And no one else could do it.
Jim couldn’t do this.
A wave of aloneness swept over him. And panic. His heart was hammering in his chest. Blindly, he turned over, instinct directing him, drawing him into the sentinel’s arms.
This was Jim’s fault, this needing. Jim and his stupid ‘fifteen minutes’. Blair wasn’t sure what he hated most: that he desperately needed the time, or that it worked. That was the strange part. It worked — it didn’t get rid of the problem, but it gave it some context. I am not alone. More than anything, that’s what it had taught him. It had ingrained itself into him that he was not alone. Someone was with him, someone cared if anything happened to him, someone would be there if it did. Someone valued him.
Sissy.
Maybe. So what? Wasn’t he allowed?
Fraidy-cat.
Definitely, at this particular moment, anyway.
Wuss
Blair shifted closer to Jim, demanding the warmth and comfort and security that was being passed to him, as though by osmosis. It amazed him that Jim didn’t mind this huggy stuff. Jim initiated it usually. So what did the sentinel get out of it, except for what Jim described as a transcendent peace that encompassed him when he knew his guide was safe.
Even now, Jim seemed suddenly more relaxed, calm, and settled. Less ‘Jim’ maybe, and more ‘Sentinel’. Jim had told him once about a comment Simon had made, that he could imagine them a hundred years ago, in the jungle, the sentinel on watch in the night, his guide close to him to keep him from zoning even as he slept. Then their positions would reverse, the guide watching while the sentinel slept, the enhanced senses still monitoring his guide’s pulse, the sentinel instantly aware of any danger, as though using his guide’s vision and hearing while his were resting.
Is that was what was happening now? Was this closeness, this need to be physically close, something within the matrix that made Jim a sentinel? And, I guess, made me a guide?
Or was it the depth of friendship they shared, clumsily expressed in daily life, but manifesting itself in crisis situations?
Or was it ���?
Whatever, was his last conscious thought as he drifted back to sleep, wrapped in warm security.
*
Blair didn’t move once he fell asleep, but Jim waited nearly fifteen minutes before getting out of bed and retrieving the files. He was long since past the time of feeling guilty about taking comfort in holding his guide. Or trying to explain it — that was Sandburg’s department. He just knew that he had to do it, and it worked. It calmed Blair, and it calmed him. There was an amazing sense of awed pride in the massive trust Sandburg had in him, to allow himself to be that vulnerable.
Jim sat on Simon’s bed and read the case folder one more time, then turned on the 11:00 news and watched the coverage, the sound virtually turned off. Every few minutes, he would look at his guide, unmoving beneath the mound of blankets, and he would seek out his heartbeat and his breathing rate, then go back to what he was doing. Then he would listen outside the room, to Harvey at his computer in the next suite, the clack of the computer keyboard, the SIU detective’s fingers drumming on the table as he wrestled information from his laptop.
Simon came in finally, his voice dropping to a whisper when he saw Blair was asleep. “I just watched the 11:00 news with Nash. Basically the same coverage as before, but with more information on the other missing men .”
“I saw it, too. This media alert is going to put Jurgen and his men on edge. Anything on our 7-Eleven faxes?” Jim asked, getting up and putting away the case folder.
“Nothing yet. Since Sandburg usually saw Pete midday, we’re going to take the pictures around to the morning staff at the 7-Elevens in the area. Most day staff begin at 7:00 a.m. Once we get an idea which one he was at, we can arrange for Sandburg to be there. We don’t want to miss him if he comes by earlier than usual.”
“And if none of them identify him?”
“Then we take a gamble. They’ll finish canvassing the 7-Elevens by 8:00 and we’ll take it from there.” Simon filled him in on the rest of the plans, then stripped down and got into his bed, stretching at the luxury of being horizontal. “We’re meeting for breakfast at 7:00 at the pancake house down the street. I put in a wake-up call for 6:30.” He rolled over, asleep and snoring within seconds.
Jim turned off the light, then crawled back into bed beside his partner, the slight movement of the bed stirring Blair from his sleep.
“Jim?”
“Shhh. Go to sleep.”
Blair’s eyes fluttered open, seeing nothing in the darkness. “Daniel Crawford’s in jail, right?” he asked, shivering.
Crawford again. It was easy to see the parallel to Sandburg’s mind though. Both times he was victimized. “Yeah.” Jim’s arm went around Blair’s shoulders, tugging him closer. “Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“He’ll be there for a while. He won’t be eligible for parol for a long time.”
Blair nodded, his eyes closing again.
“Did Pete remind you of Crawford?” He couldn’t keep the anger from his voice.
“No. Not really. Just thinking ���” There was a breathiness about Blair’s words that rang alarm bells for the sentinel.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, softly, regaining control of his emotions. “Can you tell me?”
Blair said nothing for a while, and Jim listened to see if he had fallen back asleep. Almost, but not quite, he decided. “Chief?”
A yawn, then the drowsy voice. “Thinking about how different people are… Yet they do the same thing. Crawford wanted little boys… but used me instead. He didn’t go through with it, but he still ��� touched me.”
Jim’s hold tightened, but Blair kept on talking, comfortably tucked under Jim’s arm. Probably feeling safe here. Not a luxury he has during the day, with everyone around.
“Jurgen ��� I don’t remember much of what happened, Jim. It’s all blurry. Out of focus. Just feelings, really. I haven’t remembered anything new all afternoon and evening.”
“Chief ���”
“Jim, Pete was different, though. He really liked me.”
You’re not making this easy on me, buddy.
“He won’t let anything happen to me, Jim. I’ll be safe there.” Nodding to himself, Blair drifted back to sleep.
No, you won’t. It’s my job to keep you safe, not his. You haven’t convinced me, Chief.
*
June 21, Sunday
Bellevue, Washington
It was a beautiful morning, as mornings went. The sun was out, promising to be a warm day. The slight breeze caught his hair, lightly blowing the curls that fell free to his shoulders. He was clean-shaven and scrubbed and bandaged. He had one of Jim’s pullover sweaters on. It was pale blue cotton and two sizes too big and hung low, half off one bare shoulder. The wind went through it, tickling his midriff. He wore an old faded pair of slim cut jeans, one knee worn through, and cheap sandals he had bought that morning at a corner store, purple thongs that snapped as he walked. Physically, he felt better — his ribs hardly bothered him at all, and his other aches and pains were fading, and walking wasn’t causing him discomfort.
As prearranged, he had wandered from the restaurant that morning as Jim went to use the restroom, already lost in the crowd as his disappearance was discovered. Amazing how easy it had been. Five dollars had been enough to pay for the ferry as a foot passenger, and he had pocketed the change without looking. Dazed. It was the look he was after and one that was coming easily. Drugged. Tired.
When the ferry had docked he had started walking along the side of the road, refusing the offer of a ride from a group of girls in a pickup truck. The sandals weren’t made for walking quickly, so he took his time, watching his early morning elongated shadow move before him as he headed west.
He was tired when he finally reached the 7-Eleven. It was this store. The clerk had identified Pete, then was
told to go home for the day and a female police officer took her place. Blair used the restroom, then sat on the single stair outside the front door, his eyes closed, facing the still rising sun. It was almost nine o’clock. The warmth felt good on his face. The breeze teased at his hair. He could smell the ocean water of Puget Sound. Maybe later he would get some coffee, but he was still full from breakfast and it was nice to sit and rest after his walk.
Jim had been funny that morning, fussing with him. Blair had woken to find his partner had brought him a still-warm blueberry muffin and a huge mug of creamy hot chocolate. Not exactly his usual morning fare, but this morning it had been perfect. Half awake, he had broken the muffin into small bites and eaten it, sipping at the fragrant comforting drink. Jim had left him alone to have his shower and take all his various medications and put on the salve where it needed to go. When Jim came back, it was with a T-shirt for him that had a picture of the Space Needle with “I Love Washington” but a heart where the word love should be, and he also had a pair of boxers with the Seattle’s Mariners logo on it. They were all he could find, Jim had said.
“Why did you buy them?” Blair had asked, only to discover that Jim hadn’t brought enough clothes for him — just the single change of clothes he had worn the day before. Jim had been embarrassed at his lack of preparedness. He had thought the one set of clothing would be enough for him to take Blair home in.
He’d worn the boxers, but instead of the T-shirt, Blair had taken Jim’s blue sweater from the duffle bag and pulled it on. Jim said he looked like a street waif in it, and Blair agreed, but it was more the look Pete would have liked than a touristy T-shirt.
Then they had sat, side by side on the edge of the bed. They were supposed to go to the restaurant, but Jim didn’t want to go, and Blair didn’t want Jim to feel so bad. So finally he had taken the initiative and he had been the guide on watch that Simon had talked about. He tugged the sentinel over until Jim’s head rested on his lap, and then he gently placed his hand on top of Jim’s hair. Once before, when Lila had died, he had done this, and it seemed to comfort Jim, caught beneath the blessing of his hand.
They didn’t talk much at times like that, but that wasn’t unusual for them anymore. There were days they talked, and days they didn’t, and it didn’t really matter. Sometimes not saying things, just living and enjoying the company of the other, proved to be his favorite timesof all. A walk along the beach, staring out at the waves as they rolled into the shore. Around the seawall, watching the boats in the harbor. Companionable silence.
Companionable. That’s a nice word, Blair mused now, his eyes still closed as he felt the sun on his face.
Somewhere nearby, Jim was watching him. Jim was there. “Hi,” he whispered, sentinel-soft. “It’s a beautiful day. It’s not raining.”
Some birds overhead cawed. He could hear the traffic on the main thoroughfare; another ferry had docked, the stream of cars passing by. He could faintly smell gas from the gas pumps, just a few yards away from him. He could hear the faint dinging sound of someone filling their gas tank. He could feel the breeze rustling his hair, the sound of it moving the leaves on the trees that surrounded the store. Sometimes, he could pretend to be a sentinel. Except he couldn’t actually hear Jim, but he was comforted that Jim could see him, could hear him when he whispered. The warm feelings worked together to make him feel sleepy, as he rested in the morning sunlight outside the front door of the 7-Eleven.
Ten minutes. Half an hour. Forty-five minutes.
His butt was getting sore. He went inside and used the bathroom again, returning the key to the woman at the counter, who smiled at him nicely. It was disappointing to remember that she was actually a cop who knew who he was, and not just someone who was being nice to him, just because.
Twenty minutes. He yawned, his eyes closing again. The sun was directly on him. The wind had picked up a bit, gusts whirling around him every once in a while, blowing his hair around a bit, and making him shiver. Bu then it would die down, and he’d feel the warm rays again. People would go into the store, then a few minutes later, leave again. No one spoke to him. Forty minutes, and he wondered idly how long Jim and Simon and the others would let him sit out there. What if Pete didn’t show up? Then what? What if he went to more than one 7-Eleven, or went a different way to work that morning, or even made his own coffee instead of buying it?
He shivered as the breeze cut through his sweater again, and wrapped his arms around his chest. He yawned and leaned his head on his knees, face still turned to the sunshine. There was something soothing about the rays, calming. It gave him a confidence that everything would turn out okay, especially on such a beautiful day. A cat rubbed against his leg, and he opened one eye enough to stroke its silky black hair. It purred loudly, putting its paws on his knee and touching a cool nose to his ear, bringing a smile to his face. Then it curled beside him on the stair, not close enough for him to touch, but close enough to be companionable.
That word again.
He had lost track of the time. He wasn’t hungry yet, and he didn’t need to use the restroom again, so he didn’t move from his comfortable spot. The cat purred occasionally, but napped, just like he found himself doing.
Another ferry, he could hear the horn now as it docked. Traffic on the road. The sound of a car pulling up to the store. Door opening and closing. Footsteps. The cat stopped purring.
“My god! Luv, is it you?”
His eyes snapped open as a dark shadow came between him and the sunshine.
Chapter Eleven
*
“Good Morning, SIU—”
“Joe?”
“Nash? What’s happening?”
“Sandburg walked off the ferry in Kingston an hour ago. We’re still waiting for contact.”
“Think it will work?”
“We don’t have much choice, Bubba. Too many possibilities otherwise. This is the closest we have to a sure thing.”
“How safe can he be? Isn’t he taking a big risk doing this?”
“That’s been the argument for the past twenty-four hours. He insists this man won’t hurt him.”
“Oh, Michelle’s got an I.D. for you on him. Sounds like it’s a match, anyway.”
“Excellent. I’ve got a pencil — shoot.”
“Scum’s name is Peter Angelo Turnalo. Age 37. No fixed address. Born in Rome, Italy. Moved to San Francisco with his parents when he was thirteen. Several priors. He’s on our database here.”
“What for?”
“Possession of black market pornography videos. Suspicion of involvement with a pornographic kid-flick ring, but charges were dropped for lack of evidence. He served six months for a drug charge, trafficking sedatives. He’s been involved with several borderline legal triplex movies, mainly gay stuff.”
“Sounds like our man, all right. Anything outstanding on him that we can pick him up on?”
“Nothing that I can see. We’ve checked him out on the national database, but aside from a whole lot of unpaid traffic tickets all over the country, he’s clean at the moment.”
“Joe, check and see if the times and locations of those traffic violations matches the part of the country where the doctors and the lawyers were kidnaped. If we could get an idea where their previous setup was, and how they dismantled their operation, it might help us now.”
“I’ll get on that right away. It shouldn’t take long. Anything else?”
“What about Jurgen? Anything at all on him?”
“No, at least not under any spelling we could come up with, first or last name. And no connections by anyone with a name remotely like that and Pete Turnalo.”
“Well, keep on it. Hang on ��� Wish us luck, Bubba. A man just approached Sandburg.”
“Luck, man. Luck.”
*
*
Sunday, June 21, 10:45 a.m.
Kingston, Washington
Blair blinked owlishly at the camera operator, but decided not to say anythi
ng. Besides, his mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara.
“Luv? Blair?” Pete started to crouch down in front of him, but suddenly stood up and looked around, piercing eyes scanning the parking lot, the gas pumps, then taking a step into the store and checking it out. Satisfied no one else was around, the dark-haired man returned and squatted in front of him. “Luv? I heard you were still alive.” He smiled, tears forming in his eyes as he looked down at Blair. “Head’s a bit messed up though, huh?” Pete reached out, lightly fingering Blair’s hair, then wrapped a curl around one finger and tugged on it gently before releasing it, his warm hand trailing down the side of the young man’s face.
Don’t move, Blair cautioned himself, slowly breathing out as the hand caressed his hair again. Don’t pull away. It took all his concentration to keep himself calm, but he knew the moment he showed any fear, Jim would show up, despite their plan, and Pete would be eating dirt. “Hi,” he whispered, instead, glancing up at Pete, then petting the black cat that had crept closer to his side. It sniffed at Pete’s hand and he scratched its nose. Satisfied for the moment, it moved away, returning to its previous position, watching him through slitted eyes.
“I’ve got two cats at home,” Pete murmured. “This little male seems to like you.”
“Cat,” Blair said, softly, breathing out again, willing himself not to panic. “Nice cat.” Great dialogue, Sandburg. Try complete sentences. But he couldn’t think of anything to say except, Where’s Evan, you bastard? — which probably wasn’t a good opening, considering the circumstances.
Pete studied him carefully, smiling each time Blair’s heavy-lidded gaze met his eyes. “What are you doing out here, all by yourself, luv? They said on the radio that you’d wandered away from the cops during breakfast. I actually drove around the area seeing if I could find you.”
That took him by surprise, and he wondered what Jim had made of that statement. “I’m hungry,” Blair offered, glancing up at Pete. There, I added a verb this time. If he could keep his conversation simple, it would give Pete more power in the situation and hopefully bring out the man’s protective nature. “Please?” he asked, his voice wavering, staring at the man with an innocent, woebegone smile. “Hungry?”
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