Progression Series 20 Legacy (Final) Read online

  "And?" Sandburg prompted when Jim didn't continue.

  The sentinel moved away from the windows, crossed to the couch and dropped down heavily. "He told me some pretty incredible things...." His voice trailed off as he leaned back into the cushions, his gaze locking on the ceiling.

  Frowning, Blair crossed to the living area and sat down on the coffee table in front of his partner. "Jim?" But the sentinel didn't acknowledge him; he simply continued to stare up at the beamed ceiling, his gaze troubled. Blair reached out and placed a hand on his knee. "Come on, Jim. You need to let me in here. Tell me what he said."

  Jim sighed heavily. "My grandfather died in an institution, Chief. A mental institution. He was alone, afraid. And convinced he was insane."

  "Oh, man." Blair squeezed gently at the knee beneath his hand. "I am so sorry, Jim."

  "Yeah," Jim muttered. "So am I." His gaze shifted, came to rest on Blair. "It really did a number on my dad."

  Blair frowned, confused. "But you said your grandfather just disappeared one day. If your dad didn't know--"

  "That's just it," Jim cut in. "He did know. He's known all along."

  Blair's eyes widened as the implications of Jim's news settled across him. "So," he surmised, "when you started showing signs of the same thing that eventually drove his own father insane...."

  "He shut me down," Jim finished for him. "He tried to protect me by forcing me to ignore my heightened senses."

  Blair ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, man, Jim," he muttered. "This explains a lot."

  "Yeah, it does." Jim closed his eyes, resting his head against the cushions again. "Makes me wish we'd found that journal years ago."

  "I hear that," Blair commiserated. He frowned over at the detective, easily picking up on the tension that lurked beneath the older man's calm exterior. "Jim? What're you thinking, man?"

  Jim lightly shrugged one shoulder, but his eyes remained closed. "I'm thinking about a lot of things right now, Sandburg. But mostly about my grandfather."

  And suddenly a disturbing thought crossed Blair's mind. "Jim, look at me. Look at me!"

  The sentinel complied, opening his eyes and looking at his guide in surprise.

  Blair leaned forward, locking his gaze with Jim's. "What happened to your grandfather is not going to happen to you. Do you hear me? It is not going to happen because every day that passes, man, you gain more and more control. You get a better grip on your senses and you make them work for you instead of against you. You are not going to be like your grandfather!"

  "I know that," Jim offered simply.

  Blair gaped at him. He hadn't expected Jim to be so assured, so accepting. "You do?"

  "Of course, Sandburg. That's exactly what I told my father." He smiled warmly at his guide. "But I have to correct you, Professor."

  Blair narrowed his eyes, studied Jim. "Correct me? For what?"

  "Flawed reasoning," Jim retorted dryly. "For such a smart guy you missed the point completely." He paused briefly. "The fact that I'm not going to be like my grandfather has nothing to do with gaining the upper hand on these senses. It has everything to do with you. You're my control, Chief. You're my sanity."

  Blair felt a familiar fear clench itself around his heart. "No," he whispered, his voice sentinel-soft, filled with anguish. "Don't say that, Jim."

  Ellison laughed lightly. "Why is this so hard for you to accept? It's the truth, Chief."

  Blair shook his head, the words sending a chill through him. Standing, he pointed a finger down at the sentinel. "I refuse to believe that, Jim. I refuse to believe that all the work you've done and all the control you've achieved has more to do with me than it does with you."

  Jim gaped up at him, clearly surprised at his outburst. "Sandburg, I'm not dismissing all the work I've done if that's what this is all about...."

  "That's not what this is about, Jim!" he blurted out, his fear pushing him into anger.

  "Then what?" Jim demanded, standing. "What?" he repeated more forcefully when Blair didn't answer. "Why is it so difficult for you to see the fact that you make all the difference?"

  Sandburg took a step back, struggled to get his breathing under control. "Because this sentinel thing--it's about you." He gestured toward his partner. "It's about you, Jim, not me!"

  Jim studied his partner. "I think it's about both of us," he said slowly.

  "No, Jim!" Blair exploded. "You say I'm your control. You say I'm your sanity. Well, where does that leave you, man?"

  Jim spread his hands, looked at his friend imploringly. "Where does that leave me?" He huffed out a small laugh. "Well, from where I'm standing, I'd say it leaves me in a pretty good place. A pretty secure place."

  "For now!" Blair spat out. "But the way you talk, if something were to happen to me, all the work you've done would just extinguish itself. You'd lose control and then eventually you'd lose your sanity."

  "Is that so hard to believe, Sandburg?" Jim countered. "Or so hard to live with?"

  Blair stared at him incredulously. "Yes, Jim, it is! For me, it is!" He pushed his hands through his hair. Taking a deep breath he stared across at his partner. "You are not going to end up depending on me for the rest of your life! That's just not going to happen!"

  With that, Blair turned and stalked across the loft to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

  /

  /

  /

  Blair lay in bed staring up at the darkened ceiling above him. He hadn't heard Jim moving around for some time now, knew he had probably fallen asleep. I just wish I could do the same thing. But every time Blair closed his eyes, all he could envision was Jim staring at him, fondness and confidence in his eyes, telling him that he was his control, his sanity.

  He's wrong... I know he's wrong!

  After retreating to his room Blair had spent nearly an hour pacing, tracing a path from his bed to his door and back again. To Jim's credit, he had left him alone. Eventually, when Blair did come back out, Jim was careful not to bring up the topic of his grandfather again. Instead, the two men had talked about the upcoming Jags season, Darryl's impending trip to Duke, the weather. Anything except the one topic that was foremost on both their minds.

  Because we can't talk about it. Not until I find a way of protecting Jim.

  Blair sighed deeply. He knew all the signs--there would be no sleep for him anytime soon. Pushing back his blankets, he got out of bed and padded to the living area. He turned on the lamp near the couch to its lowest setting and looked toward the coffee table. The journal sat just where Jim had left it. Blair dropped down on the couch, slipped on his glasses and picked up the small book.

  April 5, 1945

  Today was a bad day--one of the worst I've had in some time, I believe. Maureen convinced me early this morning that rather than shutting myself away in this gloomy study, I should get some fresh air, perhaps a place out of the city where the quiet would calm me. I must give her credit. My misery has made her life a misery as well. I have yet to confess to her my deepest secrets--my careening senses and my increasing belief that I am slowly going insane--yet she suffers with infinite patience, continues to suggest things that she hopes might "calm my overwrought nerves." I do not deserve such a loving and devoted wife.

  Nor do I deserve such a delightful child as William. The boy is too young to understand my agony, of course, and I see him becoming more and more withdrawn with each passing day. What a curse to know that I am the reason for the changes I see taking place in his dear heart, on his beloved face.

  It was just such morose thoughts that finally convinced me to take my wife's advice and make my way to a small park outside the city, a park where we used to bring William when he was a baby. I remembered it being so removed from the city that some days Maureen and the child and I had almost the entire place to ourselves.

  But any peace or rest I thought might be afforded to me in that once peaceful place was not to be had. The park was as beautiful and deserted as I remembered
, but still there was no quiet to be found. I had so hoped that if I could just get away from the city I could find some peace. I was wrong. The chirping of the birds, the flowing water in the stream--what were once cheerful sounds now are magnified beyond description. Even the sound of bugs was overwhelming.

  I thought that perhaps if I just concentrated on one sound, it would help. But I was wrong. I concentrated and picked out the sound of a single cricket, honing in on it and it alone, forcing myself to listen only to that one sound. But within seconds, I found myself slipping away, as if I were losing myself completely. Panic filled me but even that panic was not enough to stop what was happening. Everything -- sight, sound, smell -- it all began to fade into nothingness.

  When I "awoke" it was nearly dark. I have no idea how the time passed. My weary mind wants to believe I merely slept, but I know better. This state was not one of sleep. It was not restful, nor was it pleasant. It was pure nothingness...

  Blair squeezed his eyes closed for a few seconds and pinched at the bridge of his nose. The journal was turning out to be all that he had hoped it would be--at least from an academic standpoint. He was learning more than he could have dreamed. But whatever excitement he had initially received from reading Aaron Ellison's journal had now been replaced by a deep sense of sadness. And an even deeper sense of fear.

  For every passage he read outlined the man's deepening spiral into a total and complete loss of control. And he couldn't think of what Aaron Ellison had experienced without automatically projecting those experiences onto the man who lay upstairs--the man who had become his best friend. To think that Jim could have suffered the same way.... And to think that he and he alone stood between Jim and insanity...

  He pushed the disturbing musings to the back of his mind, telling himself that such thoughts were counterproductive. Determined to read on with a more objective point of view, he turned his attention once more to the journal that lay in his lap.

  April 12, 1945

  Today found me back at the park I visited last week. I did not seek the park's refuse as a means of solace, however, but rather as a means of being away from the house so I would no longer hurt my beloved child. Today William made his way up to me at breakfast. He approached me so shyly, his large blue eyes so hopeful that the sight of him nearly broke my heart. I reached out to pull him to me, to show the love I have for him but am so unable to give due to the pain caused by these wretched senses. But as I took him on my knee his shoe buckle grazed my skin and it was as if a thousand shards of glass were being raked against me, the agony so intense it seemed to reach to the bone.

  I thrust him away in my pain and shouted in my frustration. When the pain had subsided to the point where I could think and act again, I looked about for William, but he had disappeared. Only Maureen remained at the table, her weary face lined with tears. And upstairs, behind closed doors and so far away that no man should have been able to hear, came the muffled sobs of my frightened child.

  And so I sought refuge in the park, determined to stay away until evening again, until after my family was in bed. But even though it was a hurtful circumstance that sent me fleeing here, I wonder if it might not all turn out for the good. For today I met a man. A very interesting, calming and gracious man.

  I had been "practicing" listening to only one sound again, and had just sensed myself slipping into that strange fugue state when I felt a gentle but firm touch against my arm. Oddly, rather than starting at the touch, my body accepted it, found no pain in it at all! I opened my eyes and found a young man standing over me, his face lined in concern, asking me if I was well. Even his voice was soothing! I was so in awe of the fact that I could tolerate him that I fear I stared quite rudely and never managed to answer his question! He asked me again if I was well.

  When I nodded, he surprised me even further by sitting next to me on the bench and addressing me as Mr. Ellison! I had never seen the young man before so I was quite interested in how he knew my name. He explained rather hastily that he had been in the park last week, that he had observed my fugue state and that it had reminded him of some studies he had done in a far-off land some years ago. He had just worked up the courage to approach me when I "awoke" and made my way back to the city. He confessed following me, learning my name from a local shopkeeper, and then spending hours fretting over approaching me at my house. My appearance at the park today had been a second opportunity, he had said. A second opportunity he was determined he would not miss.

  As he talked with me about his studies, I began to realize more and more that he was describing what I was going through with my senses! He talked of a tribe he had observed in a faraway land--of a man in the tribe who could hear game moving on the far side of a wide river, or could see an approaching enemy from miles away. With each word he spoke my excitement rose, but the most amazing thing of all was his touch. From time to time as he spoke he would reach out and touch lightly at my arm, and with each touch I felt... at peace. For the first time in months, my senses seemed...normal.

  Even as I write these words, I find myself shaking. But I am not shaking from fear; rather, from excitement. This man, Nicholas Britt, claims to know what is causing my problem. He has assured me that I am not insane, that what is happening is natural, even good. And best of all, he claims he can help me control it.

  It is hard to put these words to paper. Hard to believe that what I am about to record is actually true. Nicholas Britt has promised to meet me again, to explain my phenomenon at greater length and to help me gain some peace with my senses. I have invited him to the house next Thursday so we can shut ourselves away in my study and talk at length. I plan to show him this journal, let him see the log of my...affliction.

  Blair chewed on his lower lip as he lifted his gaze from the journal and stared out across the loft, not really seeing anything at all. His heart pounded heavily in his chest as he ran the last entry over and over in his mind. Aaron Ellison had met a man who knew what he was, a man who had promised help. A man who had provided the tortured man with his first feeling of peace in nearly six months.

  Aaron Ellison had met his guide.

  He turned back to the journal. The next few entries were brief, scrawled haphazardly across the pages:

  April 16, 1945

  Nicholas did not show up. I waited all day but there was no sign of him. Despair has me in its clutches. Despair and disappointment. These past few days I have been more optimistic than I have in weeks. I believed this young man, trusted his promises.

  Perhaps he will still contact me. Perhaps I should not give up hope.

  April 19, 1945

  It has been a week since I first met Nicholas. I had such high hopes, felt such peace when I was with him. But now...now he has disappeared without a sign. Where is this man? Where is his promise to help? Where is Nicholas Britt?

  "Where is Nicholas Britt?" Blair repeated softly, his brow furrowing. If Britt truly had been Aaron's guide, why hadn't he shown up for his scheduled meeting? Why had he deserted his sentinel?

  Blair flipped through the book, only to find that the next several pages were blank, the only thing on them indecipherable scribbles and doodles. Then, over a month later, a new entry had been logged....

  May 22, 1945

  I've given up all hope of meeting with the man who promised me help. Either he was a cruel and unfeeling liar or my tortured mind conjured him up in a moment of desperation. In either case, I am doomed. Doomed to live with these cursed senses. Doomed to lose all that I have...all that I am. Again, I find myself hoping for death to claim me.

  Blair flipped through the remaining pages, searching for another mention of the man, but he found nothing. Sighing, he closed the journal, his gaze shifting to the French doors that opened out onto the balcony. A sudden chill moved through him and he pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it snuggly around his shoulders.

  His mind drifted back to the journal, back to Aaron Ellison and Nicholas Britt. How d
ifferent would things be now if Nicholas had come to Aaron and helped him as he had promised to?

  "You're my control, Chief. You're my sanity."

  Blair's gaze shifted up to his partner's room as Jim's words came back to him again. He pulled off his glasses, rubbed at his tired, stinging eyes. How can he trust me with that responsibility? No matter how many times they discussed this, no matter how often Jim told Blair that he trusted him to always be there for him, Blair simply was not comfortable with that arrangement.

  It wasn't that he planned to leave Jim. Not at all. In fact, that had to be the farthest thing from his mind. But as he thought over the last several years, over the incidents with David Lash, Alex Barnes, Marcus Grant, he couldn't help but worry.

  He'd tried on several occasions to find someone else who could help Jim with his senses in case he wasn't around or in case something...permanent...happened to take him out of Jim's life. But everything he'd tried had failed miserably. He'd scoured Burton's writings but they were woefully lacking in the "guide" department.

  Blair pulled the blanket even closer. His mind recognized the "tie" between Britt and Aaron Ellison. He knew, of course, that there was no way to know if Nicholas Britt would have been able to help Ellison, even if he'd kept that appointment. Still... Blair had seen too much over the past several years with Jim to believe any longer that everything could be explained scientifically. He had learned to listen to his instincts--to recognize that there was a realm beyond the physical that drew people and events together. And that was the problem--for everything within him was screaming one fact: Nicholas Britt was Aaron Ellison's guide. His one and only guide.

  He thought back to the words Jim had spoken to him in the attic: "...It was like my heart and mind were telling me, even at that very early stage in our relationship, that you were the answer, that you were the one who would be able to help me." It was the very same sense of peace Aaron Ellison had described upon meeting Nicholas Britt... Can it be? One sentinel, one guide? Can it really be?

  He shivered in spite of the warm blanket covering him. Shifting slightly, he stretched out on the couch. His gaze sought and found the journal again. Lifting it up, he slipped on his glasses and began flipping through the pages, not really looking for anything in particular but feeling certain that somewhere he might find something that would give him the answers he so desperately needed.