by Beth Manz
"Even if it means sacrificing his happiness?"
"He'll be happy, Captain. But more importantly, he'll be alive. Safely away from you, from Jim"--she gestured around her, her gaze sweeping across the bullpen before returning to stare up at the Captain again--"from this... place."
Simon stood still for a long moment, then he reached out and lay gentle hands on Naomi's shoulders. He was surprised--pleased--when she didn't pull away. "I know what you've read in those files is upsetting," he admitted. "And I can understand how you would blame me, blame Jim. But you have to remember one thing." He softly squeezed the thin shoulders beneath his hands. "Your son works with Jim because that's where he wants to be. And their partnership? Naomi, it goes far beyond police work, beyond friendship. I honestly don't know how to explain it except to say that in all my years on the force, I've never seen two partners who are more devoted to one another than those two."
A tear escaped Naomi's eyes and tracked down her cheek. She stared up at Simon, eyes wide, appealing. "So I'm supposed to just accept all this?" She shook her head as her attention shifted to the file on Simon's desk. She stared at the thick folder for several long seconds, then returned her gaze to Simon. "I can't," she whispered out. "I just can't."
"You'd better," Simon advised softly. "Because if you try to force Blair into your idea of what his life should be and disregard his wishes in the process, you'll lose him, Naomi. You might be able to cajole him into leaving Cascade with you, but will it be worth it to have your son by your side if his spirit is lost to you?" He released her shoulders and straightened. "Think about it, Naomi," he added quietly, kindly. "Is that really what you want?"
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One hour.
Blair forced his gaze away from the timer beside his head. He wasn't going to look at it anymore. Didn't want to know how much... or how little time he had left. He shivered, though he was barely aware of the cold anymore. He knew that should concern him, that the idea that he was so numb that he no longer felt the cold or the pain should worry him... but it didn't. Because he wasn't thinking about himself. He was thinking about the people he loved. The people he now feared he may never see again.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered out, ignoring the scratchy dryness in his throat. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to cry as an overwhelming sense of grief washed through him. "I love you," he choked out, wishing he could say the words to her, hating the idea that the last time they'd seen one another, their words had been spoken in anger.
That'll be her last memory of you. The one that haunts her forever.
The dismal thoughts had been plaguing him for the past hour, whispering dejected messages about help arriving too late, promising his death, begging him to just give up and accept the inevitable.
I will not die in here!
He clung tenaciously to the thought, needing desperately to believe it. But it wasn't just for his mother that he wanted to live.
Jim. Jim needs me.
The words brought a sense of comfort, of peace. And of determination. His entire life, he'd felt alone. He'd always had his mother and he loved her deeply, but until he met Jim he'd never had a sense of... belonging. He knew he was essential to the sentinel's existence, to his growth and development, even to his safety. But more important than that, he knew he was important to Jim. The bond between them was unique, the connection between them one of a kind.
And he would be damned if he would let Marcus Grant or anyone else destroy it.
"I will survive." But even as the words left him, he became aware that the air brushing against his face felt... different. He licked nervously at his lips, told himself that he was just imagining things. That the air was not flowing more slowly, tasting thinner.
Reluctantly, he turned his head and looked over at the timer again. Fifty minutes. But the first tank had run out of oxygen thirteen minutes early. He swallowed hard and returned his gaze to the low ceiling of the crypt.
I will survive.
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Jim's truck sped over the slight incline that led into the recycling center parking lot, then bumped crazily through assorted potholes toward the large building in the distance. The detective brought the truck to a screeching halt and pushed out of the cab. The Cascade Recycled Waste Center was a familiar place, a place he'd been to dozens of times with Sandburg. And as Jim raced toward the open front doors of the building he didn't stop to listen, didn't filter out any sounds--because he knew what he needed to find.
Years ago, someone had dumped off a huge plastic Santa Claus. One of the center's workers, evidently thinking it would be an interesting conversation piece, had set it up outside the front office entry, where year-round it greeted visitors with a cheery ho, ho, ho. Blair thought the tacky mascot was hysterical, and he never failed to comment on it when the two men visited the center together.
The plastic figure was definitely out of place among the industrial atmosphere of the center's grounds and buildings. And Jim was sure that it was exactly where he needed to go.
Jogging across the parking area he extended his vision, zeroing in on his target. There, taped to Santa's white plastic-gloved hand, was his note. Jim ripped the note away from the tape that secured it in place and opened it. His hands shook as he stared down at the two words: Resurrection Cemetery.
A cemetery... And what would be most out of place in a cemetery? A heartbeat. Stuffing the paper into his coat pocket, he ran back to his truck and slid in behind the wheel. He started the engine, then checked his watch. Forty minutes. There were only forty minutes left in which to find Blair.
He threw the truck in gear and circled around toward the parking lot entrance. As he steered out of the lot, he pulled out his cell phone and punched the number to Simon's office.
"Banks."
"Simon, its Jim."
"Jim! I've been worried sick! What's going on?"
"I know where Sandburg is."
"What? Where are you?"
"I'm on my way to Resurrection Cemetery."
"Cemetery... God, Jim, you don't think--"
"I don't know, Simon. I hope to hell not. But I want backup and an ambulance just in case."
"You got it."
"But Simon, keep them back. Don't let them move in until I tell you. Grant said no backup, and I don't want Blair getting hurt because we didn't follow his instructions." Jim slapped the phone shut and tucked it back into his pocket. Pulling out onto the street, he pressed down hard on the accelerator and raced toward Resurrection Cemetery.
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Ellison pulled up in front of the old cemetery and stepped from the cab of the truck. If Grant's timetable was accurate, then Jim was cutting it close. He had twenty minutes in which to find Blair.
"Okay, Chief, where are you?" he whispered out, his gaze scanning the grounds in front of him. But even as the question was dying on his lips, his gaze locked on a mausoleum sitting on a small incline in the distance. The family name of Grant was engraved across the top. Heart beating in his throat, Jim started toward the ancient structure at a fast pace that quickly became a run.
That's has to be where he is. It has to! It--
But Jim's thoughts cut off abruptly as he extended his hearing and picked up... nothing.
He staggered to a halt. Cocking his head to the side, he tried again, straining hard. But there was no heartbeat. A cold chill stole over him, prickling the hairs at the back of his neck.
"You're early."
Jim spun toward Grant's voice. The doctor stood a few feet away, his expression cool, detached. "I haven't had a chance to set up my recording yet." The doctor held up a tape recorder and pushed the button on the side. Immediately, the sound of Blair's heartbeat emanated from the small machine. And as that familiar sound flowed over him, Jim knew without a doubt that Marcus Grant had murdered Blair. Had ripped from his life forever the one person who meant m
ore to him than he had ever thought possible.
"You killed him!" A primal scream escaped Jim as he lunged at Grant.
The doctor didn't attempt to step away from Jim's advance. His only movement was to depress a button on the side of a tiny device he held in his free hand. A high-pitched sound spiked through Jim's mind and he shook his head against the assaulting noise. Then, shoving the pain away, burying it beneath his grief, he drew back a fist and hit Grant squarely in the jaw.
The man's head snapped to the side and a grunt of surprise and pain escaped his lips. He staggered backward, blood pouring from his nose. Jim stalked toward him... and struck him again. The second blow knocked him to the ground, the recorder flying from his grip. Jim reached down and, grabbing him by the front of the shirt, hauled him to his feet.
"You killed him!" he screamed again, slamming the doctor up against the side of a tree. Jim's body shook with rage. Pulling Grant forward, he slammed him back again and again, the same three words pouring from him over and over. But as the sound of his own voice echoed all around him, the meaning behind what he was saying settled into the center of Jim Ellison's heart and overshadowed his soul. Blair is dead.
He released Grant, his hands coming up to cover his face as anguish washed over him. He's dead! Jim sank to his knees, his body crumbling under the weight of his grief and failure. A choked sob escaped him.
"No, Blair. Oh, no-" But his words broke off as his body convulsed under an onslaught of sudden, all-encompassing pain. He jerked twice and then collapsed onto the cold, leaf-strewn grass. He was almost grateful when oblivion reached out to draw him into its velvet-black emptiness.
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Marcus Grant pocketed the stun gun as he stared down at Jim Ellison's unconscious form. "You bastard!" Angrily, he wiped at the blood on his nose, repulsed by the feel of the warm, wet stickiness against his fingers. Cursing under his breath, he drew his foot back and kicked Jim in the stomach, only sorry that the unconscious detective wouldn't be able to feel the blow.
His gaze shifted to the mausoleum. It was obvious that Ellison had not heard a heartbeat coming from inside and that the absence of Sandburg's heartbeat had led the detective to believe his friend was dead. But the kid was in a tightly sealed granite tomb. It was quite possible that, even with his heightened hearing, Ellison just couldn't penetrate the vault.
"Are you dead or not, Dr. Sandburg?" Grant mused to himself as he stared at the family mausoleum in the distance.
It didn't really matter. If Sandburg were still alive, Marcus would simply kill him. And if he was already dead...
Grant's gaze shifted down to Ellison again. He had planned on letting the detective find the kid's lifeless body. But now... now he didn't want Ellison to even have the small comfort of being able to bury his best friend.
He smiled as he turned away from the detective and started across the cemetery toward his family crypt. He unlocked the outer door, stepped into the dimly lit building and stared at the sealed granite vault in the center of the room. A soft chuckle escaped him as he thought about the young man he had imprisoned there the night before. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Sandburg to lie entombed for all those hours, thinking about his impending death, knowing without a doubt that he had no way of escaping... that his only hope was rescue.
"And that's not going to happen," Grant muttered.
Picking up the crowbar he'd left beside the tomb, he wedged the end between the lid and the vault and began levering the heavy covering aside. The sound of stone scraping against stone echoed around him as he worked.
"Jim..." The hoarse whisper filtered up from inside the cold, dark vault, the single word filled with grateful relief.
Slowly, savoring the moment, Marcus leaned over the top of the vault and looked down at his prisoner. The kid's hope-filled expression turned to horror as he blinked against the dim light and then recognized the face above him.
"No," he breathed out. "No. No!" Sandburg began to thrash against the tape that bound his wrists behind his back, a desperate sound of denial pouring from him as he fought against his bonds.
Marcus laughed at the useless struggle and, reaching over the side of the vault, ripped the oxygen mask from the anthropologist's face, taking several strands of Sandburg's hair with it. Then, grabbing him by the upper arms, surprised by the ice-cold feel of his skin, Marcus dragged Sandburg up and dumped him over the side of the crypt.
The kid hit the ground hard, landing face down, crying out in a combination of pain and shock. He lay on his stomach, shivering uncontrollably, his legs moving in a feeble attempt to get his knees beneath him. To escape.
"Please," the soft plea escaped past his chattering teeth. "Please... leave... Just go... away."
Marcus crouched down beside Sandburg and ran a gentle hand over the back of his hair. "Now is that any way to act? I just freed you from that thing. You should be grateful."
"Don't... touch me!" Blair bit out, pulling away from the unwanted caress.
Marcus grabbed a handful of Sandburg's hair and craned his neck back until the kid cried out from the strain. "I don't have an unlimited amount of patience, Dr. Sandburg. You should remember that." He shoved him away, chuckling when Blair's cheek impacted with the concrete floor.
Standing, Grant reached down and hauled Sandburg to his feet. Once again, he was taken aback by the icy feel of his captive's skin. He hadn't realized just how cold it would get in that granite box. An unexpected benefit, he thought with more than a little satisfaction.
He pressed Sandburg's back against the wall, using it to help hold the kid upright. "I was going to let you die in that thing," he said, indicating the vault behind him with a nod of his head. "Let Ellison find you dead. But now... now I plan to dispose of you where no one will ever find you."
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Grant's threat sent a tremor of fear through Blair. But as he stared at the doctor's face, he suddenly realized... he's been hurt. His nose was bloody and his left eye was swollen and beginning to show the first signs of bruising.
Jim! Jim had to have been the one to hurt Grant. And recently--the injuries were obviously fresh. But where was he? If Jim had found Grant, gotten close enough to hit him, why wasn't he here now?
Panic flared in Blair's stomach. "Where's Jim?" he demanded. "What did you do to him?" He began to struggle again, trying desperately to twist away from the hands bracing him against the wall. He needed to find his partner!
Grant tightened his grip, easily maintaining control over Blair, the hours spent inside that tomb having left him weak. Closing his eyes, Sandburg dropped his head back to meet the wall behind him. "Did you kill him?" he choked out, afraid to hear the answer, but needing to know.
"I am so sick of you both," Grant muttered, the disgust he was feeling evident in his tone. "You worry about Ellison. Ellison worries about you. I'd find it touching... if I didn't despise both of you to the very core of my being."
"Did you kill him!" Blair shouted, his body trembling with fear and anger.
"No!" Grant pulled him slightly forward and slammed him back against the wall, emphasizing the word.
Blair let out a grunt of pain as his head snapped backward, connecting with the stone behind him. Dazed, weak, and colder than he had ever been in his life, Blair knew there was no way he could escape Marcus Grant. Not in his current condition. He simply did not have the strength. Yet in that moment, he was filled with an odd sense of peacefulness. A calm tranquillity. Jim is all right. That realization brought comfort to Blair... and hope. No matter what Grant thought, no matter how weak Blair felt, as long as he and Jim were both still alive, he believed there was a chance they could beat this man.
"Time to end this," Grant promised darkly, scattering Blair's thoughts.
Grabbing Blair by the left arm, Grant shoved him toward the door. The anthropologist stumbled forward, but collapsed to his knees after only a few
steps. He stayed where he was, his chin resting against his chest, his limbs aching from the sudden movement.
"Get on your feet!" Grant ordered.
Blair looked up. Grant stood over him, glaring down, his hands braced against his hips. "I can't stand on my own," he said quietly, shivering as another chill shook through him. "If you want to take me somewhere else and kill me, then you're going to have to work for it." He huffed out a brief, humorless laugh.
Grant reached down and, grasping his arm, yanked Blair to his feet again. "In another few minutes, I don't think you're going to be laughing." He hauled him forward, this time keeping a steadying hand on his arm.
As they left the mausoleum, Blair squinted at the brightness of the afternoon sun, the rays feeling warm against his cold skin. He stumbled along beside the doctor, doing his best to keep up with the quick pace.
"Did you ever hear the story of why this particular location was chosen for a cemetery?" Grant panted out as he propelled Blair forward. "It's quite interesting, actually. You see, the early settlers of Cascade had a special use for that river just ahead." He nodded in the general direction in which they were moving.
Blair swallowed hard as his gaze took in a dilapidated wooden bridge that they were fast approaching. He could hear the sound of rapidly rushing water and could see a wide crevasse looming ahead--no doubt the source of the river Grant was talking about.
"In this area of the river," his captor continued, "The water runs fast and is very deep. In the early eighteen hundreds, when Cascade was first being established, the settlers used to dispose of corpses in that river. Unknown drifters and criminals were simply brought to the bridge you see ahead and tossed over the side. No fuss, no muss, you might say. And between the river's current and the rocks... well, not one of the bodies dumped here was ever recovered. They never even found pieces of clothing."
Grant's story and the implication behind it wasn't lost on Blair. He pulled hard against the hand on his arm, tried to get his panicked, labored breathing under control, struggled to get away from Grant before the doctor could push him into the raging waters below that bridge.