Disclaimer: The Sentinel and its characters are completely the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. I use them out of reverence, solely for fun and not for profit. I have nothing but the highest regards for the creative minds who developed and continue to develop The Sentinel universe (and that includes all the fan fiction writers as well).Spoilers: Secret
Author's Notes: I couldn't fit Megan into this story, so consider the timeline somewhere well after Secret but before Foreign Exchange. Thank you very much to the best (and most patient) beta-reader around—thanks a million, DawnC!
The Great Escape
by
Hephaistos
hephaistos@valley.net
Simon returned from booking and stormed into his office, slamming the door in the process. Seconds later, the door was flung open. "Brown! Rafe! My office, now!" The door slammed again. Blair slumped lower in Jim's chair and tried to hide behind the mound of paperwork.
Detectives Brown and Rafe were about to get their asses chewed.
And it was all Blair's fault.
Simon's eyes narrowed as Brown and Rafe slunk into his office with their figurative tails between their legs. Henri shut the door softly, as if that would somehow soften Simon's mood. Fat chance, thought Simon. Then Henri joined his partner to stand in front of Simon's desk. The captain allowed a moment of uncomfortable silence to pass before speaking.
"All you had to do," he said carefully, "was keep one 5-foot 9-inch anthropologist in protective custody for six hours until the deal went down—a deal against a very dangerous man who had threatened his life. You out weigh him, out 'height' him, out number him, and have had specific training in guarding prisoners and witnesses." Simon looked steadily at each detective. "I'm waiting for an explanation."
Henry fidgeted from one foot to another, casting a sideways glance at his partner. Rafe remained absolutely still, staring at some vague point on the wall beyond Simon's shoulder
"Well?" Simon asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Jim returned to the bullpen after logging in the evidence. Blair moved to another chair and offered him a conciliatory smile, but Jim would have none of it. He handed Blair the paper work from the evidence room and sat down at his desk to finish typing his statement. Blair sighed and looked sideways at Joel who was hunched over his desk, making an effort to look extremely busy. No comfort there.
"Forgive a guy for caring," Blair mumbled.
"... And once we got untangled from all that colored string, he was gone," finished Brown. Rafe had yet to utter a sound.
Simon's cigar flitted from one side of his mouth to the other as he ground his teeth back and forth processing Brown's explanation. "You're telling me that Sandburg escaped by getting you to play a game involving string?" He was incredulous.
"Well, colored string," emphasized Brown, as if that made all the difference. "Um, heavy colored string. And it wasn't a game, really, it was a form of relaxation used by the adults of some Peruvian tribe. Or maybe they were from Africa..."
Simon took a deep breath and placed his hands palm down on his desk top, leaning against them. "You're telling me that Sandburg escaped by getting you to play a game involving heavy colored string?" he yelled, his voice increasing in decibels as he repeated Brown's story back to him.
The windows on the walls of Simon's office rattled slightly from the thunder of the voice within, rumbling and building in crescendo. Blair tensed up, almost expecting that lightning would soon follow and strike him dead. Jim shot him a look full of accusation, then the look softened a bit—just a bit—and he sighed, returning to his paper work.
Blair felt just awful.
"For god's sake," Simon yelled, "you're trained police officers in the Major Crime Unit. I'd like to think we're the best. We're suppose to be the best. The elite. The cream of the crop. How sorry do your asses have to be that you can't keep track of one Blair Sandburg for a few short hours?"
Brown puffed up his cheeks and blew the air out slowly, looking intently at the floor. Rafe, quiet up until now, suddenly turned his head and glared at Simon. "I don't know. You tell us, sir," he said defiantly and with no small amount of anger. His voice wasn't much quieter than Simon's had been.
That stopped Simon cold. Rafe, the most humble, quiet, unassuming member of his team had just talked back to him. Brown was looking at his partner in shock.
"You have something to say, Detective Rafe, say it." Simon chewed on his unlit cigar and folded his arms, waiting. Rafe maintained his steady gaze into Simon's eyes.
"He's done it to you, sir. He's done it to Joel, twice. Hell, he did it to half the SWAT team two months ago in the warehouse incident. The only reason Henri and I are getting yelled at today is because it just happened to be our turn to watch him again."
"Oh, man," Brown mumbled quietly. "Leave my name out of this, babe."
"No, Henri. I'm serious. Sandburg has gotten the best of all of us, on more than one occasion, and I'm sick of getting in trouble for it."
Two-thirds of Simon's cigar landed on the desk top because Simon had bitten right through the tip. When he spoke, his tone was deadly. "Are you quite finished?"
Blair was nervous enough while Simon was yelling, but that feeling tripled when Simon's office became suddenly silent. He wished he could leave, just come back later when the storm had blown over, like sometime in the next millennium, but he had promised Jim he'd help finish with the paper work. He also didn't want to leave without at least trying to apologize to Rafe and Brown. It really wasn't their fault.
Simon's door flew open with a loud crash. Even Jim jumped. "Ellison! Taggart! In here, now!"
Blair looked at Jim, alarmed. Joel and Jim looked at each other, completely at a loss, then both looked pointedly at Blair. Joel did manage to reach out and pat him softly on the back on his way by, but, while Blair appreciated the friendly gesture, he figured it would be the last one for a while.
Almost an hour later, Simon's door opened, calmly this time. The five detectives exited, smiling and joking, and looking for all the world like they'd just played a round of golf. Oh no, this can't be good, thought Blair. Sure enough, the five men all turned their sights on him.
"Chief," said Jim, "we want to take you out for a beer."
That was the last thing Blair expected. He eyed them suspiciously.
"No joke, Hairboy. And dinner afterwards," said Brown.
"You guys aren't mad?"
"Not any more," said Rafe, holding out his hand. Blair shook Rafe's offered hand, then Brown's, but remained seated. They all looked too... well, cheerful. It was eerie.
"I don't know..." Blair was still suspicious.
"Come on, Chief." Jim threw his jacket to him. "Don't you trust us?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
"You're going, Sandburg, and that's final," Simon said and led the way to the elevator. Blair reluctantly stood up and gathered his stuff.
"Is this, like, my last meal or something?"
Joel just winked at him.
Two or more beers apiece and several bowls of nuts later, the men moved into the dining room of the restaurant and ordered dinner. Blair was debating having the Caesar salad and marinated chicken, but when the detectives all ordered steak, he ordered one as well in the name of solidarity. Jim grinned at the gesture. In fact they all were grinning. They hadn't stopped since they left the station. Blair's face, always so expressive, displayed nothing but utter confusion.
"Enough!" said Blair, setting his beer down with a loud thump. "I give up. Throw in the towel. I'm crying uncle. You win."
"What exactly is it that we won, Sandburg?" asked Simon, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
"I have no idea. Nada. Zero. Zilch. I just know that I'm sitting with a bunch of beer-filled Cheshire cats wearing guns and it's starting to scare the hell out of me."
"Good," mumbled Jim next to him. "I was beginning to think you had no sense of self-preservation." Blair glared at him.
"We're your friends, Hairboy. Don't you know that by now?"
"Okay Sandburg," said Simon, leaning forward on his elbows, "here's the deal. We—"
Unfortunately, the salads arrived just at that moment. The table became completely silent as Ron-I'll-Be-Your-Waiter-For-The-Evening delivered them to each man. The intense scrutiny of six pairs of eyes seemed to be too much for Ron, though, as the last two salads were practically thrown in front of their respective owners. "I will be back with your dinners," he said quickly and bid a hasty retreat.
Simon picked up where he left off. "As I was saying, we have a proposition for you, Sandburg."
Uh oh, here it comes. Blair's expression changed from confusion back to suspicion. "Yeah...?"
"Assuming the city remains relatively crime-free over the weekend, we challenge you to escape our custody again," explained Simon.
"Huh?" Again Blair was taken by surprise.
"A bet, Chief," said Jim. "The guys come over for the weekend, and sometime before Sunday, you have to escape the loft. Completely. Get all the way to the park or some other designated location before any of us can recapture you."
"You have a talent, Sandburg," said Rafe, carefully removing black olives from his salad and lining them up along the edge of his plate. "We want an informal setting where we can observe just how you do it."
"Come on Blair," said Joel. He was eating the black olives from the edge of Rafe's plate. "It'll be fun."
Blair's face flowed easily from suspicion to anger. "Is that what this is to you guys, fun? A game?" He looked at each detective separately. "Is that what you think it is to me?"
No one answered.
"When I've uh, 'parted' your 'custody' on those occasions, I didn't do it to show you up, or to be annoying, or because I thought it was some kind of game. Man, how could you think that? I mean, if Simon would just let me do my job..."
"Exactly what job is that, Sandburg?" Simon was scowling.
Blair was too shocked for a moment to speak. He started to get up and leave but Jim gently grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. "Talk about it, Chief," Jim said softly. Blair sighed and looked directly at Simon when he spoke.
"You say I'm Jim's partner, but every time something important—okay, dangerous—comes up, you lock me in the loft with Joel, or Rafe, or Henri, or anyone else handy, and expect me to stay put. You let me help out with investigations and god knows you let me do enough paperwork, but when it comes to something really important, when Jim needs his partner the most, you lock me up like a kid after curfew."
"But you're not a—"
"Cop. I know. I know. I'm certainly reminded of it enough." Blair threaded his fingers through his curls in frustration. The waiter brought the dinners over during the uncomfortable pause, and delivered them in record time. He started to ask a question, then thought better of it and left without a word.
"Sandburg," said Simon in a softer tone, "for someone who has an IQ bigger than the national debt, and for someone who's about to get a doctorate in anthropology—which, if I'm not mistaken, is the study of people—you sure can be pretty dense."
"How?" Blair was back to feeling confused again.
"Listen, kid, when you're in some remote jungle hob-nobbing with the natives, do you bring your own fork and spoon with you, or do you eat food the way they do?"
Blair paused a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yeah, you're right, Simon."
"Huh?" asked Henri. Joel and Rafe seemed equally confused.
"Simon's saying that while I am willing to apply my discipline as an anthropologist by observing other cultures and incorporating myself into that culture in order to better understand why they do what they do, I'm not always exercising that same discipline in my role as Jim's partner at the police station; I guess I've become too personally involved."
"Which is not a good thing, considering police subcultures is what your doctoral thesis is on," Simon added, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.
"Huh?" repeated Brown.
"He's not looking at this from our point of view," translated Jim. "You know, when in Rome..."
"Oh."
"So from your point of view..." Blair said mostly to himself, analyzing. "Hmm. I guess your egos might be pretty bruised. And of course, having a small, untrained anthropologist hippie-type escape your protection repeatedly would be an embarrassment for Major Crime as a department."
"Exactly," said Simon sitting back, satisfied that he had proven his point. "So what do you say, Sandburg?"
Blair absently watched Jim piling more sour cream and bacon bits onto his baked potato, but he was too wrapped up in his thoughts to point out the error of his ways... All he had to do was escape custody from the loft and get to a designated location without being caught. One small him against five large detectives. Creative thinking versus training and experience. Brain versus brawn. Blair versus them... Okay, this could be fun.
"I'll do it."
Specifics for the contest were hashed out and discussed as the steaks disappeared. Ron the Waiter braved the table long enough to get dessert orders, and was pleasantly surprised to find a much more benevolent group. He brought everyone coffee while they waited for their assorted cakes and pies to arrive.
"Hey, wait a minute," Blair suddenly said. "If this is a 'contest' then what do I get if I win? I mean, in all those past incidents, I've had major incentive to escape, namely Jim's safety," Blair looked meaningfully at Jim. "If you're trying to test this 'escaping thing' under real-life conditions, I'll need some pretty major motivation here. You know, I really don't like trying to pull things over on you guys."
"Ah yes, the prizes," smiled Jim.
"In fact," Blair realized something else, two somethings, in fact, but he couldn't mention the second, at least not there in front of everyone. "Jim shouldn't even participate."
"Hey!" Jim sounded hurt. "Why not?"
"Because you were always the reason I escaped. If you'd been in protective custody along with me on any of those occasions, I would never have left in the first place."
"He's got a point," said Joel.
"But I want to play, too," Jim protested. The pouting was only partially an act.
"No," Blair shook his head adamantly. What he couldn't say was that Jim's sentinel abilities gave Blair's chance of success zero to none. Just the thought of an escape attempt would register in his heartbeat and Jim would be on to him in an instant.
Jim suddenly seemed to understand the dilemma. "Blair," he said, getting his partner's attention by pointedly using his given name, "what if I let you knock me 'senseless'?"
Blair paused. "Completely senseless?"
"As completely as you or anyone else."
"Could you do that?"
"Sure. Plus you could use that 'Brackett' thing."
Blair considered this. Jim was offering to turn down his dials and leave the white noise generator running. It would certainly be more fun and more of a challenge with his partner there and he could trust Jim to keep his word. Blair versus them now became Blair versus Jim in his mind... He smiled. Yeah, he was down with that.
"Okay."
"Good," Simon said, clasping his hands in front of him. He knew what just happened, and the others didn't pay it much mind. It was just Ellison and Sandburg doing their Ellison-Sandburg thing.
"Now about that incentive..." Blair asked.
"The best incentive there is, babe: money," said Henri. "For your books, and the Volvo, and—"
"No, we're not giving him money," Simon's tone made that decision final.
"We're not?" Apparently this was a deviation from what had been discussed in Simon's office.
"Wouldn't work anyway," said Blair. "Money's nice, sure, but I always get by. And I can get all the money I want from you guys on poker night."
"I'll give you incentive, Blair," Simon's voice became soft and very, very serious. "You win this little contest, and I will personally see to it that the department gets you your own bulletproof vest, one that actually fits you, and your own riot gear: helmet, gas mask, the works. And I will personally go through the Mayor to get some kind of a Deference of Personal Injury waiver for you to sign, absolving the department of any liability to a civil suit should you get injured. And once those things are taken care of, I will allow you to back Jim up in the more dangerous situations."
"But..." Jim started, but trailed off when he saw the look on his guide's face.
"Simon," Blair gasped softly. He couldn't think of anything else to say. No more 'Blair stay in the car,' 'Blair stay out of the way,' 'Blair don't leave the loft until Jim retires'...
Blair stood up and reached his hand across the table. "Deal," he said without hesitation. Simon stood up, looking very pleased with himself and shook Blair's hand. "Deal."
The rules of the contest were discussed, finalized, and typed up Friday afternoon at the station. In order for a 'win,' Blair had to make it to Caruso's, a small pub located about 5 miles from the loft, by noon Sunday without getting caught. His reward for winning was typed up carefully under Simon's supervision.
"But if we win..." Jim grinned.
Blair looked up from the computer. They hadn't discussed what would happen if the detectives won. Frankly, he hadn't considered it a possibility.
"What? If you win, what?"
"If we win, then you have to promise—" Jim started.
"No, Jim, no way. If Simon sticks me in protective custody again while you're in danger, I can't promise that I won't escape again."
"We know that, Chief."
"I won't promise that I won't do it again."
"We know that, Chief."
"Given similar circumstances, man, even though I know you guys are only looking out for my best interests, I still—"
"Sandburg, shut up," said Simon.
Blair shut up.
"What I was going to say," continued Jim, "was that if we win, you have to promise to speak only when spoken to, and basically perform any task asked of you by Henri, Rafe, Joel, Simon, or me any time you're at the station. For one full year."
"Oh," said Blair. Kind of humiliating. Definitely embarrassing. But then again, he didn't plan on losing. "Well, if Sandburg servitude makes you happy, I can do that." He knew his real loss would be in not getting the bulletproof vest and waiver from the Mayor.
One important but unwritten rule involved Jim and a white noise generator, and was known only to the sentinel, his guide, and Simon.
Signing his name on the Official Rules beneath the others' signatures, Jim looked up. "Okay. Everyone come to the loft at 5 p.m. tonight for a nice leisurely dinner while we're all still friends. Contest commences at exactly 6 o'clock."
Friday, 5:59 p.m.
Detectives Brown, Rafe, and Ellison, Captains Taggart and Banks, and anthropologist Blair Sandburg sat around the kitchen table at 852 Prospect Street eating a delicious dinner of spaghetti, garlic bread, and salad. Everyone had paused for the moment, watching intently as Simon, official timekeeper for the contest, sat still, eyes glued to his wristwatch.
"I now declare the contest... Begun!"
The words were hardly out of his mouth before Blair jumped to his feet and ran to the front door, knocking his chair over in the process. As he flung the door open and ran into the hall he heard a few muffled expletives. Heavier footsteps echoed his as he ran down first one flight, then the next, and he knew without turning around that his Blessed Protector was right behind him. But Blair had youth and agility on his side. He practically bounced onto the first floor landing, yanked open the door to the street, and ran outside. He reached the corner of their building and ran around into the alley...
Right into the arms of Rafe.
"Gotchya," Rafe gasped, his face bright red. Just in case there were any doubt, Blair was suddenly engulfed from behind by large strong arms around his chest. He was lifted and carted back inside to the elevator.
"Hey! Overkill, Jim. Rule #5 states that once physical contact is made, I give up willingly. Okay, I give up willingly... Jim? You listening, man? You can put me down any time now."
"Nah," said Jim.
When he, Rafe, and the wayward Blair returned to the loft, Jim was leading his partner by the collar of his sweatshirt. He sat Blair unceremoniously into the chair Rafe had vacated, the one farthest from the front door, and then returned to his own seat. Simon switched Rafe and Blair's dinner plates and Blair, face flushed from his sudden exercise, took seconds of everything.
"Adrenaline rush, man. Nothing like it," he explained.
"Didn't you remember Rafe here lettered in track and field in school, Blair?" asked Joel.
"Too damn long ago," Rafe mumbled, still trying to catch his breath. His hands had red streaks on them where it looked like he had slid down the fire escape.
"Sure I did, but, you know, full stomach, element of surprise and all that. What'd I have to lose?" Blair was still smiling broadly, completely nonplussed by his capture. "I mean, you guys didn't put a limit on the number of attempts, right? I figure I'm good for a couple of dashes to the door every hour for the next three days."
Rafe sighed.
"Well," said Brown shoving the rest of his dinner away, "it looks like we're in for a long weekend."
Friday, 8:42 p.m.
It had only been just over two and a half hours, and already the detectives' nerves were shot. Everytime Blair even twitched toward the front door, eight feet scrambled to beat him to it. Only Jim seemed to realize the psychological precedent Blair had initiated and didn't fall for it. Not that he wasn't wary. It was all he could do not to turn up his senses and monitor the kid. Blair, meanwhile, seemed to be having the time of his life.
By 9 o'clock, the detectives had reconnoitered and come up with a new strategy: one of them would be seated by the front door at all times, Brown taking the first watch. Blair, grading papers at the kitchen table for most of the evening, seemed more amused than annoyed at this new development.
At 9:25, the object of their attention stuffed the graded papers into his backpack and stood up and stretched, twisting his neck from side to side to loosen it. Then five pairs of eyes watched as he shuffled the few feet into the kitchen.
"What do you think you're doing, Sandburg?" asked Simon from the couch. He and the others were watching a Mariners game. When they weren't watching Blair.
"Just getting a cup of tea, Simon."
"Tea?"
"Yeah. Tea. Bunch of tiny little leaves that you steep in boiling water," Blair was grinning as he scooped some tea from a black canister into a tea ball. "This one here is a special brand created by a little-known tribe from Lima. It renders the drinker invisible."
"Don't be a wise ass," said Simon.
"Too late," said Jim.
"You're joking, right?" said Brown to Blair.
Blair just smiled and added the boiling water to his cup, then took it and his backpack into his bedroom.
"Hey, where are you going?" Joel said suddenly, sitting up straight. All eyes were on Blair again.
"My room," explained Blair patiently, stopping in the doorway. "Remember? 'Rule #2: Protectee promises not to escape through any window, door, or potentially weakened wall area in Protectee's bedroom. Any escape by any aforementioned method means automatic forfeit of the contest to the Major Crime detectives.'" Blair had insisted on this rule; he wanted to be sure he had some way to maintain his privacy over the weekend, not to mention wanting to sleep in his own bed. As long as the window and fire escape were a threat, he knew they'd never let him stay alone in his room. The detectives had been more than happy to agree to this rule.
"Yeah," said Joel, "I know what it says, but I'm still uncomfortable with you in a room full of exits."
"Trust me, Joel," Blair assured him. "I added that rule specifically so I could get a little privacy this weekend. Now if you'll excuse me, my tea's getting cold," and he disappeared inside.
"Don't worry Joel," said Jim confidently. "He can't escape from there. Ouch!" He watched as Ken Griffey, Jr. took a fast ball in the small of his back.
"Yeah," laughed Rafe, "he'd have to break through the ceiling or floor to avoid defaulting on the..." his voice trailed off and he looked at Jim.
"There is no way he could get out through the ceiling or floor, Jim, is there?" Joel asked.
"Please tell me that occurred to you, Jim," Simon said almost at the same time.
But they were both talking to an empty seat cushion. Jim had already disappeared into Blair's room.
Saturday, 5:45 a.m.
Joel was on front door duty reading a book when Blair staggered out of his bedroom, stretching like a well-rested cat. He figured the kid was able to get a decent night's sleep after Rule #2 had been modified to include floors, ceilings, and transportation aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise as disallowable escape routes within the confines of his bedroom. Blair was wearing an old, threadbare bathrobe far too big for him and his hair was flying off in several different directions. He yawned and pattered barefoot into the bathroom.
When he returned a few moments later, he went into the kitchen and poured some orange juice. "Morning Joel," he mumbled, still half asleep. He finished the juice and went over to the front door. Joel eyed him suspiciously.
"What?" said Blair, sounding irritated. "Oh for heaven's sake, Joel. I'm just going to get the morning newspaper. I mean, you're right here. Simon is over there on the couch... What can I do?"
Joel raised an eyebrow.
"Okay, fine," Blair said with a smile as he backed away from the door. "Why don't you get it for me?" The smile looked a little too smug for Joel's comfort. Maybe this was what the kid wanted him to do, trying to trick him into getting the paper for some reason. He really hated these psychological games.
"Better yet," Blair added helpfully, "get Simon to do it. I'll just stand here while two big strong policemen pick up one little newspaper off the floor."
Joel sighed. He was a veteran police captain, for heaven's sake, he shouldn't have to ask for help under these circumstances. On the other hand, this was Sandburg. Reaching a decision, Joel stood in front of the door, poised on unlocking it.
"You pick up the paper, and I'll stand in the hallway between you and the stairs. Don't dawdle." After all, Blair didn't look awake enough to run all the way to Caruso's, never mind that he was barefoot and undressed.
Blair smiled obligingly. "Whatever makes you happy, Captain," he said with a sharp salute. Joel unlocked the door and stepped backwards into the hall, keeping his eyes constantly on the anthropologist. Blair was about to step out after him when a strong hand grabbed his bathrobe collar and jerked him back into the loft.
"Hey!" Blair protested.
"Nice try, Sandburg," said Simon, releasing him only after a bewildered Joel had locked the door again and resumed his station in front of it. Jim was up now, too, and stood behind Simon.
"Jim," Blair said meekly. "Aren't you suppose to sleep until 8?"
"What, Chief, and miss all the fun?" Jim shook his head slowly and 'tsk'ed at Taggart. "Joel, Joel, Joel. The morning paper doesn't come until 6:30. Furthermore..." he turned his attention back to Blair. "Take off your robe, Chief."
"Jim! This isn't a peep show." Blair tried to sound shocked.
"Do it, or I do it for you." Jim folded his arms and waited.
Reluctantly, and with a sheepish look at Joel, Blair removed his bathrobe. He was wearing jeans, rolled up to just below his knees, and a T-shirt. He had a pair of flat-soled sandals hooked to his belt.
"I must be getting old," Joel said, shaking his head.
"No, man, Joel, don't think that way. I'm really really sorry."
"Don't be sorry, kid," said Simon entering the kitchen. "This is exactly what we wanted you to do."
"Yeah, I know, but—"
"Blair, I'm not upset," said Joel. "Just think of this as one more thing I've learned, and one more attempt of yours that failed." He smiled and returned to his book.
Saturday, 2:45 p.m.
"You really think you can get that waiver?" asked Jim. He had a made a fresh pot of coffee, and he and Simon had taken it out onto the balcony for some much needed fresh air. Rafe and Brown were watching a baseball game, and Joel sat in his usual position by the front door; a duty he had decided at some point was his. Blair typed furiously at the kitchen table, preparing lecture notes for the next week.
"You're assuming he's going to win," Simon pointed out, blowing on his coffee and taking a tentative sip.
"Off the record, Captain?" Jim leaned with his back against the railing, watching Blair through the glass doors.
"Go ahead."
"If he wins, and you can't come through with your promise, I will kick your ass from here to Yellowstone Park, then plug up Old Faithful with your bloody corpse."
"Jim, I wouldn't have made the promise if I didn't think I could follow through," Simon said evenly. "How do you feel about it?"
"About what?"
"If he wins."
"Hell, I don't know." Jim turned around and leaned his arms on the railing, gazing out over the city. "He's right. In some ways, I do need him more when the danger level is higher. On the other hand, I don't want him in dangerous situations; he's already been through so much because of my job. But on the other hand, he's going to show up anyway. Might as well have him there on our terms. On the other hand—"
"Okay, okay," said Simon. "I get the idea. I feel the same way."
"Hey! Stop that!" Simon and Jim turned instantly at the sound of Joel's cry. Blair was standing frozen by the kitchen island, cellphone in his hand.
Simon pulled open the balcony door. "Off the phone, Sandburg!"
Blair jumped at the new voice from the opposite direction. "What?" he said bewildered, looking from Joel to Jim and Simon. "What'd I do?"
"No phone calls, Chief."
"Where does it say that in the rules?" Blair challenged, tapping his foot.
"Rule #3, one of your rules, I might add," explained Joel. "'Protectee shall be accorded all the rights and privileges of any person placed in actual protective custody.'"
"Persons in protective custody do not get to use the phone." Simon crossed his arms with a satisfied smile.
"No phone calls?"
"No."
"But—"
"No buts, either. Now hand your phone over to Joel like a good little protectee and get back to whatever you were doing."
Blair huffed but did what he was told. Simon chuckled softly and closed the balcony door. "Off the record, Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking about the bulletproof vest and waiver for some time now. This contest just offered the perfect opportunity to see how Sandburg felt about it." Simon paused. "Don't worry, even if he doesn't win, I'll see that he gets them somehow."
Jim turned around so that he once again faced out over the city. He didn't want Simon to see the big dopey grin on his face.
Saturday, 9:59 p.m.
"Okay," said Henri thumbing through the TV Guide. Simon and Jim were sleeping the 10 to 4 shift, then he and Rafe would sleep from 4 to 10. Joel, again on front door duty, got to sleep from 2 to 8. "We could watch 'The Profiler' and make fun of their police procedures."
"Nah," said Rafe looking decidedly bored.
"We could watch Figure Skating Championships and make fun of the costumes."
"Nah."
"We could watch 'Walker Texas Ranger' and make fun of everything."
"Nah."
"You're hard to please, babe... Ooh, wait," said Henri grabbing the remote. "Cheerleading Championships on ESPN2."
"Now you're talking."
Brown twisted his head around and watched Blair puttering around the kitchen, probably making tea. "Hey, Hairboy, if you're not planning to escape in the next few hours, you want to watch Cheerleaders and then 'Saturday Night Live' with us?"
"Sounds great," said Blair. "My big escape isn't planned until 4 a.m. I'd rather do it on Simon and Jim's watch." He grinned. "Want me to make some popcorn?"
"Please!" said Rafe. "I'm starved."
"Hey," Brown said softly, leaning towards Rafe. "I've got this idea on how to give us an edge until noon tomorrow."
"You mean more of an edge than outnumbering the kid 5 to 1?" Rafe whispered back with a grin. "What do you have in mind?"
"Let's get him drunk."
"What!"
"Shh!" Henri hissed. "I asked Jim, Blair never drinks more than a couple of beers, and even then, he nurses them all evening. You and I could outdrink him, easy. He'd be in no condition to try anything drunk, and, with any luck, he'd have a killer hangover tomorrow morning."
"You are evil, my friend," Rafe said. "But doesn't that go against Rule #4?" Rule #4, at Joel's insistence, stated that 'neither Protectee nor Detective shall use forcible methods of restraint, such as handcuffs; nor is the involuntary use of any drug or other substance allowed.' Joel's experience with Blair in protective custody included an unfortunate—and unknown to him at the time—ingestion of a laxative. Blair had agreed to the rule because he had already been worrying about Jim's enthusiasm for using his handcuffs, he certainly threatened Blair with them enough.
"Hey man, we're not going to force the stuff down his throat. It'll be totally voluntary on the kid's part."
Rafe nodded and turned toward the kitchen. "Hey Sandburg," he called out, "bring over some beers when you come."
"Keep it down, Detective," came Simon's voice from Jim's bedroom. "It's after 10, remember? I'll overlook the microwave popcorn for now, but choose a quieter snack later."
"Sorry Captain," said Rafe.
"Sorry Simon," said Blair.
After handing Joel a small bowl of the popcorn, Blair joined Rafe and Brown in the living room. He placed the large bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and handed out the beers. "To cheerleaders," he said, holding his bottle up in the air. Rafe and Brown touched their bottles to his.
"To popcorn," said Rafe.
"To beer," Brown added, smiling just a bit.
Four beers later, and halfway through 'Saturday Night Live,' Henri was beginning to wonder if their plan was going to work. After a 'Saturday Night Live' sketch involving The Mummy, Sandburg, still going strong, started lecturing about a recent archeological discovery in the mountains of Peru.
"These archeologists discovered over 100 mummies on that dig," explained Blair, keeping his voice soft. "One hundred! And intact... Do you know how amazing that is? They were the Chachapoya Indians, also called 'The Cloud Warriors' because they lived so high in the mountains behind a huge stone fortress, protection from their constant enemy, the Incas. Incredible, man. And their city was simply amazing, with large cylindrical stone huts and thatched roofs surrounded by the gigantic stone wall... I mean, the artist's rendering looked like something out of Star Wars!" He suddenly stopped and looked at his audience. "Sorry guys. I get kind of talkative when I drink too much."
"Great," mumbled Brown, rolling his eyes.
Blair suddenly stood up.
"Sandburg, you okay?" asked Rafe.
"Yeah, yeah. Oh man, I've got to go upstairs."
"The bathroom's down here, Sandburg," Brown grinned.
"No, I don't mean I got to go, I just mean I've got to go, you know, up there."
"No way," said Rafe shaking his head.
"You don't understand, man. Jim has my book. I need it to work on my paper. My paper due next week."
"Why would Jim have your book?"
"It had a chapter on the Chopak Indians, you know, the tribe he lived with in Peru, and I think he was curious about it."
"I'll go up and get it, then." Brown stood up.
"No," said Blair. "You don't know what it looks like, and trust me, you don't want to be poking around with Simon and Jim sleeping."
Brown and Rafe looked at each other, then at Joel who just smiled when he looked up from his book as if to say, 'this is your problem, boys.'
Blair eyed the loft bedroom impatiently. "Look, come up with me then. I'm not going to try anything."
"Okay, okay," said Brown. "I'll go up with you." He followed Blair quietly up the stairs to the bedroom where Jim lay sprawled across the bed and Simon lay sleeping on an air mattress under the window. Blair circled the bed quietly, and searched the nightstand, then poked around under the bed a bit. Not finding the book, Henri was beginning to think he'd been had when Blair held up the book triumphantly. He stepped carefully around the bed and back to the top of the stairs, where Henri motioned him to go down first.
"Geeze," Brown whispered, flopping onto the couch. "I feel like I just went on maneuvers through a mine field."
Blair tossed the book where he was sitting and went to get paper and a pen. "You guys want another beer?" he asked quietly.
"Sure," Brown and Rafe said at the same time. Blair grabbed the empty bottles in separate fingers so they wouldn't make too much noise and placed them carefully in the recycling bin. "Let's see," Brown was reading the TV Guide again. "Man, there's nothing on after 1 a.m. on Saturday."
Blair returned with the beers and his paper and immediately started thumbing through the textbook and scribbling notes. Henri glanced at him, wondering how the kid could work so late and with four beers under his belt, but hopefully the fifth beer would be the charm. "Aha!" he said softly, turning the channel. "Xena!"
Sunday, 4 a.m.
Jim came down the stairs tying his bathrobe, Simon right behind him. "Hey, Brown! Rafe!" he called quietly in deference to Joel who was sound asleep on the extra cot in his bedroom. Brown had now taken position by the front door.
Brown turned his head and slowly blinked his eyes. "Oh hey, man. What time is it?" He couldn't see the clock over the sink from where he sat, and he rubbed his wrist absently where his watch usually resided.
Jim looked from Henri to Rafe. Rafe was sprawled in the armchair staring wide-eyed at the television. He was watching an infomercial for a device that made a giant deep-fried onion look like a flower. "Rafe? You thinking of buying that thing?"
"Huh?" said Rafe, his head jerking slightly.
"Just how much beer did you men drink?" asked Simon, raising his eyebrows. He looked at the three bottles on the table.
"Um, seven, I think. Yeah, seven." Brown sat up and rubbed his face. "But honest Captain, we never fell asleep. And Sandburg was with us until a little while ago, then he went to bed."
Jim had gone to Blair's bedroom to make sure the anthropologist was where he was suppose to be. He returned with a small smile on his face.
"Please tell me Sandburg's there," said Simon.
"He's there," answered Jim, "slumped over a notebook on his bed." Jim didn't add that he'd straightened his guide into a more comfortable position and placed a blanket over him.
"So you're saying each of you had seven beers, Blair included?" said Simon.
"Yeah. We, um," Brown looked guiltily at his feet. "We wanted to get the kid drunk. We were under the impression he didn't drink a whole lot, so we figured it wouldn't take much."
"Well, usually it doesn't, if it's something alcoholic," said Jim with a small smile. He had a sneaking suspicion... Walking over to the recycling bin, he thumbed through the contents, counting the bottles. "Fourteen," he announced.
"Fourteen?"
"Fourteen bottles. And I took the recycling out this morning, well, yesterday morning." Jim returned to the living room and sat on the couch. "Simon and I each had a beer before we went to bed. And you say you and Rafe each had seven beers. That means Sandburg only had one."
"But... but..."
"Who got the beers and put the bottles in the recycling bin?"
"Sandburg, I mean, he just kept jumping up and getting stuff anyway... geeze, what did he do? I mean, how did he—"
"Was this Blair's bottle, where he'd been sitting?" Jim asked. At Brown's nod, Jim sniffed the bottle... not a sentinel sniff, just a police detective kind of sniff. And smiled. "Tea."
"Tea?"
"Oolong, to be exact. My guess is, every time he got a bottle of beer for the two of you, he just filled his empty bottle with tea."
"Shit," said Henri in awe. "But then why didn't he try to escape while he thought he had the upper hand? I mean, once Joel went to bed, if he thought we were drunk and asleep, why didn't he try then?"
"You said you didn't fall asleep."
"We didn't. It's just..." Henri seemed confused.
"Blair's playing games with us," said Jim, amused. "He's got something big up his sleeve, so for now, he's just having fun."
"You," Simon pointed to the two younger detectives, "get to bed. You're going to feel lousy enough tomorrow morning as it is."
"Yes, sir," said Henri. He roused his partner. Rafe jerked awake again and sat up straight, looking at the giant onion on TV. "Mm," he sighed. "That looks delicious."
Sunday Mid-Morning
Jim was pouring freshly brewed coffee into three mugs when Blair shuffled out of his room wearing only his boxers and carrying a change of clothes.
"'Morning, Chief."
"'Morning, Blair."
"Sandburg."
"Hmph," Blair said with a general wave toward the table. "Show'r."
Jim grinned as Blair entered the bathroom, then rejoined Simon and Joel at the table with the coffee. "I am very grateful that that bathroom doesn't have any windows. Otherwise, one of us would have to take a shower with him."
Joel took his mug and returned to duty by the front door now that Blair was up and about. "You mean you would have had to take a shower with him. That would have been Rule #7," he commented.
Jim's retort was lost when the power suddenly went out. "What the..." A loud squawk was heard from the bathroom, and a very wet Blair Sandburg stepped out holding a small towel around his waist.
"What are you guys trying to do to me?" he demanded. "Do you know how dark it is in there without a light?"
"I was just beginning to wonder what you were up to, Chief," Jim said, glaring back at his roommate suspiciously.
"Right, Jim. That's good. You caught me. I shape-shifted into a gnat and traveled through the drainage system to cut off the power supply to the loft so that I could... what? Sneak out in the dark? It's broad daylight man!"
Jim shrugged. He honestly had thought for a moment that the power outage was Blair's doing, but he really would have nothing to gain from it. "It's probably just a tripped circuit breaker." He walked over to the stairs where the electrical box was located and reset the breaker. The lights came back on with a soft beep from the microwave.
"Thank you!" said Blair, returning to the bathroom.
Jim sighed, looking at the blinking numbers on the microwave. "Now I have to reset all these stupid clocks. You're the official timekeeper, Simon. What's the official time?"
"Umm," Simon twisted his wrist, "10:34... Why the funny look?"
"I don't know... doesn't that seem kind of late to you?"
"What does your watch say?"
Jim tapped the face. "Battery's dead. I don't even know why I bothered to put it on this morning. You know, I'm starting to get a little suspicious again. What time does your watch say, Joel?"
"My watch fritzed out on me Friday at work. It's never worked that great anyway, so I just left it at the office."
Jim turned to look at the kitchen clock. It wasn't there. Now he was more than a little suspicious. Just then Blair exited from the bathroom with damp hair and dressed in jeans and his usual T-shirt/sweatshirt layers. He popped into his room and returned with his textbook and notebook.
"Blair," said Jim, his voice fairly dripping with friendliness, "where is our kitchen clock?"
"Oh that," his roommate answered, pouring a cup of coffee and heading into the livingroom. "It fell last night, and I couldn't reach to put it back up, so I stuck it under the sink."
"It fell, huh." Jim leaned over and found the clock next to the dustpan and brush. It was a battery-driven clock and he read the time: "10:39. I'm still not convinced."
"Just check the clock in my room," Blair offered. "It's a wind-up."
Jim did just that. According to his roommate's clock, it was 10:37. Jim was still not convinced.
"I think I'll just call the operator and check on the time," Jim said, gauging Sandburg's reaction. He didn't have to wait long.
"No way, man. I can't use the phone. You can't use the phone."
"That isn't the way it works, Chief."
"Yes it is, Jim. What's good for the anthropologist, is good for the detectives."
"Okay, it doesn't really matter. Turn on The Weather Channel."
"What?"
"You heard me, Chief. I want to check the time on The Weather Channel."
Blair had picked up the remote but didn't move to press any buttons. "Just what are you implying here, Jim?"
"What I'm implying is, my watch suddenly doesn't work this morning, the kitchen clock mysteriously falls, the power suddenly goes off, knocking all our clocks off-line except for the mysteriously fallen kitchen clock..."
"Meaning...?"
"Come on, Sandburg. I know you're smarter than that. I think that you've orchestrated all this to make us think it's actually later than it is."
Blair blinked. "I... " he shook his head. "I'm flattered that you think I could come up with such an impossible plan."
"Cut the bull, Chief, and turn on The Weather Channel."
"Jim..."
Jim started toward the couch and Blair immediately aimed the remote at the television. "Okay, okay. Give a guy a chance." He sighed and switched to The Weather Channel.
Someone named Wanda wearing a tight blue dress was pointing out with excruciating care the location of every high pressure system and low pressure system in the entire state of Washington. Carefully summing up, the outlook was rain.
And located in the information bar at the bottom of the screen was the time: 10:12 a.m.
"It's only 10:12, Simon. Adjust your watch please," said Jim.
"I'll be damned," said Simon.
"Huh!" said Blair, trying to sound surprised.
Jim sighed and rested his hand on Blair's head. "Nice try, Chief. Very clever."
"Yeah, whatever Jim," a suddenly deflated Blair grabbed his stuff and stood up. "I'm going to go work on my paper."
"You haven't had any breakfast."
"Not hungry, thanks," said the anthropologist, "and you can tell Rafe and Henri when they wake up that their watches are behind the TV." He disappeared into his room.
Sunday, 11:18 a.m.
The poker game became more and more quiet as noon approached. Brown and Rafe had come down shortly after Blair retreated to his room, and retrieved their watches when Jim told them what happened. Neither could even remember taking his off. Feeling somehow bad that this particular plan of Blair's hadn't worked, the detectives decided to spend the rest of the contest playing poker rather than sitting around doing nothing. Eventually Blair had joined them, pasting on a smile and making half-hearted jokes.
Now everyone was spending more time surreptitiously watching Blair than looking at their cards. Simon checked his watch every couple of minutes, and Blair kept looking around the room as if hoping for a sudden exit to appear and swallow him up. At 11:45, Simon cleared his throat and announced "Fifteen more minutes." Blair's face seemed to take on an almost haunted, desperate look and Simon found himself feeling sorry for the kid.
"Uh, your deal," said Brown, slapping the stack of cards down in front of Rafe.
"Right." Rafe shuffled them absently.
Blair sighed and started to stand up when five other chairs instantly scraped against the floor and five detectives scrambled to their feet.
"Chill, guys. I'm just making a cup of tea," Blair said. "You can deal me out of this hand." His voice had no energy behind it. Jim leaned against the front door, not taking any chances, while Blair moved about in the kitchen. When his tea was ready, he returned to the table and sat, turning once to look longingly toward the door. Jim shrugged at the look, and returned to the table now that Blair was once again seated.
Joel won the next hand, and swept up his chips almost mechanically. No one's mind seemed to be on the game. Simon looked at his watch and announced "Five more minutes." Everyone looked at Blair, who just drank his tea and stared off into space.
The next hand was played out, everyone folded but the dealer, who happened to be Jim; he won by default with a two, three, seven, jack, and queen. Simon looked meaningfully at his watch.
"Ten... nine... eight... seven... six... five..." he counted quietly, almost as if he were giving a eulogy, "four... three... two... one... I declare this contest over." No one said a word for a second or two. Then Blair looked up and smiled, shrugging his shoulders.
"Hey guys, you won, remember? Why the long faces? I mean, sure I would have liked to have gotten the vest and stuff, but you won fair and square. There's no dishonor in losing a fairly fought battle, right? You know, in their victory celebrations, some Native American tribes included a gracious tribute to the loser of any battle by—"
"You're a good sport, Sandburg," said Simon, removing the unlit cigar from his mouth. Sure they won, but why did he feel like such a heel? "Look, kid, maybe I can work out a—"
"No, Simon," Blair held up his hand, his voice assertive. "I don't want charity. I agreed to this contest and I live with the outcome. I mean, basically things remain status quo, right? I haven't lost anything..." his voice trailed off as he looked sideways at Jim. "Anyway..." he drained the last of his tea, "I'm going to go to the University for a while and get those graded papers posted."
The other five all stood instantly when Blair stood, out of reflex, then laughed and sat down again. "Hey, why don't we go to Caruso's anyway," offered Jim. His face looked almost as crestfallen as Blair's. "Simon's treat. We can have a few beers, watch the Mariner's kick the Red Sox' butt..."
"No, thanks Jim," said Blair. He put his cup in the sink and grabbed his backpack. "Maybe later." As he started to go out the door, he paused, then returned to the table. "Great game, Detectives," he said as he shook all their hands. "Until next time..." and he was out the door.
No one said anything for several moments.
"Man, I feel like I just kicked a whole boatload of puppies," said Brown.
"Can't we do something?" asked Joel.
"No," sighed Jim. "Blair wasn't joking a few minutes ago. He's nothing if not honorable. No matter how much he wanted that waiver, he wouldn't accept it now as the 'loser'. He wouldn't feel he deserved it."
"All right, men," announced Simon. "We should be happy that we finally know how many detectives it takes to protect one anthropologist. This is a good thing. Would you have felt any better if we had lost? How embarrassing would that have been?"
They were saved from having to answer their captain when the timer on the stove went off. Jim winced immediately, and Simon guessed that he had 'turned up' his hearing as soon as the contest was over, probably to monitor the kid's heartbeat. "I'll get it," he said, patting Jim on the shoulder on the way by. Jim got up with him and they went into the kitchen.
"Blair probably put a casserole in the oven for lunch."
"How was he?" Simon asked softly.
Jim didn't seem to question how Simon knew. "His heart was going a mile a minute. I think he's pretty devastated." He reached over and turned the timer off.
"Well, we'll just keep having contests until he wins one," said Simon, avoiding Jim's gaze as he put on the oven mitts.
"Captain, you old softy."
Simon just grumbled and opened the oven door. "What the hell...?" He reached in and pulled out a piece of paper.
At the same time, Jim placed his hand on the surface between the burners. "The oven's not even on... it's stone cold. What is that?"
"A note," Simon said, reading it. "Why that little shit!"
By now the others had joined them in the small kitchen. "Read it out loud," said Joel.
Simon complied:
To the Major Crime Detectives:My hat size is 7 and 1/4, and attached are my exact upper body measurements to ensure a properly fitting bulletproof vest. And I want 'SANDBURG' written on the back of the vest, since I know you would be tempted to just stick my initials there... I'm not walking around with 'BS' on my back. The measurements are accurate; they were taken by an actual tailor, the father of a friend of mine.
Thanks for a fun weekend. I'm waiting at Caruso's right now with a couple of pitchers of beer. My treat.
—Blair, Chief, Sandburg, Hairboy, Whatever
P.S. Still confused? Try watching The Weather Channel.
The five men raced into the living room and turned on the TV, Jim flipping to the appropriate channel. They had to sit through three commercials before the weather came back on, and with it, the bar at the bottom that showed the day, date, time, and current temperature in the viewing area.
"Damn," said Brown for all of them. Jim couldn't stop grinning.
The time was only 11:54 a.m. Blair had won the contest.
Blair sat at a large circular booth in the corner of the bar nursing his glass of beer; two full pitchers, five empty glasses, and a bowl of popcorn sat on the table. From his position he could see anyone coming through the door, and as soon as the Major Crime detectives stepped in, Blair felt the blood rush to his face. For some unknown reason, he felt incredibly embarrassed. He should have been feeling very proud of himself for pulling it off.
Jim, his senses obviously back on sentinel power, headed immediately in his direction, the others following. The five detectives slid quietly into the booth. No one smiled. No one spoke. No one looked at Blair. They just poured their beers in silence. Blair cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, looking for a friendly face. But he was trapped in a sea of hostility, Simon and Joel on one side, Jim, Brown, and Rafe on the other. Oh gods, they all hated him now.
"Look guys," Blair tried to reason with them, "when you thought I had lost the contest, you all acted like you felt really sorry for me. Now that I've won, you're mad."
"We're not mad, are we men?" Simon asked the others.
"I'm not mad," said Joel.
"Neither am I," said Rafe.
"I'm too easy going to get mad," said Henri.
"He's watched a lot of baseball games," said Jim to Simon, "but I guess he's never really observed one."
"What are you guys talking about?"
"Homeruns, Chief," Jim explained. "The rookie hits his first homerun, then when he returns to the dugout, everyone ignores him. Just for a little while."
"You think I hit a homerun?" Blair grinned.
"You did good, Sandburg," Simon said, and suddenly everyone was laughing and shaking his hand and asking questions.
"Whoa," Blair held up his hands. "One question at a time."
"Only one question total, Chief. How did you do it?"
Blair took a deep breath. "Okay, um, well, I decided what I was going to do on Thursday, after you took me out to dinner, that my best chance for escaping was to somehow make you think that the contest was over before it really was. So that meant somehow setting all the clocks ahead. Well, most of the clocks at the loft are digital, the kind that completely reset to 12:00 when their power is turned off, so that's when I decided to overload the circuit breaker. Then you would set them ahead for me."
"How'd you overload the circuit?"
"Um, a space heater, an iron, and a blow drier. After I took the quickest shower in history, I plugged them into the three available outlets in the bathroom and turned them on to max all at once. Very effective. Then I stuck them back in the bathroom cabinet where I'd placed them earlier. After they'd cooled down, of course." he added, looking at Jim.
"What about the kitchen clock?"
"Oh, that was the easiest one to take care of. I turned it ahead Saturday night in one of my trips to get food and beer. I just took it down, set it ahead, and stuck it under the sink. None of you seemed to pay much attention to me whenever I was in the kitchen, like it was the only safe place next to my bedroom, so I went with that."
"What about our watches?"
"Oh, yeah, sorry about that Jim. And Joel. I knew the watches would be the trickiest part, so I had to resort to a couple of mean tactics. Joel and Jim have the kind of watches that you can stop by using a magnet. Friday at work I just palmed a magnet and put my hand near Joel's wrist. I did the same thing to Jim's watch on the night table when I was in his room Saturday night."
"You were in my room Saturday night?" Jim was surprised.
"Yeah," said Brown. "He said he had to get a book you had borrowed. I went up with him. It was after you and Simon had gone to bed."
"I never borrowed a book from you, Sandburg."
"I know," Blair sighed. He just couldn't help feeling guilty. "I planted it there Thursday night. I mean, I knew the watches were going to be a problem, and I knew that the only time I'd have access to them was after you'd gone to bed, and I knew you'd all be sleeping in Jim's room..."
"Clever, Sandburg," Jim grumbled.
"That's when I changed Simon's watch, too. He has the old-fashioned kind, with that little pull-out wheel that spins the hands. It took me about 2 seconds to set it ahead while I pretended to look for the book."
"Weren't you taking a chance setting my watch ahead before you pulled the power outage stunt?" asked Simon. "What if I had looked at the time and compared it to another clock at the loft?"
"Yeah, a small chance," Blair shrugged. "But something I've noticed about you, Simon—you never look at your watch unless directly asked. I've seen you ask other people for the time, even though your watch is strapped right there on your wrist. This is a common phenomenon among many people, actually. You wear something for so many years that it becomes an inherent part of the wardrobe, its original purpose forgotten."
"Thank you, Professor Sandburg," Simon grumbled.
"And Rafe and Henri... They handed me their watches willingly," Blair added.
"We did?"
"Yeah, remember? Your eyes were glued to Xena, and I said something like, 'can I have your watches,' and you said 'why?' and I said 'because this is a stick-up,' and you both laughed hysterically and handed them over." Blair couldn't help a cocky grin. He knew what they'd been up to with the beer, and felt no guilt that he'd turned the tables on them.
"Shit," said Henri. "I'm never drinking with you again, Sandburg."
"You're drinking with me right now, Henri."
"Shit," said Henri.
"That's basically it," Blair ended, pouring himself some more beer.
"Wait a minute, Chief. I still don't know how you worked this. I mean, we got the correct time off The Weather Channel..."
"Oh, yeah. Well, I knew that one of you might suspect that I'd fool with the clocks, I mean, there were so many things that could go wrong, so I decided that I'd let you catch me doing it. Which you did, very nicely. Then I figured you'd put that behind you as another escape attempt that failed, and not give it a second thought." Blair smiled self-consciously. "Which you did, very nicely."
"I still don't understand," said Joel. "You can't fudge The Weather Channel."
"Yeah, well fortunately Jim only looked at the time, he didn't look at the date, which I kind of counted on. On Thursday I set the VCR to tape The Weather Channel on Saturday morning from 3 a.m. until 11 a.m. using one of those 8-hour tapes. Then Sunday morning, just before I went to bed at 2:30, actually more like 2:20, because I had to account for the VCR shutting down when the power went off, I started playing the tape. That way whenever I was asked to turn to The Weather Channel—and trust me, Jim's got a thing for The Weather Channel—the time displayed was half an hour ahead of the real time."
"And you set the clocks and watches ahead a full hour, and we reset them back by only half an hour," Jim shook his head.
"Yeah," Blair said. He was blushing again. "I just had to make sure I was the one by the TV so that I could turn the tape back on after the power outage, and so I could flip the VCR/TV switch instead of turning to The Weather Channel when the issue came up."
"Shit," said Henry again.
"And you gave us the sad puppy routine the rest of the morning," Simon said, narrowing his eyes. "Making us feel sorry for you."
"Simon," Blair began, seriously "I really want to thank you about the vest and stuff. I hope you meant it."
"I don't make promises I can't keep, Sandburg."
"I just... um..." Blair stopped, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger.
"Spit it out, kid."
"Why isn't this something we could have done before? I... I feel like I've proven myself in the field, not just as Jim's partner, but with the other detectives as well. If this was an option, then why wait until now?"
"Blair," said Simon. "We trust you with our lives. Everyone of us here."
"Well, why then?"
"We just don't trust you with your life, kid," he said. "We don't want you hurt."
"Oh." There didn't seem to be much else to say.
Rafe finally broke the uncomfortable silence.
"You know," he said to Henri, "he's always had homefield advantage. That gives him an unfair edge."
"You're right," said Henri. "I bet in an unfamiliar safehouse he wouldn't be so lucky."
"You've got a point there, Rafe," put in Simon. "And he had fair warning to set things up for this exercise. People in protective custody are hardly ever given fair warning."
"There's that safehouse that used to be a factory on the outskirts of Cascade," mused Joel. "No windows and only two exits. Or the apartment on the 15th floor?"
"And we could add a couple of the guys from Homicide," said Jim. "Marchetti and Hogan would be my choice. They're pretty good at mind games."
"Sandburg," asked Simon, as five pairs of eyes turned on him, "what are you doing next weekend?"
~ End ~
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Page last updated 8/16/03.