by K Ryn
"And now two to chase him." Jim rose to his feet and faced the front door. "Sandburg must have been standing here... when they started shooting he probably dove into his room... his windows open onto the fire escape."
Jim moved into Blair's bedroom, his senses extended to their limits. Amidst the mess, he could smell the acrid odor of gunpowder mixed with the dusting chemical that the forensics team had used. Under all of it lingered the familiar smells that his mind associated with Blair. There was something else -- the distinctive smell of blood.
He did get hit in here. Jim eyed the splintered window casing before crawling out onto the narrow metal fire escape platform. The smell of blood was stronger once he was outside of the room. He searched until he found a splatter of dark, reddish-brown spots on the side of one of the metal struts.
Up or down? he wondered. He closed his eyes, trying to envision Blair on the platform, flinching as bullets exploded around him in the dark. Abruptly, he shook his head and opened his eyes. Statistically, instinct drove people to seek shelter in high places, so the odds favored that choice. But Blair was afraid of heights. Even panicked, Jim couldn't imagine him climbing upward into the darkness. Not when he knew that the ground was only a few feet below.
Jim swung himself over the edge of the platform and dropped easily to the pavement. He glanced toward both ends of the alley, then turned his attention to a careful scrutiny of the ground, hoping to find something that would confirm his hunch. A gust of wind blew some litter past his ankles and he experienced a brief flash of anger at mother nature's reckless approach to evidence preservation. A flutter of something white caught his eye -- a handful of feathers tangled in a coiled length of fine twine. One of Blair's homemade fishing lures. He'd been carrying one or two around with him for weeks, a gentle reminder of the fishing trip that Jim had promised.
"Anything?" Simon's voice floated down from the loft window.
"He was here."
Jim concentrated, filling his mind with an image of the alley as it would have appeared in the dark. To his left, it opened onto a street about twenty feet away. At four o'clock in the morning, the area would have been lit with streetlights and a few neon signs. There would have been some traffic. Maybe even a pedestrian or two.
"If he was trying to find help, he would have headed to the main street. But if he was trying to hide, he'd go in this direction." Jim gestured to his right, where the alley led onto another that crossed it only ten feet away.
"You go ahead," Simon called out. "I'll have Taggart contact the prison and do some checking on Delvenko's visitors and phone calls over the last month."
Jim walked to where the alleys intersected. A team had canvassed the area, but no one had recalled seeing anyone matching Blair's description. That favored the odds that he'd headed in this direction.
He had a suddenly flash of Blair, panicked and confused -- in pain from the wound in his shoulder. He could almost see the younger man, lurching toward the safety of the alleys, trying to lose himself in the darkness. Jim turned to the right, his senses casting outward. He picked his way around piles of debris. In the dark, Blair might have fallen, or at least bumped into something on his mad dash. There was a heavy metal dumpster a few feet in front of him. Jim eyed it critically. Along the left side of the far end, he found what he was looking for -- a dark stain of blood.
Just a few drops at the apartment, but there's much more here. How badly was he hurt? Jim shuddered and forced himself to keep moving.
If Blair had made it this far, then he couldn't have been struck by the tranquilizer dart in the apartment. That meant he'd gotten farther away before whoever was chasing him found him again -- or at least got close enough to try to stop him. But why the tranks? Why not just shoot him? Had they switched to the drugs because shooting him outright would have revealed their presence? Jim realized that was probably the answer. They'd wanted to hang Blair's death on him -- they wouldn't have wanted any witnesses to say otherwise.
Jim followed the alley to where it opened onto a narrow side street. He shook his head and fought off a growing sense of despair. There were too many choices. Too many directions Blair could have gone. And there was no time to check them all himself. Jim pulled out his cell phone and punched in Simon's number.
"I've tracked him to the next cross street. We're going to need some extra eyes from this point on."
"Ryan offered to help. He can coordinate the search teams while Taggart follows up on Delvenko," Simon suggested. "But I thought the idea was to keep this quiet." "We'll have to risk it," Jim answered grimly. "We don't have the time to check out all the possibilities ourselves. Call 'em in. I'm going to keep heading south for a little while longer."
Jim signed off and pocketed his phone, crossing the street. Carefully, he picked his way through the piles of accumulated trash. His eyes caught the reflection of metal and he quickened his pace. A chain link fence suddenly blocked the way.
"Dead end..." Jim searched for some other way out of the alley. There were several doors leading into the adjacent buildings, and Jim spent a few minutes testing them, hoping to find one that would open. But none did. Would Blair have tried to go back to the street? That would have depended on his pursuers. He called Simon's cell phone once again.
"Simon, have someone check the canvassing interviews," he suggested. "See if anyone mentioned anything unusual."
"Like what?"
"I don't know for sure... Something that might relate to his attackers. No one remembers seeing Blair, but maybe they saw whoever was chasing him."
"I'll get on it," Simon agreed.
Jim turned his attention back to the alley, his own instincts telling him that Blair had indeed headed this way. He could close his eyes and picture it. But where had he gone from here? He turned back and eyed the fencing critically. Even without an injured arm, the chain link fence would have been a difficult climb. Noisy too, he reflected, as he grabbed onto it and heard it rattle.
"Maybe he did go back to the street," Jim muttered, turning around again and looking back up the alley. His cell phone buzzed and he pulled it out, answering it almost absently.
"Taggart was a step ahead of us," Simon reported. "He'd already checked with the traffic detail in your area last night. Someone complained about a dark van with two men in it. Seems they had a spotlight of some kind that they were flashing into cars and buildings. Apparently they were in the neighborhood for some time. Complaint came in at around 4:15."
"That's got to be them." Jim studied the street doubtfully. "That means Sandburg had to have come this way. If they'd been on foot he might have risked one of the other, busier streets, but not with them in a van where they could pluck him off in a matter of moments."
He thanked Simon and closed the phone, turning his attention back to the fence and the surrounding area of the alley. A stack of crates ascended to a narrow ledge on the building to his right. The ledge continued over the fencing and connected to a set of fire escape platforms about twenty feet beyond.
Gingerly, Jim started to climb the stack. On the wall at the top he saw an old emergency light. In the darkness, that light would have cast a faint glow into the alley. Enough for Blair to have seen the escape route and try for it.
Jim inched out onto the ledge and his face tightened with anger. His mind filled with the image of his partner, running for his life in the darkness. The thought of Delvenko, smirking with satisfaction in his cell made him almost snarl in rage. His foot slipped on the narrow shelf and he spent the next few moments struggling to regain his balance. He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to regain his control and focus.
Put it aside, Ellison. Find Sandburg first. Delvenko's not going anywhere.
He crossed the final stretch and eased out onto the fire escape landing. Up or down, he asked himself again. He examined the drop to the cluttered alley below and then glanced back toward the street. Up, he decided abruptly, starting the climb himself. With the choice between jumping do
wn into the darkness and his pursuer's searching at street level, Jim was certain that even Blair's fear of heights wouldn't have stopped him from trying to reach the roof.
Jim's eyes flickered across the expanse as he pulled himself up. He caught sight of the rooftop access and crossed to it. He examined the door closely and felt a twinge of fear when he saw the blood smeared across the knob. The rusted padlock was still in place. He checked the roof top again and found only one possible point where Blair could have gone across to the next building. He contacted Simon.
"I'm on the roof of the warehouse three blocks south of the apartment," Jim reported. "He was here. Looks like he tried to get down into the building from the rooftop access, but it's bolted shut. There's only one way he could have gone and that's to the next building south. I'm headed there now."
"I'll shift the search teams," Simon answered.
Jim nodded, his mind and senses already scanning ahead. He climbed a short ladder onto the adjoining building, looking for the next clue. While he searched, he did some quick calculations. It was almost noon. Blair had been missing for nearly eight hours. Eight hours with a bullet in his shoulder. It had taken Jim thirty minutes to trace him this far. How long it had taken Blair to make the same trip was hard to tell, but Jim estimated maybe half the time. That would have put him up on the rooftops when the call had come in about the van. Wherever his assailants had caught up with him still lay somewhere ahead. He'd found no traces yet of the John Doe either, but Blair's erratic path was leading him toward the old foundry.
Jim scouted the rooftop and found another trace of blood on the raised edge that bordered the east wall. He looked over, but found no way of getting down and guessed that Blair had stopped there momentarily in his mad dash. He could see the street clearly from his vantage point, and wondered whether the men hunting Blair had caught sight of him there. If they had, they might have stayed at street level and used a high range rifle to deliver the drugged dart, intending to knock Blair out long enough to either take him back to the apartment or dispose of him elsewhere.
He circled the roof, growing more perplexed as he realized that there was no way down. To reach the nearest building, his partner would have had to jump at least ten feet across a chasm of open air. The soft sound of grinding metal called to him. He glanced up, trying to focus on its source. On the nearest building, the access door swung open in the wind. Instinctively, he knew that Blair had to have gone that way.
"But how? How did he get across?"
Jim's gaze swept right and left, but he saw no way to cross the gap between the two buildings. Frustrated, he looked down and caught sight of a long wooden board lying on the pavement below. Focusing his sight, he saw the smudged brown stain of more blood. Something clicked in his head. He turned to his left and found a pile of similar boards stacked a few feet away.
Jim retrieved one and lugged it back to the edge. Levering it out, he maneuvered it until it crossed the span. Taking a deep breath, Jim climbed up onto the edge and set his foot on the board. It wobbled, nearly pitching him off. He compensated, shifting his balance as he worked his way to the other side. When he stepped off the plank, it shifted and slid, dropping to the pavement below. Jim glanced over the side and saw it resting squarely on top of the first.
Loose gravel rattled under his feet. He crouched down, examining an odd depression in the stones. Something -- or someone -- had been dragged across the rooftop. His eyes flickered along the trail and he rose to his feet, following it to the doorway. He found another smear of blood and pushed the door open, stepping inside.
"Blair!... Sandburg, can you hear me?" He fought against a rising tide of panic, straining to pick up the slightest response to his call.
The only answers were the distorted echoes of his own voice and the creaks and groans of the old building. The reek of diesel fuel filled his nostrils and he pulled back for a moment, gasping for fresh air. He started down, stepping to the sides of a short flight of six steps that led to a second door. There were dark brown stains on several of the stairs and there was another smeared hand print on the door frame.
Pushing the door open, he found himself on the top floor of the old warehouse. He took several steps inside and stopped, his gaze sweeping the nearly empty space. In the dim light that filtered in through broken and grimed windows, he found blood stains leading straight into the room. The trail ended abruptly in a smeared puddle. In the middle of the dried pool was a small, crudely whittled wooden toy. Jim picked it up and examined it closely before stuffing it into his pocket. There was no sign of Blair. It was as if he had vanished.
"Blair!" Jim shouted again, rising to his feet and calling out his friend's name desperately. "Blair, answer me! It's Jim!"
Still nothing. Confused, he moved back to the door and up the stairs again. Jim blinked as he stepped out into the sunlight.
He had to have come this way. Everything points to it. But where did he go?
Closing his eyes, he tried to reconstruct what had happened -- trying to determine if he'd overlooked something important. He was convinced that Blair had managed to cross over to this building on the wobbling wooden plank. Jim thought back to his earlier speculation that Blair's assailants might have seen him on the other rooftop and he let his mind take that idea even farther.
If Blair had been struck with either a bullet or one of the drugged darts while he'd been working his way across, he would have fallen. There would have been no trail in the gravel. No bloody print on the door.
Jim shook his head in confusion, remembering how fast the drug had acted on him, even with his higher level of resistance. He opened his eyes and stared at the drag marks again. There was nothing to suggest that anyone else had been present. If Blair had been struck with one of the darts, he shouldn't have been able to move. But he had. What did that mean?
The pieces of the puzzle suddenly came together. What if, as had happened to Jim, the board had shifted at the last minute and Blair had pitched forward onto the roof? The drugged dart might have just grazed him. He might have fought off the affects long enough to drag himself to the door and inside.
Jim swept his gaze over the gravel, extending his vision to it's limits. If the dart had just grazed him, then it should be here, somewhere. His head started to pound and the pebbles of gravel started to blur together.
"Easy Jim, this isn't the time for a zone-out."
He looked up in surprise, certain that he'd find his partner standing right next to him. But there was no one there. Shaking, he closed his eyes and filled his lungs, struggling to reach the calm, focused state that the younger man's presence always created. He envisioned his Guide at his back -- Blair's hand resting on his shoulder in silent support. He took another deep breath and, for a moment, he convinced himself that Blair was there.
"Focus on finding what doesn't belong here..."
Jim's eyes snapped open and he swept the area again. A gleam of something bright drew him forward and he unearthed a small brass dart from the gravel. Careful not to touch it with his hands, he scooted it into the plastic evidence bag that he'd drawn from his pocket and eyed it uneasily. The smell was the same as he remembered from the dart that had taken him down in the garage. Blair had been struck, probably as he fallen forward. He'd taken some of the drug into his system, but not enough to flatten him instantly.
It made sense, but it still didn't account for his disappearance. The trail definitely led to the top floor of the warehouse. What had happened after that? Was that where the John Doe had found him? Jim fingered the odd toy he'd found on the cement, then crossed back to the access and opened the door. The strong smell of diesel fumes assailed his senses as he fumbled for his phone, punching up Simon's number once more.
"Simon, I'm four blocks south, on the roof of the old Edmunds warehouse," Jim reported, dragging the name of the building from somewhere in his memory. "Get the teams here now. I've followed the trail as far as the top floor inside, but it just stops at that poin
t. I'm sure Blair made it inside and that this is where he caught the dart. It may have just grazed him, but that stuff is pretty powerful. Between whatever it sent into his system and the blood loss from the bullet wound, if he is still alive, he's going to be pretty out of it. We'll have to do a full search. He could be anywhere in here. Oh, and have them keep an eye out for anything that might be linked to our JD. This has to be where he and Blair connected."
"How do you know that?"
"Remember the diesel smell? The whole place reeks of it. The old foundry is next door."
"I'll redirect the teams and meet you there."
"Make sure they bring some lights," Jim warned. "Parts of this place are as dark as a tomb."
"Let's just hope it's not Sandburg's tomb," Simon replied grimly.
"Amen to that," Jim whispered in agreement as he headed back into the building.
Falling... Falling forever... Pain... Jim... Pain... Jim... no, don't... Pain... Darkness...
An hour later, Jim was on the rooftop again. The smell of the diesel fumes was overwhelming. His head was throbbing and he couldn't think straight. He rubbed his temples, trying to will away the headache and a growing sense of despair.
There was still no sign of Blair. While the others had begun searching the rest of the building, Jim had put all of his skills to the task, concentrating on the top floor. But he'd found nothing beyond the small crude toy.
He pulled it out of his pocket and fingered it. Looking at it, but not really seeing it. He rubbed his temples again, this time in weariness -- the events since midnight had taken their toll both physically and emotionally. During his frantic search, he'd come close to zoning out several times. He was convinced that it was only his bleary mind's ability to imagine his Guide's presence at his back, that had kept him from losing it. Now he felt like his senses were shutting down, leaving him numb. Jim felt stretched. He knew that his mind wasn't as clear as it needed to be -- as Blair's safety would need it to be.