No Center Line

by Lois RH Balzer

  “Which the Sound is riddled with,” Woodward muttered. He started to say more, but a sharp rap on the door caused them all to turn, hands going to weapons.

  Simon went to the door, as Ellison moved to stand in front of Sandburg. “Who is it?”

  “Is Nash Bridges there? Captain Bridges?”

  Nash stepped forward, a relieved smile on his face. “Harvey.” He opened the door to a man in his early-to-mid forties, comfortably embracing him, drawing him into the suite, then embracing him again before introducing him to the others. “This is Evan’s partner, Harvey Leek, a valued member of our SIU group.”

  As well-tailored as Nash Bridges appeared to be, this man was the opposite. His clothes looked as though they had been thrown on, an almost ‘Blair Sandburg’ style of dress that came from shopping at the local thrift store because the salesclerk was cute. Harvey had an orange and green shirt that looked to be a reject from the sixties, a yellow woven vest that was loose and bulky enough to hide his police-issue holster and weapon, and curiously enough, a Jerry Garcia/Grateful Dead black armband. Brown curly hair was interrupted by a patch of white curls on his forehead, an unruly mass of contradictions, much like Ellison’s own partner.

  Harvey Leek was not what Ellison had expected. He looked nothing at all like the pictures they had of Evan Cortez, either in age, or dress, or style. But then, Jim admitted, he looked nothing like Sandburg, just as Rafe looked nothing like Brown.

  Blair stood up and approached him, still walking awkwardly, past time for his pain medication. “Evan talked about you a lot,” he said.

  Harvey looked embarrassed. “Aw, he probably either exaggerated or made it up.”

  “I’m sorry he’s not here,” Sandburg whispered, eyes once again filling with tears. “We’ll get him back.”

  “Damn right we will,” Harvey whispered back, then closed the distance between them and drew Blair into a warm hug. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he said softly, but still heard by sentinel ears. “I deeply wish that Evan was here, safe, too, but please don’t think that I would wish your places reversed.”

  Sandburg nodded against his shoulder, then pulled back from Leek and stumbled against Ellison, who was directly behind him.

  Ellison held out his hand. “Jim Ellison. We’ll do what we can. We think we have some good leads here.”

  Harvey smiled, his sad eyes crinkling as he looked at the other man. “Thank you for your help, Detective Ellison. You have my undying gratitude for helping us. I’m sure that after everything your partner has been through, it would be so easy to just pack him up and go back to Cascade, rather than stay and assist us.”

  “My pleasure,” Ellison found himself saying. “We’ll do everything we can.”

  “Any news?” Harvey asked, then. Dark circles beneath his eyes matched those in the group he was now joining.

  Nash filled him in on what they were working on while Harvey commandeered a corner of the table, took out a lap top computer, and set it up, tying into the phone line and pulling up information on Western Washington State ferries before Woodward had found the correct page in his book.

  “Kingston to Edmonds is a match,” Harvey said, as he keyed up the correct screen. He turned and pulled another item out of the large black briefcase he had come in with, and within two minutes, the streamlined, portable printer was spitting out copies of the on-line schedule.

  “He mentioned an Indian Reservation,” Woodward said. “I’ve got information on them here in my book. Where—”

  “Port Madison Indian Reservation is to the south of Kingston,” Harvey announced, peering at his computer screen as Woodward tossed his directory onto the bed, in defeat. “And Port Gamble Indian Reservation is to the north.”

  “Bridges nearby?”

  “There is a bridge in the south to Bainbridge Island, and one in the north to the peninsula near Shine.”

  “Distance?”

  “About the same to each. Ten to twelve miles.”

  Sandburg leaned forward, staring at the computer. “Could you look something up for me?”

  “Certainly.” Harvey’s eyes softened as he looked at the young man, knowing what Blair had been through, and who he had been with. “What would you like?”

  “Could you look up the 7-Eleven stores in Washington?”

  “What do you need, Sandburg?” Simon asked, shaking his head. “The Yellow Pages are right here. We can have it delivered.”

  “Specifically,” Sandburg said, “I want the 7-Eleven stores by Kingston, Washington. Get their fax numbers, too, if they have one.”

  “Why?” Harvey asked.

  “Because that’s how I’m gonna find Pete. Every morning he has a cup of coffee with him. And it’s hot. It has to be nearby.”

  “We fax or take Pete’s picture to the 7-Eleven stores in the area,” Ellison said, his hand resting on his partner’s shoulder, “we find out which one he frequents, then tomorrow morning—”

  “—he’ll get his coffee, a donut, his newspaper — and me,” Sandburg said, with a triumphant smile, looking at the others, then turning to face Ellison. “Thanks for backing me up, Jim,” he whispered. “It’ll work. I know it will work.”

  The thundering noise in the sentinel’s ears was the echo of his own heartbeat. That’s what I’m afraid of. How can I possibly let him walk away with you?

  No Center Line

  *

  Chapter Ten

  *

  “Joe Dominguez, SIU. How may I help you?”

  “You can help me by tuning into the newscast there tonight at 6:00.”

  “Nash! What’s happening? Did it work? I’ve been waiting all afternoon for someone to call. You’d think that with two of you there, at least one of you would have time to call poor, old me left behind to man the fort, but, nooooo ��� Out of sight, out of mind. Forget that I’m all alone, running everything by myself — huh? What? — Oh, Michelle is here and she says to say ‘hi’ to you and Harvey. ‘Hi!’ There, I said it. Have you heard from that bank in Chicago yet? No? Then get to it. Scram, woman. Out of my space — Ouch!”

  “Joe, Joe, Joe ��� When will you learn?”

  “She didn’t have to pinch my butt.”

  “Someone’s got to do it when I’m not there.”

  “Yeah, right. None of you show me any respect ��� Seriously, Nash, I’m glad to hear from you. Excuse my babbling. I’m just worried, that’s all. What’s happening, man? Did you get anywhere with the 7-Eleven faxes?”

  “Not yet. They haven’t been sent out yet; they’re still getting information together and deciding on how to handle the calls. The police composite artist just left here and she’ll do up a good copy and get it out to the various department’s involved.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Everett Hospital.”

  “Everything okay? Who’s hurt?”

  “We just had ourselves a honey of a media circus earlier today, Bubba. I’m hoping it’ll show up on the news stations in San Francisco, as well. Be sure to tune into it. Should be on in half an hour.”

  “Yeah? What about? Which plan did you go with?”

  “We faked the opening of the semi-trailer that Blair was found in. Whew — if it was ripe in there last night, it was twice that at 1:00 when we reopened it.”

  “How did you get Blair ‘out’ of the semi-trailer when he was already ‘out’?”

  “We kept the majority of the police officers, news crews, reporters, and the like well back, then got the ambulance attendants to bring in some equipment. Sandburg was all scrunched up in a body bag that was lifted into the semi-trailer - supposedly with equipment in it — then he made his miraculous exit on the spine board.”

  “And they bought it?”

  “Hook, line, and mortgage.”

  “Then what? Did they interview him?”

  “Not yet. We got him and Ellison into the ambulance without talking to anyone, and the ambulance headed off to Everett Hospital. We stayed
behind while they brought the rest of the bodies out.”

  “Anyone identify them?”

  “Yeah. The names we had thought. Harold Woodward was pretty broken up. None of the other cities had an officer there until just before the coroner’s wagon left and the captain of the Santa Cruz Police Force showed up via helicopter. He had been at the Seattle-Tacoma airport when he got the news. San Diego and Santa Barbara Police Departments have their officials on route to Seattle, where the bodies have been taken.”

  “So now what happens?”

  “Well, we were all interviewed. Word is out that Sandburg has amnesia. If we can find out where this Pete guy gets his coffee, maybe he can have a happy reunion with Sandburg.”

  “And what if he just shoots him?”

  “Blair seems convinced that he won’t.”

  “Isn’t this the kid with Swiss cheese for memories?”

  “He’s pretty set on this. Even his partner has backed down. For now, anyway. The agreement is to go ahead with the idea, and we’ll monitor it. At least if we can capture Pete, that’s a start.”

  “Won’t he just cop a plea if he gets caught? Lessen his sentence?”

  “He’s probably heading for life imprisonment so it won’t make much difference. Jurgen is the one we want to catch. And according to Blair, Evan’s at a different location now. If we take down one group, the others will slip through our fingers.”

  “So the plan is — what? — to follow the camera man and Blair to one place, then follow them to the second place and capture them all at once?”

  “More or less.”

  “Won’t monitoring them be a problem? These guys will have the latest surveillance equipment.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue here, Bubba. Ellison’s surveillance equipment is the best I’ve ever seen in operation. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

  *

  June 20, Saturday

  Everett, Washington

  4:30 p.m.

  Blair lay quietly in the hospital room, holding on to his partner’s hand tightly, trying to fight the growing weariness that was creeping over him. He had a sneaking suspicion that the shot Dr Morrison had given him had more in it than the good doctor had told him. I should have read that paper I signed. Serves me right.

  His head jerked as he discovered himself drifting off, and he opened his eyes. Jim’s hand squeezed his, but the detective’s concentration was focused elsewhere. Jim had headphones on, monitoring what was happening back at the I-5 rest stop, listening to Simon’s voice as he spoke to the last of the media.

  “Jim?” he said softly, then smiled when the sentinel turned to him. “I wanna hear.”

  With a reluctant nod, Jim took the headphones off and handed them to Blair, since he was totally able to hear clearly from where he sat.

  I wonder if he could hear all the way to the rest stop? That’s what? Ten miles? He had tested Jim at a quarter mile, a half mile, and at even a mile. There had been times when, out of control, Jim’s senses had picked up conversations that they estimated were two or three miles away, but he had no way of consciously focusing on a single conversation at that distance. Now, if someone were standing on a mountain, and the sentinel could actually see them, could he listen to them by piggybacking his hearing on his sight? Hmmm ��� I see more tests when this is over, my friend.

  Simon’s voice came over the microphone, stealing Blair’s attention as he heard the captain express his relief to the reporter that Sandburg had been through a terrible ordeal, but he was alive, although they had yet to see what his condition was.

  It was weird hearing the sincerity of the captain’s voice, almost as though the staged event had been real. He had sounded so shaken. But then, the real thing had happened the evening before. Blair couldn’t remember much of the previous night, except falling and being caught, opening his eyes and seeing Jim looking down over him, and the cool raindrops landing on his face mixing with his partner’s hot tears.

  Or was Simon thinking about the university fountain?

  Blair certainly had. And Jim had, in the ambulance, his hand clenched so tight over Blair’s that it hurt. He could see it on the detective’s face: the panic when the ambulance attendant had put an oxygen mask on his face, just like had happened a month before. Only then, he had needed it. This time, it was just for show. Almost. The smell of the bodies had been overwhelming, almost making him physically sick to his stomach and bringing back dim remembrances of that smell on his skin, on his hair.

  Even now, two hours after his apparent ‘discovery’, Jim was still at his side, almost afraid to be parted from him. Looking back, certainly, at what had happened a month ago. More than that, he was probably looking ahead to tomorrow morning, when he was going to have to let Blair go with Pete. It’ll work, Jim. Please don’t fight me on this.

  He couldn’t concentrate on what he was hearing and pulled the headphones off his head, leaving them to lie on the bed next to him. Jim didn’t really need them on, anyway. He let his eyes close, trying to relax, trying not to think about the next day.

  Without intending to, he dozed off, waking when someone touched his arm or something. It wasn’t Jim; it was ��� the doctor. Dr Morrison. It was okay, then. Jim was there, standing aside for the doctor to look at him. That’s what had woken him. Not someone touching him, but the sudden absence of touch.

  Prearranged, Dr Benjamin Morrison had met them at the Everett hospital when the ambulance arrived. For the sake of the local staff, Morrison was introduced to his patient and partner as being sent by the sheriff’s office as a part of the Emergency Response Team, a specialist in trauma cases from Bellevue dispatched to handle the call. No one at Everett Hospital seemed to question how he had made it to the hospital before the ambulance. Before the local group knew what was happening, Ellison and his partner were safe in this semi-private room, a police guard on the door and Dr Morrison insisting on complete privacy for his traumatized patient.

  “Just rest, Blair. Take advantage of some down-time.” The doctor’s hand paused along his forehead and the side of his face, then Blair felt the blood pressure cuff on his arm. Familiar things now: the hospital gown drawn down to listen to his heart and lungs, his pulse taken, the click of the thermometer against his ear. No use in saying he wasn’t sick. They would do it anyway.

  Jim’s hand settled over his brow, fingers extending into his hair, a sentinel blessing. Guarding, protecting.

  Strange how something like that could put him to sleep.

  *

  Ellison glanced up when the door opened to let in Nash Bridges and Harvey Leek. He was sitting on the edge of his partner’s bed, watching him sleep, and Harvey perched on the room’s other bed.

  “How’s he doing?” he asked, peering down at Blair’s pale face.

  “It’s been a long day,” Ellison said, tugging the blankets higher. It wasn’t cold in the room and Sandburg was resting comfortably, but it made him feel better. At least he was doing something. “He’s sleeping finally.”

  “Is he okay?” Nash asked.

  “Just tired. I think being there at the trailer was draining on him. How did it go at the rest stop after we left?” Ellison stood, stretching.

  Nash shrugged as he sat in one of the chairs. “That’s hard to say. On one hand, it went beautifully. The news crews and reporters were convinced that Blair Sandburg is one lucky son-of-a-gun. There were so many camera flashes when he was lifted out of the semi-trailer and taken to the ambulance, that I was blinded by them ��� On the other hand, there were four bodies. It was still a grisly discovery and I can’t get away from the smell.”

  “I know what you mean,” Simon said, entering the room. “I thought it was bad last night, but this was way worse.”

  “Try Thai food,” Harvey offered.

  “What?”

  “Try some hot Thai food. Your face breaks into a sweat and gets rid of the smell. Either that or cigars work. We always carry
cigars with us.”

  “I wondered why you kept one around,” Nash said. “I never got around to asking you and Evan why you each kept a cigar when neither of you ever smoked it. Thought you were taking lessons from Bill or something.”

  “Nope. It works wonders for the smell.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I’m in this situation.”

  “Well, as someone who had a cigar with him today,” Simon said, patting his jacket pocket, “and made good use of it, I might add — I say we get some Thai food after the news broadcast anyway. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast today, and we’re going to be up late tonight planning for tomorrow.”

  Ellison glanced at his watch. “The news is on soon.”

  “Good. Woodward said to see what the reaction is on the 6:00 Evening News, then go from there. He’ll meet us later tonight, but he, understandably, has to be at Seattle P.D. to handle the official announcement of the discovery of Glenn Relkie’s body.”

  “Where’s Frank Black?” Ellison asked.

  “He left shortly after you did, following up on some leads. Based on what Sandburg told him, he’s checking the FBI database to see what he can come up with on previous instances of a crime like this. He said he’d call soon.” Nash rubbed at his forehead, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ease what was probably a fairly hefty headache that Ellison could identify with. “Man, I can’t think. Anyone got some Tylenol?”

  Harvey reached into one pocket and withdrew a small container that he tossed to his captain

  Nash popped a couple pills into his mouth, dry-swallowed them, and continued, “Dr Morrison will release Sandburg at 8:00 p.m. — in about two hours. We have a motel booked for tonight in Lynnwood, along Highway 524, about two or three miles from Edmonds, where the ferry docks. It’s close enough for Sandburg to believably wander down that way. Woodward’s secretary reserved two rooms: one for the three of you, and one for Harvey and myself. Same motel.”