James and the Cold Gun
by Mab
Jim Ellison sat in the dark, cleaning his gun. It was a job he found peace in, enjoyed even. It was one of the few things that gave him any peace these days. Method, and mindless work, take it apart and clean it, put it back together again. Admire the sheen of metal, the beauty of something that was made to do a job and did it well. Smell the oil that he used, the cold scent of steel. Listen to the sounds that the gun made, the little clicks, the sound of rubbing as he cleaned inside and out. Feel its smoothness and its roughness, its weight. Taste it? Take note of the taste of the oil and the steel as the muzzle rested in his mouth? Well, not yet, but that was always an option for another day.
Jim Ellison sat in the dark because he didn't need lights to see, and there was nobody else in the rented room who needed lights. He chuckled to himself.
"Look Ma! No zones!"
And then a different tone of voice.
"Fuck. Sandburg."
He let Naomi have most of Sandburg's stuff. He insisted on keeping Sandburg's computer and discs and all the written notes on Sentinels, and the Burton monograph, and a couple of favourite artefacts. She was understanding about that; Naomi's stock in trade. He kept a couple of shirts too, that had ended up under the futon, and never made it to the wash. He didn't tell Naomi that, and wondered what she would have thought if he did. But he needed those shirts. He would bring them out at night, and sit there quietly and just smell them. He would slip an arm inside a sleeve, and touch it, and try to imagine that it was Sandburg's arm that he felt.
Sometimes, in the past, he had left the greeting on the answer machine, and sometimes Sandburg had. He always regretted that two days before, he had erased Sandburg's message, and replaced it with one of his own; something more dignified, and definitely shorter. He wondered if any of Sandburg's students had ever recorded his lectures. But how could he explain? Ask some kid for the tape, and wonder if they'd snigger or just give him a sadly compassionate look? No way.
Simon spit tacks when Jim told him that he was resigning. He nearly shit a brick when Jim told him that he'd like to keep in touch. Of course, it was what he wanted to keep in touch about. Not "Hi Simon, how're you and Darryl going?" That was nice enough, but what he needed was official information. Possible sightings of Carmichael, crimes that fit his M.O., likely whereabouts of the bastard who was going straight to hell as soon as Jim found him.
"Jim. You could stay with the PD and find this creep."
Jim's voice was gentle. "I don't want to bring the department into disrepute, Simon. When I find him, I'm going to kill him. And you can do what you like with that information. You going to arrest me?"
Simon was silent. The big man looked a little shrunken as he made a choice that essentially made him an accomplice to murder. Then he took Jim's hand, the other grasping tightly just below Jim's elbow.
"Look after yourself, Jim."
He didn't know exactly when he noticed that Sandburg's shirts no longer smelled the right way. They didn't smell like Sandburg anymore. They smelled of Jim, of his sweat and tears. He was in a small seaside town, following Carmichael's trail. Enraged, he tore the shirts into pieces, and then sat down and wept. About 3 am that night he walked down to the beach and put together a small driftwood fire. He threw the remains of the shirts on it and watched them burn.
He was carrying Sandburg's dissertation. After the funeral, some impulse had sent him to the printers near Rainier who specialised in binding theses and dissertations for presentation. It had seemed the right thing to do. He was tempted to add it to the flames, but it was Sandburg's work, his sweat and tears and blood, discredited though it was. He read it by the light of the fire and the stars, smiling when he found patches where Sandburg's personality broke through the language of academia, shaking or nodding his head in dissent or agreement with his conclusions.
Jim often dreamed of Sandburg. Sometimes, simple memories. Sandburg standing behind him, guiding Jim as he tracked a safe path through a minefield for them and Brackett. Sandburg cooking in the loft. Sandburg deciding that Brown had called him "Hairboy" once too often and sashaying towards him, singing, "I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair". Other times, odd disjointed fragments and fantasies, descending into nightmare. When he walked into his motel room and saw Sandburg sitting on the bed with the panther at his feet, Jim thought to himself, shit, dreaming again.
The panther looked - ill; thin, with a staring coat. It was sitting on its haunches and Blair was leaning forward with one hand across the back of its neck, the other hand gently rubbing its chest, the way Jim had seen some dog handlers caress their animals. His face was somber.
"Hi Jim."
"I'm dreaming.
Sandburg's lips quirked.
"Close enough, man. I can't stay long."
"Fine, Chief, don't let me keep you." He felt angry. Sandburg was dead, and he didn't need this crap. Come waltzing in and out of my head, will you? You're dead and gone. Stay gone.
"You don't mean that, Jim. Don't do this, please. Leave Carmichael alone. Incredibly bad karma man, and it's pretty unfair on Simon too. He doesn't like what you're doing, and it wears him away. It's wearing you away too. Come on, big guy. Give it away."
Forget anger, he was well into rage again.
"I don't give anything away, Sandburg, and I'm sure as hell not giving up a chance at Carmichael. You're not around to tell me what to do anymore, remember?"
Sandburg - Blair - walked up to him, and oh God, he felt warm. He smelled the way the shirts used to. Blair reached up a strong, sure hand and pulled down Jim's head to brush a kiss across his temple.
"Don't do it, Jim."
Jim found himself stooped over and alone, and he waited to wake up. But he didn't, so he went to bed and slept.
His career choices had their uses. He had learned to notice things, and to hunt, and to kill. But in the end it was the senses that did the job. He walked into a diner and smelled Carmichael. A few questions of the waitress, and he had a description of a car and an idea of direction. Carmichael had driven to the next small town and was parked outside the library. Jim sat there and waited, Sandburg's dissertation and his gun both on the seat beside him.
He didn't know what to do. Law enforcement wasn't far behind Carmichael. Common sense and cop instincts both knew that. If he didn't take his chance soon, he would lose it. He ran his fingers over Blair's dissertation. He'd asked for an expensive binding and paper. It was pleasant to feel under his fingertips, and the heat of the car brought out the good scent of the paper. He ran his fingers over the gun. The gun was warm with the same heat that was filling the car with the scent of Sandburg's work, and at the same time the coldest thing he had ever felt.
Carmichael came out of the library. It was hot in the car, and the gun was so cold. It felt more right than the diss though, so Jim picked it up and aimed - and fired.
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