No Center Line

by Lois RH Balzer

  Sandburg’s heartbeat filled his senses. He breathed in the sound, felt it reverberate through his body. Eyes closed, he could see it. Mouth closed, he could taste it. Five senses alive with the echo of his guide’s life force. The whys could wait. Why had he been taken? Why had Jim heard him, sensed him, at such a great distance? Why had he stopped breathing? Why had it taken only three breaths to bring him back? Would it happen again?

  “Jim?” Banks’ voice, shrouded in anxiety. The single word catching on the captain’s lips. The question hanging in the air.

  Ellison opened his eyes, looked up at his longtime friend crouching beside him, and smiled. “Thanks, Simon. I guess that took more out of me than I thought.” He let his eyes close again, finding his guide, listening beyond the gentle hiss of oxygen to lungs drawing air in, pushing air out.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be. Can you move him closer?”

  Banks laughed, the sound abrupt in the small room. “I’m afraid to touch him. Can you tell me why the hell he stopped breathing?”

  Ellison cracked open one eye to see the captain frowning, leaning over his shivering partner, on the floor a few feet away from him. In the last ten minutes, Sandburg had improved dramatically, allowing Morrison to take his blood pressure, temperature, and tape several sensor pads to his chest, monitoring his heart activity. Ellison’s headache resurfaced when he realized that Sandburg’s chest hair had just grown back from the last time his friend had been hooked up to a heart monitor, a month previous. “He’s fine, Simon,” Ellison said, firmly, largely for his own benefit.

  “How can he be fine? He stopped—”

  “I know. I know. He stopped breathing. But he’s okay now. He’s with me again. He was just a little spooked.” Ellison caught Sandburg’s bleary stare. “Right, Chief?”

  Sandburg nodded, eyes closing sleepily, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, trickling dirt down his face. He lay on a blanket, another draped carefully over him. One hand had escaped the cover, fingers extended along the cool tiled floor in Ellison’s direction.

  Banks wasn’t convinced yet, though. “Why don’t we let the doctor look at him again before we start moving him around? What do you think?”

  Perched on a stool at the counter, Dr Morrison glanced up from the papers he was filling out. “You do whatever makes Blair feel secure. I’ll work with you on this. I’d like him to get comfortable with my presence.”

  “Just bring him over here,” Ellison repeated, then started to move toward Sandburg, knowing the captain would intercede.

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Banks mumbled, but it was with infinite care that he tugged on the blanket, sliding the young man across the floor, while moving the portable heart monitor with the other hand. With Ellison’s help, they maneuvered Sandburg to rest semi-upright against his partner. “How’s that?” he asked, smiling as Sandburg noticeably relaxed, though his wary gaze still concentrated on the doctor. His eyes didn’t look like they were truly focusing on anything. The hand that had been reaching before was now taloned onto Ellison’s leg beside him.

  “Thanks, Simon. You feel okay, Chief?” Ellison looked down at the top of Blair’s head against his chest. His guide was subdued at the moment, withdrawn, the drug in his system regaining control. He was breathing, though, and his heart rate had stabilized. Sandburg showed no sign of the previous cessation of respiration that had terrified Ellison, and obviously Banks, as well. Yet the fact that Sandburg was still pressed up against him, wearing an oxygen mask, the wires from the monitor snaking across the blanket, were silent witnesses that things were far from being returned to normal. There was a catch in his inhalation, leftover from the earlier sobs that had wracked the slim body as isolated memories returned. Shivers still reverberated through him.

  Morrison stood and watched them for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Simon, would you please take this report to Amy? She’s in the lab at the other end of the corridor, to your right.” Morrison held out the clipboard, and Banks took it gratefully and left the examination room with a backward glance at Ellison.

  Morrison shut the door after him, then turned and studied them again, his dark eyes assessing the situation. He gathered a few things, then crossed back to sit next to Ellison, slowly reaching to remove the blood pressure cuff from Sandburg’s arm. “I think we’re done with this. Everything looks fine here, Blair.” The doctor waited until Sandburg looked up at him, then continued, “Before we go on, I’m going to check your partner, just to make sure he’s okay.” He began to wrap the cuff around Ellison’s arm.

  “What are you doing?” the detective put one hand out to stop him, but the doctor persisted, only showing how weak Ellison was.

  He pressed his stethoscope in the crook of Ellison’s elbow. “I’m checking your blood pressure.”

  “But I’m not the one who stopped breathing.”

  “You’re the one who needed help to sit up,” Morrison replied, easily. “Now, I’m willing to write it off as a nervous reaction if you want, but—”

  “That’ll be fine. Whatever. You’re here to check Sandburg, not me.”

  “It is the patients who need a physician,” Morrison quoted, as he took the reading.

  Ellison waited, resigned, his eyes closed again.

  Limbo. He felt as though he was caught at the crossroads. At a way station. He could ignore the directions spreading out around him, the myriad of options beckoning for his input. Decisions awaited him ��� but not at this particular moment. Now, he could rest, and Sandburg also would rest. He had nothing left to give, except his arms wrapped around his guide.

  Morrison released the cuff and put it to one side, lightly squeezing Ellison’s arm before moving to touch Sandburg’s. “Blair? Are you ready to talk to me yet?”

  Ellison relaxed as he felt his partner nod his head. Sandburg still was only half-awake, only partially aware of what was going on around him. His fever seemed to have dropped back to just above normal. His heart rate was slightly elevated since the doctor had joined them on the floor, but nothing serious.

  “Blair, do you know where you are?”

  “Hospital,” his guide answered after a moment.

  “Which hospital?”

  Sandburg glanced around, then shook his head.

  “You’re in the emergency department at Bellevue General Hospital. Do you understand where that is? Your friend Jim brought you here.”

  Ellison smiled as Sandburg’s fingers grabbed hold of his arm again, as though confirming for himself that Jim was still there.

  “Why — here? Jim?”

  “Hey, Chief. I checked you out when we found you, but this guy can do a much better job of it,” he said softly.

  “Blair,” Morrison began, tilting his patient’s face up to look at him, “you were drugged with something. We’re not sure right now what it was, but we’re running tests. We should know something in a little while. Meanwhile, let’s check out the rest of you, okay? Blair?” he prompted after a moment, when Sandburg’s eyes remained closed.

  “Yeah,” he whispered.

  Ellison shifted his partner forward, then with Morrison’s help, eased him to lie flat on the floor. The physical proximity had done what he had intended, but the examination would be easier if Sandburg was supine. “Doc, even before he ran into this breathing problem, he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since we found him. And when he was conscious, he tended to be very pliant — I’m assuming a drug like Rohypnol or something like that. A sedative.”

  Morrison nodded. “That’s what we’re testing him for. I don’t want to put this off indefinitely, but I usually like the patient’s permission before beginning an examination.”

  “Under the circumstances, I’d like you to go ahead and examine him. I think we can take his ‘yeah’ as permission. You and I both have a good idea of what happened and I know tests should be done as soon as possible,” Ellison said, carefully moving the oxygen tubes
into place. “His ribs hurt. Left side, bottom two.”

  “Thank you, Dr Ellison,” Morrison said, reaching for his clipboard.

  Ellison smiled, then, shrugging. “Sorry, I was a medic in the army. I did my share of triage.” Ellison folded another blanket into a pillow and gently placed it beneath his partner’s head.

  While the doctor took Sandburg’s pulse and checked his temperature, Ellison leaned back against the wall and took a deep, calming breath. He was starting to feel better. Stronger. Not as light-headed as he had been. But the need to sleep was wearing at him. I just want to get this over with and go home. Or go somewhere else. He intercepted his guide’s hand as it raised to push away the oxygen feed that was irritating him. He could feel the restless tremors in Sandburg’s body, the aches and pains beginning to register as the drugs lost their potency, and he rested his hands gently on the young man’s face, willing the discomfort to leave.

  It may not have erased the pain, but it calmed his guide immediately.

  Morrison glanced at the thermometer and jotted the results on his chart. Without looking up, he said quietly, “Detective Ellison, would you be unnerved if I told you that you have the energy aura of a healer?”

  Ellison looked down at his hands, resting on each side of Sandburg’s face. The image flashed through his mind again, the wolf and the panther, the vision that had brought his partner back from death. Tears formed in his eyes. “Right now, at this moment, to be a healer is my greatest desire.”

  Sandburg blinked, the lost blue eyes opening to stare up at him. “Jim?”

  “I’m here, buddy.”

  “He’s gonna kill them.”

  “Then let’s try to stop him, okay?”

  “I think ��� I ��� remember ��� a house,” Sandburg whispered, drifting off again.

  “We’ll find it,” he promised.

  *

  *

  Three Days Previous

  10:45 a.m.

  The Warehouse

  Sandburg woke with a start at the sound of voices and the door opening.

  Shit. What? Where am I?

  There was a rush of emotions as he tried to calm himself. How the hell did I fall asleep? Anger and terror wrestled with mass anxiety as his pounding head assessed his current situation. There was nothing good about it. He was in major trouble here. Bound, gagged, chained to a bed. He had a horrible sensation in the pit of his stomach that he knew what they were doing elsewhere in this building. And he didn’t want to imagine it happening to him.

  “We’ve got rolls of plastic,” one man was saying. “Just use that.”

  “And what? An oxygen mask?”

  The door opened all the way and the overhead light flicked on, at first blinding Sandburg before revealing two of the gunmen, the man with the scars and the muscle man. Both glanced over at him as they entered, but then took no heed of him, continuing their conversation as he lay bound and gagged on the bed.

  Hello? In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s someone else in the room!

  It occurred to him briefly, then, that maybe it was better that they did ignore him. The alternatives weren’t pleasant.

  “Bill’s got a mask. Ask him.” Scar Man went over to the small kitchen counter at the back of the room and opened and closed the cupboard doors looking for something.

  “Where is he? At the house?”

  “Yeah. Cook’s got breakfast happening. I’m going over later to get some.”

  “I might, too. Is Jurgen there? I haven’t seen him for a few hours.”

  “He’s either there or with one of the stars.”

  Muscle Man gave a harsh laugh. “He takes his ‘conditioning’ work seriously.”

  “Idiot’s ‘conditioned’ one guy dead already. That’s $250 grand we’re out.” Scar Man opened a small refrigerator. “Want a beer?”

  Sandburg twisted his head upward, getting his first real look at the room. It was a break room of sorts, with the bed added. An odd collection of bits and pieces. It was new, unfinished, rough. Unpainted wood. Exposed wires. Jurgen? He matched the name to the man who hadn’t wanted him. The ‘house’? Probably the house he had seen when he got out of the semi-trailer. Jim? No sign of his partner. He had felt a fleeting hope that somehow Jim would be there, yet Blair was also relieved that he wasn’t, for that meant that Jim was out there looking for him, not kidnaped with him.

  “I’ll have a beer later. I was hungry until Jurgen gave me this job. He’s nuts. Why not just dump the bodies? Or bury them somewhere? Why the fuck does he have to do this?”

  “He may be crazy, but he’s done this routine several times before and he knows what he’s doing. Usually. Once in a while, like the other night, he loses it, but I’ve been with him five years and he’s yet to sacrifice an entire setup just to satisfy himself. Want some coffee?” Scar Man asked. “I don’t like Jurgen’s flavored stuff.” He went over to a sink in the room and filled the coffee carafe as he spoke. “The set’s almost ready, I noticed. Everything on schedule?”

  Muscle Man dropped heavily into one of two chairs set around a small table on the wall opposite the bed. “With the stars driving around all night, the locals Jurgen hired got a lot done. What does he tell them it’s for?”

  “Usually, that it’s a private recording studio. He has these posters and framed pictures he puts up of music producers and it generally keeps them quiet. This is our third setup, and we’ve never had any trouble. ” He laughed. “We actually sold the last one to a country and western singer who wanted a home studio. Little did he know ���” An electric saw whined loudly. “Who’s here now? Besides Bill?”

  “Who’s working? Bill. New guy, friend of Bill, name of Lyle or something like that.” Muscle Man looked directly at Sandburg. “So what do we do with the little guy?”

  Scar Man glanced over at him as he turned on the coffee maker. “Pete said to just leave him here for now. I’m sure we can think of something for him later,” he added with a grin.

  “Or we could go into business for ourselves,” Muscle Man said, getting up and sitting on the bed next to Sandburg, mussing his hair roughly. “There must be a trade somewhere for little beauties.”

  “Not the same money in it, though. Jurgen knows his business. He knows what sells. Gimmick plus risk plus lean, mean bodies. Big and muscular—”

  “But not as big and muscular as the Master.” Effortlessly, Muscle Man flipped Sandburg from his side to his back, reaching for the fly of his jeans. He undid the button, then leaned forward to swat Sandburg across the side of the head as he struggled to get away. “Learn some manners, there, boy.” He continued to play around with Sandburg, pinning him down, knocking him about, not hurting him but working at scaring him.

  It was working, Sandburg thought, the moment he had the chance to think again. At least Muscle Man hadn’t unzipped his jeans. I’ve got something to look forward to. Jim … oh, Jim…

  He had to control his breathing, calm himself down. The gag was making it impossible to get the air he needed.

  “Coffee’s done,” Scar Face said. “Want a cup?”

  “I want this nice little mouse for the cats,” Muscle man said, sliding his hand beneath the Mexican shirt. His palm glided over Sandburg’s chest, lightly combing through the hair along his breast bone. “This reject’s got fur. No wonder Pete wanted to keep him. He gets off on that, doesn’t he?”

  “Hairy bodies, yeah. But he likes to shave them. Doesn’t care if he takes the skin along with the hair.”

  “Hey, think Pete would mind if we sampled the merchandise?”

  “What? Him?” Scar Man pulled the carafe aside and stuck his mug under the stream of coffee. “As long as Pete gets first stab.”

  “Ouch,” Muscle Man said, leering down at him. “Would you like that, pretty boy? Getting stabbed? Bet you’ve never had that nice little ass properly ‘conditioned’, have you?” The massive hand reached for Sandburg’s zipper, ripping it down in one quick yank.

/>   “Karl! Leave him alone. We’ve got work to do. We can take care of him later.” Scar Man handed him a mug of coffee. “I’ll help you get the plastic.”

  Reluctantly, Muscle Man — Karl —stood up, then peered down at Sandburg. “Later, little mouse.”

  They walked out of the room and turned off the light.

  Shit. ShitShitShitShit ��� Jim ��� Come on, man. Find me. I do not like the sound of this.

  *

  *

  Present

  11:45 p.m.

  Bellevue General Hospital

  “Karl.” Sandburg looked up at his partner. “Karl. Muscle Man was Karl.”

  “That’s good. Any other names?”

  He shook his head. He knew he had heard other names, but his memory wasn’t clear. Scar Man had a name. The man in the house had a name. The man who hadn’t wanted him.

  There had been other faces, too, but he couldn’t remember them. Karl, he remembered. Karl’s size, his arms. Big rough-skinned hands.

  “Blair?”

  Sandburg blinked. The doctor was waiting for him. An unanswered question floated out of his memory and he wondered what it was that he had been asked. Jim was there, too, leaning back against the wall. He looked tired. His hair was mussed.

  Jim didn’t like his hair to get mussed.

  “Blair,” the doctor asked, “I’d like to give you a head-to-toe check. Would you let me do that?”

  Sandburg nodded. He was starting to hurt. His back. His stomach. His head hurt, too, a dull throbbing.

  Morrison put on some gloves and did a quick secondary exam, keeping the blanket over Sandburg whenever possible, then he jotted down some things on his clipboard, talking out loud as he did, so Sandburg would know what he was writing. “While I’m doing this, I’m going to ask a few questions, just to get some medical information from you. Have you had any illnesses in the last two years?”

  Sandburg stared at him, then coughed and turned slightly to look at his partner. “Jim?”

  “Yes.” Ellison smiled at him.

  “You— You tell.”

  “Do you want me to answer the questions?”

  “Yes.”