Work Text:
June, 1999
"I can't wait to actually spend more than 6 hours in Jakarta!" Blair Sandburg enthused as he steered his car into the parking lot of 'Wild America - the Whole Foods Market for the Wild American in You'. His passenger, Jim Ellison, double-checked the sign. Yup, that's what it actually said. Jim could not friggin' believe that Blair was working for these people, and enjoying it.
"When were you in Jakarta, again?" asked Jim, just to keep his end of the conversation going.
"On my way to Borneo back in 1994. Come on, Jim, I told you that six minutes ago!"
"Uhm."
"I spent three weeks in Indonesia that trip, but only a quarter of a day on Java! I wanted to spend some time on Bali, then hop a ferry to Java and do the week-long bus thing all the way across the island to Jakarta, but things got complex with funding and I ended up having to fly back to school in order to get a proposal together. Man, I so do not miss that sort of thing!"
Jim heaved himself out of the car and with equal parts gratitude and reluctance accepted the cane Blair handed him.
"Java's also part of Indonesia?"
"Oh, come on, Jim! Of course it is. The most populous island."
"So my geography is rusty."
"Jim, there are a hundred million people on Java! You can't say you don't know the most basic things about them!"
"OK, I'll stay quiet," said Jim, as they entered the building, moving at Jim's halting pace.
Blair had barely begun to introduce himself to the receptionist when a large, fit-looking man in his middle 50's bounded out of the closest office. "Blair! Blair! So great to see you again. And this is your friend? Thank you so much for bringing him - I was so hoping he could make it."
"Uh, yeah, George Daniels, this is Jim Ellison. Jim, our CEO."
"Yes, yes, the Super Cop! I've been dying to meet you! Come on in! Please, both of you, call me George."
Blair shot Jim a look to see how he'd reacted to the 'Super Cop' remark. Not well - veins bulging.
Daniels ushered Blair and Jim into his office, a moderate-sized, simply furnished room containing a large teak desk as well as a few chairs surrounding a low table. Pictures of children, presumably Daniels', were on display throughout the office, sharing wall space with pictures of several Wild America stores and an enlarged, framed snapshot of Daniels and a red-haired, athletic young woman hiking toward the camera, the spring in their steps evident. Daniels noticed the focus of Blair's attention immediately. "Ah, yes, that's Christine. She lettered in three sports at Rainier - a marvelous athlete. Absolutely brilliant, too - she was finishing up her MBA while working full-time when we met. Wild America was her dream as much as mine - she wanted a place to get good, healthy, affordable food. So, we quit our jobs at A&P and threw everything we had into starting the company."
"I haven't met her yet," said Blair.
"I, ah, don't imagine you will. She's home with our kids now," he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a cluster of portraits of children - mostly the same two blond boys, Blair decided, ranging in age from newborn to around seven. A girl was also pictured, older than the boys and darker in complexion than they were, or Daniels or his wife for that matter. The child of a previous marriage, Blair decided.
"So Jim, what do you think about us sending Blair solo to Indonesia? I can't wait to hear what's hot with the young upwardly mobile class there, what's getting the most shelf space. And what Blair thinks would appeal to our customers. Especially produce - Java's known for its fruits, of course, and I'd like to know what catches the attention of someone like Blair."
"Uh - Solo?" asked Blair.
"I, uh, decided to keep Maurice home this time. He's a family man, and his wife's a bit nervous."
"I agree with his wife," said Jim. "It's a lousy time to be sending any of your employees to Indonesia."
"Jim, it's always a lousy time to send anyone anywhere. But, would you feel better if you accompanied him?"
Jim wanted to sigh. "Why do you want me to go with Blair?"
"Cutting to the chase! Great! Well, primarily I think having someone with some - um - training would be safest. You know, with the riots and all."
"But also?"
Daniels laughed a brief, nervous guffaw. He shifted some papers on his desk, bringing forward the picture of a young woman with long, brown hair. A formal portrait of some sort featuring the darker girl pictured on Daniels' wall, now all grown up, Blair realized. Probably a college yearbook photo.
"This, ah, is Missy. Or Mel. Melissa. My oldest child, my only daughter. She and I aren't - we haven't been as close as I'd like us to be, ever since her mother and I divorced. She - uh, a friend of my ex-wife's says she is living in Indonesia somewhere, and I was wondering if you, uh, could keep an eye out for her. Just, you know, as you explore what's hot over there."
"I'm not for hire," said Jim.
"Oh, no, no, of course you aren't! But, I was thinking - Blair mentioned that you are on desk duty because of being injured," he said, gesturing toward the cane Jim had placed behind his chair. "I thought you might jump at the chance for a bit of a vacation - a week in paradise, at that - someone else's dime. What do you think?"
Blair spoke up. "I'd be happy to keep an eye out for Missy, George. I've done a bit of investigative work, as part of my thesis research."
"Well... well, okay," said Daniels. "Jim, the invitation still stands."
Shit, thought Jim. Blair was going to go; and, it was a relatively convenient time to be gone, with Major Crimes now being run by narcotics while Simon Banks, his captain, recovered from Zeller's bullet.
"Sure," said Jim. "When do we leave?"
- - - - - -
Three days later, Blair and Jim caught a late-evening commuter flight to Seattle, then boarded EVA's overnight Seattle-Taipei flight. Coach class was unthinkable for Jim because of his leg, so Daniels had agreed to fly them business class. Most of their fellow travelers looked younger than Blair, and they'd concluded that many were students returning home to cities throughout southeastern Asia. Blair wondered whether the troubled economies of Asia would prevent any of their fellow passengers from being able to return at the end of the summer.
A nap on the Cascade-Seattle leg of their trip had satisfied Blair's short-term need for sleep, so as their 747 lifted off from Seattle he pulled out a folder of information Daniels had given him about his daughter and notes he'd taken during several conversations over the previous few days. Melissa Daniels was a couple of years younger than Blair. She'd attended a private day school located in Cascade's northern suburbs until her middle teens, then had transferred to North High - coincidentally, the same public high school Jim had attended - for her Junior and Senior years. Daniels described her as bright and outgoing, but he hadn't really known what sorts of things she'd liked to do in high school, nor who her friends had been, much less where they were now or whether she had kept in contact with any of them. He seemed to have had some notion that she'd volunteered as a candy-striper in her early teens - "she was such a loving, giving little girl" - but he hadn't known which hospital, or whether she'd done it regularly.
Daniels had moved out on his own during Melissa's senior year of high school - "but we split custody of Mel, 50/50," he'd said emphatically, a statement Blair doubted.
There were times he wondered what he'd missed by not having a father. This was not one of them.
Melissa had gone to Rainier University for a year after high school, then had done two years at Cascade Community College, where she'd gotten an Associate's in business administration. She'd then gone to the University of Washington's small campus in Rainier, where she'd gotten a BA in English, apparently doing quite well.
The day before, Blair'd stopped by UW-R and spoken to a couple of professors there, who'd remembered her as being a good student, always presenting herself well, always turning in assignments neat and on time. Not what Blair'd have wanted on his own tombstone, but hey, to each her own. They'd said she'd participated in class at an acceptable level, and had been most interested in the French Existentialists - Camus in particular.
Blair chuckled and poked Jim, who was flipping through an improbably-placed copy of 'Boy's Life'. "Looks like I'll be looking for someone working as a candy striper carrying around 'The Plague' - that'll be a blast." Jim looked like he thought Blair'd just lost his mind; mission accomplished, Blair went back to the folder.
While tracking down professors had been relatively easy - Blair had said that he was her boyfriend and that he was trying to think of a really great birthday present for her - trying to find anything else out had been impossible. Melissa's mother had slammed the door in his face. He'd knocked again and she'd threatened to "loose the dogs," though Blair surmised from the "I love bassets" bumper sticker on the Camry in her driveway that he hadn't been in too much danger.
The rest of the material in Blair's folder consisted of a picture of Melissa holding the older of her half-brothers, presumably taken at about the time she'd graduated from college, and photocopies of a the interior of a few cards Melissa had sent her father at about the same time. Blair was somewhat impressed that Daniels had kept the cards - maybe he'd sensed that his daughter was slipping away? Or maybe he was just a pack rat. Blair thought the photo of Melissa holding the baby would be the best for showing to people, since she probably looked more like her normal self in that photograph than in her graduation portrait, so he'd had a few copies made of it. Blair doubted the cards would be of any use, since he probably wouldn't be i.d.ing her based on her handwriting. He figured that Daniels had given him the card copies because it was all he'd had.
Jim looked up from his magazine. "That's a pretty thin file, Chief. You really think the girl is even in Indonesia?"
Blair realized that he hadn't considered the possibility that Melissa could be elsewhere; now that Jim had raised the possibility, though, it seemed obvious that the woman (whose last name Daniels had not been able to recall) who'd talked to him about his daughter could have just been lying. Or could have meant to say Italy or India or Indianapolis.
Jim sighed. "That's not your problem, though. Daniels gave you a ticket to Indonesia to check there. For all we know, he's got other resources checking other possibilities."
"Oh, okay, sure."
"Don't worry, Blair, you'll make a good PI yet."
"Well, being a PI is sexier than a produce manager," said Blair. "I could be worse things."
Jim shifted in his seat, and stared out the window. Even with his vision, he couldn't see anything of the Pacific down below. It was unfamiliar, being so blind. "You're giving the academy second thoughts, aren't you? It's okay..."
"No! No, not really. It's just that, I've been thinking - there's a lot I could do that would be, you know, socially useful, besides becoming a cop, as long as I'm starting fresh. Medicine. Law. Even teaching high school civics. I could still work with you, even do stake-outs and stuff..."
"Chief - there aren't even any medical schools closer than Seattle!"
"Well - umm, I'm really just tossing stuff around."
The cabin lights dimmed, and now Jim was able to spot the faint lights of several ships in the northern Pacific, 30,000 feet below. On the closest he could discern port and starboard lamps as well as a few other point sources of light. Which told him nothing useful, like where the ship was bound or what it carried. One of many occasions, he reflected, in which heightened vision gave only the illusion of increased knowledge.
- - - - - - -
Half a day later, they were in Jakarta. They'd bypassed a chance to stay at one of the capital city's new luxury hotels; Blair had insisted that he couldn't stand any place with potable tap water. Some sort of anthropologist code of honor, as near as Jim had been able to discern. Instead, they were paying $15/night for a suite of rooms in a guest house owned by a cousin of a former student of Blair's. Jim had to admit that the suite had its charms, though. It was on the first floor, so he didn't have to climb any stairs with his injured leg. The two bedrooms were spare but clean, and the small sitting room had a comfortable sofa and a small table which bore a bowl of oranges and bananas. A large set of double doors led out into a simply-landscaped courtyard rimmed by high walls.
Blair had been exultant when he'd discovered that the bathroom contained, along with a western-style toilet, a large cistern filled nearly to the brim with cold water, but no tub or sink. "A bandi! This brings back memories!"
"What the hell is it?"
"It's how you shower. You add a little hot water to the cistern from the faucet, if there is any of course, then you poor water over your head with one of these buckets."
"And the floor gets soaked?"
"It's designed to get soaked. Drains great."
"Same method to wash my hands?"
Blair nodded. "Neat, huh?"
- - - - - - -
Though they were both exhausted, they'd decided to try to stay awake until at least the early evening. So, they headed to the local market. As they left the walled courtyard of their guest house, an employee locked the gate behind them. "Ring bell," he said to them, smiling. Indeed, there was a bell, set about two feet inside the courtyard, well behind the 5' concrete wall. A pull rope snaking through the equally-imposing wrought-iron gate. Jim would have preferred his own key, but apparently that wasn't part of the deal. The wall was topped with broken glass - obviously, security was a very real concern.
Blair waved down a three-wheeled half-width car, which he called a bajaj. He talked briefly to the driver, then hopped in. Reluctantly, Jim followed; the vehicle looked like it was about to disintegrate. "What'd you tell the driver?"
"Just to take us to the closest market. We'll catch another bajaj home."
"Well, I'm impressed," said Jim.
"Heck, Bahasa Indonesia is one of the most straightforward languages on the planet. Streamlined Malaysian."
"Oh, and you speak Malaysian."
"Jim, why the hell would I speak Malaysian?"
The market proved to be only about three blocks away, to Jim's relief. He realized he should have been able to tell it was close - the smell of freshly-cut durian fruit was strong outside their guest house. As their ride sped away, he had to smile as Blair sniffed the air. "Follow me," said Jim, leading Blair to the source.
Blair looked incredulously at the things - he would not call them fruit! - a woman was slicing and placing in baggies. Whole, they looked like angry, attenuated pineapples. Who'd ever thought to open one up? "Blah! What the hell is that!"
"A durian, white boy."
"Why's it here, close to edible stuff?"
"It's one of the most popular fruits in Asia. Sally says it tastes pretty good once you get past the gag reflex. Never was tempted to try it out myself."
"Sally?"
"My father's housekeeper. You've met her. I don't think she ever brought any home, but when we'd go to Chinatown she'd often get some durian ice cream."
"That's disgusting! It smells like something died around here!"
"Huh. Three hours on Java and your mind's snapped shut already."
"Jim!"
"Okay, leave them out of your report for Mr. Daniels. Stick to longans."
"Longans?"
"These," said Jim, holding up a pair of brown, ping pong ball-sized spheres. "You can find these in Chinatown too. What the hell did you eat when you were on Borneo, anyway?"
"Rice, chicken, sweet potatoes, and bananas."
"Sounds wonderful."
"Let me tell you..."
- - - - - -
The returned to their lodging a short while later baring a selection of fruit and as much bottled water as they could carry. The longans had, indeed, been worth buying, as had some mangosteens. Blair had also picked up a large citrus fruit labeled a Jeruk Bali. With typical Blair energy, he'd attacked it with his fingernails; five minutes later, he'd finished peeling it with the help of the largest blade on Jim's pocket knife. "Hah, this had better be worth it," he said, passing a wedge to Jim and biting into one himself.
Jim thought a minute. "It wasn't worth it."
"Yuh," said Blair, eyeing the several remaining pounds of blandness. "Well, maybe it would be okay in a salsa."
"Or as a packing material," said Jim.
- - - - - -
Having spent time on Borneo years before, Blair had expected to be awoken before dawn by a call to worship from the nearest mosque. What he hadn't expected was that the call was going to be amplified, seemingly from about six inches outside his window. To be joined by at least two other calls from mosques within a dozen yards, as near as he could tell.
Groaning, he got out of bed and poked his head into Jim's room. "I should have warned you about this..." he began.
"Shh." said Jim, seated by his open window. "I'm counting."
"Counting?"
"How many calls I hear. I can isolate eight without everything getting muddy."
"Wow. I'm impressed."
"Shhh!"
Blair sat on Jim's bed. Yeah, it was kind of beautiful, the rise and fall of voices, sometimes singing, sometimes chanting. The pitch and rhythm differed between the three he could hear clearly, but they didn't clash. He wondered why he'd let his worry about Jim's reaction keep him from noticing. Was the peace, the friendship between them so precarious?
Following a breakfast of fried rice delivered to their suite, Blair and Jim headed to the closest of the new megamalls. The owner of their guest house had said that the mall housed a large grocery store, and Jim had convinced Blair that Melissa was more likely to shop at a mall than an open-air market. Though Blair had been reluctant to go to the mall - "you can't get more inauthentic, man!" - he found himself fascinated by the differences from the Cascade Galeria, such as the provisions for hired drivers, the young families with attendant nannies, the superabundance of uniformed young, pretty salesclerks. And the prices! Locally-made goods were a quarter what he'd expect to pay, imported goods around 50% more than at home.
They made their way to the ladies' clothing department of the mall's anchor department store, where Blair perfected his technique for showing his picture of Melissa around. Nobody recognized her, but the clerks seemed to be giving the picture serious attention, which was a hopeful sign that this strategy might eventually work.
As promised, the mall sported a basement grocery store; Blair snapped pictures throughout the store, to document what got the most shelf space, and even got some shoppers to pose with the contents of their carts. They procured more fruit to sample, and a 5-pack of small bottles they assumed were some sort of yogurt-based drink, labeled 'Yakult', that had enjoyed prominent placement in the dairy section. Heading back up to the main floor of the mall to people watch and let Jim's leg rest, they each opened one of the bottles and sipped. "This is great!" Blair exclaimed. "I've gotta tell Daniels about this stuff."
Jim agreed, and finished his off in the next gulp. "Mind running down and picking up another five-pack?" he asked.
As they were finishing off their second 5-pack, Blair smacked his head. "Jim, why do you think they put this stuff in such little bottles? Maybe, like, we really shouldn't guzzle it."
"Huh. Well, I don't feel drunk or anything," Jim said.
"Well, let's just cool it for now," said Blair, looking around guiltily. Nobody was laughing and pointing, however.
That afternoon, they poked around another open-air market. In the evening, they had an early dinner, then headed to another mall, where Blair again passed Melissa's picture around.
Hot, sweaty, and tired when they returned to their rooms, Jim had been grateful that there was, at least, the cistern full of water available to use for washing up. The faucet had even produced enough hot water to make things comfortable, a change from the previous evening. Certainly, there'd been plenty of times in his life when he'd had less.
'How did I clean up when I was in the jungle?' he wondered. As usual, though, he could bring only disjointed images of his time in Peru to mind. They had been worse when he'd first come out of Peru, these memory holes. His debriefing had been horrible - his superiors clearly had thought that he was trying to hind something, and though the army shrinks had made excuses for him, and the PR folks had turned him into a minor celebrity hero, he'd not been convinced that the brass had retained any confidence in him. Guys like him were supposed to be able to handle things; if they couldn't, they were either unreliable or lying. Over time, bits of memory had come back; combined with what he'd been briefed about the Chopec before going into the jungle and what he'd researched back in the States, he could hold an intelligent conversation about his time there. He'd even given a couple of talks about his time there, covering his inability to answer certain questions by implying that the answers were classified.
They'd headed into their bedrooms at nine. Despite being sore and exhausted, sleep didn't come immediately to Jim - jet lag, he supposed. It was morning in Cascade. He allowed his hearing to reach out... in the next room, he heard even breathing and the scratch of a pen - Blair, writing up his notes for the day. Jim frankly doubted that George Daniels cared at all what Blair thought about the fruits of Java, but he knew that Blair was incapable of doing anything half-way.
Beyond Blair, Jim's hearing was blocked by the humm-whirl of electric generators, water pumps, air conditioners (something, alas, they were living without) and propane water heaters. There was traffic noise too, from the main road their alley opened on to. Even so, he could hear voices in their guest house and from the small apartment buildings which shared their side alley. Mostly happy voices, none obviously distressed, which was better than he could say for a typical night listening from the loft in Cascade. Probably more live noise here and less TV and radio. It was nice to understand absolutely none of it. Jim had long since learned that he couldn't really do a thing about most of the bits of domestic discord his heightened hearing made him privy to, but still, sometimes it could break a guy's heart.
Yes, it was good to be here, in a strange land, on a hopeless quest he really didn't care about, with Blair.
- - - - - -
The following day, they decided to begin their explorations by visiting what Blair had dubbed in passing "the banana stanna", a market whose specialties seemed to be blue jeans and bananas. Lots of bananas - long, small, straight, curly, green, yellow, and brown. Blair quickly filled a sack with six different varieties, as well as a small fruit which looked like it was covered with scales - aptly named a snakefruit. They walked a short distance to a small park, Jim instinctively putting a grove of trees between them and a gurgling fountain. Blair didn't seem to notice the fountain at all, as he peeled his first banana, a slightly smaller version than what they usually bought in Cascade.
"Pretty good," he said. "Really flavorful."
Jim poked at the snake fruit, finally figuring out how to peel it. The fruit tasted dry - a disappointment. Blair agreed it was a pass, then launched himself into his second banana, a tiny specimen he finished in three bits. "Really sweet! Jim, these would be such a hit!"
"I think I've seen these at the A&P", Jim said. He peeled one for himself and took a bite. "Good, though!"
"Yeah, I think some of these have potential," said Blair, starting his third banana.
Jim grinned. "Chief, I'm reminded of that episode of 'The Simpsons' where Homer thinks he's gonna get rich off of sugar."
"You're quoting me 'The Simpsons'?"
"Just keeping my audience in mind, Junior. Even at Wild America, I've never seen bananas cost more than a buck a pound. I don't think Daniels will be too thrilled if you try to convince him to carry more varieties."
"Jusf callwen ish ash I she ish," said Blair around his fourth banana.
- - - - - -
As they exited their taxi at the afternoon's megamall, Blair looked up at the ornate façade. "Jim - I know what you're thinking, and I am with you 100%."
"Really, Chief. What am I thinking."
"That this is it for us. No more Jakarta malls. Tomorrow, we hit the road."
"Where to?"
"I don't know - we could take a leisurely bus tour the length of the island, then a ferry to Bali..."
"No way in hell."
"Then we could at least head to Bandung - it's the closest big city to here."
"Day on a bus?"
"Hours. Fingers-on-one-hand hours," said Blair.
This decided, 15 minutes later they hit pay dirt. "Oh, that is Miss Smith!" said the eldest of the saleswomen in the perfume department of the mall's anchor department store. "She comes here often."
"Can't put too much perfume on those Band-Aids" says Jim, sotto voice.
"Great! Do you know anything about how we could find her?" asked Blair.
"She lives out of town. I think Bandung. She says she stays at the Hilton."
An hour, a taxi ride, and three generous tips later, they had an address.
- - - - - - -
To celebrate, Jim convinced Blair to eat at an actual restaurant that evening. They chose a small establishment close enough to their guest house for Jim to walk. After several days of eating mostly fruit and rice, both found themselves gorging on plates of fried chicken and spicy beef, a dish called rendang which Jim said was almost as good as Sally made.
"I thought Sally was Chinese," said Blair. "Why was she cooking Indonesian?"
"She also made spaghetti every Tuesday," said Jim.
As they were leaving the restaurant, several young men brushed past them in the narrow space between the doorway and parked cars. They seemed to be heading toward some sort of gathering down the side alley bordering the building - other youths were heading in their direction, then veering into the alley as well.
"I've got a bad feeling..." Blair began, but Jim was ahead of him already, moving as rapidly as Blair had seen him go in a while.
The side alley proved to be short and relatively wide - more of a cul-de-sac, lined with two- and three-story buildings with small shops on the first floor. At the end of the alley, a middle-aged man was leaning out a third-story window, yellowing at a couple of men in their late teens. One teenager picked up bottle, but a girl about his age staid his hand. More people were coming, though, and some were carrying bricks.
"Shit," said Jim into Blair's ear. "That kid over there's got a Molotov cocktail ready to light."
Jim started forward, raising his cane. Blair grabbed his arm. "We have no idea what's going on here, Jim! We don't even know who the good guys are! Jim, we have to get the hell out of here."
In five steps, Jim was in the cocktail-holder's face. "Get that thing out of here!" he yelled. The kid, a foot shorter than Jim, stepped back, but another youth made a grab for his cane while a third moved to block Blair's path. Blair easily ducked around his obstructer while Jim swung his cane up and around. His down-stroke, though, was knocked off-course by a near-tackle from Blair. "Man, we CANNOT get involved in this!"
"We can't let this go down!"
About a dozen youths were now looking at them. Molotov Cocktail stayed back, but now maybe eight were approaching, several with knives. "Jim, we have to get out of here!" Blair was shouting.
Together, they backed up a pace. More people, young and old, male and female but still mostly young men, were coming into the alley, and they found themselves being pressed back in. Some of the youths they'd attracted the attention of were now in their faces, pushing them towards the nearest building. "Don't use your cane. Don't use your cane," Blair said, almost sing-song in his chant. Now they were against a grated storefront, but inching towards the street. More people still were swarming, and their closest adversary turned to yell to someone. As one, Jim and Blair lunged sideways, their size and weight allowing them to push through and out.
Quickly, they surveyed the area, then Jim pulled Blair towards the restaurant where they'd eaten. A metal grate had been pulled down over its face, however, and now a couple of youths were emerging from the press of the crowd and coming toward them. Three short blocks away was the turn for their guest house - Blair ducked his head under Jim's right arm. "C'on, man, let's not wait around!" They half-ran, half-stumbled towards home, the youths jogging with them, jeering with taunts neither of them understood. In moments, they were in their own alley; the youths stayed back as Blair pulled the cord which rung the bell. When there was no immediate response from inside the guest house, one of the youths came forward, flashing steel. Three more compatriots appeared at the head of the alley.
"Over?" asked Blair.
"Over."
Reaching up, they pulled themselves over the wall and jumped into the courtyard; as they landed, the front door opened.
The proprietor was profuse in his apologies - he'd been in the courtyard. "S'okay, really," Blair said, then followed Jim, who'd stormed into their suite.
As Blair entered, Jim swung him around. "Sandburg, I can't believe you got me to run away! Those twerps think we're chumps! We could have helped those people."
Blair stalked away from Jim, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a swig. "Jim - one, we could have gotten ourselves killed. Two, we could have done a lot of damage, in a situation we know NOTHING about. Three, I don't give a damn what those twerps think of us. Four - " for the first time, Blair looked at his hands. "Gah, man, I'm bleeding!" A deep gash in his left hand, from where it had encountered a shard of the glass atop the wall, was starting to ooze bright red blood.
Jim stalked past him to their door into the courtyard; as he opened the door, with a sigh the lights went out and the humm that accompanies electrical power stopped, leaving near-silence.
Blair knew there were bandages somewhere, but in the dark the best he could think to do was to grab a dirty sock from his room. He wrapped it around his hand, then followed Jim to the doorway. As he approached, Jim held up a hand - "I'm listening," he said.
"Tell me what's happening."
"Lots of yelling, lots of screaming. The store below that guy in the window has been entered. Oh, damn! That cocktail was just thrown, that and some others. Lots of breaking glass, and some smoke. Blair, there's a woman screaming, and I hear some children. There weren't any children in the crowd, where there? There must be children in the building. Nobody can get down the stairs! We have to get back there!" Jim bolted back into the suite and was almost to the door leading out into the hallway when Blair caught him, first pulling and then shoving him sideways when Jim pressed on.
Off-balance, Jim put all his weight on his compromised leg and it gave way, sending them both crashing onto the white tiled floor. Leveraging himself against the sofa, Blair leaned hard against Jim, trying to keep the larger man from getting his hands under him. "Jim. Stay. Put. There is NOTHING we can do."
Jim abruptly stopped struggling; suspecting a rouse, Blair eased back a little but kept a hand on Jim's shoulder.
"You don't understand," Jim said, breathing hard. "They're going to die!" He paused, listening. "I don't hear sirens yet. Blair, do you hear any sirens?"
"No. Nothing."
"I need to listen. Help me up."
"I don't think this is a good idea," said Blair, as he helped Jim get to his feet. He half expected Jim to bolt for the front door again, but instead Jim limped toward the open courtyard door, leaning, with a groan, against the doorframe, and then gradually sliding down to sit with his injured leg outstretched.
"I hear... God, more screaming. Inside the house... they're still in there, Blair. They're... I think someone is being burnt... no, no, no!"
"You should stop listening now," said Blair, kneeling beside him.
"She's burning, Blair! I can smell it. Can't you smell it?"
"I smell smoke..."
"I smell flesh... Gah..." Jim leaned away from Blair toward the courtyard and heaved once, twice, but nothing came up.
"Break it off!" said Blair. "Stop listening, stop focusing over there!"
"I can't!" Jim's hands were now pressed over his ears. "I can still hear her."
"Listen to me, Jim, I'm right here," said Blair. "Focus on me. Focus on..." He paused. Of course Jim could hear his voice without effort. He pulled Jim's head toward his chest. "Listen to my heart, okay? Try to focus on my breathing, my heartbeat, and block everything else out."
"I can't!"
"Yes you can!" Blair glanced around for something to smell. Some bananas, leftovers from the morning's haul, were on the table. A million miles away. What was at hand? Of course! His right arm still encircling Jim's shoulders, he thrust his left hand, wrapped in the now-bloody sock, into Jim's face. Between foot odor and blood, it was fragrant, even to Blair. "Smell this. Block out the fire."
Jim inhaled deeply a couple of times, then pushed Blair's hand away. "I'm going to be..." The contents of Jim's stomach came up in three deep heaves, splattering on the tile floor and out into the courtyard.
Blair pulled Jim closer. "Just listen to my heart, buddy," he said. "Smell the sock, smell this room. Can you smell the bananas?"
Against him, Jim nodded, his breath coming in gasps. "I'm - sorry - don't - know - what's - wrong with me."
"Easy... s'okay, Jim."
Still on his knees, Blair found himself swaying slightly, hoping a rhythm would help Jim steady and slow his breathing. It seemed to work; Jim's breaths were getting deep and even, and he was getting heavy in Blair's arms.
Jim was completely out of it.
As scared as he'd been at any time that evening, Blair checked Jim's pulse. Even, and probably half the speed of Blair's own, which hammered inside his skull. If Jim had had a stroke, or a heart attack, what would his pulse be like? Or his breathing? Blair had no idea. He shook Jim, who mumbled something unintelligible but didn't further stir. His breathing stayed even.
Damn and double-damn.
Blair scooted out from under Jim, then pulled his friend inside their suite so that he could close the doors. What to do next? Moving Jim any further was pointless, as there was no way he'd be able to get the larger man into a bed, or even onto the sofa. Instead, he got a pillow and blanket from Jim's room. Jim didn't stir when his head was lifted for the pillow. Putting the blanket over Jim was probably pointless - it was probably 80 F in the suite - but it made Blair feel better.
Cleaning up the vomit was pretty straight-forward, as none had gotten onto Jim. Blair wiped up the floor near the courtyard door, then threw the towel he'd used, along with his own t-shirt and bloody sock - and the rest of his dirty laundry, while he was at it - into the provided laundry basket, and placed the basket out in the hallway outside their front door.
Finally, he turned his attention to his hand. He'd never been able to figure out what sorts of cuts required stitches, but decided that, absent other options, he'd assume this one didn't. He went into the bathroom and poured water from the cistern over his hand. 'This probably isn't very bright,' he thought. Retrieving a bottle of water from their drinking stash, he washed the cut some more, then found their first aid kit. He dabbed on some topical disinfectant, then used a couple of small Band-Aids to pull the cut closed, then wrapped a longer bandage around his hand a few times. The best he could do in the dark with only his mini mag light, he decided.
He returned to the living room. Jim still seemed to be simply deeply asleep - pulse normal and steady, respiration the same. Blair pulled over a chair from the dining table and sat near his friend, waiting for he-knew-not-what.
A few hours later, Blair was startled awake from a light doze by the lights in the suite turning on, accompanied by the normal white noise of electrified life. "Wha..."
"Sandburg, why am I on the floor?"
Blair blinked a couple of times. "Sorry, man, I couldn't figure out how to get you into your room."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Huh?"
"What am I doing sleeping on the floor. With my boots still on."
"Well, sorry about the boots. Didn't even think about getting them off you. But, with my hand like this, it would have been a pain."
"What's wrong with your hand? Let me look at - ga-ouch! My leg's killing me!" Jim had rolled over and started to push himself up, but now aborted the effort.
"Yuh. Uh, Jim, you don't remember much about this evening, do you?"
"I remember... Damn, it's like thinking through cobwebs. What happened?"
"Let's just discuss this in the morning, okay? " He helped Jim to his feet, and together they crossed the short distance to Jim's room.
"I really would appreciate an explanation, Blair," said Jim. "Did I get drunk? I smell vomit, but not alcohol."
"No booze. No drugs. I promise, I'll explain it all - later."
"Well - okay," said Jim, as Blair helped him sit on his bed and take off his boots.
Jim didn't object when Blair tucked the retrieved blanket around him, and seemed to be asleep by the time Blair hit the light switch.
- - - - - - - -
Jim awoke to the now-familiar pre-dawn call to worship, realizing in rapid succession that his bladder was past full, he was starving, and his leg hurt like hell. He reached for his cane, which he always placed between his bed and the bedside table. Not there.
"Jim? You awake?" asked Blair, appearing at his doorway unbidden.
"Unfortunately. Could you fetch my cane?"
"Oh, sorry man," said Blair, inexplicably apologizing.
A moment later, Jim was up and moving into the bathroom. "You know, you're not responsible for the world," Jim said.
"Yeah, that's your department," said Blair.
His business done, Jim moved to the table and sat heavily, then started to peel a banana. "Spill it, Blair. What's eating you?"
"What's - what's eating me?" said Blair, pacing around the room. "Man, I don't know whether to slug you or hug you. What do you remember about last night?"
"Why?" Last night... they'd come home pretty late, after not having any luck finding anyone who'd recognized Melissa Daniels in the fabric district. No - they'd gotten a solid lead, an address even, in the afternoon. So he must be remembering the evening before last?
"You don't remember the riot, or almost getting us killed, or - afterwards?"
"No. You'd better start at the beginning."
Blair stopped pacing and joined him at the table. "It's a pretty short story, actually. We went to dinner at that place on the corner we've been eyeing."
"Yes... I remember going in. We got rendang, right?"
"Right."
"Well, leaving we heard a commotion down the alley right next to it. We went to see what was up. Turns out, there was something pretty awful going down. You wanted to knock some heads but I dragged you out of there. Then, we came home. Were pretty much chased home. I cut myself going over the wall."
Jim shook his head. "I don't remember any of that. Knock heads? Whose heads?"
"Heads that probably could have used knocking. But there were hundreds of majorly pissed people and only two of us, and besides we didn't even know who the good guys were."
"No way I would have tried to go into something like that swinging, this far out of my jurisdiction. Not with this leg. And no piece. Not and risk you getting hurt too."
"Well, I'm touched, Jim. But that's what happened."
Jim shook his head. "Impossible." Wasn't it?
Blair sighed. "You remember us getting Mel's address, right?"
"Right."
"I wouldn't mind getting out of here ASAP and tracking her down. We can come back in a few days to get our laundry."
"My leg is really sore," Jim said. "I'd just as soon rest it for a while before we hop a bus." He studied his banana peel. Such a marvel, really. "I'm still reeling a bit here, Chief. Why'd I try to get us killed? Why the memory hole? And, hey, why aren't you surprised by me not remembering anything?"
"Last night, you woke a bit, and you'd already blocked stuff out."
"Huh."
"Plus, things got sort of intense, back here."
"Intense how?"
"Never mind. Let me think about stuff, and we can talk about it later."
- - - - - - -
Annoyingly, Blair'd kept quiet about the previous night until they'd boarded a mid-afternoon intercity bus to Bandung. Before they'd left, they'd made arrangements to come back to pick up the clothing which Blair'd sent out to be cleaned, and gotten the story behind the previous night's disturbance. Apparently, the shop owner had been accused of selling some medicine of some type - whether traditional or western was unclear - which had caused a near-fatal reaction in a little girl. In the ensuing riot, the shop-keeper and his wife had both been killed; among the injured were one of his children and the mother of the little girl who'd had the reaction, who had tried to stop the melee'.
Jim hadn't known what to expect in the way of buses, but their transport proved to be a standard, full-sized motor coach complete with lavatory. As far as he could discern, the driver was a maniac, but everyone else on the road seemed to realize this and make allowances.
As they sped along the highway, past tea plantations and gypsum mines, red-clay-tiled houses and the ever-present food stalls, Jim decided it was time to hash out with Blair why he might have blacked out the previous evening. Blair had started the trip looking out the window and spurting out random facts gleamed from 'Lets Go: Java' but now had grown silent.
"So," said Jim.
"So."
"So, why can't I remember last night."
"Why can't you remember everything about Peru?"
"PTSD. I read your thesis, remember?" As he said the words, Jim wished he could take them back. Blair didn't seem to notice, though.
"I was wrong," said Blair. "Well, at least not completely right. Bad shit happened to you in Peru, but bad shit happens in Cascade too. Plus, you remember the worst parts about Peru."
The crash. Of course, the one thing he'd like to forget.
"Okay, Einstein, why can't I remember everything about Peru? Equator issues?"
Blair chuckled. "Einstein, eh? Not Freud? The reason you can't remember Peru, or anything about the camp in Iraq you pulled Jack O'Neill out of except for Jack's hole, or last night, is that, in each occasion, you couldn't take action. You could just experience - listen, smell, see, whatever, but you couldn't act. When something awful happens at home, you have the shield - you can jump in, waving your gun or yelling or whatever. Maybe you can't fix everything, but you are permitted by your position in society to do everything humanly possible." He paused. "Whadaya think? Am I close?"
"Maybe. But I don't think cutting out of a riot before it got too nasty would be worth repressing."
"No. Though I think you'd have managed to justify your actions if you could recall them. But, what I think you're doing is repressing what came next."
"What came next?"
"We got back to our rooms, and you started to listen in on what was happening. The building being besieged, well, you know there was a family trapped inside. I think - I think you heard the woman burn to death. You heard the flames, her screams, and you said you could smell her burning too. I think it darn near killed you, that you could hear it happening and you couldn't do a thing about it."
"But you also, seemingly, knew what was happening. "
"Yes, but I'm not a Sentinel. I'm not as hardwired to protect as you are. With your senses - you were RIGHT THERE with her. I think the two phenomena - your instinct to protect, and your knowledge of what was happening - I think, together, they were too much for you. And, I think that that's why so much of your time with the Chopec is fuzzy to you, and why you don't remember being a Sentinel there. You could tell SO MUCH about what was going on, and maybe if you'd grownup there things - things like a hearing a baby dying of something western medicine could cure - wouldn't have effected you as much. But, being who you are and what you are, I think it makes it really hard to live in your head sometimes." Blair paused, looking out the window again. "Am I close, do you think?"
Now Jim understood why Blair had wanted to have this conversation on the road; some conversations were too private to have in isolation. "Damn, Sandburg, you're good," is all he could think to say.
That got Blair to turn to him, a smile upon his face. "But am I right?"
"You may be. Why can't I remember much about the camp I pulled O'Neill out of?"
"Because you had to leave people there, I'm figuring."
They sat in silence for a while. Now that Blair had spelled things out, it made perfect sense, in a does-this-mean-I'm-nuts sort of way. Repressing the pain and suffering of others seemed more honorable than repressing his own pain. So, that was okay, wasn't it? But, these memory holes - they were really annoying. Maybe they'd stop happening, now, since he was on to them?
"I want to remember what happened last night," he finally said. "All of it."
"I don't think that's such a good idea, at least not yet," said Blair. "Your mind does what it does for a reason."
"It does it because it thinks it can get away with it," said Jim, wondering whether it was too, too strange to talk about one's mind in the third person.
"Okay, when we get settled into our hotel tonight, I'll help you do a little guided remembering. Nothing too deep, 'cause frankly your subconscious scares the willies out of me."
- - - - - - - -
At Jim's insistence, they opted to stay in one of Bandung's newer luxury hotels, located on the outskirts of the city, so that he could be assured a western-style hot shower. Blair's code of anthropological honor was not violated, though, Jim pointed out with glee he could not quite explain or contain - the tap water was not potable. They were still strangers in a strange land after all.
After an adequately tasty room service meal (which had cost them less than a couple of Wonder Burgers would have), they moved to the sitting area of Jim's room. Like they would have in Cascade, Jim sat on the sofa and Blair perched on the coffee table in front of him, their knees almost touching.
"Remember, this is just going to be a light trance," said Blair.
Jim nodded. Recognizing that impatience would get him nowhere, he closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind and breathe deeply. In-two-three, out-two-three.
"Great, Jim, you're getting to be an old pro at this," said Blair, pitching his voice low and steady. "Now, I want you to think about the banana market. Do you remember the bananas?"
"I thought you were going to make yourself sick, you ate so many," said Jim, his eyes closed. "They were pretty good."
"Okay, do you remember what we did next?"
"We went to the mall and had lunch. Chinese noodles." He smiled at the memory.
"Then what?"
"We met the lady who recognized Melissa. We tracked down her normal hotel and got the concierge to give us her home address."
"Then what?"
"We went home and hung out for a half-hour, then we went to dinner."
"What did we have."
"Rendang. And fried chicken. I've always remembered that."
"Easy, Jim, you know how this works. Let's do some count-breathing, okay?"
Jim nodded. Calm - that was key. "One-two-three. One-two-three."
"Okay," Blair was saying, "now think back to when we left the restaurant. What happened?"
"I heard some yelling. We turned the corner to investigate - there was a guy being yelled at from the street. More people were coming, and I thought it was going to get ugly. I saw a guy with a bottle and a rag sticking out. I tried to get to him, and you stopped me." He remembered the feeling of indignation at Blair's interference.
There was no use in dwelling on that decision. He was sure that this was not what his mind was trying to hide from him, and he didn't want to get side-tracked.
"Do you remember leaving the area?" Blair asked.
Jim nodded. "Yes. We were accompanied home by some kids. Nobody came when we rang the bell, so we jumped the wall. We got inside, and... and..." And what had happened?
"Think about our living room. It's dark. The power's out, so it's very quiet. What did you do?"
"I - I wanted to see if I could listen in on what was happening. I went out into the courtyard, and..." In a flash, it was clear: screaming, the smell of smoke, the stench of burning flesh. Being blocked by Blair. Being trapped by the sounds of a woman dying, not being able to pull away. He opened his eyes and shook his head to break off the tumult of memory.
Blair was looking at him intensely. "You remember it all now, don't you?" he asked.
"Yes... and, I remember you being - exceedingly kind." He caught Blair's gaze. "Thank you."
Blair smiled and looked away. "You're welcome," he said.
- - - - - - -
The next morning, they caught a taxi to the address they'd gotten for Melissa Daniels. Like the houses of everyone who seemed at least moderately prosperous, it was set behind a high wall. Ringing the (electric) door bell produced a young Javanese woman in the pale nurse-like uniform that denoted her status as a nanny. Blair handed her a note he'd prepared: 'I'd like to speak for you for a few minutes about your father. Blair Sandburg, Cascade WA', and they waited.
A few minutes later, an older Javanese woman emerged from the house. "Is Miss Smith's father in Indonesia?" she asked.
"No," said Blair. "I work for him. He just wants to make sure she's okay."
The woman nodded and returned to the house; a moment later, she came out and opened the gate for them.
Melissa met them at the door, a two-year-old girl hanging onto her mother's leg.
She looked much like she did in the photo Blair had been passing around. A little tanner, maybe. Almost shyly, she invited them in and to make themselves comfortable, and directed the older woman to bring them tea and cookies.
"My father - how is he?" she asked.
"Fine, fine," said Blair. "At least, he never said otherwise."
"He hired you to find out where I live?"
"Not precisely. I'm here doing some research into possible new product lines for Wild America, and George asked if I could keep an eye out for you."
"Oh." Melissa looked disappointed.
"I think he's pretty worried about you," said Blair. "He heard through the grapevine that you were living in Indonesia, and from what you hear on the news in the U.S. you'd think the place was" - he almost said 'in flames' - "in the midst of a civil war."
"Well, that's not too far from the truth," she said. "But most people on Java, at least, aren't affected by the recent changes in government. Maybe a bit on edge is all. There's a tinder-box feel sometimes."
Blair nodded. "Yeah, we've noticed. So, what would you be comfortable with me telling your father about you? Can I give him your address or phone number?"
"No - but maybe my email address. Yes, my hotmail address would be fine." She scribbled it down.
"Is there anything else I can tell him? How about your daughter's name?"
"I thought my mother would have told him all about Melanie."
"I don't think they talk. I don't think he even knows you're married."
"Huh, I figured they'd at least talk about me. Typical, though. All they really think about is themselves."
"How so?"
"Like, my father divorced my mother and married Christine" (she said the name like a curse) "so that he could duck out of having to pay for me to go to college."
"Really?" said Jim, who'd been silent up to that point.
"Yeah. He paid child support, but the courts set it way too low because he quit his job to start his store and he didn't have much income."
"Well, what can I tell him about your life?" asked Blair asked again.
"Well - I met my husband, Greg, at my first job after college. He's an Aussie. His company was sending him all over the world, to give him broad exposure. We really like it here, though, so if they want to move him again we'll fight it, or he'll quit and start his own business. We had Melanie - let's see - 26 months ago. With Nanny to watch her, though, I've been able to have time to myself, for reading or bird watching. My friends in the States with young children have it a lot worse."
"May I take a picture of the two of you?" Blair asked. "Your dad would love it. He has your picture on his office wall, you know."
This bit of information seemed to please Melissa, and she posed happily, with and without her daughter.
As they were making their good-byes, Blair noticed that Melanie now held one of the tiny Yakult bottles they'd downed so rapidly their first full day in Jakarta. "What's that she's drinking?"
"Yakult? I don't really know. It's supposed to be good for you, and Melanie loves it."
"See, we were wondering if it was in such small bottles because it wasn't, maybe, so great to have a lot of."
"Hah! No, I think it's in such small bottles because it's primarily a drink for toddlers."
- - - - - - -
A short while later, they were back in their waiting taxi. Jim started to laugh as soon as they were away from the curb. "The apple sure didn't fall far from the tree in the Daniels family," he said.
"What do you mean?" asked Blair.
"I don't think I've met a non-murderer more narcissistic than Florence Nightingale there."
"Really? I don't think I'd date her, at least not for long, but I respect her choices in life."
"How so?"
"She's managed to meet most of her objectives in life. She wanted to be rich, and when daddy had other goals, at least in the near term, she found another way to live like she was wealthy. She wanted to have children, but not do the grunt work, so she found a way around diaper changes. She wanted to watch birds and, well, they're a lot of birds in Indonesia."
"Sounds like you're ready for the ex-pat life yourself."
"Me? No, the isolation would drive me crazy. Field work is one thing, but to be an alien, especially an idle one - no thank you! But Melissa, with her self-focus - isolation is probably great for her."
- - - - - -
They decided to keep their driver on hire for the rest of the day, using the time to explore Bandung - something that Jakarta had seemed too massive to attempt. They had an early dinner, then returned to Blair's room, which had the better view, to try to see if they could pick out any of the places they'd been during the day.
Finally, Jim decided he'd dare ask the big question. "What now, Blair?"
"A few more grocery stores here? And maybe a museum or two. Then, I'd really like it if we could press a little further east, visit a few of the more central cities. Make it harder for Mr. Daniels to figure out where, precisely, we met up with Melissa. Visit some of the Buddhist temples out there, while we're at it - you know, as long as we're in the neighborhood. Then, maybe train or fly back to Jakarta and do a little sight-seeing as well as shopping, if your leg can hack a museum or two."
"That sounds like a plan," Jim said, "but that's not what I meant." At Blair's puzzled expression, he continued. "You've found Melissa - you've proven you can do the international PI thing. I'm sure you're going to write up a report on the fruits of Java which will amaze and delight the Wild America marketing department."
"Such as it is," interjected Blair.
"Such as it is."
"And, you're wondering if I want to do this for the rest of my life."
"Yes, in a nutshell."
"Jim, I really, honestly don't know what I want to do. But I've realized something - I've had this fantasy for a while, of us both doing something completely unrelated to police work, maybe not even in Cascade. Something that doesn't involve guns and blood, particularly our own blood."
"Blair, you can't even walk home from dinner without slicing your hand open."
"Very funny. I'm trying to have a moment here, dude, do you mind? What I've realized is that you, my friend, HAVE to be a cop. With your senses, and your I-gotta-fix-the-world mindset, not having a license to jump into things would drive you crazy. Clinically nuts."
"I thought we were talking about you."
"Yeah, yeah, we are, and all I've figured out so far is what you've gotta do with your life."
"So..."
"So I have no idea. But I'm working on it. And, even if I do go to the academy in September, I'm not legally committed to police work for life. I've gotta keep that in mind."
"I would - I would really like...," started Jim.
"I know," said Blair.
They watched the sun set over the hills rimming Bandung. Logically, Jim knew he was no closer to being certain that Blair would be his - what term had Simon used? - his official partner, than he had been a week before. Something had definitely changed, though. The official partnership was in limbo, but the whatever-it-was that they had, that was in place.
Life had been worse.
*** The End ***