg called "normal for the rest of us", his other senses little better. Good. Jim wasn't interested anyway. The city stank at the best of times. *** Will watches Sandburg help Ellison get settled, and again wonders if they are lovers. But simply asking the question could do them too much damage, especially if he's wrong. "How have you been, Jim?" Jim looks distracted -- head at an angle, eyes distant. He doesn't looked as shell-shocked as he did in the hospital, and now Will wants to shout, "Dammit, pay attention to me," but he can't understand why it is Ellison pushes his patience just by doing nothing. Will thinks he's never met a more irritating man. *** "I got you something, Jim," Sandburg said when they got home. "Yeah?" Sandburg sat on the other end of the couch with a book in his hand. "_The Art of War_?" "It's a new translation. Lots of footnotes and hermeneutic interpretation and stuff." Sandburg held it out. "I thought you might like something to read." "Thanks, Chief." Sandburg went to the kitchen. "Hey, Chief." "Yeah?" "Bring me a pad of paper and a pen." "Whatcha up to?" "Taking notes." "What for?" "Maybe I'll write a book." "You??" "Why not me? If you can do it-- " *** NIGHT A hand on Jim's shoulder drove the nightmare away. "Blair?" "You were dreaming." He was glad Sandburg couldn't see his face in the dark. He held Sandburg by the elbow. "Stay in the room tonight?" "Huh?" "Please." Sandburg threw some couch cushions on the floor and his sleeping bag on top of them. *** WEDNESDAY *Knock*knock* Jim half-woke as Sandburg opened the door. Megan's voice drifted in: "...brought a care package from the office, and lots of get-well cards. Everyone misses the great Sandburg-Ellison drama team." "What do you people do for entertainment when we're not fighting in public or getting caught in explosions?" Jim liked Megan; her scent didn't go all rutty every time she came near himself or Blair. He inhaled deeply of her sweat and shampoo smell. *** MONDAY "Chief." "Yeah, Jim?" Whatever Sandburg was making, it wasn't clothes and it wasn't fishing equipment, but it involved cloth, and he had fishing line dangling from his mouth. "Did you think about this group thing that Thornton suggested?" "Mm. You mean the therapy sessions with you, me, and him?" "Yeah." "Mm." "N-never mind. I don't think I." Sandburg blinked at the thing in his hands, then lifted his head. Their eyes didn't quite meet. *** Maureen leaned over the counter, whispering to her coworker, Janice, "Hey. Check him out." In the spices and condiments aisle, a man with curly hair and blue flannel pursed exquisite lips at a jar of Dijonnaise. "Oh, yeah. Cute. I'd fuck him." "But don't you think he's relationship material? Look at that sweet face." "Look at that posture, Mo -- and those clothes. He's probably a loser who thinks life's screwed him over -- he's looking for a shoulder to cry on, someone who'll tell him everything is someone else's fault. Boring. I say, use 'im and leave 'im." *** Blair sat in the tub, chin resting on upraised knees, one arm holding his legs to his torso. The other hand made the circuit, asscheeks to perineum to balls to cock to thighs to asscheeks and around again. His gaze had settled on the far corner of the bathroom. His penis seemed as indifferent to the stroking as the rest of him. //"Oh, yeah. Cute. I'd fuck him."// The bath water grew cold. *** SATURDAY EVENING "...and it was, I heard, the screaming, you know?" Jim stumbled to the end of the sentence and dared to look at Sandburg again. Sandburg was picking at a scab on his hand. Jim almost smiled. Sandburg looked so *young* when he got anxious; the kid would die before admitting that he feared intimacy, too, but look at him now. Suddenly Jim didn't need to say any more about the dreams. Might as well let Sandburg off the hook. "You were planning to clean up the journals you left on the coffee table, right?" He was rewarded with a relieved look from Sandburg, who shifted into mutual bitching mode without a blink. Jim shrugged. Save the confidences for another time. *** THURSDAY AFTERNOON "Out of sauerkraut again, I see." We patronized a Mr. Tube Steak stand at the park. We went to court to testify on months-old cases. We played innumerable rounds of poker, watched too much TV, read aloud, and cooked elaborate, tricky meals that neither of us could have prepared alone. We wrote in our damn journals like Thornton told us to. I could forget for hours at a time that there was anything but us. I felt Jim's hand on my sleeve from time to time, but I never saw it. Every few days, Simon or Brown or Rafe would come by, ritualistically bearing a pot pie or box of doughnuts. After a while we cut back our therapy sessions from three times a week to two. *** SUNDAY NIGHT In the dark, Sandburg's room became another world. Blair sat on the floor, wrapped in his sleeping bag. Jim lay on his side facing him. When Jim had held onto Blair's shoulder long enough, Blair's head rested against the bed, barely touching Jim's shoulder, and a hand crept out to wrap around Jim's torso. Strange things happened in the dark. In the dark, Jim didn't flinch from the contact. He held Blair tightly. "Tell me. Tell me what happened to you." Blair shook his head. "Then tell me about the nightmares." Sandburg blinked a few times. His mouth moved, and eventually Jim made out some words as the low voice gained volume. "...and he leads them creeping into the light of the ruined temple. They discover there isn't enough oil for the ritual, but they light it anyway, and it burns and burns, night after night. They gather for the miracle. Then the -- *they* -- return. They push things over. They splash the oil around -- enough for the whole temple, thanks to the miracle -- and they throw torches in it. When the light dies, there's nothing left but blackened stone. "That's the first dream. Then -- churches, shrines, mosques. Pagan circles in meadows. Everything. Plundered. Burned." "Ah." Jim carded his fingers through Sandburg's hair. "Your subconscious isn't any more subtle than mine." *** TUESDAY NIGHT Again, I woke when Jim dreamed. I remembered vaguely that it had been a good day; we'd scrubbed the loft backward and forward, discussed the possibility of replacing the old couch, and Jim had made lasagna. "Jim, wake up." He thrashed around -- then I saw a gleam of wet eyeball in the darkness. "Chief." He'd taken to holding onto me longer and longer, everything we didn't say striking me right in the gut and twisting, hard. *** MONDAY "God, Jim, I like Simon, I do, but sometimes I'm so glad to see his back," I said when Jim had shown Simon to the door. "I know what you mean." He pushed around the plates on the counter, then picked one up and ran the hot water. "I wish he wouldn't come. Or the others." "Hell, yeah. But what would we tell them?" *** //He was naked when he found Lash. The bastard wore a curly brown wig, he thought, but then he smelled/saw the blood running down and knew it was Sandburg's scalp. Lash grinned Blair's fuck-me-now grin, laughed Blair's ain't-I-a-devil laugh, and Jim brought his gun to bear, but it wasn't a gun, it was a Coke bottle, and when he tried to pull the trigger, the cap fell off, clattering on the floor, and brown, foul-smelling liquid spurted out, splashing all over Sandburg where he sat tied to the dentist's chair, and Jim put his palm across the opening, but the liquid burned right through his hand, burned Sandburg's naked, bloody skull, and Sandburg was screaming, "Stop it, stop it, stop it," over and over, and finally the liquid ran out and Jim dropped the Coke bottle, and then there was broken glass an inch thick all over the floor. Jim ran across it to Sandburg, but his hands were tied above his head and he couldn't untie *himself* much less his partner, and Sandburg's bare, bloody skull cast a contemptuous grin at him, at his bound wrists, his naked body, his bare, bloody feet, and Sandburg stood up, the ropes falling away from him, and he turned away, saying, "I'd rather be in Borneo." The panther roared its agreement and paced beside the Guide. Jim opened his mouth but no sound came out and then he felt a hand between his thighs, coming from behind to fondle his balls, and the voice he didn't want to remember said, "Now say, 'Yes, Master,'" and Jim said, "Blair, Blair," but Sandburg, still walking away, replied coldly, "Wake up," and the voice he didn't want to remember said, "Say it!" and the hand withdrew, and the voice behind him said, "I'll reward you if you say it," and Jim said, "No. Blair?" Sandburg said, "Wake up," and the other voice said, breathing on Jim's ear, "You can wake up if only you say it," and Jim said, "No, I won't, I won't say it, Master -- "// And Jim shuddered awake, his wrists trapped in a pair of strong hands. He roared, "Let go!" and the hands let go, and it was Sandburg, on the other side of the room now, his little room, close and dark and strong with Sandburg's scent. Jim panted, half sitting up, and he remembered now how the pleasant masculine odor had invaded his dreams those long-ago nights when he had stayed in here, on the floor, to soothe Sandburg's post-Lash nightmares. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Jim demanded. "You...called my name. And things. Another nightmare." He laughed shakily. "I thought *I* was the one who dreamed about David Lash." Jim shuddered at the name, scrubbing his face. "Don't grab me like that. Don't you ever fucking grab me like that." "I'm sorry. You wouldn't wake up. You hit me." He looked, and saw the welt rising on Sandburg's cheek. "What...What was his name? Who was he?" "Who was who?" "The one who..." His tongue thickened. Sandburg looked at him stupidly. "The one I can't remember," Jim forced out, finally. "Oh. Uh. D-david. Palmer." Jim realized he felt sick to his stomach, had felt that way all along, and he ought to say something to Sandburg, something nice maybe, like, "Sorry I hit you," but if he made any sound at all it would get loud, and long, and vile; he rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head and listened to Sandburg drag his chair by the bed. They both stayed awake until morning. *** TUESDAY MORNING At ten o'clock, I looked through the peephole to see who was knocking. Rafe, loaded down with groceries. I struggled with the locks, got them all open, and stuck my head out the door. "Thanks, Rafe, how much do we owe you?" Rafe got this funny look on his face as he handed over the receipt. "What happened to you?" "Huh?" "The bruise." I touched the tender cheekbone. "Jim -- don't get mad, he didn't mean to." "Damn it, he may have been through hell, but he doesn't have any right to take it out on you!" "He didn't! I just got too close trying to wake him from a bad dream." Rafe narrowed his eyes. Then he nodded. "I'll believe you. Once. It better not happen again. And why aren't you letting me in?" "He has a...problem." I lowered my voice. "Because you were there. Because you saw him like that. You guys have to give us some distance -- give *him* some distance -- I swear, it's like all you see when you look at us is what you saw that night. No wonder he wants a break. Hold on." I closed the door against Rafe's dismayed face, wrote out a check, then opened the door and passed it to him. "Thanks. I'll call you if we need anything, I swear. Just don't come in." "You take care of yourself." "I'm fine." Rafe shook his head and stalked down the hall. As I put the groceries away, I noticed Jim in the living room. "Where's my jacket, Chief?" "Which one?" "You know. My jacket. Is it upstairs?" "Oh. That one. I threw it out." "You *what*?" "It was -- it was -- You wore it. That day." He stood still. "When they...?" "No. You changed into a different one before you went out that evening. That one's still in evidence lock-up." "Did you throw out everything I was wearing at the time?" "No. This one had grease stains." "Sandburg, I had stuff in the pockets." "You must have taken them out. Everything's upstairs." What was he thinking? I couldn't imagine ever again wanting to wear the clothes I'd worn that day. "But my favorite jacket..." "I thought..." "You thought what? What is wrong with you? Throwing my things away --" He gave me the Ellison Look of Level Three Irritation, then did a double take. "Chief?" I turned away, covering my wet cheeks -- //This is *not* something to fall apart over,// I admonished myself -- but he must have heard my breath hitch. I glanced up, met his eyes for an instant, and then he walked out. Disgusted. *** Jim closed the loft door behind him and leaned against it, keys in his hand. The scents of home had cushioned him, muffled the noise and stink of the city; now it all came back to him, how long it had been since he'd left the loft without Sandburg at his side. He clutched the doorknob, then berated himself for cowardice. So Sandburg needed some privacy while he dealt with his... stuff. You know what tact is, you pretend not to see it, and you don't punch holes in his defenses when he's already down. No big deal, Ellison. There's nothing but a door separating you. Calm down. Take a walk. Jim clutched his keys, looking down the hall, and waited for the smothered sobbing to stop. *** I poked my nose out. Jim was standing there looking at his keys like he didn't know what they were for. "Did you, uh, did you want to go somewhere?" I asked. "...Yeah. Yes, I did." At a church in suburbia, not far from Bill Ellison's house, I watched Jim light several candles and then go to his knees up at the front. I slumped into a pew in the back. Shaman, hah. More like a voyeur with a violence fixation that I'd been sublimating through a "scientific" focus on the warrior role. What a fucking crock. I couldn't just sit here. *** Under the statue of the Crucifixion, on a bench where Mother and Stevie and he had prayed (or pretended to), Jim folded his hands and tried to relax. The words came to him unbidden, and when he finished "The Lord is my shepherd", his thoughts segued right into the Pledge of Allegiance -- after which he scoffed at himself for being such a predictable square. On the other hand, that wasn't quite true, was it? He thought of Elf for the first time since -- since everything. The clerk had seen the roiling tension in Jim after a series of fights had nearly destroyed the partnership (after Sandburg nearly died, you shithead) and Elf had soothed some of Jim's nerves with teasing and the gift of a book. Jim had toyed with the idea of getting Elf to bed (the youngster was probably a she, he figured), until he stopped fooling himself into thinking he was interested. There were too many memories Jim didn't want to face... the child he once was, the man he'd grown into, women he'd loved, his life since Sandburg had invaded it. He couldn't remember, exactly, if his old faith had ever been more than conformity. Sitting here in the house of God helped in a way he'd never imagined it could, years ago when he'd left home and swore off his father's values. He'd been hiding from himself, really. The thinly padded bench under his ass reminded him of the discomfort and boredom of the old rituals, and of what it was like to feel utterly protected and irresponsible. He wasn't a child now, though, and his skin crawled when he thought of the books he'd bought on Elf's recommendation, of the raunchy ideas he'd had. "Jim, are you listening?" Sandburg whispered. Jim turned, lifting a hand slightly as he spotted his partner in the back. "I'm gonna step outside for some air, man, you gonna be okay?" Jim nodded. Sandburg went. God, poor kid. Not only did his "holy grail" of a Sentinel have a lech for him, but said Sentinel's jealousy got in the way when Sandburg needed rescuing. Talk about priorities. He slumped against the back of the pew in front of him, shuddering as David's face returned to him; as in a waking dream he saw David handling Sandburg, doing to Sandburg the things he must have done to Jim, even if Jim couldn't remember any of it. Surely those weren't things he'd have thought of doing to Sandburg himself -- God! let them not be from some wild fantasy that he might've stashed in his subconscious after David forced those things on him. At least it didn't happen to Sandburg. He'd be all right. He must be in a kind of hell himself, but Sandburg had a strong soul, knew a lot about women, and did not have a problem asking for help when he needed it. The kid hadn't confided in Jim yet, but he would. Strength begins with truth. That was the real reason Jim didn't go to church anymore: For him to be any kind of Christian he'd have to lie. God wasn't looking out for him. Whatever of himself he could salvage would have to be enough. When he stood to go, Jim noticed how clear-headed he was about his situation. What a good thing that was, too. He grunted and strode out the chapel. *** WEDNESDAY MORNING The Qur'an. The Bible. Martin Buber's I AND THOU. Blair set them carefully in the box. A battered paperback of BLACK ATHENA, pages day-glo highlighted. Three books by Starhawk. A slim volume of Hesiod's THEOGONY. The box was full. Good enough for now. He galloped down the stairs, put the box on the passenger seat, and drove to Goodwill. *** Thornton waved Jim into the office. Jim chose the blue upholstered chair with wooden arms, crossing his ankles as-if-casually. Thornton mirrored Jim's posture. "How are you feeling?" "Fine." Will raised an eyebrow. Jim shrugged. "Jim, I know what you're going through --" "Do you really." "I was raped as a teenager." "Do you remember it?" "Of course I do." "Then you don't know what I'm going through." "What do you remember?" "Bits and pieces. Mostly, that whole week is gone." Jim shrugged again and looked out the window. "Look, Thornton, we've been dancing around this long enough. All I want from you is your go-ahead for me to go back to work. I know the drill. We sit here, I tell you some secrets, you make sympathetic noises until I feel better, and then we all go home. Why do you want to dig up this shit? It's just a waste of time." *** MONDAY MORNING //You are not a mommy,// I said to myself, //and you're not having separation anxiety.// "See you later, Jim," I said at the door. Did that look on his face mean he wanted to hang on to me by the knees as much as I wanted to do to him? "Good luck, Chief." Lecture went easy; I could do the Anthro 101 opening day speech in my sleep, even though I'd been away from teaching for so long. The kids rolled their eyes at each other. Everything I said kept working around to tribal warrior societies. *** He'd intended to work on his notes about investigative procedure, THE ART OF WAR at his left hand and his notebook at his right, but every time he put pen to paper, he thought of Sandburg. He'd grown accustomed to seeing him around the loft all the time, scribbling away at his thesis with that deadpan expression that used to mean he was pulling your leg, but now meant...what? and where was he, anyway? Oh yeah. School. And his hearing dialed up, up, up, but no Sandburg, and Jim thought he was going to lose his breakfast. *** MONDAY AFTERNOON "Did you tell him about that?" Will asks. "No." "Do you know why?" Ellison clenches his jaw at the potted fern in the corner. "I suppose I'm afraid he won't respect me if I can't control myself." "I know how that is. Many men, especially of your background, are socialized to think they have to seem in control all the time." Will re-crosses his legs. "Would it help for you to draw a distinction between controlling your feelings and controlling your actions?" *** SATURDAY AFTERNOON Now that the new semester had started, Jim and I no longer took our daily walks in the park. We still went, anytime I didn't have class. We sat on a bench by the lake and ate f__. A couple with two small children stopped near us and took pictures of each other with the kids. When Jim thought I wasn't looking, he pulled faces at the little girls. I almost thought he wanted to hold my hand. But I couldn't trust a judgement based on Jim's recent behavior. If I was wrong, it'd really mess with his self-image. Hell, even *Jim* might think he has to be gay because of what happened to him. *** THURSDAY MORNING Jim's grip on the door tightened as a familiar voice sang, "Hey, look, it's Ellison!" and then he slammed the truck shut behind him because it was too late now -- they'd all spotted him. Look who's here -- It's Ellison -- Ellison, my man -- Welcome back, Jim -- J, how ya doin' -- Great to see you back on the job -- Sandburg drove you so crazy you came back *here*? -- Our man Ellie just loves us that much -- ...and on and on. He cursed his luck for arriving at the same time as a whole mob, and alternately dodged and endured the hearty backslaps and shoulder punches. *** Anita Thornton plunked onto a lawn chair and watched Will attack the weeds with his bare hands. "Honey?" "What?" Slowly, and with great concentration, Will grabbed a handful of dandelions and petunias, and tore them out of the ground. "You stopped taking your medication, didn't you?" Will threw the dead flowers aside and went after the row of blue whatsis, which had been overtaken by a burst of little yellow flowers that Anita was pretty certain Will had not planted. "I'm fine," he said. Anita sipped lemonade and contemplated her husband while he ripped his garden to shreds. *** "Hey, Jim, poker night, my place, tomorrow night, you in?" Rafe called across the bullpen. "Naw, I got plans." Connor bounced in, sparkling and accepting congratulations for some accomplishment or other. An arrest, Jim gathered. "Jim, I have an extra Jags ticket for tomorrow night, would you like to go?" Connor said. "Okay," Jim said, before remembering he'd just lied to Rafe about his plans and ought to keep his voice down. Rafe blinked; Jim saw it. *** Blair perched on a bike rack in the sunlight and pulled his ringing phone out of his backpack. "Sandburg here." "Chief," Jim hissed. "Help me." "What's wrong?" Blair started toward the faculty/staff parking lot. "Everything's shut down to about half of normal. Except hearing -- ow." Blair lowered his voice. "Do you have a headache?" "Now I do. Some jerk just scraped a thingy against a metal filing cabinet two floors down -- ow. And they're doing it again. What is that goddamned music?" "Someone's playing a radio about twenty feet away." Blair walked away from the noisy herd of students, across the lawn. "Where are you?" "In Simon's office." "Good, good, just do your breathing, Jim, and try to get that dial down. I'll be right over." Blair tossed the phone in his pack, swearing. He knew he shouldn't have let Jim go in alone his first day back at work. *** After putting the phone down as quietly as he could manage -- *CLUNK!* -- Jim massaged his temples, head down. He'd tried not to listen to the background noises as he talked to Blair, but once the music had gotten into his head, he hadn't been able to ignore it. In fact, it'd just gotten louder: Well the Earth died screaming While I lay dreaming Yeah the Earth died screaming While I lay dreaming Dreaming of you *** After he got Jim's senses calmed down, Blair cornered Megan in the copy room. "I heard a rumor," he said, "that you and Jim are going out. On a date." Megan smiled. "Did I need your permission first?" He forced himself to smile back. "Bring him home before ten o'clock or I'll start loading my shotgun." *** EVENING Jim couldn't remember what the quarrel had been about, by the time Sandburg -- well, fairly staggered as he returned to the loft. Jim spotted the red and white sticker on the tail of his shirt. BE NICE TO ME. I GAVE BLOOD TODAY. Diverted, Jim said, "Is that what you do when you're pissed -- donate bodily fluids?" "I made an appointment a couple days ago." "I'll make spinach salad with dinner tonight." A smile touched Sandburg's lips. "Funny how much that sounded like an apology." Jim cuffed his shoulder. "Tea? Coffee? Juice?" "Juice. Apple." *** EARLIER THAT DAY The nurses from St. Mary's Hospital -- nuns, most of them -- had taken over a quiet, impersonal student lounge, covering the windows with butcher paper for the complete privacy of all who came to the Red Cross drive. As he stood in line, Blair flexed his shoulders, enjoying the stretching of his back muscles. Nuns were cool. Women, they looked at you with expectant eyes (//I used to enjoy that,// part of him whispered), they wanted you to show your lust. Nuns didn't do that. Blair wondered if he ought to spend more time at St. Sebastien's. *** EVENING One dish of lasagna, half a loaf of garlic bread, and most of a salad later, Jim shied from, "Are you still mad?" and instead said, "Is my cooking that bad?" "Huh? No, dinner's good, thanks. Guess I just don't have that much appetite. Have you ever donated blood, Jim? Never mind, Annual PD Employee Drive, I know. I forgot my appointment, the last two drives at the station. I've never donated blood before at all." "Really takes it out of you, doesn't it?" Jim extended his legs under the table, watching Sandburg stow away another bite of salad. "It wasn't that. It was the," he waved a hand, "bad vibes." "Bad vibes." "All those questions. Those fucking penguins. Shit, Jim, no wonder the population thinks gays and bisexuals are all HIV positive. Fucking Red Cross won't take queer blood." Jim had last given blood almost a year ago, and at the time, sexuality stereotyping had not been of interest to him. "I don't think-- that is, I never noticed-- " "And you get *three* chances to chicken out, man. That pissed me off." "Chicken? It takes courage to donate blood?" Jim's smile faded under Sandburg's truculent glare. "What pissed you off, Chief?" *** EARLIER THAT DAY "Have you ever used needles to inject recreational substances?" "No." "Have you ever had intercourse without a condom?" "No." "Have you ever had intercourse with a woman who had had intercourse with a gay or bisexual man?" "I don't think so." "But you don't know for sure." At Blair's nod, the nun moved her hand over the clipboard. He hadn't felt self-conscious before, but now he was very aware of the cross on her white, white gown, of what cross and habit meant. "Have you ever had intercourse with a gay or bisexual woman?" "I don't think so." "Have you ever had intercourse with a man?" "No." "Do you now or have you ever identified as gay or bisexual?" Blair froze inside even as the lie came easily to his lips. "No." *** EVENING "Chief, you're overreacting." Jim passed the soapy casserole dish to Sandburg. "It is *not* Red Cross policy to discriminate against homosexuals." "And you know," Blair went on, "the fact that they were nuns as well as nurses was outright redundant. Do you realize medical personnel fulfill the same social role that priests did during the bubonic plague --" *** EARLIER THAT DAY He wiped his forehead as he left the cubicle. The tightness he'd shaken off when he came into the lounge had returned during the questioning -- guilt, he supposed, for lying to a professional virgin. He scrubbed his hands, tempted to rub his neck, his chest. Tapped his toes as he sat in the next cubicle, while another nun gave him a questionnaire to fill out. DO YOU NOW OR HAVE YOU EVER IDENTIFIED AS GAY OR BISEXUAL? YES NO DID YOU RECEIVE ANY BLOOD TRANSFUSIONS PRIOR TO 1985? YES NO ARE YOU ON ANY MEDICATIONS? YES NO DO YOU CURRENTLY HAVE ANY MEDICAL CONDITION FOR WHICH YOU HAVE BEEN PRESCRIBED ANTIBIOTICS? YES NO Pen poised, he stared at the page. *** EVENING "And that questionnaire: 'Hi, we know you weren't honest, because disease is shameful, so here's another chance for you to do the right thing and help us screen out contaminated blood.' And -- " "Look, Chief, this is -- c'mon. I'd stay and argue with you, but Connor -- " "Yeah. The Jags game. Whatever. I'm going to poker with the guys. You think about what I said, you'll see." *** EARLIER THAT DAY Utterly alone with the packet of information that his blood would be bundled with, Blair fingered the decal sheet. One read, "Yes, use my blood." The other read, "No, don't use my blood." Forty minutes. It had taken him forty minutes to get through the line, the interview, the questionnaire. //Are you diseased?// Blair thought. //Have you ever been fucked up the ass by another faggot?// A nun had showed him how to apply one of the decals and then seal the flap over it. She'd assured him that whatever he decided, blood would be drawn anyway, so that the clinic workers would never know. //Do you screw sluts? Are you on antibiotics? Do you abuse intravenous recreational pharmaceuticals?// He ran a hand through his hair. //Are you unclean?// "Fuck," he whispered. Quickly, forcing himself not to think about it, he peeled off the "Yes" decal, slapped it on the packet, sealed the flap, and walked toward the nun with the needle. *** EVENING Blair leaned over the balcony, watching Jim drive off to his date with Megan Connor. "There's nothing wrong with me," Blair said. This whole thing was ridiculous. //I did the right thing.// Including the parts where he'd lied. *** NIGHT Megan smiled when Jim returned her kiss. Then she held his head to hers while she ran a hand up and down his solid chest. "Aggressive, Connor," he murmured. "You have a problem with a woman who knows what she wants, Detective?" "Does that mean you want me, Inspector?" "You're a cop. What do your investigations tell you?" He rubbed his thumbs over her already-hardened nipples. "I'd say..." He kissed her again. *** I waited in the dark. The poker game...well, it could have been worse. Wasn't the Jags game over by now? Jim and Megan must be getting some. Thoughtfully, I stuck my hand in my pants, stroking the lax penis. I thumbed the remote control and watched a Charles Bronson movie. Later, I wasn't sure which one it was. *** Jim was breathing hard, now, but his dick wasn't into it. Flashes of memory had him groaning as Megan ran her hands over his chest, down his thighs. Stop, please, stop. The hands pulled his shirt off, caressed the inside of his leg, touched his face and neck. Please don't hurt me anymore. *** TUESDAY Will scratches his elbow contemplatively, looking out the window. Ellison appears at the medical complex exit, striding to his truck. "Calm down, now, Billy, control yourself," a voice says in Will's memory. Will snatches up his coat. "Cancel my next appointment," he tosses over his shoulder on his way out the door. *** "Jim," said Rafe. "You know that witness on the Barlow case? Turns out he was lying. He *is* related to the mistress." He slapped a folder with the relevant paper trail onto Jim's desk. Jim grunted. "But you don't have to say thanks or anything, because of course I didn't put in all that extra work for you." Jim grunted. *** "How'd the date go, Connor?" "It wasn't a date. We watched the game." "You tellin' me you didn't go home together?" "We went to my apartment for dessert, and no, nothing happened." *** MONDAY MORNING "...Ellison, can't have you snapping at those two. I expect more professional behavior from you." "Sir? What are you doing with that pen in your mouth?" Banks snatched the pen away and tossed it on his desk. "Amy said she'd never marry an old smoker for fear of becoming a young widow." At Jim's look of surprise, Simon added, "Sandburg didn't tell you?" "No, sir." "Thoughtless punk." "Where was I? Oh. Brown and Rafe. People are starting to notice you're reacting badly only to those two..." Simon's tirade went on in a blur of words, volume rising and dropping. He reached the climax of his speech and paused, raising his hand. The timing was perfect for him to stick his cigar in his mouth and pull a face, but instead the moment was ruined by the sudden realization that his hand was empty. Jim envisioned Simon's future, with his hand in the air and a confused expression every time he wanted to get emphatic. Poor Simon. *** WEDNESDAY //Damn!// Will thinks, ducking into an appliance store. Whenever he gets too close to Ellison, the man goes still and lifts his head in a "listening" pose. Ellison must be fucking paranoid. *** "Dinner'll be ready in a few minutes," I said when Jim got in from work. He brandished a pair of thick white socks. "Look what I found at JC Penney's." "Socks?" "Support socks. Arch and ankle support." "Lemme see." I kicked off my house slippers and snuck his socks onto my feet. "Oooh," I sighed, my eyelids drooping. "Hey, I didn't say you could wear them!" "But they're so...comfy." Regretfully, I started to take them off. "Jeez, Sandburg, keep them to yourself, I don't want your smelly socks!" Opening my eyes, I caught the edge of a look on his face as he headed toward the kitchen, a self-satisfied smile. "How was your day?" I said. "Fine. Simon bitched at me." He lifted a pot lid and tasted the soup. "Why?" "Something about being rude to Brown and Rafe. Since when did Banks turn into Miss Manners, Chief?" "You *have* been rude to Brown and Rafe lately," I replied, savoring the sensation of scrunching my socked toes against the rug. "This is news? You're always telling me how rude I am." "This is -- different." I laughed. "Oh, man." Jim made a face. "What?" "Your lack of fashion sense is contagious, Jim." I pointed. "Now you've got *me* wearing white socks with dark pants." "Where do you get off criticizing my working relationship with anyone, Darwin. You're hardly ever there." I blinked at him. "I have academic commitments --" "Sure you do." "Jim -- what -- why --" "You act like solving murders and saving lives is less important than --" "Don't you fucking dare to --" I stopped, stomped to my room, snatched up shoes and keys and jacket, and slammed out the door. Bastard. Most of what we did lately was paperwork, anyway. *** In the wake of Sandburg's anger, Jim couldn't summon any interest in dinner. He covered the soup and put it in the fridge, then went upstairs to lie down. He remembered the night with Connor. Shit. Would it have been like that with Blair? *** Every male head turned her way as she strutted across the bar. Yeah, Maria was On tonight. Oh, my, look at *that*. Tight ass, broad shoulders, hair almost as magnificent as hers -- short, but who cared? She was shorter. He turned and glanced around the room. Pouty mouth. //Well, lookie there. He dresses to the left. Dios, I love tight jeans.// Maria slid onto the barstool next to him. "Hi there." He glanced at her. "I have leprosy." She stiffened. "Afraid of real women, queer?" His face twisted. "I'm right. You're scared. You're a faggot." "Get your face away before I do permanent damage." *** I watched her retreating back until she ensconced herself firmly in the middle of a group of men near the pool table. Then I turned back to the bartender. "Another SoCo." I didn't want it, but when I'd stopped myself from dropping my head on the counter, my mouth had flopped open and asked for a drink. God, Goddess, or Whatever is really out there... I want things to be like they were. *** SEVERAL MONTHS AGO "No, I was kidding. I want you to stay," Jim said. Simon was already in his car. I glanced at Dr. Conway, who stood by the general store chatting with other locals. "Hey, you'll find it easier to make time with your lady friend if I'm not around." "On the contrary, Sandburg, I don't want to be left alone with anyone who can think about flirting after" -- Jim jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the town -- "all this." Only someone with the Sandburg-Ellison Luck could stumble into a fake epidemic and train robbery on his first vacation in over a year. "Okay," I said. Dr. Conway, it turned out, wanted to join Jim's fishing trip in order to make time with Simon, who was at pains to keep her at arm's length. Things must have been more serious with his friend Amy than I'd thought. My mood grew buoyant as I recovered from the poisoning on the day of the train robbery; I kept thinking about Jim's declaration of love to Simon and myself that morning in the lodge. The third day, Jim and I were standing knee-deep in the stream, when I blurted, "I love you, you know." I would have slapped myself, but Jim smiled. "That's good, Chief." A fish bit, and I was spared my immediate reaction as I reeled the trout in. Later, I waited for Jim to make his move. Of course, there was Conway's inhibiting presence. Not to mention Simon. After our week of fishing, we packed up Jim's truck and Simon's car, cheerfully throwing gear in both vehicles, and I hopped onto Jim's passenger seat. We'd drive home, and he'd make his move anytime now. *** THE PRESENT I gulped down the shot of SoCo and set the glass on top of the other two to make a mini-pyramid. It had taken until a couple of days after the fishing trip for me to figure it out: Jim didn't want me that way. He'd never wanted me that way. When I understood, I'd locked myself into my office at the U for a whole weekend and fucked my virgin body with the toys I'd bought, coming and coming until the little couch reeked of it. At one o'clock I finally left the bar, having waited long enough to sober up. I found Jim in the bathroom hyperventilating. I'd like to say I had some wise shamanic method for dealing with it, but what I actually did was stick a paper bag over his face. "Sometimes my sense get... odd... when you go places without me," Jim finally admitted. *** //Jim was dreaming he heard people fucking in *his* loft. He walked up the stairs, marveling at how calm he could be in dreams, and saw two forms, the larger kneeling over the smaller, who lay on his back with his legs drawn up. Jim didn't know if the smile stretching that face was pleasure or pain masked as pleasure, but it was definitely Sandburg. The head tilted and then the smile turned real, aimed at Jim. Jim was standing by the bed listening to the grunts and the slapping of balls against buttocks, and he reached out and ran his thumb across Sandburg's lips. The lush mouth yielded and Sandburg sucked on his thumb. Jim looked up at the other figure, seeing its hands tied behind it with black silk, black silk gagging its mouth as well, and its face was Jim's. Jim jerked his glance down to Sandburg, Sandburg's mouth muffled with black, and the blackness everywhere expanded as Jim was coming, coming, coming...// I woke with the wet spray of semen on my belly, clutching my first chubby since the rape, my other thumb pressing against my half-open lips. Was that my dream? My dream of Jim dreaming, my dream of Jim's bed violated, my dream of violating Jim's bed with a bound and gagged Jim. And even though I'd been in it, it had held no sense of myself at all. I ran my hands down my body, surprised to find that I was real to the touch. I wiped the semen off with tissues from a box under my bed. //Blair,// I said to myself, //he loves you. He's defenseless against you. Don't think about his cock in you, yours in him, his thumb in your mouth...// I curled around my pillow and longed for dreams of ruined mosques. *** ~end of volume two~ *** Constructive criticism, you know the spiel: grwc@no.spam.hotmail.com <--- remove "no.spam." to send email. http://netdump.com/users/grwc/