“Harold Woodward used to work in Narcotics in Cascade. We’ve kept in touch. He called me first thing this morning to ask if we had any cases with similar circumstances.”
“Why hasn’t this hit the papers?”
“I’m not sure. Some of the officers involved are undercover. Most of the abductions were initially attributed to local sources.”
The edginess was getting worse. Ellison shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to keep pace with Banks. “How many?”
“If Sandburg’s case fits the M.O., Woodward says he thinks there are ten related abductions.”
“Ten.” Ellison slowed down as they approached the building, then stopped, causing the captain to pause again to wait for him. “Why have they taken ten? Why from different cities?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Come on, Jim. Let’s go inside.”
Ellison felt his head buzzing, his captain’s voice shifting volume as he struggled to listen. He was vaguely aware that he was falling forward, black spots disrupting his vision. His link with his partner. He felt Sandburg cry again. Not here. Not nearby. But somewhere, Sandburg was crying. Cold. Hungry. Afraid — terrified. Ellison intimately felt the fear, the despair. His name being whispered. Suffocating. A gag or something in his mouth.
“Jim!” Suddenly, Banks’ voice was in his ear. “Jim! Snap out of it!”
The shout pierced the fog in his mind, bringing some semblance of order to the confusing signals his senses were providing him. He was in Seattle, standing on the sidewalk outside the police station.
“Jim?”
“Give me a second,” he mumbled, his grip tightening on Banks’ arm. “Don’t move.” He tried to reclaim the link, the tenuous connection to his Guide, but it was gone again, and he groaned at the loss.
“What’s wrong?”
He could hear Banks’ tight question, the captain’s whispered words not wanting to know if it was Sentinel-related. Sorry, Simon. I’m a Sentinel without a Guide. I know I’m falling apart, but this is the best I can do.
For a brief moment, he had felt Sandburg’s presence. “He’s still alive.”
“Do I want to know how you know that?”
“Probably not.” Ellison straightened and took another steadying breath. “He’s alive. He’s very cold — his skin is icy — and he’s terrified.”
“Oh, God.” Banks pulled away from him, allowing him to stand on his own. “You sure about this, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why is this happening now? It hasn’t happened before, with you and Sandburg, has it? Is this just some leftover business from Mexico, from your enhanced senses then?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t sensed his presence quite this strongly before.” The word was wrong. “No, not his presence. I was picking up a sense of his awareness. What he’s feeling. It’s stronger now.”
The captain’s dark eyes met his, wide with apprehension. “Uh … Any idea where he is?”
“None. I don’t think he knows where he is.” Ellison glanced down at his watch. “Let’s go in. We have five minutes.”
“Jim?”
“I’m sorry, Simon. I don’t have any answers for you or even answers for me. Let’s find out what they have to say, then I want to go back to Cascade. He’s not there, but he’s not here in Seattle, either. I would have known that, I think.”
*
2:00 p.m.
Frank Black watched the Cascade police officers walk into the room and take their seats. As with most of the men gathered in the room — and it was entirely a male group, he had noticed — these men had “cop” stamped all over them. He turned back to the picture of the officer taken — no, this was the city that had an observer taken, whatever that designation meant — and he looked down at the young face. The picture was dated a few years before, the observer staring into the camera with a disarmingly mischievous smile, long curly hair framing an inquisitive face. The eyes were what drew Black, and he knew immediately this man wasn’t a cop. His eyes were fresh, innocent, and almost naive.
But an “observer”? What did that mean? Observing what? Black looked back at the date on the photo, then over to the two shell-shocked men. Sandburg had been an observer for well over two years. What exactly was his relationship to these police officers?
He studied the shorter of the two men. The detective looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, but there was also an edge of hope about him that was missing in many of the others gathered. As if he knew something.
The door to the conference room closed and Harold Woodward took the podium, set up at one end of the table. Woodward was in his early sixties, a veteran in police work, and a highly skilled detective in his own right. That he had pieced together this trail of abductions was quite a feat, for police departments, especially those crossing county or state borders, were notoriously self-sustained.
Introductions were made; some were names that Black had heard before, men he had spoken to or corresponded with about cases, and now he was able to connect the name to the face. The men from Cascade were introduced last. The tall, black man was Captain Simon Banks, Head of Major Crimes in Cascade, a port city to the north of Seattle, less than an hour from the Canadian border. It also had an international airport and the city was in the same battle they all shared against the drug trade and smuggling. He had come across Cascade tie-ins while dealing with the mafia, syndicates, and Asian triads, as well as gang warfare and weapons control. The man next to him was introduced as Detective Lt. James Ellison, also of Major Crimes.
<
Frank Black sat motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Where had that come from? He wasn’t on a crime scene. He had nothing personal of the victim’s. Yet the image had been clear.
Across from him, Ellison sat with his elbows on the table, his face hidden in his hands. His captain was watching him, concern etched on the man’s face. Ellison’s shoulders moved as he took a long, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly.
As though he had seen the same visions.
<
Ellison hadn’t moved, face still hidden, his hands clenched in fists before his eyes, as though blocking the sight.
Black watched him for a moment longer, then looked quickly through the file. Sandburg, Blair, the profile read. Masters degree in anthropology. Currently employed by Rainier University in the Department of Anthropology while he worked on a doctorate in anthropology. Police observer, a copy of the application attached, stating he wished to study the police department, doing his doctorate on closed societies. The profile finished with two words: Ellison’s partner.
Partner? Black glanced back at the file, wondering when the supplied profile was dated, but it was recent. Was Sandburg now an officer, as well? No, the current form still had him down as an observer. From the young man’s appearance, perhaps the status was a more personal one. It was clear they were close friends, at least, from the look on Ellison’s face. Several of the men gathered at the table had similar haunted, exhausted appearances. Others, the head of departments or units, like Banks and Bridges, were also fighting burnout and the heavy weight of responsibility for one of their own.
Woodward finished the introductions and opened his file folder. “I’d like us to look at the facts, gentlemen. Please open your files and follow me through the concrete evidence we do have, before we begin to take this a step further. Let’s take it from the top. One month ago yesterday, in San Diego.” He led them through the cases, not pausing on details, just enough to familiarize everyone with the cases.
San Diego: Monday, May 18. 11:15 a.m. Detective Jorge Diez, age 31, and his partner were walking back to the station after completing an investigation at a nearby crime scene, when a white van stopped beside them. Three men emerged, with submac
hine guns, and held the partner back while tying up Diez and securing him in the van. He wasn’t injured at the time, although the partner suffered a dislocated shoulder from his efforts to break free of the powerful man restraining him. Descriptions of the men were attached. The muscle man: Caucasian, extremely strong, solid. 6′4″. Dark hair cut short. Accent: possible German or Slavic, the partner couldn’t say. The two gunmen: One was Hispanic, 6’ tall, long straight uneven hair. Magnum gun. The other was white, brown hair, military cut. Same height, about six feet. The driver was black, but Diez’s partner had only had a brief glimpse of him.
There had been no ransom note. It had been assumed the abduction was drug related, as Diez had been working on several cases involving drug trafficking.
Los Angeles: Wednesday, May 20. 4:40 p.m. Lt. Pat Hollis, age 29, was leaving the precinct after his shift, heading out to dinner with another officer. They had decided to walk to a restaurant on the next street over. As they walked through the parking area next to the restaurant and approached the door, a white van drove onto the lot. The officer accompanying Hollis was brutally knocked unconscious. Witnesses saw the other officer being pulled into the van, then the van sped away. There were no reliable descriptions of the abductors, other than that there were two or three men seen, all with guns. No ransom note.
Santa Barbara: Friday, May 22. 1:50 p.m. Peter Labenstoff, undercover officer, age 30. Abducted one block from station on his way back from lunch. Alone. White van reported by witnesses.
Monterey: Sunday, May 24 9:30 a.m. Detective Scott McBride, age 30. Abducted while walking from his car to the police station. Description of van and abductors matched previous descriptions. Brown-haired gunman also reported to have a tatoo on his forearm, and a scar along his jawline.
Santa Cruz: Tuesday, May 26 9:10 a.m.. Lt. Sam Faddis, age 29. Abducted a block from office. Faddis was speaking to his partner on the cell phone when it happened, so the partner heard the abduction, but no other witnesses stepped forward.
San Francisco, Friday May 29 6:20 p.m. Inspector Evan Cortez, age 29. Abducted while leaving the SIU headquarters with his partner, heading to their cars after their shift. Partner was able to give a matching description of one of the abductors, but was knocked unconscious during the resulting skirmish.
Portland: Wednesday, June 3, 2:45 p.m. Assistant Chief Jack Kelly, age 32. Abducted when he left the police station to go pick up his son from elementary school to take him to daycare. White van. No description of abductors.
Tacoma: Tuesday, June 9, 11:35 a.m. Undercover Detective William Fong, age 29. Abducted while walking with girlfriend outside the police station. White van, and long-haired Hispanic gunman were reported by the traumatized woman.
Seattle: Friday, June 12, 8:25 a.m. Lt. Glenn Relkie, age 30. Abducted while getting into his car parked a block from the station. White van reported.
And the last case, the possible tie-in. Cascade: Monday, June 15, 1:30 p.m. Civilian Blair Sandburg, a police observer, age 29. Abducted while returning from lunch with a police officer. White van. No description of abductors. Police officer accompanying him was shot in the side and also suffered a severe head injury. He has not regained consciousness.
While Woodward continued to speak, Frank Black closed the file, letting the images of the men settle into his thoughts. There certainly appeared to be a connection between the cases. The consistency of the white van and the abductors’ pattern of behavior. The ages, according to his notes, were all between 27 and 32. All were involved in detective or undercover work. He checked back to Jack Kelly’s file, the Portland officer, to confirm his suspicions, and noted then that all officers were single. Kelly was divorced and a single father.
Ignoring the conversation proceeding in the room, Black stood, taking his file, and moved over to the credenza beneath the window. Withdrawing the photographs from the file, he laid them out along the narrow table, looking carefully at the faces and ignoring the background material. Ten males. Two Hispanic. One black. One oriental. Six white. He closed his eyes and looked at them again, not seeing the differences but the similarities. Eight of the ten wore earrings in their left ears. Five of the ten wore double earrings. All but one had short hair, stylishly cut.
Black stared at Sandburg’s picture. The anomaly. All but this one man abducted were the same height, same build. All but one could have been runway models. And the tenth, Sandburg, though he lacked the height for a model, had a beauty of his own, almost exotic in appearance. There were few men that Black had ever seen that he would use the word ‘beautiful’ in describing, but there was something very sensual about the young man. There was something very sensual about all of the young men pictured, but the rest had an edge to them that this one did not have.
<
He felt a presence beside him and looked into James Ellison’s eyes. “Your partner was not the intended victim.”
Ellison said nothing, but handed him a fax. Black read it quickly, realizing that this was a statement from the officer who had been with Sandburg when he was abducted. It clearly said that this officer, Detective Rafe, felt that he was the one the abductors had wanted, but when he had been injured, they had taken Sandburg instead.
“Do you have a picture of this man?” Black asked, quietly.
Simon Banks handed him a photo of Detective Rafe from the file they had brought with them from Cascade. Black placed Rafe’s picture over Sandburg’s and they stared at the mosaic spread across the credenza.
Ten almost identical faces. Same body type. Same build. Same age group. Same look. Same profession.
Black stepped back from the table as the others in the room gathered around to see what he had put together. Banks and Ellison came with him, standing before him, Ellison’s intense blue eyes drilling him back against the wall.
“What do you see?” Ellison’s question came out half under his breath.
Black knew he wasn’t referring to the photographs. “Your partner.”
“He’s alive.” Not a question. A statement.
“At the moment, he is.” Black stared back. “You are connected to him.” There was no verbal response, but the man’s entire body language confirmed his thoughts. “I’m picking something up through you.”
Ellison nodded. “Tell me.”
The urgency was palatable. Black looked over to Woodward, and the man turned at his gaze and quickly joined them. “We need a room,” Black said.
“Right now, Frank? We were hoping to profile—”
“I’ll join you in thirty minutes. Right now, I need to talk to these two gentlemen. We have a young man who has been kidnaped who does not meet the abductors’ criteria. There’s a strong possibility that he might prove to be our link to them. We have to move fast, though. He’s dying.”
“How do you know—” Woodward cut off his own words. “What am I saying? This is why I asked you to come. Take my office. We’ll continue on here. Anything we should know?”
Black took the offered magnetic card. “Harold, Cascade is part of the case. But take the information on the man accompanying Sandburg. Ignore Sandburg. He was not an intended victim.” He turned to Ellison and Banks. “Gentlemen, we need to talk.”
Chapter Two
*
“SIU. Joe Dominguez. Can I help you?”
“Joe? It’s Nash.”
“Already? What time is it?” (Pause) “It’s only five. What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong? I’m just phoning to talk for a minute.”
“Why? Has something happened? You said you wouldn’t call until later, man. What happened? Have all you detective bosses figured it out? Is the meeting over? Did you figure out what happened to Evan—”
“Hold on there, Bubba. I’m just taking a break. I want to talk to Harvey for a minute.”
“Harvey? Uh, okay. Sure. I’ll get him on the line.” (Pause) �
��Hey, Harv! Harvey! Nash wants to talk to you. Line two.”
“I’m here. Nash — any word?”
“Not yet. Something interesting though, Harvey. I want you to look around and see what you can find.”
“What have we got?”
“We’re looking at the abduction of ten men from ten different police stations. All were detectives, either undercover or investigations. All were the exact same body type and weight as Evan. Eight had earrings in their left earlobe, five had two earrings. All had short hair, styled. All regularly wore sunglasses. All were sharp dressers. All were currently single. Any of them could have worked as a model. Six white, two Hispanic, one black, one oriental.”
“Multi-racial group… Models, Boss? I’ll pass that on to Evan later.”
“Harvey, when we get Evan back, you can tell him anything you want. Get on it.”
“I’m on it. I trust you’ll let me know if you find out anything else.”
“I soon as I know it, you’ll know it, Harv.”
“Thanks, Nash. Here’s Joe again.”
“Nash?”
“Joe, I see they just brought in a tray of sandwiches and I’m hungry. I’ll call you after the meeting tonight.”
“I know. I was listening before, last time I called. You’ll call me tonight from the hotel after the meeting. I heard you. I just was wondering if there was anything else I can do.”
“You’re there, Bubba. Knowing you’re there means the world to me. Keep an eye on Harvey. Get him whatever he needs. I have a feeling about this one.”
“That’s good, Nash. I’ll leave my cell phone on.”
“Later, Bubba.”
*
Three days previous
3:00 a.m.
Blair Sandburg opened his eyes carefully, his head whirling like he was coming off a college drunk. With a low groan, his eyes fell shut and he pressed one hand flat against the cold surface beneath him to keep him from falling off the edge of the planet. At least the lights had the decency to be off, but he would be a lot happier if someone turned up the heat. And took out the garbage. And filled him in on what was going on.
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