Woodward had fastened on the word ‘bridge’, laying down a clear plastic sheet over the map, then circling several possibilities with a felt pen. “You could feel the grates of the bridge?”
“Yeah. Sort of a shivery vibration.”
“How long did that go on?”
“A few minutes. It was a long bridge.”
Woodward stared at his map. “We’re talking about a bridge crossing a river, a bay, or even Puget Sound, and that would be high enough to let the occasional boat pass through a few times daily, probably at set times.” He looked across at Blair, thoughtfully. “We’re narrowing it down. You turned off the bridge to your left?”
“A sharp turn. Very soon after leaving the bridge.”
“Did the truck slow down or stop at all?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
Frank Black spoke up then, his voice, as always, sending shivers down Nash’s spine. “Blair, can you remember much about what happened yesterday? Your trip in the semi-trailer?”
The young man shook his head. “Not too much. Just bits and pieces. No. Sorry.”
Woodward turned over a sheet in his legal-sized note book. “Let’s set up a time schedule. That might help. What was the first contact with Sandburg yesterday?”
“Friday morning, 3:00 a.m.,” Ellison said immediately, then stopped, his eyes moving to Simon Banks’ as though asking permission to say more. The two men stared at each other, both weighing whether it was safe to speak.
Woodward picked up on it and straightened up from where he was bent over the table. “If I may,” he said, “if something confidential needs to be said, it stays in this room.” He looked around at each man, accepting the curt nods of agreement. “Now, I’ve worked with Frank Black. I have no idea how he does the things he does, but as I said before, I trust him. Whatever it is between you, Ellison, and your partner here, I’m willing to work with it, if there’s a chance we can rescue the others before they are killed. Right now, my usual ways of getting information are drying up. I’m more than willing to try the unusual.” He waited a moment, then asked, “What happened at 3:00 a.m. yesterday morning?”
“I dreamt that Sandburg was terrified and in pain, then lost consciousness. It seemed to me it was happening at the same time as I was dreaming it.” Ellison’s hands moved on his partner’s shoulders, kneading the tight muscles.
“Blair?” Woodward asked.
Nash groaned at the frightened look of panic that crossed the young man’s face. He clutched at his side, as though his body remembered something that hadn’t reached his conscious thoughts yet. “How did you hurt your ribs?” he asked suddenly.
Blair turned to him, gasping to catch his breath, his tongue licking dry lips before answering, “I don’t remember how I hurt them.”
But with the words, came the shock of memory. Still behind him, Ellison wrapped his arms around his partner and held him while the images and scrambled pictures sorted themselves out.
*
Previous
“Don’t move, luv.”
Blair groaned. The floor was cold beneath his cheekbone, where the side of his face rested on the smooth tiles.
Water was running. He could feel the echo of it, the rumble along the floor, along his hip and thigh. His back hurt.
Steam. There was steam and water.
He was cold. A shiver shook him, waking him from his forced sleep.
I’ve zoned again, he thought. For it wasn’t really sleep. He suspected that he did things during that time, that part of him was awake during his ‘absences’. A part of his mind was still working.
Just like Jim, he mused, comforted by even thinking the name. Jim would zone out, lost in a whiteout of his senses.
Except I’ve been drugged and can’t remember what happened.
There was water running.
He opened his eyes, surprised that he could.
Now where am I?
It was a large room, considering the relatively limited size of the warehouse. A luxurious bathroom. Water was running into a black bathtub near where he lay. It had clawed feet. Gold clawed feet. The floor was a shiny black. The facets were gold.
Probably fake.
He glanced up. No ceiling. A set, then. Now what?
The camera man came back into the picture and set his styrofoam cup on the edge of the sink. “A bath will make you feel better,” he cooed, hoisting Blair up and helping him into the bathtub. “You did well, luv. Jurgen got everything set up and he’s happy about the performance we’re filming later.”
The water was hot — not scalding, but hot enough to make the cuts and bruises ache, and it made other parts of him hurt. Pete whistled a tuneless song as he turned the water off. He snapped a pair of handcuffs around Blair’s left wrist and then around the handhold on the wall.
“That’s so you don’t slip under the water and drown,” the camera man said, retrieving his coffee. “Have a nice soak, luv. We just got the tub set up for a film on Sunday night, so you’re the first occupant. Enjoy. I’ll be back in a few. Jurgen asked to see me. I think I’m staying the night. Jurgen usually locks up at midnight, but filming ran late. Maybe we can spend some quality time together later, hey? Would you like that? We could use the set with the round bed. Proper lighting. I’ve got a nice bottle of wine, too ���” He left the room, still whistling the door closing with a hollow thunk.
Propelled into action as his arms and legs began to reconnect with his brain, Blair stood up, only to come up short as his wrist stopped him, knocking him off balance in the tub. His feet slipped on the smooth bottom, his legs going out from under him, and he landed heavily on the rim of the tub, cursing loudly at the fiery pain that flared in his side when he tried to breathe.
There was no way he could lie back in the tub, his left wrist keeping him just high enough for his body not to reach. It made the drag on his ribs hurt more, and he had to get his legs underneath him to ease the stretch. He was still there, draped over the edge of the footed tub, his eyes closed against the bright studio lights, when Pete returned two hours later to take him out of the cold water.
“You done?” The key turned in the lock, the handcuffs falling from his numb hands. “Sorry I took so long, luv. Not very comfortable, was it? I thought you’d like it more than that disgusting shower, but Jurgen wanted to see the footage we took, so I couldn’t stay with you. Maybe another time. I’m usually here by nine in the morning, but it could be slow then, so ��� We could have scented candles and soft lights ��� Maybe some bubbles. And white wine — no — Champagne. Would you like that?”
Strong hands reached into the tub and dragged him up, hoisting him over one shoulder. “You’re all wrinkles. We’ve got to do something about that hair. Jurgen wanted me to cut it off, but I like it on you. Never was one for a hairy body, but yours,” Pete said, patting his rump, “Yes, yours I can’t keep my hands off, luv. My million-dollar baby. I’ve got some shampoo in the bathroom. I’ll shower you off, shave you, then maybe Jurgen can be convinced to keep you around longer. You fix up pretty. I don’t have anything for your curls though. What do they use now? Gel?”
Dazed, Blair was taken to the small shower that was used by all the men, a cheap stall that was probably newly purchased but already showing the stains of not being cared for. It looked like someone had rinsed paint brushes in it earlier, smelling of turpentine and other fumes. He coughed from the scents, then cried out as the pain shot through his ribs.
Pete continued to talk but his words no longer translated to Blair’s sleep-fogged mind. Rough hands worked a cheap vanilla-scented shampoo through his hair, then pushed him under the dribble of water and impatiently tried to get the shampoo out again. He was pulled out before he could turn his face to capture some water to drink, the cool spray teasing on his cracked lips.
He wasn’t sure what happened next.
Three men blocked the door of the bathroom. His vision faltering as dizziness hit.
Pet
e’s voice — outraged as he was taken from the camera man.
Hands dragging him away.
Then nothing.
*
Present
Blair’s voice trailed off. As much as he tried, nothing was clear after that. “I think they took me out then. I don’t remember seeing Pete again.”
“They?” Simon asked, gently.
Blair looked up at him, grateful for Simon being there, the solidness of the captain’s presence in the room. “The henchmen. Muscle Man, Scar Man, another guy, too. Maybe the Hispanic guy. I’m sorry, Simon. I wish I could be more exact.”
“You’re doing fine, son.”
“Do you know what happened when they took you out?” Jim asked, from where he had knelt at Blair’s side as he related his memories.
Blair looked down to see their hands clasped together, in the way that gave him strength and calmed his emotions. Why or how it worked, Blair wasn’t ready to investigate that. It worked, and right now, he needed it to work. But Jim had asked a question, one he had no answer for.
“Sorry. It comes in bits and pieces. I don’t know why I remember what I do remember.”
“That’s okay. You’re doing fine.”
Woodward was writing notes, but finally stopped, his pen tapping against the paper. “So, you think that’s what happened at 3:00 a.m. that matches Ellison’s—” Woodward’s voice broke off.
“My dream,” the detective filled in.
“What else do we have?” Woodward looked down at his legal pad of paper. “What time was he found at the rest stop south of Everett?”
“About 9:30 p.m.,” Simon answered.
“It was raining then, wasn’t it?”
“Pouring.”
“Was there water under the trailer?”
“It rained all day yesterday,” Jim answered, still holding Blair’s hand.
“How long do you estimate the trailer was there?”
“Blair was in the trailer approximately three or four hours, according to the doctor. Much of this was based on how old the wounds were, scrapes and bruises, and his absorption of the odors from the bodies. The van itself was not dirty, but he had dirt that had to be cleaned from the cut on his right calf, dirt not found in the trailer. The wound was fairly recent.”
“My leg hit the side of the door when they threw me into the van,” Blair said. “It was muddy.” He shrugged as the men turned and stared at him. “Sorry.”
“Feel free to add whatever you want.”
“I just remembered it.”
“Tell us about the van,” Woodward asked, softly.
“I think I told you everything already. That’s all I remembered.”
Frank Black stood up suddenly and moved over to Blair. There was something about the look in his eyes that was frightening. He put his hand on Blair’s shoulder, but looked at Jim as he spoke. “I saw him in the van. He was gagged. They threw him inside. He landed on top of bodies. They threatened him with a knife to lie still and not move.”
“Were these the wrapped bodies from the semi?” Woodward asked.
“No. These had been recently killed. The blood hadn’t dried yet on their skin. Their throats were slit. The men held a knife at your throat,” Frank added, looking at Blair’s neck.
“The meeting at Seattle P.D. had already started,” Jim said. “That would make it about — 2:15 p.m.?”
“Sounds right,” Frank agreed.
Blair shivered. They were talking about something he didn’t remember — didn’t want to remember — but he knew they were right. He knew it had happened. He knew ��� “Their eyes were open,” he whispered. He looked to Frank, who nodded, then turned to the man still close at his side. “I was in a van, Jim. A white van.”
“The van discovered in Everett. Forensics in Everett have been going over the vehicle and will call me with their report — I was actually expecting their call an hour ago.” Woodward took his cell phone out and placed it on the table, ready.
“We could verify the blood samples. Blair’s wound would have bled.” Simon smiled at him apologetically.
He smiled back, curiously detached from what they were discussing. He had seen the bandage on his leg, but hadn’t paid attention to what Jim was doing when he changed the dressing. It was strange to suddenly remember getting the injury.
Woodward was flipping pages in his notebook. “From what we were already told by the Everett police, the van was found at 6:00 p.m. The motor was still warm, indicating it had been abandoned approximately twenty to thirty minutes previous.”
Simon glanced at the map. “So, Sandburg is put in the van with several bodies at approximately 2:15 p.m. He is taken from the van prior to 5:30 p.m.”
They all turned and stared at him, but he had nothing to add, so they kept talking.
“At about ��� 6:30 p.m. last night, I had the feeling that Sandburg was sleeping or unconscious,” Jim said. “He wasn’t moving.”
“He wasn’t moving, or the vehicle he was in wasn’t moving?” Nash asked.
“I don’t know. I just had the impression he was safe.” Jim shrugged. “Safer, anyway.”
“Away from the others,” Frank mused, then nodded, agreeing. “The time is right. If they transferred Blair into the semi-trailer near the mall parking, abandoned the van there at 5:30, then drove to the rest stop, 5:45 or 6:00, disconnected the semi-trailer, they could have left in the truck tractor. It could easily hold three people across the front.”
“In that case, we are still trying to ascertain where he was between 2:15 and 5:30 p.m.,” Woodward said, staring at the map. “And there are five grated bridges within the area, with similar road conditions around them.”
Bridges ��� There was something about a bridge, about water ��� Blair closed his eyes, remember the sensation of the bridge, of crossing the grated metal surface.
His breath caught in his throat as a second memory detached itself. He felt Jim’s hand on his back.
“You’re in the trailer. Remember how it feels going over the bridge deck,” Jim’s voice said, a soft echo of his own words, his own voice when he spoke as a guide. “Do you have it?”
“Yeah,” he whispered, trying to catch the second memory, the echo.
“Remember the feeling of the bridge ��� except now you’re in a van. It feels different. Just a little bit different.” Jim’s voice was hypnotic. “The tires, the vibration is different, but you can still recognize it.”
“Yeah,” he whispered again, feeling the scene change.
*
Previous
He had huddled against the rear door, trying to stay away from the bodies. They had thrown him to land on top of them, his bare skin touching their bare skin, and the feeling was terrifying. They were dead. Their eyes were open. The construction men, he thought, his face pressed against the door. In the front of the van, Muscle Man was in the driver’s seat, concentrating on the road in the rain.
He felt the bridge deck as they passed over it. It sent unpleasant vibrations through his body, giving him a sour taste in his mouth. The gag hurt, biting into the side of his lips.
A cell phone rang, and the van swerved as the Muscle Man — Karl — picked it up.
“Yeah? ��� The Indian reservation ��� Uh-huh. Lighten the load��� I dunno. The 3:10 if I can make it. If not, the 3:50��� . It’s Friday; the traffic will already be a bitch coming over this way ��� Yeah, I’ll be there ��� yeah ��� No problem. You just be there on time. We need to be back by nine ��� Huh? ��� 7:55 if we’re lucky��� . No way. Next one will be too late��� . So I fucking memorized the schedule I’ve done it enough ��� If you don’t hear from me ��� Fuckin’ idiot,” he finished, tossing the cell phone on the passenger chair.
The van swerved again, but the road seemed different; the feel of the pavement had altered. Ten minutes of driving and they left that road, heading along an unpaved road, deep bumps as th
e van hit potholes knocking Blair about. His hands tied behind his back gave him no way to keep himself from falling, and one particular bad jolt rolled him onto his side, face to bloody face with a corpse. He lunged backward, knocking his head against the back of the van in his desperate attempt to get away from the body.
The van had stopped.
The side door opened and Muscle Man took out first one body, then the other.
“You ready?” the man asked, hooking Blair’s elbow and dragging him closer. His back scraped along the dirty floor. A cloth was pressed over his nose, and with the gag in his mouth, he had no choice but to breathe in the fumes that rendered him unconscious.
*
Present
Ellison had to close his eyes to steady himself. It was hard to see Sandburg sitting so calmly at the table reciting what had happened to him. Ellison still had his hand on his partner’s back, the open-palm touch connecting him with his guide. He’s steadying me, too, he had to admit.
Yes, they were getting closer to an idea of where this warehouse might have been located. Woodward was going through his massive briefcase looking for a Western Washington information book that would give him the times of the local ferries.
Yes, Sandburg was handling this all remarkably well. Even Simon seemed to be relaxing as the kid calmly answered their questions, relating traumatic details of his capture in as clear a style as though he were giving a damned lecture on correct victim responses in a hostage situation.
But there was no way that Sandburg had remotely come close to convincing him that there was a safe, or reasonably safe way for him to get back to the warehouse and help rescue Evan. Yet his pleas remained sound. If Evan was at a different location — it was quite possible they would lose him if they rushed the place as Woodward proposed to with his SWAT unit.
“Sorry, that’s all I remember,” Sandburg said finally, exhausted by their questions and his memories, sagging ever-so-slightly against Ellison hand.
“You seem sure about the times he gave.”
“I remember thinking them over and over, trying to remember them. I couldn’t figure out what he meant, but you’re right,” he said, with a curious smile, as though this were some damned puzzle they were trying to solve. “They’re probably sailing times. A ferry.”
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