by Autumn Skies

Disclaimer: The Sentinel, its characters and concepts are the property of Pet Fly Productions and Paramount/UPN. No copyright infringement intended. Written for fun, not profit.

Summary: A guide wanders; a sentinel worries.

Notes: First posted to the SentinelAngst List. Rated G

-- Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774)

A young man in a checkered flannel shirt and jeans stood on the sidewalk, just outside the small storefront. The white letters on the slightly faded navy blue awning above his head spelled out 'Nick's Book Nook.' The cool morning breeze had deposited a small assortment of cellophane wrappers, dried leaves, plastic bags and other debris in front of the doorway. He swept them efficiently into a dustpan then paused to look at the lines of vehicles making their way up and down the main street.

Traffic was heavy, but not bumper-to-bumper. This was as congested as it got in downtown Stockerville. Dozens of large, shiny SUVs passed by, towing small boats on trailers behind them.

The town was located right by Crowden's Pond, a small lake favored by locals and tourists alike. It was a much closer alternative to the larger man-made one at Wyler Dam, some five and a half hours away. Most came to fish for bass, usually renting one of the cabins along the shore. But they tended to fill up fast, so the rest made do with the motels on the outskirts or the boardinghouse on Alpine Street.

A low cough interrupted his reverie.

He turned around. "Good morning Mr. Briosi."

The balding man with the neatly trimmed beard was the same height as the sweeper, only wider. He wore a tan corduroy jacket over his green sweater vest. "Now what did I tell you the other day? Just call me Nick, like everyone else," he chided gently.

The sweeper smiled back. "Sure, Nick." Dumping the contents of the dustpan into a trash can, he picked up the broom and followed the owner back inside the shop.

Nick shed his jacket as he walked back behind the counter. The overhead lights were on, the window shades had all been drawn up, and the coffeemaker in back was busily brewing pots of hot dark liquid. Up front, near the aisle marked 'Travel Section,' styrofoam cups were lined up on a small table, along with plastic stirrers, sugar packets, and napkins.

Books, cards, calendars and stationery from yesterday's sale table had been rearranged into neat piles. The newspapers were sorted and stacked, the wastebaskets emptied, and the carpet had been vacuumed. He caught the faint, lingering scent of lemon wood polish. The tables, chairs, and bookshelves were clean and dusted.

Nick nodded to himself in satisfaction. The young stranger had appeared in his bookstore less than a week ago. The shoulder-length, curly hair, silver hoops in one ear, and battered backpack had sent his assistant, Sophie, bristling into watchdog mode.

"Better keep an eye on that one," she said warningly, staring at Nick through her green-tinted contact lenses. Sophie had lived in Stockerville all her life. Outsiders, she could spot in an eye blink. Nick thought she looked better with glasses, especially when she wore rounded frames. They tended to soften her thin, angular face.

He smiled at her indulgently, then sent her to the back to check on the latest shipment from UPS. In spite of her wary nature, they were a good business pair. Sophie had a knack for details and numbers, while he had a feel for people. His instincts had served him well over the years.

Curious, he watched the young man as he moved slowly up one aisle then down another, finally stopping at the biography section. Nick greeted the other customers in the store by name, then casually made his way towards the stranger.

Ignoring the long row of lurid celebrity bios, the young man had lowered his backpack to the floor and was engrossed in a book written by David Levering Lewis.

"Are you finding what you need?" Nick inquired.

The head snapped up and the first thing the owner noticed were the large, striking eyes. Framed by an unusual but intelligent-looking face, the eyes were as clear and bright as a summer sky.

"Ah, yes, thank you." He held the thick tome open, balancing it carefully between his hands. "A friend recommended this to me. It's fascinating." Despite the wrinkled, travel-worn clothes and dusty backpack, he was clean-shaven, his thick, glossy hair was combed, and the voice was subdued but polite. He also had the air of someone who'd been around books a long time. A college student perhaps, thought the bookseller.

Nick held out a hand. "I'm Nick Briosi, the owner."

The firm handshake was returned. "Hello Mr. Briosi. It's really nice to see a bookstore like this..."

Although Nick was not a native of Stockerville, he'd lived in the town long enough to know his customers by face, name, and reading preference. Mrs. Alonso, who ran a small boutique three blocks over, preferred English murder mysteries while Nancy Whittaker's kids all clamored for the latest Harry Potter. Nick's insurance agent, Eugene, liked to read the latest investment books and Stephen King.

Local tastes ranged from Jane Austen to the X-Men. Few would have shown interest in a book on W.E.B. Du Bois.

"You're not from around here," he said.

The young man shook his head. "No," but didn't elaborate.

"Passing through?"

"Sort of." He closed the book and tucked it back into the shelf.

"Well, we've got plenty of coffee," Nick pointed to the two tall thermoses in the corner, "so help yourself. Let me know if you need anything." He turned and walked back to the counter.

A few minutes later, he glanced up and noticed that the stranger had picked up a cup and was sitting in one of the straight-backed wooden chairs near the window. He sipped from it, sighed, and continued to hold it between his hands, as if enjoying the warmth wafting up in his face.

"Is he still here?" Sophie reappeared at Nick's side and eyed the seated man suspiciously.

"Yes," he replied evenly. "It's a free country." Reaching underneath the counter, he pulled out a pile of printouts from a tray. "Let's go over these invoices, shall we?"

The young man sat quietly for about twenty minutes with his coffee. He spoke to no one and stared out the front window. Finally he rose, dropped the cup into the wastebasket, went to the front door, pushed it open and walked outside.

Nick watched as he stood on the corner looking undecided. Then he hitched the backpack over his shoulder and strode off down the block.

It wasn't until nearly closing time that he saw the young man again. Sophie was in the back as Nick straightened the chairs and collected empty cups. Glancing up, he saw the same figure from that morning, standing across the street, next to a mailbox.

Shadows now extended over both sides of the block, and the stranger wore a dark brown jacket zipped up over his shirt, both hands shoved deep into the pockets. His shoulders were hunched against the evening breeze. He scuffed the pavement with a foot, then leaned back against the brick wall of the small deli and stared after a departing couple bearing bags of food.

Nick immediately marched to the front door, opened it and waved at the stranger, motioning him to come in.

Surprised, he hesitated for a moment then picked up his backpack and trotted across the street.

"Didn't think I'd see you again so soon," Nick smiled in greeting.

"I'm afraid things didn't work out quite the way I'd hoped," replied the stranger with a rueful expression.

"Is there something I can do?" For some inexplicable reason, the bookseller felt an inner pull to help this young man.

"Well, I'd like to take a look at the local paper."

"There should still be a few copies left." Nick pointed at the tall magazine rack.

"Thanks." He moved off toward the far wall.

"Nick? I think I'm about done here, what about...oh." Sophie walked up. Even in flats, she stood two inches taller than her employer. "He's back," she whispered loudly. "What do you suppose he wants?"

"Just a newspaper, Sophie." Nick looked at the few remaining customers lined up at the counter with their purchases. "You'd better take care of them," he said with a tilt of his head.

She frowned and went back to man the register.

The stranger was still reading the classfieds as the last customer shuffled out.

"I see you found it," said Nick stepping up to his side.

The sheets rattled as he looked up with a start. "Oh, you're closing." He refolded the paper. "Man, I keep losing track of the time."

Nick glanced down. Except for a band of pale skin, the left wrist was devoid of any timepiece.

"Are you looking for something in particular?"

Sighing, the young man tucked a stray lock of hair behind an ear. "I, ah, need a place to stay for a few days."

The owner cocked his head slightly, studying the stranger. Given his current condition and appearance, he doubted that the young man could afford one of the hotel chains in town, unless he wanted to try the small motels along the interstate. Chances were though, this close to the weekend, they were already filled up by avid anglers.

"How about a room?"

"Actually, that's kinda what I was hoping to find."

"Wait here for me while I close up. I may have something for you."

He nodded and fiddled with the straps of his backpack as Nick went to talk to Sophie. She stood arms akimbo and gave her employer an incredulous look.

"You're doing what?"

"Shh, keep your voice down," said Nick. "It's only temporary."

"You're crazy," she sputtered. "How do you know you can trust him? You only just met him!"

"Don't worry, he's a good boy," said the owner reassuringly. "He's just a little down on his luck. This will work out fine. There's a spare cot in the back and blankets."

"But what's he going to do during the day?"

Nick shrugged. "We'll work something out."

* ~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~ *

For two days Sophie watched the stranger like a hawk as he ran errands, cleaned all the windows and did some chores for Nick. She checked the register and the receipts at regular intervals, shooed him away from the customers and made sure the store safe stayed locked at all times. On the third day, she received a phone call.

Nick drove her to the airport the next evening, helped with the luggage and waited with her in the terminal until her flight was announced. "Don't forget to call me later and let me know how things go," he said giving her a hug. She nodded back tentatively, picked up her tote bag and coat, and walked toward the boarding area.

Despite Sophie's absence, the next few days passed swiftly and smoothly. The bookshelves were restocked, the storeroom was reorganized and the new system upgrade that had been sitting around for two and a half months was finally installed.

This young man obviously knew his way around a computer and Nick was glad for the help. He was patient and thorough, and taught Nick more in two evenings than he'd picked up in all the computer classes he and Sophie had attended last summer.

"You should be a teacher," he said half-jokingly, then wondered at the wry expression on his new employee's face.

Later, Nick asked him about virus programs, a new printer, and a back-up system, and wrote down his recommendations. Together, they redesigned some of the store forms, although Nick knew Sophie would not approve of the changes.

Next they looked at other booksellers' web sites and Nick began to jot down ideas so he could revise his own simple one. The update was long overdue. In return, he allowed the young man to go on-line and check his personal e-mail from time to time. He would sit and read them rapidly, then delete them, one after the other. Once Nick opened one by mistake. It was from someone with the initials N. S.

Little by little they began to exchange opinions over other things, like authors, politics, and sports. Then personal tidbits. The store owner found the exotic travel anecdotes wildly amusing, but never once heard his employee mention home.

Nick told him about his son, who had joined a large engineering firm in a major city, two states away. He'd gotten married and had two children, ages five and seven. Both his son and daughter-in-law had entreated him numerous times to sell the business and retire early. They offered to help him relocate close by, but he always said no.

"I do get lonely without Mary," he explained over dinner at his house one night. "But I don't want to leave this place. Not yet, at any rate."

"It's home to you," said the young man softly.

The older one nodded in agreement. "It certainly is. Plus I still have friends and customers who depend on me." He wiped his mouth then set his napkin down. Settling back in his chair he continued, "I originally worked for a materials handling equipment company in Ohio. I was one of their top sales reps, but it kept me on road all the time. When our son was about nine, Mary decided enough was enough, so we packed up and moved here to her hometown. She went back to teaching, and I used our savings to buy the bookstore."

"Must've been hard, starting over like that."

"It was at first. We struggled for a while to make ends meet. But it turned out to be the best thing. When I think about all that traveling I used to do, the cities I saw, and the people I met, I can honestly say that it all pales in comparison to spending time with your fam..."

He stopped. He thought he saw a stricken look in the blue eyes across the table. But the young man lowered his gaze and quickly reached for his glass of water.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"It's nothing. I'm fine," came the reply.

Nick stared at him for a moment, then pushed his chair back. "Tell you what, I'm ready for dessert. How does some pie sound to you?"

"I could certainly go for pie."

"Then you're in for a real treat. One of my customers, Loretta, bakes the best blueberry pie in the county."

The freshly baked, flaky-crusted pie was definitely a prize winner. After eating two large slices, both men sat back, pleasantly full.

Just then the phone rang. Nick rose from the table with a sigh and went over to pick up the receiver.

"Hello? Oh hi, Sophie, how have you been? And how's he doing now? Good, I'm glad to hear it. So what else did the doctors say..." As Nick spoke, his dinner guest stood up and began to clear away the table. He stacked the dirty plates on the tiled counter, then covered the pie with some plastic wrap and put it back into the refrigerator.

Hanging up, Nick turned. "That was Sophie. She says she'll be back next Thursday."

The young man nodded slowly, then began to fill the sink with hot water.

* ~~~~~~~ * ~~~~~~~ *

Nick sighed as he picked up the small stack of mail sitting on his desk. It consisted mainly of credit card offers and long-distance calling plans. He tossed them into the recycle bin just as Sophie suddenly swept into the back room.

"There's man out there asking for you," she announced breathlessly. Then she lowered her voice as she put a hand on his sleeve. "I think he's a cop."

He must be a handsome cop, thought Nick with amusement. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands fluttered nervously. Attractive men flustered Sophie.

Approaching the front counter, he saw that he was indeed correct. The tall visitor with short brown hair wore a dark gray jacket over a blue work shirt and black pants. Several female customers glanced at him as they walked by with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright admiration.

"Hi, I'm Nick Briosi. What can I do for you?" He tilted his head up and smiled, but the stern face didn't change expression and the pale blue eyes that inspected him were quite cool, almost cold.

"I'm looking for someone," he said without preamble.

"I see." The owner clasped his hands together and leaned his elbows on the counter. He was intrigued by the man's directness. "And you are?"

"Detective James Ellison, Cascade, Washington PD." He produced his badge and identification.

The bookseller raised an eyebrow. By his reckoning, Washington was at least four hours away by plane. "So who is it that you're looking for?"

This time the detective reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a small manila envelope. He extracted a three by five photograph and laid it carefully on the counter surface. "Have you seen this man?"

Nick reached for the color photo and held it up. It was a close up shot of his former employee sitting cross-legged on some grass, an open book spread in his lap, his backpack just behind him. The top of his green shirt gaped a little, and a small animal fetish dangled from a thin strip of leather tied around his throat. He grinned widely up at the camera, his expression as open and free as his loose, wind-blown hair.

Ah, so this is what he's really like, thought Nick, studying the radiant smile.

"Is he in trouble?"

The detective shook his head. "No, he hasn't committed any crime. This is um, personal, actually. He took off rather unexpectedly a while back, and I've been trying to track him down ever since." It was difficult to read anything behind the stolid expression, but the underlying concern in his voice was unmistakable.

"Are there any other pictures?"

Ellison blinked, then wordlessly slid the manila envelope towards the shorter man. Two more photos slid out and Nick examined them both closely.

The second snapshot showed him in a colorful Hawaiian shirt talking to a teenager holding a basketball. The very tall, well-groomed black man in glasses looming behind the two, looked to be the teen's father.

Nick stared longest at the last one. It was of the young man from the waist up, his face lit with excitement as he held up a silvery trout. And the man wearing a Jag's cap with an arm draped casually across the angler's shoulder was Ellison himself. He was struck by the look of relaxed affection and pride he saw in the detective's eyes.

But right at this moment, the grim-faced man at the counter bore little resemblance to the one in the photo. "I take it he's a friend of yours?" said the owner as he returned the snapshots and envelope.

"Mr. Briosi!" Both men turned their heads at the insistent tone.

"Where are those paperbacks I ordered the other week? You said they'd be here by now." Pauline Wertz marched up to the counter and stared demandingly at the owner through her trifocal lenses. "You know I need them for my next book club meeting."

Nick put up a placating hand. "I have them all, just as you requested. I'll go get them from the back." He glanced apologetically at Ellison. "Please excuse me while I help Mrs. Wertz. If you like, you can have a seat over there. This will only take a moment."

The detective moved aside and stood by an unoccupied chair as Nick turned his attention back to his customer. Then he signaled Sophie to accompany him to the storeroom.

Ellison rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension in his neck and upper back as he peered out the side window. He was tired of sitting. Between the long, cramped plane flight and the fifty-five minute drive to Stockerville, he felt drained and restless. Still this was the closest he'd come to his missing partner in several weeks. He clamped down on the surge of frustration that threatened to well up. He was close. He just needed to be patient.

He knew from the moment he'd stepped inside the bookshop, his guide had been on the premises. The owner's reaction only confirmed what his senses had told him. He cranked up his hearing a little more.

"I told you from the beginning there was something suspicious about him, now didn't I?" said a female voice disapprovingly.

"That boy is not a criminal," replied Nick firmly. Ellison heard the sound of something, perhaps a chair, being rolled aside. "Actually, the cop is a friend of his."

Sophie's reply was obscured by the scraping sound of a cardboard carton being pulled out.

"I'm not joking. As odd as it seems, it's true. He showed me a photograph of them together, fishing. Give me a hand here." Nick grunted and the box was lowered onto a hard surface with a thud. "Have you seen the utility knife?"

"Didn't you use it last?" A drawer was opened, rattling pencils, pens, paperclips, and coins. "Maybe it's up front." The drawer was shut. "What do you suppose happened then?"

"Who knows? Perhaps there was a disagreement. A lot of terrible things can be said by both sides during the heat of an argument -- awful, hurtful things. And afterwards, well, it's hard to take it all back."

Ellison closed his eyes for a moment. Then they snapped open as a strip of packing tape was pulled off with a loud 'zzzzzt.' A carton flap was pushed up and a hand plunged into a crinkly, squeaky mass of bubble wrap.

"Ah yes, here they are. Take these up to Mrs. Wertz, would you?"

Ellison folded his arms and leaned against a bookcase as he waited for Nick to return. As soon as the owner reappeared, he straightened and approached the front counter.

Nick looked up as he dusted off his hands. "He was here, Detective."

The pale eyes gleamed then focused with sharp intensity on the bookseller's face.

Nick tilted his head towards Sophie, who waited at the other end of the counter as Mrs. Wertz picked up the paperbacks one at a time and studied the covers.

"I hired him to fill in for Sophie. Her uncle suffered a heart attack recently, so she went to look after him for a few weeks." The owner looked up thoughtfully. "He left the day after she returned. That was last Friday. He's a good worker you know, a very bright young man."

Ellison nodded back tightly. "Did he mention where he was going?"

Nick paused then leaned closer. "Not really, just that he was thinking about returning to a place he knew. Some place warm."

"Warm?" The detective frowned at the word.

"I don't think he was talking about the temperature." Nick tapped his chest. "I think he meant in here."

Ellison looked down and drummed the counter with his fingertips. "Did he have a car?"

"No. On the day he left, I drove him to the Greyhound station myself."

"Did you notice which bus he got on?"

"I'm afraid I didn't stay to watch. I just wished him luck and dropped him off in the parking lot."

Ellison let out a long breath as he rubbed his chin. He managed to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but not his eyes. "I appreciate your help Mr. Briosi. If you could just give me directions to that bus station, I'll be on my way."

Nick studied the wayworn face again, and the tense posture.

"Wait a moment, Detective." He rummaged underneath the counter for something. "I think this might belong to you."

"What is it?"

"He installed some new software for me before he left. I'm not all that good with computers you see. He said if I needed to ask him any questions about it I could reach him here." He held out a small piece of paper that had been folded in half.

Opening the lined note sheet, Ellison stared at the small, familiar writing on it. He held it carefully in his fingers as though it were priceless. His expression softened sightly.

The owner shrugged. "Like I said, he's a good boy. When you see him, tell him Nick said to take care."

"I'll do that Mr. Briosi, thank you," he said, raising his head. Then he pocketed the slip of paper, turned around and retraced his steps to the entrance of the store, his bearing and steps purposeful and energized.

Sophie joined her employer at the register. "There he goes," she said with a small sigh. They both watched the trim figure pause at the edge of the sidewalk then jog diagonally across the street towards a parked car. "Did he find what he was looking for?"

Nick recalled the flash of surprised gratitude in the gray-blue eyes and the accompanying smile. For a brief instant the stern face was transformed. It was like seeing the photograph again.

"Oh I think so," he said as the car pulled away from the curb and merged into the traffic. He turned and patted Sophie's shoulder. "I definitely think so."

*~The End~*

Comments welcomed. AutumnSkies1@aol.com

Special note: W.E.B. Du Bois, The Fight for Equality and The American Century 1919-1963, by David Levering Lewis, won the 1994 Pulitzer Prize for biography.

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