Progression Series 05 Wrong Place Wrong Time
Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.
Note from the Authors: In our Sentinel universe, the events depicted in "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg" did not occur. Therefore, any "canonical" references that may be found in this story are related to episodes up to and including "Most Wanted."
Dedication: This series is dedicated to friendship, for only through caring for others can we truly find a sense of peace and belonging.
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Part Five of "The Progressions" Series
by Beth Manz
Part One
Groaning softly with impatience, Jim Ellison checked the road ahead for oncoming traffic. Seeing none, he glanced into his side view mirror, flipped on the blinker and steered quickly into the oncoming lane, easily passing the large PaceArrow he'd been forced to follow for several miles. The cumbersome motor home had been traveling ten miles under the posted speed limit and Jim had literally been "chomping at the bit," hoping for a straight stretch of road that would allow him to pass.
Pulling fluidly into the right-hand lane, he flipped the blinker off and slowed the truck to a more satisfactory speed. A quick look in the rear view mirror showed the PaceArrow growing smaller and smaller as the distance between the two vehicles increased.
Satisfied, Jim settled himself more comfortably in the seat and turned his attention to his surroundings. Normally, he loved traveling this time of the year. Though the trees around him were mostly evergreens, there were enough maples and oaks scattered throughout to provide spectacular pockets of color, the yellows and oranges a brilliant contrast to the backdrop of deep green. It was a perfect day for traveling, a comfortably warm day, and Jim knew he should be enjoying it.
But I'm not.
He forced his anxiety aside and made a mental effort--again--to relax and enjoy himself. Unconsciously, he rubbed at the back of his neck--he'd hoped his tenseness would drop effortlessly away once he and Blair had left Cascade behind. Over an hour into the trip, however, and he had yet to loosen up.
Jim glanced over at his partner, who sat across from him in the truck's cab. The younger man was intently studying a rather dog-eared set of papers. From time to time he would mutter something to himself, then would lean over the pages and scrawl a quick note or two into the margins.
Jim smiled to himself in spite of the lingering tautness in his neck and shoulders. Sandburg's low murmurs of concentration and the scratch-scratch-scratch of his pen had provided a familiar and pleasant backdrop of noise since the two men had left the city limits of Cascade. Again, Jim resolved to relax, determining within himself to use the familiarity of the sounds and the presence of his guide to calm him.
He stared at the road ahead, the two-lane highway stretching out before him like a long, gray ribbon. It would be another couple of hours before the two men reached Pullman, their destination for the weekend. Unconsciously, Jim shifted in the seat again. He forced himself to concentrate on the tree-lined highway, on Blair's soft breathing, on the sunlight reflecting off the windshield--anything to keep his troubling thoughts at bay.
But just as he had been for several days now--he was entirely unsuccessful.
His mind turned to the phone call he had received earlier in the day--the call that had come just as the two men were preparing to leave the loft for their long weekend. Jack Kelso's words replayed themselves across his mind: "We've lost Grant, Jim. I think what I've feared for several weeks now has finally happened; I think he's on to us and he's found a place to lie low for a while. We can keep looking if you want--"
"Whatever it takes, Jack," he had told the former CIA agent without hesitation, "I don't care how long it takes or how many men you have to put on this--I want Grant found."
Jim caught himself just before a frustrated sigh escaped him. He didn't want Blair asking him for the hundredth time what was wrong. Thankfully, Jack's call to the loft had come while Blair was downstairs, packing some of their fishing gear into the back of the truck. So far, Jim had managed to keep secret his search for the man who had murdered Eddie Rostin and had tried--and almost succeeded--to kill his partner.
Jim glanced covertly at Blair, who was still engrossed in the papers on his lap. A wave of protectiveness surged through him as he silently regarded his friend. Simon had told him what Blair had said when Jim was lying unconscious in the hospital... The detective knew that Blair hoped Grant was gone for good--that he didn't care if he was ever found and brought to justice.
But Jim hadn't been able to let Dr. Marcus Grant go quite so easily. Correction, Ellison. You haven't been able to let him go at all. The man had tried to kill his partner, had come much too close to succeeding for the detective's comfort. Jim's jaw clenched as a fresh wave of determination washed over him: Marcus Grant would be found and brought back to Washington to stand trial. Kelso's news had been discouraging, but Jim wasn't about to quit, even if--after all these months of searching--they were no closer to bringing the arrogant psychiatrist back to Cascade than they had been when he first fled the country.
Jim's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Blair turning in the seat to face him. He heard Blair exhale a long sigh, and when his partner spoke, his voice was mildly accusatory, greatly concerned: "Jim, you're making that face again."
Jim moaned inwardly. With no way of escaping his partner's scrutiny, he opted instead to assume his best poker face. Taking on what he hoped was a blank expression, he turned his head and looked over at Sandburg. "What face?" he asked innocently.
Blair leaned toward Jim and pinned him with a resolute glare. "That same tense face you've been making for the past few weeks."
"I am not tense."
"Right," Blair drawled out, adjusting his glasses on his face before gesturing in the direction of Jim's hands. "Everyone I know drives around during their vacation with a death grip on their steering wheel."
Jim glanced down at his hands, noting for the first time the tenseness that was so evident in his grip. His fingers were wrapped tightly around the wheel, his knuckles white from strain. Purposely, he relaxed his hold, then raised one hand from the wheel at a time, flexing his fingers dramatically. "Satisfied?" he asked cheekily, looking pointedly at Blair.
"No, I'm not satisfied at all. But until you decide to talk to me about whatever it is that's bothering you, there isn't much else I can do."
"Other than nag at me on a regular basis." Jim softened the accusation with an amused smile.
A cynical snort was Blair's only response. Jim watched as Sandburg turned back to the speech he was studying, then exhaled a small sigh of relief when it appeared that his friend wasn't going to pursue the matter. It appeared he was going to be spared one of Blair's concerned lectures--at least for the time being.
He watched Blair for a few seconds more, then again turned his gaze to the road. Sandburg had been after Jim to take a few days off for several weeks. The detective had been, in Blair's opinion, edgy and tense--and though Jim wasn't about to admit it to his friend, he knew that the young man was right. But he had dismissed all of Blair's concerns and adamantly refused to talk about what was bothering him.
Again, he glanced over at Blair. How can I tell you I'm after Grant? How do I tell you I'm on the trail of the man who buried you alive? The man you want to forget. The man whose name you never want to hear again.
When Blair had been invited as the keynote speaker at an anthropology seminar at Washington St
ate University in Pullman, the young man had insisted that it was the perfect opportunity for Jim to get away from Cascade as well. Sandburg had arranged everything--he would speak at the seminar Friday afternoon and again on Saturday, then he would join Jim Saturday evening and all day Sunday for some camping and fishing.
Jim had resisted the invitation at first, wanting to remain in Cascade in case anything broke on the Grant case. But in time he had relinquished and agreed to accompany Blair. After all, Kelso had his instructions--there was little to be gained by the detective spending the weekend in the loft by himself, waiting for the phone to ring.
"You're doing it again," Blair accused softly, scattering Jim's retrospection.
"What?" Jim asked, laughing lightly.
"The face, man. And the hands."
Jim shook his head as he realized that Blair hadn't even glanced up from his speech--how can he tell I'm still tense? Sighing, he pushed at the blinker and pulled onto the upcoming exit, passing a sign at the ramp that read 'Deer Creek'."
The sigh, the change in direction and the lowering of the truck's speed evidently caught Blair's attention. Jim saw him look up, glance around, then turn to look at him. "Where are you going?" he asked, his voice edged with worry. "You'd better not be turning this truck around, Jim!"
Jim laughed and held up one hand in a placating gesture. "I'm not turning the truck around, Chief. We skipped lunch and I'm getting hungry. I saw a sign back there that said there are a couple restaurants at this exit." He looked over at Blair and grinned in reassurance. "I just want to eat, that's all. Okay?"
Blair gave him a stern look, then his features softened into a warm smile. "Yeah, okay."
/
/
/
The diner was one of those old-fashioned fifties-style buildings, complete with aluminum siding and an ancient--and of course, non-working--neon sign. As they drove up, Jim scanned the inside of the small restaurant, smiling as he took in the chrome-plated tables and chairs, the bright red metal napkin holders adorning the table tops, the old jukebox sitting in one corner. The place has atmosphere, he thought to himself as he turned off the truck engine and pocketed his keys.
Blair hopped out of the cab and joined Jim at the front of the truck. "Oh, man! Is this place cool or what?" He slapped Jim cheerfully on the arm, beaming widely.
Jim smiled at his exuberant friend. "Easy, Sandburg. I've already checked out the waitresses; there's only one on duty that I can see and she's old enough to be your grandmother."
Blair chuckled, then threw an evil smile up at his friend. "Then she'll be just right for you, won't she, Jim?" He waggled his eyebrows at his friend, then sobered. "Just behave yourself, man. Don't do anything to embarrass me."
Jim laughed at his friend's teasing as they crossed to the diner. But as he reached forward to open the restaurant door for Blair, Jim stopped abruptly, placing his arm out to halt his partner from entering.
"What?" Blair asked, looking up at him in confusion.
"Hold up just a minute here, Chief. Why are you bringing your backpack into the restaurant?"
"I wanted to read my speech again."
Jim rolled his eyes. "That would be a silent read, right? I mean it, Sandburg, if I have to listen to that speech one more time, I'll be able to give it myself."
Blair shot him a look of feigned disgust and pushed past his arm into the restaurant, turning back to whisper up at the detective, "You can make fun if you want to, Jim, but I need to make sure this speech is good."
"It's good!" Jim assured Sandburg, following him into the diner.
"Yeah?" Blair challenged, turning to face the detective, "Then why didn't you get my joke?"
Jim shook his head. "Chief, I'm not an anthropologist. I don't 'get' anthropological humor, okay? Once you explained it to me, I thought it was funny."
Jim reached into his pocket for his wallet, smiling as Blair told him, "This is the first time I've ever been asked to be the keynote speaker anywhere, man. I just want my speech to be perfect."
"I'm telling you it's good, Sandburg. Trust me, all right?"
Ellison peeked into his wallet just as the waitress approached them with two laminated menus in her hand. "Uh oh," Jim whispered. "I'm low on cash here." He looked at his friend and raised his eyebrows in silent supplication.
"Hey," Blair said, holding his arms out, "Don't look at me! The conference is paying for my meals--I didn't bring any extra cash."
Jim looked up and smiled at the elderly waitress, who was waiting to escort them to a table. "We'll be right back," he told her, "I just need to get some more cash. Is there an ATM nearby?"
The gray-haired woman smiled sweetly and nodded. Pointing out to the road, she said, "We have a small bank just beyond that market you see over there. You can walk from here if you'd like."
"Thank you," Jim said, reaching out and pulling gently at Blair's arm. "C'mon, Chief."
Together, the two men walked back out into the mid-afternoon sunshine and headed toward the bank. Jim looked down at his friend. "I'll pull out a little extra cash and leave some with you so you won't run short over the next couple of days."
"You don't have to do that, Jim. All my expenses are paid and I have enough to get by."
"It's not a problem. I still owe you thirty bucks for covering my expenses at Simon's birthday dinner last week." He reached over and lightly slapped Blair on the back of his head. "Besides, it'll make me feel better if I know you have a little extra."
/
/
/
"You are out of luck, man." Blair tapped the small sign attached to the ATM machine: Temporarily out of order. Please present your ATM card to a teller inside.
"Guess we go inside, then."
Jim held the door for Blair as they entered the small bank. The detective pulled out his wallet and moved across the lobby to get in line, but Blair lingered by the door and scanned the inside from his vantage point there-two young female tellers were on duty, only one of whom was working an open window. Two people stood in line--an older gentleman at the head of the line, a middle-aged woman behind him. An attractive woman in her mid-thirties stood at the open teller window, waiting for her transaction to be completed. A young girl, twelve at the most, leaned into her side.
Blair exhaled a long breath. He hated banks. There were never enough tellers working and the ones that were usually seemed to be moving as slowly as possible. He shifted the backpack on his shoulder as his gaze took in the rest of the bank. Three desks sat empty in the small loan department situated opposite the tellers' windows. Behind the desks was a single office--a plaque on the door read "Manager." He could see a man through the half open door, sitting at a desk, his gaze locked on the computer scene in front of him.
Blair wandered over to the loan department and stopped in front of a rack filled with various types of informational pamphlets. He let his gaze roam over the brochures, not bothering to read them, just using them as a distraction while he waited for Jim.
He glanced back at his partner. The woman and the young girl still stood at the teller window; the small line of patrons wasn't moving. He frowned and briefly debated pulling out his speech and going over it again. Relax, Sandburg, he told himself, You're prepared. Your speech will be fine. But he couldn't relax; this speech--this opportunity--was just too important. He had to make a good impression, had to be sure that everything was just right.
He let his gaze wander slowly across the pamphlets again, then he looked up and glanced out the large windows at the front of the bank. His breath caught in his throat--what he saw there made his blood run cold. Three people, armed with guns and wearing ski masks pulled down across their faces, were coming through the front doors . There were two men and one woman in the group. The tallest man moved forward.
"This is a robbery! Nobody move!" he yelled, sweeping the entire room with his weapon.
Blair's gaze cut to Jim just as the sentinel reached for the gun at his back. Blair
saw the expressions of anger and helplessness that crossed Jim's features as the detective's hand closed over nothing--his service revolver was locked in the glove compartment of the truck. Jim had put it there when they left the loft. He hadn't wanted it pressing into his back during the long drive to Pullman. Blair had told him he didn't need to bring it at all--he was on vacation, after all.
The tall man moved further into the bank, toward the counter. "You two," he commanded, gesturing toward the tellers, "Out here with the rest of them."
The two women shuffled quickly out from behind the counter, clinging to one another. The younger of the two--the one who had been working the open window--was crying softly.
"Everyone on the floor!" the tall man yelled. "On your stomachs. Hands behind your heads."
Blair did as he was told, dropping his backpack and getting down on the floor. He was relieved when he saw that everyone else, including Jim, was complying with the order. Swallowing deeply, he stretched out on his stomach, locked his hands behind his head... and looked at Jim.
The sentinel stared back at his partner across the few feet that separated them, his blue eyes offering silent reassurance. But there was something that Jim didn't know. Something that could get them all in trouble.
"There's a man in the back office," Blair whispered, sentinel-soft.
Jim's jaw clenched, then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. But it was enough to let Blair know that he'd heard him.
"Arnie," the tall man who had done all the talking thus far--the obvious leader of the group--said to the other man, "Close the front blinds and watch the door." He turned to the girl. "Emily, you get behind the counter and get the money."
Blair's brow furrowed as the two people snapped into action. Who are these bozos? Nobody robs a bank like this anymore. Using their names, coming in here like some scene from a bad movie. His gaze shifted to the man at the front door--'Arnie,' the other man had called him. And as he watched him close the blinds one by one, he realized... the guy's wearing a shirt with a high school logo on it! Don't they realize how easy it's going to be to track them down?