by Beth Manz
"Quinn! That's it," Hannah exclaimed, backing out of the computer program and standing. "Dawson Quinn. It will only take me a few minutes to locate that file. And while you're using that one, I'll be happy to pull some of Detective Ellison's other case files if you'd like.
"I'd like that very much," Naomi assured the helpful young woman.
Hannah smiled and nodded her head. "All right, then. I'll get the Quinn file. Wait here, please."
"Oh, believe me," Naomi vowed under her breath as Hannah made her way toward a door at the back of the room that opened into the area where the files were kept, "I'm not going anywhere until I've seen those files!"
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Jim weaved in and out of traffic as he drove through the streets of Cascade, winding his way toward Hardin Elementary School. This was the sixth location he'd driven to in the last four hours. After meeting Grant at the park that morning, he'd been given another location-a construction site on the north edge of town. He'd been told to listen for a sound that didn't belong there. Once he isolated that, he would find the next set of directions.
So it was a game. Jim rushed from one location to another--a construction site, a seaside dock, a hospital emergency room--listening for some obscure sound that didn't seem to belong at the area.
He rubbed his temple, pushing at the headache that pounded just below the surface. The first challenge had not been all that difficult--he'd simply sifted through the sounds at the construction site until he was left with... the sound of birds singing. He'd found that hard to believe until he noticed the feeder someone had attached to a support beam on a lower level of the building under construction.
Once he had isolated the desired sound, he'd simply followed it to the source. At the site of the feeder, he'd discovered a piece of paper directing him to his next location-the docks. It had taken him longer to locate the sound that time simply because it had not--in that case--been totally unexpected. Wind chimes. He'd found them twice, only to discard them as fitting into the scene at the docks. But when he'd searched for another twenty minutes and had found no other sound that seemed out of place, he'd gone to the chimes and found his directions.
Eventually, this childish game of Dr. Grant's was supposed to lead him to Blair. He checked his watch. Grant had told him Sandburg had nine hours. He now had five left. How many more locations would he have to go to before he found Blair? Because it's getting harder and harder to filter out the sounds. At each location it was taking the sentinel longer and longer to find the directions he needed. His head was pounding from the almost constant strain on his hearing. Adding to his discomfort was the fact that he was exhausted from too little sleep.
But worst of all, Jim had nearly zoned at his last location.
Do not push it, man. Just relax and breathe through it.
The welcome sound of Blair's calm voice filled his mind. Almost instantly, the pounding in his head decreased and the strain on his nerves lessened. Jim exhaled a long breath as he pulled the truck into the school parking lot.
Cutting the engine, he stepped from the cab of the truck. Instantly, the sound of children's voices, raised in play, reached him.
He walked toward the school, scanning the area, taking in the activity on the busy playground. He knew Grant was probably watching him. He'd seen him driving away when he'd found the wind chimes at the docks. Had smelled his cologne at the entrance of the hospital emergency room. Jim hated the idea of the arrogant doctor observing him, enjoying his little game to the fullest. But he had expected no less. That was what made it so enjoyable for Grant--the struggle, the worry.
Jim stood at the edge of the playground and, taking a deep breath, closed his eyes. Cocking his head to one side, he tried to isolate and eliminate the most obvious sound--the children's voices. He picked out the voices one by one and discarded them individually, only to have three more crowd into his mind. He pushed two more away and four others pressed in on him. He shook his head, his eyes snapping open. I can't do this! There were too many voices, too many different pitches.
Take it slow, Jim. You're doing just fine.
Blair's voice played through his mind again.
Take a deep breath and just relax. Come on, man. You've done this a hundred times. It's simple.
Jim forced a deep breath into his lungs, exhaled it slowly, then did as his guide instructed. One by one, he cleared away the sounds of the children, the whistles the teachers used, the sound of the rope with its metal rings that clanged continuously against the flagpole--everything that should be there, until he was left with...
Nothing! There was nothing that struck him as out of the ordinary.
"Dammit!" he ground out, shifting where he stood. There has to be something! He stretched his neck in an effort to loosen the taut muscles, closed his eyes, and began again.
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Marcus Grant smiled as he watched Ellison close his eyes and begin listening again. He'd watched this same ritual time and time again as the detective moved from one location to another. It was the same technique he'd used that day so many months ago when he had found Sandburg in that field.
What do you think about when your eyes are closed like that?
More than once, Grant had thought Ellison was at the breaking point. He could see the obvious strain on the man's face, in the way he carried himself. But then... then he'd close his eyes, take a few deep breaths, and a look of peace would come over him. It was almost as if he were... listening to someone.
What do you hear?
He checked his watch. Ellison was running about ten minutes early. That's why he hadn't yet heard the planned sound. Marcus had everything timed out perfectly. He had made sure not to allow for variation because if he did, Ellison would make it to the cemetery too early.
And Sandburg would still be alive.
"Can't have that," he muttered. But as he watched Ellison continue to filter out the sounds, a new idea struck him. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out the small device he'd used for the last few days to disturb the detective's hearing. He chuckled softly... and depressed the button on the side of the small instrument.
The reaction was instantaneous. Ellison's eyes flew open. His hands came up to cover his ears as he bent forward in obvious pain. Grant released the button, his laughter increasing.
Panting through his pain, Ellison straightened and turned an angry gaze toward Grant. The detective started across the field, headed straight for the doctor's car. Before he had traveled even a few feet, however, the sound of a train whistle split the early afternoon air.
"Now, that's an odd sound to hear at an elementary school, don't you think?" Grant asked casually, knowing Ellison could hear him.
The detective stopped in his tracks, his eyes going wide. Turning, Ellison stared in the direction of the train whistle. At the back of the school, beyond a high chain link fence and hidden behind a stand of trees, was a train track. A second whistle sounded as the train passed by the back of the school.
Grant smiled in satisfaction, started the engine of his car, and pulled away as Ellison began jogging toward the fence at the back of the playground.
/
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/
My mom must be freaking out.
The thought settled into Blair's mind and with it came the almost overpowering urge... to laugh. In the last five hours, the cold had gotten worse until his entire body now felt numb. He knew if he didn't get out of the crypt soon he could go into hypothermic shock. And although the idea of that happening terrified him, he couldn't help but think about how incredibly ironic the entire situation was.
Gee, could this be the kind of dangerous situation Naomi was talking about?
He bit his lip, resisting the growing urge within him, knowing if he started to laugh now, he might not be able to stop.
Okay Sandburg, you're losing it. Get a hold on yourself. Think about something serious...
His brow furrowed as he turned his attention to this very sobering task.
Hmmm, something serious. Something like... "Being entombed in a mausoleum?" he blurted out, surprised at the sound of his own muffled voice.
The laughter burst from him, jarring him where he lay, bringing tears to his eyes. He knew there was absolutely nothing funny about his current situation, but... he just couldn't help himself. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop laughing!
When my mom realizes where I've been, she's gonna throw a burlap bag over my head and drag me away!
The image brought a wave of fresh laughter. Blair shifted slightly onto his side, trying to catch his breath, and as he did so the mask over his face... slipped.
Blair froze. His laughter cut off abruptly.
Don't move!
The two words blasted through his mind, speeding up his heart. The mask, which had snugly covered his mouth and nose since he was first put into the crypt, now sat to one side of his face, threatening to slip off his nose.
If it slips lose, will it come off my face completely?
The question reverberated through his mind. His breath came in short, painful gasps. Maybe if he didn't move, if he just kept perfectly still....
But he couldn't do that. His cramped muscles were already protesting the change in position. He knew he couldn't remain on his side for much longer. He had to shift onto his back again.
Please! Please! Please!
He held his breath... and rolled onto his back. The mask slipped back into place, once again covering his mouth and nose. He let out a choked sob of relief and glanced at the timer beside his head. Three more hours. He stared up into the darkened corners of his confined prison. The urge to laugh had disappeared completely.
Part Four
With a weary sigh, Simon pushed the stack of reports awaiting his signature to the far side of his desk. He propped his elbows on his desktop and leaned his head heavily into his hands. He'd tried to concentrate on the reports, had tried to immerse himself in the various facts and figures in an attempt to set aside his anxiety regarding Ellison and Sandburg. But it hadn't worked.
The captain hadn't heard from Jim in several hours, and the silence from his detective worried him. More than once Simon had picked up his phone to call Ellison and then had decided against it. He didn't want to call during what could possibly be a critical moment. So he had decided to wait--the hardest imaginable task for a police captain who cared about the men and women under his command.
And when his thoughts cycled to Blair Sandburg, the level of anxiety that had settled in his stomach notched even higher. He tried not to imagine the various situations into which Grant might have placed the young police consultant.
He sighed and shook his head against his hands. Sandburg had never signed on for this--his work in the field with Jim had never been about police work. It had always been about one thing--protecting his sentinel. But because that sentinel also happened to be a detective...
Simon's head jerked up at the sound of his office door being pushed open. Naomi! The redhead stood in his doorway, eyes filled with anger, a slip of notepaper clenched in her fisted hand and a thick file held close against her chest. Reaching behind her, she pushed at Simon's door, sending it back against the doorjamb where it slammed shut with a resounding bang.
"Ms. Sandburg," Simon greeted her warily, leaning back into his chair. He knew that his day, already horrible, had just gone from bad to worse.
Blair's mother crossed the office and slapped the folder she was carrying down onto the top of Simon's desk, scattering a small pile of pink "While You Were Out" slips in the process. She leaned forward, pinning the captain with a furious glare. "My son was buried alive," she enunciated slowly, every word measured, pointed. "He was nearly killed, and no one bothered to tell me! He was missing for days and I was never informed. Days!"
"Ms. Sandburg--"
"No, I'm not finished." She held up the slip of paper and began citing the information she had recorded there. "Tell me about David Lash, Captain," she demanded, waving the slip of paper in Simon's direction. "A homicidal maniac who kidnapped my son and nearly killed him. Then maybe we can talk about the time Blair was drugged with Golden. I raised my son to stay away from drugs, yet he nearly dies of an overdose that he was given right here in the station! Care to explain how something like that could happen right under your nose?"
"That was an unfortunate situation--"
"An unfortunate situation?" she spat out incredulously, her voice raising in volume. "Blair nearly dies of an overdose and you call it an unfortunate situation!"
"Ms. Sandburg," Simon began, trying to remain calm under the woman's growing fury, "I know this must all be shocking for you. But the files you've looked at--they're the most dangerous cases Blair has been involved in. Not that many are like those."
Naomi placed her hand atop the file she had dumped onto Simon's desk. "This is the file on Dawson Quinn, Captain. It details very clearly what Blair went through while he was in the company of that escaped killer. It also includes very comprehensive medical reports from Cascade General that document his injuries and subsequent care." She straightened and narrowed her eyes. "This one case is too many. Any case in which Blair was injured is too many!"
"Please," Simon placated, standing to face her. "It's true that Blair has been injured during certain investigations. But you have to understand, we all sustain injuries--"
"You all," she cut in, her voice overriding his. "You mean all you cops, right? Well Captain Banks, my son is not a cop! Or have you forgotten that?"
Simon shook his head and gave her a sad smile. "No," he answered. "I never forget that, Ms. Sandburg. I live with the fear of your son being injured or killed every time he walks out that door with Jim--"
"Yet you allow it!" she interrupted again. "You keep him on as a consultant. You've even given him a paid position! It seems to me you've issued an open invitation for my son to go out into the field with Jim Ellison and get himself killed."
"That's not true--"
"It is true!" She took a deep breath, then paced away from the captain. Turning, she pointed a finger at the large man. "I'm not stupid, Captain. I know why you keep Blair on your payroll, why you want him working for you. You, Jim Ellison, the Cascade Police--all of you need him because he helps solve cases for you. But you don't care if he gets killed in the process. All you care about is using him!"
Simon glanced toward the bullpen, saw several people raise their heads and look in his direction as Naomi's voice carried beyond the ineffectual barrier of his closed door. He moved around his desk and walked over to where Naomi stood. He took in her reddened face, her tightly clenched fists. "Ms. Sandburg, please. You have to calm down."
"Don't tell me that!" she shouted. "I am so tired of having people tell me to calm down! A lunatic kidnaps my son and Jim tells me to calm down. I find out that Blair has come close to dying because of his involvement with your department and you tell me to calm down!" She moved close to Simon and glared up at him. "Well, I can tell you right now, Captain Banks, I am not going to calm down!"
She paced to the conference table, then back to Simon again. "Let me ask you another question," she breathed out. "All the times Blair has been hurt, in the hospital... even close to death..." Her voice trailed off as she blinked back angry, hurt tears, tried to compose herself. "Why wasn't I notified? I'm his mother!"
Simon spread his arms in a gesture of supplication and shook his head. "Ms. Sandburg, to be very honest, we usually don't know how to reach you."
"Did you even try?" she accused. "Or have you made Blair such a part of your little police society that his real family no longer matters?"
"That's not the case at all," Simon argued, his own anger rising. "It's not just Detective Ellison and me who have had a hard time finding you in the past. Blair doesn't even know where you are half the time." He stared down at her, his gaze meeting and holding hers. "Maybe, when you lea
ve town again, you'll do your son a favor and give him an address and phone number."
"Why?" she countered. "So you can contact me when he gets killed?"
"Ms. Sandburg--"
"Don't bother, Captain," she said, lifting her hand to halt the captain's words. "Because it doesn't matter anymore. Nothing you say matters because when this is all over, Blair is leaving with me."
Simon gaped down at her, stunned by her words, at the confident finality behind them. "You honestly think you can march into Blair's life and tell him what to do and he'll just do it?" he asked, the tone of his voice displaying his surprise at Naomi's presumptuousness. He shook his head and smiled ruefully. "I don't believe you know your son as well as you think you do. Blair has his own mind, his own set of ideals. And he's found a place here with us, with Jim. He's put down roots."
"Roots!" Naomi exhaled a short huff of disdainful laughter. "That shows how little you know about Blair. We don't put down roots, Captain."
"Are you sure about that?" he asked, his words quiet, pointed. "Have you ever asked Blair how he feels?"
"I don't have to ask him. I'm his mother. I know him. He's always been happiest when he was traveling, meeting new people, seeing the world. And that's the life he needs to get back to."
"That's your life," Simon countered, softening his tone in an effort to offset the combative words. "But it's not necessarily his, not anymore. Blair likes his life in Cascade... both at the University and here with us."
Naomi shook her head, clearly unable--or more likely, unwilling--to accept what Simon was saying. But the anger in her eyes had dissipated, replaced with a haunting sadness. "Blair has just gotten away from our way of life," she whispered. "That's all. He needs to find it again, and I intend to show him how."