Author's webpage: http://members.home.net/valgarry

"there are two things i know well," he
said. "the ways that i hurt, and all of
the ways to hell."
--john gorka, vinnie charles is free

Since Simon had taken a cab to the University, it was decided that Jim would take Jim would take a cab to the station and Blair would use the truck to take Simon home before going back to the loft.

Blair was silent as Jim got in the cab, as he and Simon got into the truck, as the cab pulled away and disappeared around a corner four blocks down the street. Then he turned to face Simon.

"Stop him," he said.

"You stop him," Simon snapped. "You think I have more influence over him than you do?"

Blair didn't flinch. Simon had to admit, the kid had developed a real tolerance for being barked at.

"You're his boss."

"I'm on medical leave. You want to talk to his boss, call Finkleman."

"Oh, yeah, I really wanna--" Blair stopped, then let out a strangled laugh. "Finkleman's the acting captain, Brown is the detective in charge ..." "And both of them will try to be objective. So would you and I. Your partner, on the other hand ..."

Blair shrugged.

"You know how Jim is about his friends. Obviously he perceives this as a direct and personal threat to people he cares about. And then there's the whole Protector of the Tribe, not-on-my-turf thing, which is also a cop thing ... I'm not surprised his buttons are being pushed."

It was a reasonable, thoughtful analysis of Jim's behaviour. It was probably accurate. Still, Simon had the feeling he'd been treated to Blair Sandburg's infamous song and dance routine.

"Is that all?" he asked.

Blair looked puzzled.

"What else would it be?"

His delivery was excellent. If not for the quick flash of panic in those wide blue eyes, Simon would have believed him.

Blair started the truck and headed for Simon's house, keeping up a running commentary that Simon had learned to recognize for what it was -- misdirection.

"He acts as if driving this thing were a privillege. I'm here to tell you, it isn't. From the way it steers, you'd think we were driving in a couple feet of mud. And it really doesn't help that I can't see a fucking thing through the back window. I told Jim to put those boxes along the sides, but nooooooo."

"Sandburg," Simon put in. Blair choked off his next word and glanced at Simon.

"Yes?"

"What is going on with Jim?"

Blair didn't answer. Simon remembered the kiss, that feeling that he was intruding, the way they had all pretended he hadn't seen a thing. "Blair?" he prompted gently. Blair pulled over beside a vacant lot and turned off the truck. He didn't look at Simon. He looked at his hands, which were resting on his knees. A few locks of hair fell forward to hide his face.

"He feels guilty about what I did. Actually, I guess that what he feels is guilty that he's happy about what I did. Does that make sense?" He raised his eyes to Simon's. Simon reached over to put a hand on Blair's.

"There's a certain logic behind it," he said. Blair gave him a quick, tight smile.

"He's relieved that it's all over and that my diss isn't hanging over our heads anymore. And I think ... maybe he thought I was going to leave. You know, take a job somewhere else or go to Borneo or something. I think he was a little scared that I might have been playing him all along." A little scared. That was the worst understatement Simon had heard in months.

"I told him he was crazy, " he said. That was a secret he'd meant to keep between himself and Jim, but it came out before he had a chance to stop it. Blair didn't seem surprised.

"You know that and I know that," he said, "but I don't think Dracula knows that. Now that he knows I'm not gonna leave, he's got this new thing."

"I'm not sure I want to hear this," Simon told him. Blair gave him an odd look.

"It's nothing ... uh ... mystical or anything. It's just the guilt. My academic career is shot; I'm a little fucked up about it and he's really happy ... so naturally he feels disloyal and he wants to make it up to me. You know what he did last night? You will not believe this. See, I had a lot of hostile messages on the answering machine ..."

That hadn't occured to Simon, but it should have. Scholarships, grants ... a lot of people had invested in Blair's career. He grunted to indicate that he'd caught up, and Blair went on.

"Jim gets home, you can almost see smoke rising from the machine, and I have to explain why I haven't checked my messages. So I tell him, he checks the messages while I'm out of the room, and as soon as I fall asleep he calls everyone back and threatens them."

Simon stared at him. Gawked, in fact. After a moment he realized that his mouth was hanging open.

"He did what?"

"Don't worry," Blair said. "I only caught the last two calls, but I don't think anything he said was, like, actionable."

`Don't worry,' he'd said, but he didn't sound unconcerned. He sounded as though he wasn't even convincing himself. Simon shook his head.

"He has got to remember that he's a cop."

"Oh, he remembers," Blair said darkly. Which meant that Jim had used that fact while threatening people, which was the sort of thing Simon didn't want to know. Fortunately, the kid knew better than to come right out and repeat what Jim had said.

"Jesus H. Christ," Simon muttered. Blair took a deep breath. Probably practising some new age meditation bullshit.

"He meant well," Blair said. "I keep telling myself he meant well." "That's why he helped clean out your office. He wanted to be seen with you in case anyone got ideas."

Blair nodded.

"Yeah, I had that figured out. I tried to tell him he doesn't have to make anything up to me, but he feels bad. Which brings us to our current situation."

Talking to Blair had become less frustrating over the years, but there were still times when Simon wanted to shake him until he made sense. "I don't see what your answering machine has to do with the destruction of a synagogue."

Blair answered him slowly and carefully.

"He thinks he hurt me. He's beating up anyone who bullies me as a way of absolving himself. And since I'm nominally Jewish, at least on Naomi's side, he's going to use ths thing with the synagogue to work out his issues. I admit, I'd love to see the wrath of Jim Ellison come down on a bunch of Nazi assholes, but he is a cop. I don't want him doing anything he'll be in trouble for. I also don't want him getting in over his head." "I hear that," Simon said. He was suddenly tired and the bullet wound was starting to ache. "We'll have to keep an eye on him."

"If you think you can do it from inside your house," Blair said, "I'm all for it. But right now, you are going home."

He started the truck and pulled back out into traffic. Simon leaned back against the seat and shut his eyes. As usual, it didn't make anything go away.

you fill your clothes with keys and
damned responsibilities
--john gorka, land of the bottom line

Simon hadn't thought he would sleep, but he must have, because the ringing of the phone woke him. He picked it up.

"Banks," he muttered, reaching for his glasses with his free hand. "Simon, call off your dog."

There were times when medical leave was sweet.

"Now, now ... acting captain Finkleman. You know better than that. Until I return from leave, Detective Ellison is your problem."

"Ah ha!" Simon winced and held the phone away from his ear. "You knew I was talking about Jim Ellison. You know what he's doing!" "I wasn't shot in the head," Simon reminded her. "It's not hard to figure out which of my detectives would make you angry enough to disturb me."

"Don't give me that," she spat. "You know what he's doing. And he wasn't even assigned to this case. I thought he was off until the end of the week."

That was news. Simon had thought that Jim had only taken one day. "I assume you mean the synagogue case. Has Ellison crossed a line?" "Not yet, but he'll get there. I want you to send him home."

Simon couldn't believe his ears.

"Right now, that's your job. But I'll tell you for free that I don't recommend it. He'd just pursue the matter on his own."

"What is it with him? Believe me, I realize this is an ugly case. I don't like it any better than ... well, than you would. But Ellison ..." "He's had a rare couple of weeks," Simon said. "I think he's using this case to blow off some steam. I don't envy you."

She was silent for a few moments. Then,

"Would it help if I talked to Mr. Sandburg?"

From the tone of her voice, it was hard to tell if she really thought Blair had faked his diss. What he could tell from her tone was that she didn't care.

"You can assume he's aware of the problem," Simon told her. "And he's working on it."

"Uh huh." He could hear her drumming her fingers on his desk. "I find it hard to believe that you can't help me."

Simon smiled.

"I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Thank you so much, Captain Banks."

He'd found his glasses, but now he didn't need them. He dropped them on the night table and went back to sleep.

i will rid the world of sorrow; i will
stop all wars and pain. i will tell you
of tomorrow as i rule the wind and rain
--john gorka, if i could forget to breathe

The next time he woke it was the doorbell ringing. He grabbed his glasses, rolled off the bed, and made his way to the door. A quick look through the peephole told him that he should just go back to bed ... and that it wouldn't matter if it did. He opened the door.

"Jim," he said. Jim looked a little embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to wake you up. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Simon ran that through his Ellison translator and decided that Jim wanted to talk. He stepped to the side and waved an arm at the living room. "Come on in."

"I don't want to keep you up," Jim said.

"I have no trouble throwing you out," Simon told him.

"True." Jim walked past him into the living room. Simon shut the door and followed.

"How's the synagogue coming along?" he asked. Jim's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile.

"I accused a rabbi of destroying evidence. I caught him burying a bunch of old books."

Simon frowned.

"Books that were damaged last night?"

"Yeah. Damaged is a nice word for it. He said it was some kind of tradition to bury sacred books that couldn't be used anymore. I didn't know if I should believe him, so I called Sandburg and he confirmed it. I could have avoided butting heads with a rabbi if my partner had been with me where he belongs."

Simon eased himself into a chair.

"You know why he has to stay away from the precinct. You agreed to it. And it's only for a few more weeks."

"I don't care if I'm seen with him," Jim said, but it was the growl of a yard-bound dog. They both knew that the matter was settled. It occurred to Simon, not for the first time, what an odd show of solidarity it was to turn their backs on Blair in order to support his lie.

"I'm surprised Blair knew anything about Judaism. I thought that woman raised him to ... witchcraft or something."

"Wicca," Jim corrected, seeming not to notice the look on Simon's face. "I don't think she belongs to a religion. Blair said he only knew about the books because he took comparative religion a few years ago."

Simon shook his head.

"Didn't she ever leave him with his grandparents?"

"I don't know. He never talks about them. There may be reasons for that."

He sounded both frustrated and tired. Simon knew it was hard for Jim to accept that Blair still didn't tell him everything, that it was possible he never would.

"How is he doing?" Simon asked.

"He says he's okay. He knows he'll have a job with us, rent and food are covered ... he's surviving."

"That's what he does," Simon commented.

"Yeah. But I don't think he's happy."

It was amazing how miserable Jim looked when he said that.

"It's going to be a hard adjustment," Simon said. "Give him time." "All the people who don't like him, for whatever reason ... they've been going for his throat," Jim said. "They can smell blood."

"If there's one thing I've learned over the past four years," Simon said, "it's that Sandburg can take care of himself."

"Maybe," Jim said. "But he doesn't have to."

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Jim looked at the floor. Simon looked at Jim looking at the floor. Slowly, Jim raised his head.

"I doubt my father is very happy that my boss is black. I don't even want to know what he thinks of Blair. He would never destroy a synagogue, but he would sympathize with the people who did it."

"You're not your father," Simon said.

"I know that. You want to know why that is? Because in his eyes, I was defective. It was a shameful secret that one of his own sons was a freak. If I didn't have these senses, if he hadn't treated me that way ... I don't know what I would have become."

"There's no point thinking about those things," Simon told him. "If you feel you have to be on this case, fine. But don't go in there like you're Batman cleaning up Gotham City. Stay inside the law. Between your upbringing," he added, "and this whole goddamned mess with Sandburg's thesis, you have demons running around in your head. If you're not careful, they're going to get you in trouble."

"This has nothing to do with Blair's thesis," Jim protested, but Simon knew he didn't believe it. Even Jim had limits to his self-delusion. "Go home," he suggested. "Eat something. Get some sleep. You may feel better in the morning."

Jim stood.

"Maybe I will. Do you need anything?"

"Just peace," Simon told him. "Go home."

Jim smiled.

"I'm going."

He went.

if all my luck ran out tomorrow and i
fell back to where i began, i'd know
that who i was is who i am
--john gorka, gravyland

It wasn't that night but the next when Simon's doorbell rang again. The peephole showed him Sandburg on his front stoop, hands jammed into his pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold.

"I really hate to bother you," Blair said as Simon swung the door open," but we have to talk."

"It's not a bother," Simon said, and nearly meant it. He led Blair into the living room and dropped into a chair. "What do we have to talk about?" "The usual," Blair said. He had the slight tremor of badly controlled panic. Simon shut his eyes.

"What has he done?"

"He thinks he knows which group did it. Did you know there are, like, six groups of people around Cascade who might trash a synagogue? Never mind all the nutjobs living in their parents' basements. It's a scary world."

"That shouldn't be news to you," Simon told him. "Is Jim ready to make an arrest?"

"No. We can't prove anything. You will not believe what Jim has decided to do."

Simon snorted.

"Try me."

"He's going undercover."

Simon opened his eyes to stare at Blair.

"What?"

"The guys had a meeting in the bullpen and decided that Finkleman wouldn't be accepted. I personally don't think that she looks ... well, anyway, they don't want to risk it. Those Aryan groups don't usually think much of women, anyway. Obviously Brown can't do it, and Rafe was interviewed on the news, so he's out. They figure Jim looks the type." It was a shame Simon didn't have his detectives there in front of him. He had an overwhelming urge to crack their heads together.

"Did it occur to any of them that Jim had been all over the news recently?"

Blair shook his head. Simon could see sharp impatience on his face, the frustration with stupidity that he usually managed to hide? It was one of those unsettling moments when Blair's intelligence was terrible clear. "I have no idea. If it did, Jim managed to convince them that

everyone has forgotten his face. These are the same guys who agreed I shouldn't come by the station for a month because I'm supposed to be disgrace. I'm thinking about setting them on fire."

"You're going to talk him out of it," Simon said. It wasn't a question, but Blair shook his head.

"I tried. I can't. If you want to talk to him ..."

He didn't sound as if he thought much of the idea, and Simon had to agree.

"No. There's no point. If you can't talk him down, he's blown a fuse."

"You don't know the half of it. He made contact with one of them yesterday, and god knows what he had to say to the guy, but he came home with a guilty look on his face and a CD I've been wanting. It's like, he's doing this to feel better about my diss ... but in order to catch these guys he has to pretend to be a Nazi, so he feels bad about that ... and the pressure's gonna build up until the top of his head comes off."

"His or somebody else's," Simon agreed. "He bought you a CD? Of your kind of music?"

"This," Blair said distinctly, "is what I'm saying. It's guilt. He's a mess. He's not thinking."

Simon took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

"How did his initial contact go?"

"According to Jim, or according to me?"

That set off warning bells in Simon's head.

"You'd better not be telling me you went with him."

Blair smiled.

"I know better than that. I just have my own ideas about what's going on. See, Jim thinks it went really well. He thinks they totally buy him as a member of the master race. But I think, he's been on tv, in the newspaper, and it was only a week ago ... I mean, don't you think they probably know who he is? I figure they're playing him."

Simon wished he could argue with that, but he couldn't.

"You're probably right," he said. "He should pull out. Now."

"Yeah, I was gonna mention that to him, but it slipped my mind." Blair usually reserved sarcasm for times when his nerves were stretched to the limit. Knowing that, Simon swallowed his reply and simply shook his head.

"Hopefully he can take care of himself."

"Right," Blair said without enthusiasm. "Here's hoping."

He shouldered his backpack and turned to the door, then stopped and faced Simon again.

"I don't know why I still carry this thing," he said, shrugged the shoulder that held the pack. "I'm not a grad student anymore. But I guess I'm the same person I was two weeks ago."

"You're the same person you were four years ago," Simon told him, "just marginally smarter."

"Yeah," Blair said. "I get marginally smarter every year. You should have seen me when I was born."

Simon felt an unexpected twinge of loss. He covered it with a bit of business, the taking out and lighting of a cigar.

"Sandburg," he said, "do you ever wonder about your background? Where you come from?"

There was something in Blair's eyes that Simon had noticed on their first meeting and still saw from time to time. It was a kind of wild rootlessness, an inclination to flight.

"Sure," he said. "Sometimes I wonder who my father was."

Before Simon could respond, he turned and left.

city streets are wilderness where
paranoia's common sense. it's a form
of latent violence.
--john gorka, thorny patch

"Ellison."

Simon had called the loft on Christmas Day one year and it had been the same, just that one clipped word and the tone that said it had better be good.

"Can you talk?" he asked. There was a pause and Simon listened for the sound of other voices in the background. He couldn't hear anything above the static on the line.

"I can talk," Jim said finally. "What is this about?"

"You should not be working undercover right now."

Simon heard a creaking sound and realized that it was Jim's phone, that he was holding it hard enough to break it.

"Tell Sandburg this is none of his damned business."

"I would," Simon said patiently, "but first of all he's not here, and secondly, I would say that it is his business. He may be on leave right now, but he's still your partner. And you know it's killing me to say this, but he's right. At the moment, you are a celebrity. You are on day eight of a nine- day wonder. At any moment, the people you are trying to deceive could ask for your autograph. Am I getting through to you, Ellison?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'll assume you're going to pull out of this investigation immediately," Simon said, although he didn't assume any such thing. "But in case you have second thoughts, I want you to remember something."

"I'm listening," Jim ground out.

"Your partner is worried about your safety. You may not have noticed this, but worrying about your safety can drive him to do some pretty reckless things. If you decide to remain on this case, he may decide to involve himself. I don't think you want that."

That creaking sound made its way over the phone lines again.

"Keep him out of this," Jim said. His voice was low and harsh, but Simon heard the shrillness of panic. He said nothing.

"Damn it, Simon, did you hear me? Keep him out of this."

"I heard you. You know I can't control him. You're going to have to walk away from this one."

Jim took a few deep breaths. Blair had trained him well.

"Simon, you said yourself these people are dangerous. They've killed. You know they have to be put away."

"That doesn't mean you have to do it."

"It does now," Jim said. "I have my foot in the door. Look, Simon, I can finish this tonight. Just keep Blair out of the way."

Jim seemed determined to maintain his flawless record of ignoring Simon's good advice. Simon sighed.

"I can't," he said. "I don't even know where he is. If you think you can wrap this up tonight, do it. But don't kid yourself about these people, because Sandburg's right. Chances are pretty good they already know who you are."

"Understood," Jim said. His phone clicked off before Simon could mention one other thing Jim should already know -- if these people knew who he was, they also knew about Blair.