Progression Series 15 Buried Fears

by Beth Manz

  Blair's heart sped up as he thought about what was on that video.

  "Chief? You up for this?"

  Swallowing hard, Blair nodded. "I want to help," he said simply. Then, crossing to the couch, he sat down, slipped on his glasses and waited.

  Jim sat on the arm of the couch beside his partner. Simon stood off to the side, his arms folded over his chest. Moments later, a grainy black and white picture filled the screen. It showed a car driving just ahead of Tom's cruiser. As the car pulled off to the side of the road, it was clearly evident on the tape that the left taillight was burned out.

  "Tom must have started the tape right when he pulled the car over," Jim commented softly.

  Blair nodded, his gaze riveted to the screen. Only one person was visible on the tape so far--the driver of the car. Seconds later, Tom stepped into the frame and crossed toward the waiting sedan. Just as he reached the open window on the driver's side of the vehicle, Brayden jerked clumsily backward, his hands going up to his chest.

  Blair's breath caught in his throat as he realized he had just witnessed Tom's shooting. The young officer staggered backward and collapsed to his knees. His left hand groped for the mic attached to his uniform, the mic that linked him directly to the station. But his blood-covered fingers fell away without success. He looked back toward his cruiser, trying to crawl, trying to move, trying to save himself. But as the suspect sped away in the stolen vehicle, the car spitting small rocks from beneath its tires, Tom Brayden stopped moving. He lay on the hard pavement, one hand stretched out toward his cruiser, the other still searching for his mic. But it was over.

  Dead. That fast, that easily.

  Blair's hands, clamped together in his lap, began to ache. He released his grip as the tape was stopped and rewound.

  "Did you get a face, Jim?" Simon asked. "Anything that will help?"

  "Nothing this time. But the shooter might have looked back as he drove off. I'll need to see it again." His gaze shifted to Blair. "Chief? Did you see anything useful?"

  Blair blinked several times, looking up at the other two men in the room. He hadn't seen anything but Tom.

  "Chief?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing."

  Jim rubbed tired eyes. "Let's take another look at it, Simon."

  Blair pushed to his feet. "Um, I'm sorry but I can't watch that again." He glanced toward the bullpen. "I'll be at my desk if you need me."

  Jim stood. "Okay, Chief." He gave his partner an understanding smile and reached over to pat his shoulder. "The Woodards' neighbors told the officers that the couple always uses Delta Airlines when they fly to Florida. Why don't you make the call to the airport, see about getting the surveillance tapes of the lots that service the Delta terminal."

  Blair nodded and quickly left the office, purposely keeping his gaze averted from the television screen.

  /

  /

  /

  Jim opened the loft door and waited for Blair to cross inside before stepping over the threshold himself. Tossing his keys in the basket beside the door, he closed and locked the apartment for the night. He watched as Blair shuffled into the living room and dropped down on the couch facing the balcony doors. He hadn't bothered to take off his jacket, just sat quietly slumped on the sofa. And Jim knew what he was thinking about--the graphic tape of Tom Brayden's death.

  He and Simon had watched it several times, trying to pick up details on the man behind the wheel--hair color, distinguishing marks on his hand in the brief seconds when it held the gun outside the window, anything that might help them find Tom's killer. Jim had purposely kept his gaze away from Tom, knowing the young officer's death would only distract him.

  But that was all Blair had seen.

  I should have talked to him before we watched the tape. But it wouldn't have made a difference. Even if he had told Blair not to concentrate on Tom, he knew his partner would still have only seen Brayden, only remembered his death. Having him watch the tape was a mistake. Jim knew that now...but it didn't help much.

  "Hey, Chief, you want some dinner? I could heat up the spaghetti you made last night."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Sandburg, neither one of us has eaten since this morning. You've got to be hungry."

  Blair dropped his head back against the cushions behind him and stared up at the beamed ceiling. "This just feels so wrong," he said softly. "Tom is dead and we're talking about dinner. Then we're going to go to bed. Tomorrow we'll get up and I'll go to Rainier and you'll go to the station and whether we catch the guy who did this or not, each of us is just going to go about our business." He closed his eyes. "How wrong is that?"

  Jim crossed to the living room and dropped down into the seat across from Blair. "I know this is hard, Chief, but life goes on."

  Blair snorted and sat up straight. "Is that what you said when I was declared dead?" He looked at Jim, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the hurt expression on the older man's face. "Oh, man--I'm sorry, Jim. I didn't mean that."

  Jim waved him off. "It's okay, Chief. You're angry. We're both angry."

  Blair leaned forward and covered his face with his hands, shaking his head. "I can't believe I said that to you. I am so sorry."

  "Blair, it's all right."

  Pushing up from the couch, Blair crossed to the kitchen. "I think I'm going to heat up that spaghetti after all."

  Jim watched his partner, realized he was still kicking himself for his inappropriate remark. But Jim wasn't upset by it. It was the second time that day Sandburg had brought up the subject of his own death. Jim knew it was something they needed to discuss--knew that Blair's repeated references to it were a sign that he was coming to the point where he wanted to discuss what had happened. Jim shook his head as he watched the kid move nervously around the kitchen--he just hated the circumstances that were enabling them to finally be able to talk about the situation.

  His gaze shifted to the balcony windows. He stared out at the dark night beyond the glass and thought back to the few cases he'd worked with Tom Brayden. The young man had had a real future in law enforcement.

  "You want garlic bread, Jim?"

  The sentinel turned as his guide's voice reached him. "What?"

  "Garlic bread. I could put some in the oven."

  Jim pushed up from his seat. "That sounds good." He crossed to the kitchen island and stood opposite his partner as he cut the bread. "Blair, did I ever tell you about Tom's involvement in the Edwards case?"

  Blair glanced up at him for a second before returning his attention to the bread. He shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "He was the one who found your Volvo sitting on the side of the road. He called me because he thought something was wrong." Jim paused. "I've always thought that if Brayden hadn't been so observant, I wouldn't have known you were in trouble and I wouldn't have gotten to that gravel pit in time. I think he saved your life that day."

  Blair laid the knife aside and looked up at Jim. "He was such a good cop, Jim. Why was he still in uniform? It never seemed right to me."

  Jim shook his head. "I know he was offered a place in Vice, but he turned it down."

  Blair laughed mirthlessly. "Can you blame him?"

  Jim smiled a bit, recalling his own days in vice--days and nights of dealing with the seamiest class of Cascade's citizenry. "I know he'd applied and tested for a promotion, but whatever division he was trying for must not have had an opening."

  "It's a shame, man. If he'd been out of uniform, he wouldn't have stopped that car. He'd still be alive."

  Part Three

  Blair adjusted his glasses as he checked the final grades on the computer monitor one last time. All that remained for him to do was to go over two extra-credit papers, see if they'd help bring up the grades of two of his less than exemplary students. After that he was finished for the summer.

  He glanced at the small clock display in the lower right-hand corner of his computer. 8:42 a.m. He'd told Jim he'd be finis
hed at Rainier by nine. He needed to hustle if he was going to make that deadline. He just hoped there had been some kind of break in the Brayden case since the previous evening.

  Even as the thoughts crossed his mind, an image of Tom Brayden being gunned down pressed in on him. He closed his eyes against the mental picture, wished he could erase it from his memory.

  He'd been so alone.

  That's what Blair kept thinking about, couldn't get past. Tom Brayden had died alone. They'd watched as he tried to call for help, dragged himself back toward his car. But in the end, he'd bled to death on the cold pavement. Alone. Afraid.

  Helpless.

  "You're afraid now," Grant whispered, his voice tinged with excitement. "Your fear is rolling off of you in waves. I can practically smell it."

  Blair shuddered involuntarily as the recollection from his time in Crittendon washed across him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to relax.

  "This isn't about you, Sandburg," he chided himself. "It's about Tom. So get your work done and go help find the person who did this to him."

  Turning from his computer, he drew the first extra-credit paper toward him. But as he focused in on the first line of text, he realized he could hear footsteps coming down the hallway outside his office. He tensed and glanced up toward his door. The building was supposed to be empty. Yesterday was the official last day of the semester and Eli had told Blair last night that no one was expected in today.

  So, who's out there?

  The steps drew closer...seemed to hesitate outside his door. Blair held his breath, his gaze on the doorknob. It's just the janitor or another faculty member. But he didn't call out to the person in the corridor. Instead, he was glad he'd remembered to lock his door. The steps moved on without stopping and Blair let out a relieved breath.

  He looked down at the paper he still held and noticed that his hands were visibly trembling. Dammit! He slammed the paper down on his desk, frustration winding through him. Pushing to his feet, he crossed to the window and stared out across the empty campus grounds. His gaze traveled across the familiar area then shifted up to the glass itself until he found himself staring at his own reflection, eyes wide behind his glasses.

  Grant is gone. He wouldn't be stupid enough to stay in Cascade. He's not coming back for you...

  Blair hugged himself as a sudden chill snaked through him. Because he knew that wasn't true. Grant might be gone. But he would be back. Blair was sure of that. The only thing he wasn't sure of was what Grant's motives would be when he returned.

  Revenge? Or something else?

  "You know, Blair, you'll live longer with me as David Jacobs than you ever would have with Ellison as Blair Sandburg."

  Blair pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. Why had Grant said that? What had he meant by it? But before he could come to any conclusion, footsteps in the hallway caught his attention again. He turned to stare at the closed door. Just like the last time, whoever was in the building passed by without bothering to stop and knock on his door.

  But it no longer mattered. He knew he'd never finish those last two papers, not here and not by his nine o'clock deadline. Shutting down his computer, he stuffed the papers in his backpack and headed toward the door. He would finish them tonight at home and hook into the university's computer through the Internet. The grades would be late but he couldn't help it.

  As he pounded down the stairs to the first floor, he tried not to think about the empty halls and classrooms that surrounded him. Relief flooded through him as the red and white exit sign came into view at the end of the hallway.

  He reached the door but stopped, his hand hovering above the push-bar. Had he heard someone on the other side of the door? He leaned closer, trying to listen for sounds. But all he heard was his own labored breathing.

  "Oh, man--you are going to drive yourself crazy with this. Just relax." Taking a deep breath, he released it slowly. He was just letting his imagination run away with him, letting the empty building get the better of him.

  Blair shoved open the door to the parking lot and stepped outside.

  "Hey, Chief."

  Blair spun toward the voice to his left, his backpack falling from his hand. Jim backed up a step, holding up his hands in an apologetic gesture.

  "Sorry, buddy. I thought you saw me."

  "What do you think you're doing, Jim! You about gave me a heart attack!" Blair scooped up his pack, his hand noticeably shaking.

  "Yeah, I can see that. I'm sorry." Jim held up his cell phone. "I was just going to call you and see if you could let me in."

  "I thought I was going to hook up with you at the station. Did something happen?"

  Jim nodded. "We got some new information that I wanted to get right on, so I thought I'd swing by and pick you up." He hooked a thumb toward the building. "Did something happen in there?"

  Blair shook his head. "No, nothing. I just...I thought I'd have the place to myself and I didn't."

  Jim frowned. "Someone was in there with you? Did you see who it was?"

  "No. Let's just go."

  "Sandburg, if there's someone in the building--"

  "It's probably another professor or a janitor. Let's just go, all right? I don't want to look like an idiot by scaring someone else half to death." He swung his pack over his shoulder. "I'm finished here. I don't have to come back for three months. Let's go."

  Blair started across the lot toward Jim's truck, hoping his partner would just drop the line of questioning and follow him. If it was Marcus Grant who had been in the building, he didn't want to know it. He's gone, he tried to convince himself. He's long gone.

  /

  /

  /

  Jim steered the truck onto University Avenue and merged easily into the light flow of traffic. He cast covert glances at his partner, worried over the fact that Blair was so quiet. It wasn't like Sandburg not to ask about where they were going or what the new information in the case involved. But the kid hadn't spoken a word since they'd pulled away from the college; he'd just sat in brooding silence, his hands alternately gripping and releasing the handle of the backpack balanced in his lap.

  They'd traveled a full mile on University before Jim decided to broach the subject of the investigation. "We found the stolen car," he began, glancing briefly at his partner. Blair visibly pulled himself from his thoughts and looked at Jim. "We got lucky--Serena's team lifted a print off the lighter. The guy wiped down the entire car but forgot he'd used the lighter."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Sandburg nodding as he processed this new information. "Was Serena able to match the print to anyone?"

  "Yep. Belongs to a man with a rap sheet a mile long. According to flight records, he came back into Cascade the day he killed Tom. That's why he took the car at the airport. Probably just planned to head home but Tom pulled him over."

  "But why would he shoot him? He could have just taken the ticket."

  "He had no idea that's why Tom pulled him over. It's all in here." He tapped the folder sitting on the seat between them, expecting Sandburg to pick it up and flip through it. The kid didn't move. "The guy's a gunrunner," Jim said, continuing to fill him in. "He's out on bail right now. Probably thought Tom might find the gun he had on him or maybe he had even more in the back seat. Or maybe he just hates cops. I doubt we'll ever find out for sure. All I know is that the guy is armed and dangerous. His name is Randall. David Randall."

  Sandburg's heart rate spiked dramatically at the mention of the perp's name.

  "Chief? Does that name mean something to you?" Then a new thought struck Jim. "Please don't tell me this Randall guy is one of your students."

  But Blair waved off his concerns. "No, I don't know him."

  "Then what?" Jim pressed.

  "It's nothing." Blair dropped his gaze to his lap, continued to fiddle with the straps of his pack.

  "Come on, Chief. Your heart rate went through the roof when I mentioned this guy's name.
What's going on?"

  Blair looked out the side window and sighed deeply. "It's the name...David." Sandburg shrugged as if it were really no big deal...but he kept his gaze averted. "It's the same name Grant gave me...at Crittendon."

  Jim clenched his teeth together as understanding washed over him. The name had obviously triggered some memories for his partner, memories he was sure Blair would rather forget. "Chief, it's just a name," he said softly.

  "I know that," Blair snapped. Then, closing his eyes, he let out a long breath. "Sorry, man. I just...I got spooked in that building and then when you said that guy's name...." His voice trailed off. "Doesn't matter," he mumbled. Opening his eyes again, he gave the detective a sidelong glance. "So, where are we headed, anyway?"

  Jim took the hint and let the subject drop. He knew better than to push at Blair, knew his efforts would either result in the kid getting angry or going deeper into withdrawal. "Randall has an apartment over on Fourth Street," Jim answered Sandburg's question, carefully avoiding the use of the suspect's first name. "Rafe and Brown have been staked out there since the print match came through, waiting for a search warrant." Jim patted at his jacket pocket, where he had tucked the search warrant. "That's where we come in."

  "Is the guy at home?"

  "So far he's a no-show. But we're going in prepared just the same." He looked over at Blair. "This guy is bad news, Chief. When we get there, I want you to stay behind me. Got it?"

  Blair rolled his eyes--the first sign of something other than worry the kid had displayed all morning. "Don't I always?"

  Jim snorted. "You really want me to answer that?"

  Minutes later, Jim pulled the Ford to a stop behind Brown's sedan. As he and Blair approached the parked vehicle, he conducted a sweep of the area. The apartment building was a half a block up the road, the rundown frontage littered with debris. A homeless man lay on pavement just outside the apartment house door, his body covered with torn blankets. But there was no sign of Randall.

  Jim stopped beside Henri's open window. "Hey, guys. Anything happening?"

  "The homeless guy is new," Brown said, nodding down the street. "He wasn't there when we arrived. But other than that the place has been dead quiet."