Author's Note:This story is an epilog to LRH Balzer's Sentinel/Nash Bridges crossover story "No Center Line". It's a wonderful story - go and read it. Now. Back? Good.
I had never seen Nash Bridges when I read "No Center Line", but I became quite fond of that show's characters as portrayed by Lois. When I heard that Evan Cortez was killed off, I got to wondering how this would have affected Blair, and wrote this story to get it out of my head. Now, several years after writing it, I'm thinking that this could be the first chapter of a long, long tale, but that will have to wait.
Lois goes a different direction in "And Dream That I Am Home Again" and "A Step Backwards." Her Blair is saner than mine.
Sentinel and its characters belong to Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount and no copyright infringement is intended.
Rated PG-13.
Heading Down
by Helen W.
When Blair says "Harvey! How's it goin', man?" into the phone he's just snagged, for a moment I'm relieved. I'd really like Blair to up his contact with Harvey Leek; I think he'd listen to things from Harv he won't take from me.
The air changes, and I know something terrible has happened. I look up from the stack of bills I'm churning through; Blair's face is pale, and he's trembling. He says, more strongly than I'd expected, "Call us when the arrangements are set." He drops the phone; I'm at his side, supporting him before he drops too.
"Evan," he says. "In the line..."
"Shit," I say.
"He was supposed to live," Blair says as I guide him to the sofa. He sits hard and leans into the armrest, pulling his knees up, and I know he's back in that hole with Evan, buried under bodies. Cold and wet and terrified.
I sit beside him; I grip his shoulder, but I don't know whether he knows I'm here. His pulse is too fast, too erratic.
"You gave him two more years, Chief," I say. "You know he used them."
"Not even," he gasps. "Not even two years."
"We'll go down to San Francisco," I say. "We'll fly down."
He nods, mute, his eyes tight shut, and I don't know whether he's trying to keep from crying, or whether he's too shocked to remember how.
"That will be good for Harvey," I say like a fool, and then Blair is choking out sobs and trying to catch his breath and I'm trying to pull him to me and saying "you're safe, you're safe," but that's not what Blair needs to hear and I don't know what else to say. "We'll fly down," I say again, wishing I could still absorb his pain, wondering if the last good part of Sandburg is dying before my eyes.
Blair was a different person before Jurgen. Even after working with me for - what? - three years, Blair believed that every evil had a cause that could be corrected, that every villain was a victim of sorts. The run-of-the-mill embezzlers turned murderers Cascade was making itself famous for? They were victims of a culture which overemphasized monetary success, or a lack of a strong social structure, or some garbage like that. Losers like Quinn? Depraved because they were deprived. And the crazies - Lash, Chapel, even Alex Barnes - they haunted our nightmares, but Blair didn't hold hate for them. Not for anyone until Jurgen.
I think of the look on Blair's face when he came to me late that night a month after Jurgen, saying he couldn't take any more school. "I've decided to join the dark side, man. Get in touch with my inner Dirty Harry."
I'd made the obligatory joke about how, if he was serious, he wouldn't have any hair to get dirty. Then told him I thought he was sleep talking as well as sleepwalking and that he should get his butt back in bed.
The next day, though, while scrambling eggs, Blair'd said, his back to me, that I shouldn't worry about him failing the psyche screening. It took me a minute to register what he was talking about.
"You're serious? Chief, you're close to finishing your diss, aren't you? You can't drop out now," I'd said.
"You don't want me on the force? You don't think I'd make a good cop?"
"A damn good one, you know that. But, Chief, is this so that you can pack?"
And Blair had turned, and his eyes - I'd never seen his eyes look like that. Like he was never going to lecture me on esoteric minutia again. Like he could kill someone. "So what if it is?"
And I'd joked that there were simpler ways to get a permit to carry a concealed weapon. I've never doubted, though, that his career detour into law enforcement was, at heart, driven by wanting to be stronger. Which makes no sense, since Jurgen's last harvest of victims had all been strong, armed me at their peak.
I didn't try very hard to talk Blair out of his decision, because I'm a selfish bastard and I wanted him as a partner.
It was no surprise he sailed through the academy, but I'd never have suspected that he'd be having so much trouble being a beat cop. After the first time he went overboard, he ranted for a half-hour about how he'd just been trying to project force and that the 'perp' hadn't responded right. That he'd done everything right and nobody had the right to judge his actions. I had no clue who the hell was talking to me, but it wasn't the kid I knew. The second time, he just promised me that he was going to keep his nose clean from then out so that he'd be able to sit for the detective exam. Not a word about the drunk bastard who'd ended up with his jaw wired shut.
"I want to get who did it," he says now, and I don't doubt that he's thinking about putting a bullet in some Californian's head.
"Out of our jurisdiction, Chief," I say, and he pulls back from me and wipes a flannelled sleeve across his face.
"I'm serious," he says.
"So am I," I say, and he gets up and heads into his room.
My shirt is still wet from his tears. I feel a momentary surge of anger - now I'm the bad guy? But that's not fair.
Fairness has nothing to do with any of this.
I call Simon and Blair's boss and tell them we'll be out for a while.
*** The End ***
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