David and Neds - The Right Guide 7
Jul. 18th, 2005 07:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dimity_bluePart 7
As David went down, Smedley cursed. He hadn't wanted to hit the boy. Taking a few breaths, he hurried over to Clement's body and dragged him forward out of the way of the door, hastily shutting it as soon as the feet were clear. Thank God no one had passed while they were struggling.
Pierson had been worse than useless, but that didn't surprise Smedley.
He took a moment to straighten his tie and smooth his hair, before removing the vial and syringes from his pocket. The drug would keep Clement out long enough for Smedley to get away and have David flatlined and revived, and when Clement came around he would be too confused to analyse what was going on. That small but important point would work in Smedley's favour.
Kneeling beside Clement, he administered the injection, then moved over to where David lay and did the same thing. He really would prefer David to stay unconscious until after he'd been revived - Smedley didn't want to frighten his Guide.
Once the pair of them were sedated, he beckoned Pierson over. "Strip."
As Pierson began to remove his clothing, Smedley noticed that the boy's hands were trembling with nerves, and his dislike for the Guide surged to new heights. Now was not the time to be nervous; if Pierson delayed him by fumbling with buttons and zips, he'd undress the boy himself. He took a second to admire his own rock-steady hands before removing David's jacket. Working in the Stock Exchange one got used to pressure and you soon learned how to operate under it. There was no room for anyone weak in the cutthroat world of high finance.
Once David was stripped to his underwear, Smedley dressed him in some of his own clothes. He could have dressed him in Pierson's, but the idea of having that Guide's scent all over his own Guide was a repulsive one. Finishing, he deposited David in a nearby armchair and turned to see how Pierson was doing. "Good." The boy was dressed although his hands were still unsteady. "There's nothing to worry about, Dexter. Everything will be fine."
"Nothing to worry about!" Pierson licked his lips, his voice unsteady. "You're not the one who'll be here when he comes around." His frantic gaze moved past Smedley and the smell of his fear grew sharper. "He'll know - he'll realise. And when he does, he'll kill me."
"No, he won't." Smedley kept his voice firm. "When he comes around he'll be too confused to realise that you're not David. You smell of David - his scent is all over those clothes you're wearing. With the bond broken, he'll panic. His Guide's scent will be in front of him, and he'll bond with whoever bears that scent."
From the way Pierson was breathing, he didn't believe him. "And what happens after he realises? What happens then?" His voice rose to a near shriek.
"Keep quiet!" Smedley glanced over at the white noise generator. Even with it on, there was no point in taking risks. "By the time Clement realises, it'll be too late. He'll be bonded to you and I'll be bonded to David."
Pierson glared at him. "He'll break the bond - yours and mine! He'll have me flatlined."
"You're a Guide, Dexter," Smedley said soothingly. "He can't harm you."
In reply, Pierson pointed to David. "He's a Guide and you're going to flatline him! He'll flatline me - he'll kill me." The scent of his fear grew ever more pungent. "I shouldn't have done this, I shouldn't have got involved!"
Smedley swung around as Pierson rushed past him, his hands scrabbling at the door handle as Smedley fought to hold onto him. "This was your idea, remember?"
"Well, I've changed my mind!"
He cursed mentally as the Guide began to struggle harder, his panic fuelling his attempts, and Smedley's hatred for the weak, pathetic creature in his arms grew. Furiously, he slammed Pierson's head against the doorframe and caught the body as the boy slumped into unconsciousness. Pierson was right, damn him.
The nebulous, niggling thoughts that he'd had since he first decided upon his course of action solidified into certainty. Clement wouldn't believe it. He'd know that this worthless creature was not his glorious Guide - he'd know and reject him and then...come searching for his own.
Calm filled Smedley as he finally faced the truth he'd been hiding from. The only way for him to succeed was for Clement to die. Suicide. Suicide because he believed that his own Guide was dead. Smedley had been right in the first place.
His gaze dropped to the weak empath in his arms. Pierson wasn't really a Guide, not really. He'd only been accepted into Guide School because of his family's wealth - his talents would never have got him there.
Smedley's mouth twisted. Why couldn't Clement have bonded with Pierson? It was really too bad of them all to put him in this position, forcing him to do what had to be done.
Well, he was a Cunningham. Cunninghams throughout history were always able to seize the moment, and he was not going to let his bloodline down.
Refusing to think about the actions he had to perform in the next few minutes, he calmly carried Pierson into the sitting room and laid him on the floor, before gathering up his abandoned clothing and depositing it in one of the bedrooms. Returning, he grabbed Clement under the armpits and dragged him through, cursing the ex-Marine silently for the solid weight of muscle that was making it so awkward to manoeuvre him.
He dumped Clement next to Pierson and stopped to consider. If he knew where Clement kept his gun, that would work - and it would mean that the weapon would be lying handy for when Clement, in grief and fury, took his own life.
Now, how to find it? He looked around vaguely, then stopped. Scent, of course. Was he or was he not a Sentinel? Smirking at his own cleverness, Smedley sniffed. He had no idea what gun oil actually smelt like but he assumed it would smell vaguely oil-like. Ah! Following the faint aroma, although he considered distastefully that he probably looked like a bloodhound sniffing the air, he moved around then zeroed in on Clement's body.
Of course - the police officer would be wearing his gun. Recalling details from a detective show he'd once seen part of, he rolled Clement onto his back and checked under his jacket. Yes, he was right, there it was; a shoulder holster.
As he reached for the gun, he paused; fingerprints. For a moment, he berated himself for not remembering such an important detail but then he stopped. He was a Cunningham. Naturally, he was not used to having to consider such matters as fingerprints. And if it wasn't for Clement's stubborn bullheadedness, he thought, with a flash of fury, he would not be forced into the position of having to consider them now!
Calming himself, he pulled out his handkerchief and gripped the butt of the gun and tugged. It refused to budge. He ground his teeth with frustration as he struggled with the holster. How on earth did these police officers get their guns out when they needed them in a hurry? It was no surprise that crime was rife - the criminals probably knew they'd be long gone by the time the police got their guns in their hands. He had a good mind to complain to the Commissioner about it the next time he saw him at the club.
Finally, Smedley got the gun free and he sat back, panting a little. Trust Clement to make things as awkward as possible.
With the gun in his hand, his handkerchief between it and his grip, securely preventing any fingerprints from betraying him, he turned his gaze upon the other body. Fury filled him again. It was not his fault that he'd been driven to this! If he'd met David first...if Clement had bonded with - with....
It was not his fault.
Smedley aimed the gun at the back of the body's head, then stopped. He'd almost forgotten about the noise of the gunshot. What did criminals do? Glaring at the gun, he thought that he might have realised that Clement wouldn't have a silencer. Ah! He knew.
Still on his knees, he scrambled across to the couch and grabbed one of the cushions. This always worked in the movies and it would have to do, as he really didn't have time to go out and buy a silencer. His breathing calmed as he covered the back of Pi - the body's head with the cushion. There, it wasn't so bad. He was just firing a bullet into a cushion, that was all.
He thumbed off the safety catch, then hastily wiped at it with a corner of his handkerchief, cursing himself for his stupidity. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes.
All he had to do was pull the trigger. That was all. One simple movement of muscles and tendons, and this would be over. Turning his head, Smedley glanced over at David. This was worth it, for his Guide's sake.
Steeling his resolve, he pulled the trigger firmly.
Instantly, the stench of blood filled the air and Smedley recoiled, gulping down his urge to vomit. It really was too bad of Clement to force him to such lengths.
Standing, he threw the cushion back on the couch, then bent and slid the gun into Clement's hand. There, all done. He moved over to David's chair, and looked around to make sure that he hadn't forgotten anything. The white noise generator. He had to take that with him.
Stepping carefully to avoid the pool of blood, he picked up the small machine and turned it off before pushing it into his pocket. It would ruin the line of his suit, but he wasn't expecting to meet anyone who could judge him sartorially, so that wouldn't matter.
Turning to head back towards the door, he paused, fascinated by the slow, gradual movement of the blood. It looked almost like a living thing as it spread out from the body, reaching across the polished floor towards Clement. It touched the lax hand and moved across the gun, as if seeking to cover the cause of its release from its bodily imprisonment. So much blood.
Smedley's gaze moved slowly to the source of it all. He'd never really considered blood before, and now, he was watching as Pier -
His mouth twisted and his gag reflex took over. Hastily, he grabbed the wastepaper bin and held on with trembling hands as his stomach voided itself. Straightening, he wiped his mouth quickly with his handkerchief, keeping his eyes averted from the dark red pool that still moved sluggishly.
Looking down, he realised that he couldn't carry the bin and David through the building. While his Sentinel hearing would enable him to avoid anyone on the way out, even the dullest of noses could pick up the stench of vomit. Hurriedly looking around, he found his way to the bathroom and emptied the bin down the toilet, panic nibbling at the edges of his mind as he flushed, then flushed again, using the time between flushes to rinse out the bin. This delay was dangerous; he needed to be gone, to get David safely away to his house.
Finally, the bin looked vaguely clean, and he took it with him. It would be awkward to carry both David and the bin, but he could dump it once he was outside.
Hurrying back into the sitting room, he hauled David over his shoulder and listened carefully at the door before pulling it open and slipping out. The door snicked quietly shut behind him, and he sighed. It was done. All he had to do was get David back to his own home and have the doctor he'd hired flatline his Guide.
~'~
Jim turned off his ignition and leaned his head against his headrest, feeling the tension seep from his body as he watched Edwards and David leave. Like Edwards, he had no idea what Cunningham was up to, but at least he was out of the city for now. Hopefully, he'd given up on his idea of claiming David.
He shook his head. If he were so lucky as to find his Guide, he had no doubt he'd be willing to fight for him, but this sneaking around was beyond him. If Cunningham were really interested in bonding with David, he'd challenge Edwards and have done with it. Of course, he also had to know that he had no chance of beating Edwards in a fair fight. A smile tugged at Jim's mouth as he considered that fight. Edwards would wipe the floor with him in five seconds flat.
Getting out of his truck, he headed for the elevator, fully intending to get back to his desk and get some work done before his long-suffering captain put out an APB on him. Simon was as patient as he could be where all things Sentinel were concerned, but he had his limits.
The elevator doors had just begun to close when he heard a shouted, "Jim!"
He hastily hit the 'open doors' button and waited until Henri, another shining light in Major Crime, came diving in.
"Thanks for waiting, babe," Henri panted, leaning his hand against the side of the elevator. "I'm late as it is, and I didn't want to have to wait for this thing to come down again!"
Jim grinned. "You could have run up the stairs, H. I bet you would've made it before me then."
"Uh, yeah, man. Sure." The look Henri threw him said it all. "A supersonic jet, that's me."
"Faster than a speeding bullet," Jim retorted.
Fortunately for both of them, Simon was out of his office and so missed seeing the pair of them sneak in late.
Leaving Henri to get on with tormenting his partner, Jim picked up one of his files and got stuck into his paperwork. He had no idea why bureaucrats needed him to file report after report but the sooner he got it done the better.
As he worked, he became aware of something niggling at the back of his mind. Something he'd heard, something he'd seen was important, although he hadn't realised it at the time. Frowning, he shoved the thought away. If it was important it would come back to him. In the meantime....
Fifteen minutes later, he gave up working on the paperwork and ran through the morning's events in his mind. It wasn't until he mentally reached the elevator that he got something. Henri. Something H. had said. "I didn't want to have to wait for this thing to come down again."
Jim shook his head. Why was that niggling at him? Down. Gradually, the nebulous thought took shape: what goes up, must come down. The unease he'd been feeling spread, leaving a cold lump in the bottom of his stomach, and he shoved his chair away from his desk with a curse.
Just because Cunningham went up in the plane, didn't mean the plane stayed up. There were plenty of fields between Cascade and Illinois where a plane could land and its passengers disembark.
~'~
Jim didn't think he'd ever be able to forget the sight that greeted him as he and several of his Clan burst through Edwards' front door.
The Guide Prime was dead; his blood spread out around him like a blanket.
"Dear God!" Doctor Harvey exclaimed, for once shaken out of her usual calm.
Jim glanced at her. "God had nothing to do with this." It was Cunningham, he was sure of it, although he couldn't understand why.
Edwards was still unconscious, and Jim was thankful for that. If he'd come around with his gun in his hand, David's blood on his hands, and David dead on the floor, he would have killed himself without a doubt.
Bending, Jim removed the gun first, wrapping his handkerchief around it. That would have to do until they got Forensics in here to examine the scene. He laid the gun on the table, and turned his attention back to Edwards. "Niven, Collins! Help me here."
Between them, the three of them got him into David's bedroom and onto the bed. Leaving Doctor Harvey and her Guide to clean Edwards up, Jim returned to the sitting room, his stomach turning over once more at the sight of the dead Guide on the floor. What the hell had happened here? Why had Cunningham snapped and killed David? It didn't make any sense.
"Senior Sentinel Prime."
He looked up, dragging his eyes away from David's body. "Yes, Sentinel Pais?"
Her eyes resolutely held his gaze and Jim knew why. "The Sentinel Prime's bedroom window was forced open, and someone was sick in the bathroom."
Following her through the apartment, Jim sniffed cautiously. The smell of blood had permeated the air, but it was fainter here allowing the scent of vomit to be picked up. Jim didn't blame Cunningham for throwing up at the sight of the dead Guide, but why, if he was the one who'd killed him, would he be so upset at the sight? Unless... "He must have brought Pierson with him."
"Pierson? You think Cunningham did this?" Pais looked confused. "I thought he wanted to bond with the Guide Prime?"
"He did." Jim scowled, turning to glare at the door that blocked his view of the body. "I don't understand why he'd do this - or why he'd...."
"Senior Sentinel Prime?" Karl's hand ghosted across his arm.
Jim moved away as Pais' hand latched onto her Guide's shoulder. "Pierson." The image of the weak empath came to his mind's eye and he swung around to face the bonded Sentinel. "It's not David!" Stalking back into the sitting room, he bent over the body, moving to see the face, then recoiled sharply. Cunningham was smarter than he'd thought; obviously the exit wound would be larger.
Looking up to where Pais and her Guide were standing, identical confused looks on their faces, he demanded, "Can you filter out the scent of blood?"
The Sentinel blinked at him, plainly not understanding. "Uh...yes."
"Scent him."
Shock flitted across her face before her professional mask slid back into place. "Yes, sir."
Jim moved back, away from the sight of the shattered face, and waited, willing himself not to zone on the overpowering smell of blood. At least if Pais zoned in the attempt, her Guide would be able to bring her out of it.
She zoned briefly, Karl moving to bring her back before she sank too deeply, then gritted her teeth and tried again. A few moments later, she stared in shock at Jim before blurting out, "It isn't David!"
"I didn't think so; it's Dexter Pierson. Niven!" Jim all but ran to the front door where Tina was hiding, her scent filled with distress. "Find out what properties Cunningham owns in Cascade. We'll try his home first but in case they're not there, we need to know where else he can go." Leaving them, he made his way back to the bedroom where Edwards was. At least he had good news to tell the Sentinel Prime - assuming he'd stay alive long enough to hear it.
~'~
A gentle slapping on his face and the ache in his head brought him back to consciousness, the darkness sliding away, leaving him to float towards the surface and the familiar scent that was there.
'David.' Edwards inhaled, then his eyes flew open as the emptiness within him registered and his senses began to spiral out of control. His hands instinctively reached for what he could smell, but there was no Guide to be bonded with, instead David's pillow was there, the precious scent faint but present as it brought his senses back into line. "David!"
Fighting against Ellison and Collins, he tried to get up. Unfamiliar panic filled his mind as he recognised the stench of blood in the air. His Guide was dead.
"Edwards!"
He continued fighting, trying to wrench himself free as he ignored Ellison's shouting. With his Guide dead, there was no need for him to live.
"David's alive! Cunningham's kidnapped him."
The Sentinel within him screamed its fury. His Guide was gone and now he needed to get away; he had to escape in order to rejoin his Guide.
"Pierson's dead. Listen to me!"
Clothes that reeked of Pierson's scent were thrust into his face and he recoiled.
"Pierson was here and Cunningham killed him. He kidnapped David!"
Hope filtered through his desperation, and the dull throb in his head registered at last. He'd been hit. Jumbled thoughts flitted across his mind as he tried to make sense of what he could, and couldn't, feel. The bond was gone...but he'd been hit...attacked. Who else but Cunningham and why else but David?
"David needs you."
The thoughts stopped swirling as the Sentinel within him calmed; cold fury and hard determination taking the place of grief.
Ellison's gaze was intent as he insisted, "Cunningham has him; he must have flatlined him to break the bond."
Now that he wasn't fighting, the hands were gentler, less confining...more comforting, and his sudden lunge upwards from the bed gained him his freedom. Pushing Ellison back, he snarled, "I'll kill the son of a bitch!"
Part 8.
As David went down, Smedley cursed. He hadn't wanted to hit the boy. Taking a few breaths, he hurried over to Clement's body and dragged him forward out of the way of the door, hastily shutting it as soon as the feet were clear. Thank God no one had passed while they were struggling.
Pierson had been worse than useless, but that didn't surprise Smedley.
He took a moment to straighten his tie and smooth his hair, before removing the vial and syringes from his pocket. The drug would keep Clement out long enough for Smedley to get away and have David flatlined and revived, and when Clement came around he would be too confused to analyse what was going on. That small but important point would work in Smedley's favour.
Kneeling beside Clement, he administered the injection, then moved over to where David lay and did the same thing. He really would prefer David to stay unconscious until after he'd been revived - Smedley didn't want to frighten his Guide.
Once the pair of them were sedated, he beckoned Pierson over. "Strip."
As Pierson began to remove his clothing, Smedley noticed that the boy's hands were trembling with nerves, and his dislike for the Guide surged to new heights. Now was not the time to be nervous; if Pierson delayed him by fumbling with buttons and zips, he'd undress the boy himself. He took a second to admire his own rock-steady hands before removing David's jacket. Working in the Stock Exchange one got used to pressure and you soon learned how to operate under it. There was no room for anyone weak in the cutthroat world of high finance.
Once David was stripped to his underwear, Smedley dressed him in some of his own clothes. He could have dressed him in Pierson's, but the idea of having that Guide's scent all over his own Guide was a repulsive one. Finishing, he deposited David in a nearby armchair and turned to see how Pierson was doing. "Good." The boy was dressed although his hands were still unsteady. "There's nothing to worry about, Dexter. Everything will be fine."
"Nothing to worry about!" Pierson licked his lips, his voice unsteady. "You're not the one who'll be here when he comes around." His frantic gaze moved past Smedley and the smell of his fear grew sharper. "He'll know - he'll realise. And when he does, he'll kill me."
"No, he won't." Smedley kept his voice firm. "When he comes around he'll be too confused to realise that you're not David. You smell of David - his scent is all over those clothes you're wearing. With the bond broken, he'll panic. His Guide's scent will be in front of him, and he'll bond with whoever bears that scent."
From the way Pierson was breathing, he didn't believe him. "And what happens after he realises? What happens then?" His voice rose to a near shriek.
"Keep quiet!" Smedley glanced over at the white noise generator. Even with it on, there was no point in taking risks. "By the time Clement realises, it'll be too late. He'll be bonded to you and I'll be bonded to David."
Pierson glared at him. "He'll break the bond - yours and mine! He'll have me flatlined."
"You're a Guide, Dexter," Smedley said soothingly. "He can't harm you."
In reply, Pierson pointed to David. "He's a Guide and you're going to flatline him! He'll flatline me - he'll kill me." The scent of his fear grew ever more pungent. "I shouldn't have done this, I shouldn't have got involved!"
Smedley swung around as Pierson rushed past him, his hands scrabbling at the door handle as Smedley fought to hold onto him. "This was your idea, remember?"
"Well, I've changed my mind!"
He cursed mentally as the Guide began to struggle harder, his panic fuelling his attempts, and Smedley's hatred for the weak, pathetic creature in his arms grew. Furiously, he slammed Pierson's head against the doorframe and caught the body as the boy slumped into unconsciousness. Pierson was right, damn him.
The nebulous, niggling thoughts that he'd had since he first decided upon his course of action solidified into certainty. Clement wouldn't believe it. He'd know that this worthless creature was not his glorious Guide - he'd know and reject him and then...come searching for his own.
Calm filled Smedley as he finally faced the truth he'd been hiding from. The only way for him to succeed was for Clement to die. Suicide. Suicide because he believed that his own Guide was dead. Smedley had been right in the first place.
His gaze dropped to the weak empath in his arms. Pierson wasn't really a Guide, not really. He'd only been accepted into Guide School because of his family's wealth - his talents would never have got him there.
Smedley's mouth twisted. Why couldn't Clement have bonded with Pierson? It was really too bad of them all to put him in this position, forcing him to do what had to be done.
Well, he was a Cunningham. Cunninghams throughout history were always able to seize the moment, and he was not going to let his bloodline down.
Refusing to think about the actions he had to perform in the next few minutes, he calmly carried Pierson into the sitting room and laid him on the floor, before gathering up his abandoned clothing and depositing it in one of the bedrooms. Returning, he grabbed Clement under the armpits and dragged him through, cursing the ex-Marine silently for the solid weight of muscle that was making it so awkward to manoeuvre him.
He dumped Clement next to Pierson and stopped to consider. If he knew where Clement kept his gun, that would work - and it would mean that the weapon would be lying handy for when Clement, in grief and fury, took his own life.
Now, how to find it? He looked around vaguely, then stopped. Scent, of course. Was he or was he not a Sentinel? Smirking at his own cleverness, Smedley sniffed. He had no idea what gun oil actually smelt like but he assumed it would smell vaguely oil-like. Ah! Following the faint aroma, although he considered distastefully that he probably looked like a bloodhound sniffing the air, he moved around then zeroed in on Clement's body.
Of course - the police officer would be wearing his gun. Recalling details from a detective show he'd once seen part of, he rolled Clement onto his back and checked under his jacket. Yes, he was right, there it was; a shoulder holster.
As he reached for the gun, he paused; fingerprints. For a moment, he berated himself for not remembering such an important detail but then he stopped. He was a Cunningham. Naturally, he was not used to having to consider such matters as fingerprints. And if it wasn't for Clement's stubborn bullheadedness, he thought, with a flash of fury, he would not be forced into the position of having to consider them now!
Calming himself, he pulled out his handkerchief and gripped the butt of the gun and tugged. It refused to budge. He ground his teeth with frustration as he struggled with the holster. How on earth did these police officers get their guns out when they needed them in a hurry? It was no surprise that crime was rife - the criminals probably knew they'd be long gone by the time the police got their guns in their hands. He had a good mind to complain to the Commissioner about it the next time he saw him at the club.
Finally, Smedley got the gun free and he sat back, panting a little. Trust Clement to make things as awkward as possible.
With the gun in his hand, his handkerchief between it and his grip, securely preventing any fingerprints from betraying him, he turned his gaze upon the other body. Fury filled him again. It was not his fault that he'd been driven to this! If he'd met David first...if Clement had bonded with - with....
It was not his fault.
Smedley aimed the gun at the back of the body's head, then stopped. He'd almost forgotten about the noise of the gunshot. What did criminals do? Glaring at the gun, he thought that he might have realised that Clement wouldn't have a silencer. Ah! He knew.
Still on his knees, he scrambled across to the couch and grabbed one of the cushions. This always worked in the movies and it would have to do, as he really didn't have time to go out and buy a silencer. His breathing calmed as he covered the back of Pi - the body's head with the cushion. There, it wasn't so bad. He was just firing a bullet into a cushion, that was all.
He thumbed off the safety catch, then hastily wiped at it with a corner of his handkerchief, cursing himself for his stupidity. He couldn't afford to make any mistakes.
All he had to do was pull the trigger. That was all. One simple movement of muscles and tendons, and this would be over. Turning his head, Smedley glanced over at David. This was worth it, for his Guide's sake.
Steeling his resolve, he pulled the trigger firmly.
Instantly, the stench of blood filled the air and Smedley recoiled, gulping down his urge to vomit. It really was too bad of Clement to force him to such lengths.
Standing, he threw the cushion back on the couch, then bent and slid the gun into Clement's hand. There, all done. He moved over to David's chair, and looked around to make sure that he hadn't forgotten anything. The white noise generator. He had to take that with him.
Stepping carefully to avoid the pool of blood, he picked up the small machine and turned it off before pushing it into his pocket. It would ruin the line of his suit, but he wasn't expecting to meet anyone who could judge him sartorially, so that wouldn't matter.
Turning to head back towards the door, he paused, fascinated by the slow, gradual movement of the blood. It looked almost like a living thing as it spread out from the body, reaching across the polished floor towards Clement. It touched the lax hand and moved across the gun, as if seeking to cover the cause of its release from its bodily imprisonment. So much blood.
Smedley's gaze moved slowly to the source of it all. He'd never really considered blood before, and now, he was watching as Pier -
His mouth twisted and his gag reflex took over. Hastily, he grabbed the wastepaper bin and held on with trembling hands as his stomach voided itself. Straightening, he wiped his mouth quickly with his handkerchief, keeping his eyes averted from the dark red pool that still moved sluggishly.
Looking down, he realised that he couldn't carry the bin and David through the building. While his Sentinel hearing would enable him to avoid anyone on the way out, even the dullest of noses could pick up the stench of vomit. Hurriedly looking around, he found his way to the bathroom and emptied the bin down the toilet, panic nibbling at the edges of his mind as he flushed, then flushed again, using the time between flushes to rinse out the bin. This delay was dangerous; he needed to be gone, to get David safely away to his house.
Finally, the bin looked vaguely clean, and he took it with him. It would be awkward to carry both David and the bin, but he could dump it once he was outside.
Hurrying back into the sitting room, he hauled David over his shoulder and listened carefully at the door before pulling it open and slipping out. The door snicked quietly shut behind him, and he sighed. It was done. All he had to do was get David back to his own home and have the doctor he'd hired flatline his Guide.
~'~
Jim turned off his ignition and leaned his head against his headrest, feeling the tension seep from his body as he watched Edwards and David leave. Like Edwards, he had no idea what Cunningham was up to, but at least he was out of the city for now. Hopefully, he'd given up on his idea of claiming David.
He shook his head. If he were so lucky as to find his Guide, he had no doubt he'd be willing to fight for him, but this sneaking around was beyond him. If Cunningham were really interested in bonding with David, he'd challenge Edwards and have done with it. Of course, he also had to know that he had no chance of beating Edwards in a fair fight. A smile tugged at Jim's mouth as he considered that fight. Edwards would wipe the floor with him in five seconds flat.
Getting out of his truck, he headed for the elevator, fully intending to get back to his desk and get some work done before his long-suffering captain put out an APB on him. Simon was as patient as he could be where all things Sentinel were concerned, but he had his limits.
The elevator doors had just begun to close when he heard a shouted, "Jim!"
He hastily hit the 'open doors' button and waited until Henri, another shining light in Major Crime, came diving in.
"Thanks for waiting, babe," Henri panted, leaning his hand against the side of the elevator. "I'm late as it is, and I didn't want to have to wait for this thing to come down again!"
Jim grinned. "You could have run up the stairs, H. I bet you would've made it before me then."
"Uh, yeah, man. Sure." The look Henri threw him said it all. "A supersonic jet, that's me."
"Faster than a speeding bullet," Jim retorted.
Fortunately for both of them, Simon was out of his office and so missed seeing the pair of them sneak in late.
Leaving Henri to get on with tormenting his partner, Jim picked up one of his files and got stuck into his paperwork. He had no idea why bureaucrats needed him to file report after report but the sooner he got it done the better.
As he worked, he became aware of something niggling at the back of his mind. Something he'd heard, something he'd seen was important, although he hadn't realised it at the time. Frowning, he shoved the thought away. If it was important it would come back to him. In the meantime....
Fifteen minutes later, he gave up working on the paperwork and ran through the morning's events in his mind. It wasn't until he mentally reached the elevator that he got something. Henri. Something H. had said. "I didn't want to have to wait for this thing to come down again."
Jim shook his head. Why was that niggling at him? Down. Gradually, the nebulous thought took shape: what goes up, must come down. The unease he'd been feeling spread, leaving a cold lump in the bottom of his stomach, and he shoved his chair away from his desk with a curse.
Just because Cunningham went up in the plane, didn't mean the plane stayed up. There were plenty of fields between Cascade and Illinois where a plane could land and its passengers disembark.
~'~
Jim didn't think he'd ever be able to forget the sight that greeted him as he and several of his Clan burst through Edwards' front door.
The Guide Prime was dead; his blood spread out around him like a blanket.
"Dear God!" Doctor Harvey exclaimed, for once shaken out of her usual calm.
Jim glanced at her. "God had nothing to do with this." It was Cunningham, he was sure of it, although he couldn't understand why.
Edwards was still unconscious, and Jim was thankful for that. If he'd come around with his gun in his hand, David's blood on his hands, and David dead on the floor, he would have killed himself without a doubt.
Bending, Jim removed the gun first, wrapping his handkerchief around it. That would have to do until they got Forensics in here to examine the scene. He laid the gun on the table, and turned his attention back to Edwards. "Niven, Collins! Help me here."
Between them, the three of them got him into David's bedroom and onto the bed. Leaving Doctor Harvey and her Guide to clean Edwards up, Jim returned to the sitting room, his stomach turning over once more at the sight of the dead Guide on the floor. What the hell had happened here? Why had Cunningham snapped and killed David? It didn't make any sense.
"Senior Sentinel Prime."
He looked up, dragging his eyes away from David's body. "Yes, Sentinel Pais?"
Her eyes resolutely held his gaze and Jim knew why. "The Sentinel Prime's bedroom window was forced open, and someone was sick in the bathroom."
Following her through the apartment, Jim sniffed cautiously. The smell of blood had permeated the air, but it was fainter here allowing the scent of vomit to be picked up. Jim didn't blame Cunningham for throwing up at the sight of the dead Guide, but why, if he was the one who'd killed him, would he be so upset at the sight? Unless... "He must have brought Pierson with him."
"Pierson? You think Cunningham did this?" Pais looked confused. "I thought he wanted to bond with the Guide Prime?"
"He did." Jim scowled, turning to glare at the door that blocked his view of the body. "I don't understand why he'd do this - or why he'd...."
"Senior Sentinel Prime?" Karl's hand ghosted across his arm.
Jim moved away as Pais' hand latched onto her Guide's shoulder. "Pierson." The image of the weak empath came to his mind's eye and he swung around to face the bonded Sentinel. "It's not David!" Stalking back into the sitting room, he bent over the body, moving to see the face, then recoiled sharply. Cunningham was smarter than he'd thought; obviously the exit wound would be larger.
Looking up to where Pais and her Guide were standing, identical confused looks on their faces, he demanded, "Can you filter out the scent of blood?"
The Sentinel blinked at him, plainly not understanding. "Uh...yes."
"Scent him."
Shock flitted across her face before her professional mask slid back into place. "Yes, sir."
Jim moved back, away from the sight of the shattered face, and waited, willing himself not to zone on the overpowering smell of blood. At least if Pais zoned in the attempt, her Guide would be able to bring her out of it.
She zoned briefly, Karl moving to bring her back before she sank too deeply, then gritted her teeth and tried again. A few moments later, she stared in shock at Jim before blurting out, "It isn't David!"
"I didn't think so; it's Dexter Pierson. Niven!" Jim all but ran to the front door where Tina was hiding, her scent filled with distress. "Find out what properties Cunningham owns in Cascade. We'll try his home first but in case they're not there, we need to know where else he can go." Leaving them, he made his way back to the bedroom where Edwards was. At least he had good news to tell the Sentinel Prime - assuming he'd stay alive long enough to hear it.
~'~
A gentle slapping on his face and the ache in his head brought him back to consciousness, the darkness sliding away, leaving him to float towards the surface and the familiar scent that was there.
'David.' Edwards inhaled, then his eyes flew open as the emptiness within him registered and his senses began to spiral out of control. His hands instinctively reached for what he could smell, but there was no Guide to be bonded with, instead David's pillow was there, the precious scent faint but present as it brought his senses back into line. "David!"
Fighting against Ellison and Collins, he tried to get up. Unfamiliar panic filled his mind as he recognised the stench of blood in the air. His Guide was dead.
"Edwards!"
He continued fighting, trying to wrench himself free as he ignored Ellison's shouting. With his Guide dead, there was no need for him to live.
"David's alive! Cunningham's kidnapped him."
The Sentinel within him screamed its fury. His Guide was gone and now he needed to get away; he had to escape in order to rejoin his Guide.
"Pierson's dead. Listen to me!"
Clothes that reeked of Pierson's scent were thrust into his face and he recoiled.
"Pierson was here and Cunningham killed him. He kidnapped David!"
Hope filtered through his desperation, and the dull throb in his head registered at last. He'd been hit. Jumbled thoughts flitted across his mind as he tried to make sense of what he could, and couldn't, feel. The bond was gone...but he'd been hit...attacked. Who else but Cunningham and why else but David?
"David needs you."
The thoughts stopped swirling as the Sentinel within him calmed; cold fury and hard determination taking the place of grief.
Ellison's gaze was intent as he insisted, "Cunningham has him; he must have flatlined him to break the bond."
Now that he wasn't fighting, the hands were gentler, less confining...more comforting, and his sudden lunge upwards from the bed gained him his freedom. Pushing Ellison back, he snarled, "I'll kill the son of a bitch!"
Part 8.