The Labyrinth: Prologue
The phone rang.
It was the dead of night. Jim woke scant seconds before the clamor began, and lay staring at the ceiling for long moments before reaching for the handset by his bed. Already afraid.
"Ellison."
"Jim?" His captain's voice was faint over the phone. He dialled his hearing up, only to realise it was not that the line was poor , but Simon's voice really was that faint and sick sounding. Over the phone, the sounds around Simon were deafeningly loud, and frighteningly familiar. The creak of stressed metal being torn apart. The muted chatter of paramedics. The occasional burst of sound as a siren approached. The crackle of fire...he could almost smell the petrol...
"JIM! Not *now*!! *JIM!" Ellison snapped to with his captain bellowing down the phone at him. He'd said something... He sifted back through the half-remembered words that had echoed, muffled and meaningless in his zone out.
"Sandburg..." he repeated softly."
"Thank god. Yes, Sandburg." There was a pause, and Jim heard the rustle of clothing as Simon turned. "Ellison, you'd better get down here right now...or, no, actually," There was a shriek of agony from the metal being ripped apart, "They're into the car now - you better get to Cascade General. We'll be in Emergency, like you couldn't guess that, where else are we ever with you two," he added in a muttered undertone. "Sorry, Ellison, I just--"
Jim didn't care. He was out of his bed, dressed and half way to the truck, a hollow, gnawing feeling accompanying the thought, 'This is it. Last chance, last time. Shit, Blair. Why you?'
"Jim?" Simon asked over the silent cellphone.
"I'm on my way." He replied tersely, settling into the driving seat and turning the ignition over. "See you there in ten."
"Jim, you can't make--" there was a click, and Jim switched off the phone. He didn't need to hear what he could or could not do.
In the empty three am streets he gunned the engine, roaring through Cascade as if speed could outrun the indigestible fear in his stomach. Perhaps he zoned on the way. He didn't really remember the journey, but he'd heard other people say the same, and now he knew that it was true, that you could be so lost in fear and need that you could zone even if you weren't a Sentinel.
The lights and smell of the hospital shattered his cocoon. Voices assaulted him on every side, whirling and dipping as though some child had the volume control, and was playing with the world's sound. The lights glared through his skull, and he pressed his hands to his eyes, trying to break the tight band of pain building around his forehead.
"...sir? Do you want to sit down, and I'll get someone to sign you in."
"No," he said hoarsely, gripping the volunteer's wrist. "I'm --it's a friend of mine, he-- he--"
"It's okay, Diane," Simon said, pulling Jim away, appearing unexpectedly behind him and reading the nurse's name off her badge. "He's with me. He's only just heard about --" he hesitated, and jerked his head towards the vehicular casualty being wheeled direct into assessment, paramedics swarming about the motionless body, IV bags held high. "They were--are, very close." He didn't correct himself fast enough.
Jim's eyes were hard and haunted. "He's not going to die, Simon."
"Of course he isn't, Jim," Simon soothed, steering his detective towards a seat. Jim sat ramrod straight, eyes fixed on the door through which Blair had been taken. "You just might want to sit here a bit, and I'll try and find out how he's doing." he added, crouching down in front of his detective.
"Don't *patronise* me, Captain," he said curtly. "I know as well as you - better actually, how seriously injured the man in there is."
He gave a pointed look at Simon, who blinked, and said, "Jim, surely you shouldn't be using your senses. Not without Sandburg around to do whatever it is he does."
"I'm *fine*, Simon. I don't need my hand held for every little thing!" he snapped, resuming his concentration on the dying man being hurried to surgery.
"Then why-- sorry, Jim. forget I asked." Simon stood and headed towards the coffee machine in the corner. Not quite out of earshot, but far enough to pretend.
Jim answered anyway. "Because I love him. Because he's part of me. Because everything works better, feels better, *is* better, when he's around, than when he's not. Besides, he's the best detective I've ever seen. That's why we busted our asses, and did some *very* fancy foot-work to get him into the department."
Simon busied himself with getting two coffees, black, plenty of sugar in both, 'good for shock' an idle part of his brain suggested, so plenty of sugar, and tried very hard to pretend that those weren't tears gathering in the corner of his eyes. He rubbed casually at his forehead, as if easing an ache, and surreptitiously wiped away the moisture.
"I know that, Jim," he said softly, ashamed, sitting next to him, and handing him the coffee. His eyes gravitated naturally to the doorway when Blair had gone. He rested a quick hand on Jim's shoulder and squeezed, before letting go and gripping the small plastic cup with both hands, as though it might get away from him. "You didn't need to say it. We all, always knew."
Silence. Simon looked measuringly at his friend, then turned back to staring at the door. Jim was aware, if the pain on his face was any indication. The man's jaw was gripped tight closed, as if to hold in anything that hurt him, keeping out anything that might break him. Simon dropped his eyes to the floor, racking his mind for anything to say that would not be a lie.
He'd seen Blair's face, briefly, while they were using the jaws of life. He'd been still and pale, head tilted to one side as he responded to the paramedic's questions, too faintly for Simon to hear and he'd spared a thought for Jim, who would have been able to hear the words that made a soft ripple of laughter pass through fire-fighters and paramedics both. Who would have been in there, getting in the way, making sure Blair got the best possible attention. Who might have been in the passenger side, and killed instantly by the carelessly driven rig, instead of Sandburg's girlfriend, whose mutilated body had lain silently next to Sandburg, crushed beyond redemption.
Lines of blood had redefined Blair's face into something ghastly. He'd asked, and found that Blair's back and neck had been compromised. That the steering wheel had stoved in his ribs as the front of the car piled up around him. that the same crumpling of sheet metal had trapped his legs, one hastily pulled up, one, the gas pedal side, caught about the ankle, the bone snapped, perhaps torn too, perhaps too badly damaged to do more than perform emergency amputation there and then.
He'd overheard them, and told them that the man was a police officer; they'd exchanged glances, and told him no matter who the patient was, they were concerned with saving his life. Bu the car was opened up, and they hadn't needed to take off the mangled foot. Simon had followed the ambulance, passing the morgue van as they opened up the remains of the car for Blair's passenger. At least it hadn't been for Blair as well. The call...no he wouldn't have dared to call Jim. It would have been the knock on the door in the grim pre-dawn hours to tell a whole man that he was a half again. Which reminded him. He touched Jim's arm lightly.
"Jim, do you have any idea who Sandburg was out with?"
"What?" Jim snapped irritably.
"Who was Sandburg with? We'll need to make at least a tentative ID on the-- on her, and I don't think your partner's going to be up to it for a little while."
"Clare. Clare Randell." Jim offered no more information, and Simon didn't push, quietly opening his cell phone, and calling the info in. The duty sergeant took the message, then asked awkwardly about Sandburg. Simon snorted faintly, and stood to walk a few steps away from Jim to give himself the illusion of not upsetting Jim with a repetition of the bad news.
"It doesn't look good, Kitty," he admitted quietly, glancing over his shoulder at Jim's fixed face.
"He's going to make it, though, isn't he?" Kitty's voice was concerned.
Simon shrugged. "We don't know. But-- it doesn't look good."
"How's Ellison doing?"
"Jim's... holding up."
"Poor guy. Look, you give him my best wishes, and tell him I'm praying for them both - and Sandburg's ladyfriend too."
"I'll do that, Kitty. And thankyou." He closed the cell phone.
"Kitty said to tell you--"
"Don't," Jim's voice broke, and he swallowed and started again. "Don't tell me. It's only real if you tell me."
The night swung into day.
Slowly, the news spread. First there were the cameras, looking for a sound bite, a piece of news to make the day start with a bang. For many of the detectives of Major Crimes, the radio alarm was their first inkling. It echoed in the waiting room, the tinny music broken every half hour with up-to-the-minute, useless, dead news.
"Six am, and I'm Lisa Marcello, in the news today, the president... ... and in local news, a young police officer and his girlfriend were in their car when it was hit by a rig as it careered out of control through early morning traffic. The woman, Clare Randell, was instantly crushed to death as the twenty ton vehicle plowed across their 1970 Volvo. Her partner, and the driver, Detective Blair Sandburg of Cascade's Major Crimes Unit, is in hospital, doctors battling to keep him alive. The driver of the rig has not been found.... The weather is a lovely 27 degrees outside, but we're looking at some rain moving in from the north, so don't forget a coat. Traffic is moving slowly on the...." but no one was listening any more.
Simon's phone rang at a mere five minutes past six. Rhonda. The first of many calls. He wondered if Jim knew Naomi's number, to call her. He considered, and then dialled Personnel. They'd have Blair's emergency contact details. Ten minutes of more commiserations and sympathy later, he hung up and started calling Sandburg's mother.
Nurses passed through, coming in, going out, wearing water-slicked coats and heavy shoes. The promised rain had arrived, along with the shift change. Jim was still motionless beside him, and Simon hesitated to leave him, but-- crime didn't stop. And he still hadn't found Naomi.
He closed the phone, and rested his head in his hands.
"Captain?" the soft Australian accent roused him from his dark thoughts. "Captain, I heard on the radio. Why don't you get some sleep, and I'll stay with Jim."
"Thank you, Connor, I might just do that," He climbed to his feet, stretching feeling his back creak and straighten after hours in the uncomfortable hospital chairs. "Jim, I've got to--"
"I know. It's okay, Simon. I promise not to fight with Connor this time." The face Jim lifted to them both was white with some emotion that neither could identify at first, it was so contrary to their expectations. "We'll just wait here for any news."
Simon got the label to the emotion towering behind Jim's eyes. Rage.
"Jim, I--"
"It's not you, Simon." His eyes met Banks', and Simon reluctantly acknowledged their sincerity.
"Then what - "
"This was deliberate, Simon." the detective's flat statement left both Banks and Connor floundering.
"Jim, sometimes things happen, and--"
"I don't need your platitudes, Connor. I am telling you. The driver will turn up dead, probably in the river a week or so's time. They'll find a note - he was drunk or something when he crashed into them. But Blair will be gone by then. It'll be too late," he said flatly.
"Jim, he's a fighter, give him a chance, Sandy'll pull through." Connor bit her lips anxiously, one hand on Jim's arm.
"Oh, he'll pull through all right," Jim said grimly. "But we won't know about it."
Over his head, Megan and Simon exchanged worried looks.
"You have got to trust me on this one, Simon. They are going to take Blair away, and replace him with a dead man. It'll be a closed coffin funeral, sealed so I can't check it's really him. And then..." he looked around uneasily and dropped his voice. "And then they'll make their move."
"Jim, I think you need some sleep. I know you're worried, but you've just got to hope for the best, and..."
"Captain Banks?" a nurse interrupted the quiet, intense conversation. Banks turned instantly.
"That's me."
"Have you managed to contact any of Mr Sandburg's next of kin?"
"Detective Ellison here is listed as his next of kin. We're still trying to get a hold of his mother."
"I see. Mr Ellison, if you'd like to come this way, you can see your friend." Jim was instantly on his feet. "Is he --"
The nurse turned and walked towards the double door that the two men had spent hours staring at. "I won't lie to you, Mr Ellison." She held the door open and they walked through, leaving the waiting room behind.
"He is in a critical condition, the doctor can give you a better estimate of his chances, but..." she shook her head, and they walked on in silence, the ache in the pit of Jim's chest threatening to boil over into something dangerous. "Here we are, Doctor Revay, Detective Jim Ellison. He's Mr Sandburg's next of kin."
The doctor was in his thirties, and nervous. Jim could hear his heart pounding in his chest, too fast, smell the stink of sweat and the fear.
"Mr Ellison. I'm afraid I don't have very good news for you." He gestured to a chair and Jim shook his head.
"I've been sitting all night. I need to get the circulation going in my legs again." he explained.
The doctor nodded, and stood up again, diminishing the height difference between them to almost nothing. "Very well. Your friend is a very sick man. I'll make no bones about that. His injuries are extensive, both internal and external. There is some good news - we don't think that his neck or spine have been seriously compromised, although there will probably be whiplash that will need care. However, both legs are broken, as are his left ankle and right arm - we think he might have had his arm around his girlfriend when the truck hit them as it is broken in a number of places, two of them compound fractures. His ribs on the right side are cracked, but not broken for the most part. One did break, and pierced his lung, possibly when he was moved. He's lost a kidney and we've had to remove his spleen. We're hoping his liver and pancreas will recover although there was some bleeding from both.
"Frankly, Mr Ellison, Blair is in a very bad way. We're looking at serious blood loss, major internal injuries, aggravated by emergency surgery, general trauma - particularly to his limbs, and well. We're not putting his chances high."
Jim smiled faintly, "You want to give me the chance to say good bye?"
The doctor fidgeted. "I wouldn't say that. Just... you might want to stay with him. We'll waive the normal ICU rules."
Jim nodded cynically. "I'll do that. And, Doctor Revay?"
"Yes?"
"When they come for you in the night, give them my regards, and tell them I *know*."
He heard the jerk in the man's heart beat and breathing. Revay covered well though with, "I'm sorry? No, it's okay, I understand, you're stressed, and I-- . Don't worry, Mr Ellison, it's been a long night, and--"
"Goodbye, Revay." Ellison's tone was very final, and as he walked away, the doctor shivered.
Jim walked into the small private room. Clear tubes vined across his face and chest, and his IV rack had a plethora of bags draped from it. But his eyes were open.
"Blair," he breathed softly.
A smile broke out on Blair's face, and he replied hoarsely around the nasal tube, "Hi Jim."
"You kept my advice and didn't hit your head this time," he teased gently, pulling up a chair.
Blair smiled again and his eyes drifted closed.
Jim leaned forward, and carefully held Blair's left hand, the only unbroken limb. "Blair, I'm going to only say this once, and then we're going to go on as normal, okay?"
Blair's eyes snapped open in confusion, and Jim touched a finger to his blue-tinged lips.
"Shh. You're going to survive this, but I may not be able to see you for a while, okay," he began in a very low voice, aware of the white noise generator burning a hole in his pocket as it hopefully drowned out any eavesdroppers. "Whatever they tell you, believe this. I haven't done this to you. They're doing it to both of us; and I love you, very much, my Guide." He hesitated. Blair's eyes were confused, he was going to have to explain more clearly to his drug and pain fuddled partner. He lowered his voice further, moving closer.
"You know the thing we always worried about? This is it, I think. The whole thing stinks of covert ops. We'll be okay. Just give me time. I'll be along. And then there's this. Just in case -- " He half smiled, and laid his other hand along Blair's cheek. He leaned further over the bed, and softly brushed his lips over Blair's. "I don't have the luxury of time anymore. If I'm wrong, then--" But Blair was smiling, joy blazing from his face.
"if you're wrong, then we have a lot to talk about when I'm better, James, " Blair mouthed happily.
"and if I'm right," Jim whispered, resting his head next to Blair's ear, "Then I'll come for you. We'll fix this."
"I trust you," Blair moved, and sighed. His eyes drooped shut, and Jim pressed a second kiss on the stitched cheek, then sat back, still holding Blair's hand. He sat there for two days, leaving to wash and get fresh clothes, to eat. Others came to visit. He said the right things, and pretended not to see their tears, or hear their whispered discussions about how he would cope when Blair passed away.
Blair faded. He was rarely conscious, but he was in little pain, the morphine pump saw to that. There were other drugs too, Jim knew enough to recognise most. The one or two he did not know, the nurse who came in to replace them every six hours, assured him were essential to Blair's liver function, keeping him alive while his internal organs recovered. She told him what her superiors had told her. He heard no fluctuation in her heart beat. No fear in her voice.
Revay never came back.
Jim was there, at dawn, when Blair flatlined. Naomi was there too, weeping softly. They'd rousted Simon out of bed. Someone must have told him the end was near.
His chest continued to move, but that stopped once they disconnected him from the oxygen. Jim brushed a hand through Blair's hair, and twisted, inadvertently pulling a little out by the roots. He stared at the dark strands winding round his fingers, and Naomi reached over, a pair of scissors coming out of her handbag. He took them, silently grateful, and snipped away a lock of hair. He wrapped it around his fingers, forming a fist around it. It would remind him, when things got rough, he hoped.
Jim moved silently through the next days. The funeral had been only a couple of days later, the coffin closed, as Jim had predicted. There had been some flowers, but not many. Most people had chosen to help swell the Sandburg Anthropological Trust, which Jim and Naomi would oversee, to help poor and gifted students.
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The Labyrinth: Prologue |
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Page last updated 18/09/2004.