“Sure.” Pete stood, then offered his hand to Blair, who allowed himself to be drawn to his feet. The cat hissed at him and disappeared into the shrubbery in front of the 7-Eleven. “They’ve got food in here.”
“Thank you, Pete,” Blair whispered, striving for shy and hoping he didn’t look like an imbecile as he let Pete usher him into the store.
*
Nash sat behind the wheel of the car, Jim Ellison beside him staring at something happening a block away. It was one thing Sandburg explaining to them that Jim had heightened sight and hearing; it was another thing seeing the man sitting there, obviously observing and listening to a conversation he shouldn’t naturally be able to hear without surveillance equipment. For some reason, Nash thought, with a private grin, if Ellison was bionic or whatever like the Six Million Dollar Man, it would have been easier to accept rather than it be ‘genetic’. Yet Harvey seems to have heard about it before. I’ll have to get him to let me read some of those articles he was talking to Blair about.
The silence in the car dragged on. Ellison was monitoring the conversation, but unfortunately there was no way for Nash to listen in on what he was picking up. “So is that Pete?” he asked finally, touching Ellison’s elbow to get his attention.
“Yes,” the detective answered, after a moment. “Turnalo, right? Is that what Joe said?”
“Peter Turnalo. Age 37—”
“I heard the rest,” Ellison said, cutting him off, still staring up ahead. “Let them know he’s made contact and it appears to be going smoothly. No indication of danger at this point. Let it play out longer.”
Nash phoned over to Woodward, who was coordinating everything, and passed on the information about Turnalo. So far, everything was on schedule. Blair had reached his destination and Pete had shown up when he was supposed to. Long range cameras had just reported good clear shots of the man, probably already on route to be developed to confirm his identity. At this point, anything could blow the case wide open.
Binoculars up, Nash had a glimpse of what Ellison must be seeing. Pete Turnalo was wearing a navy windbreaker and jeans with a sharp crease down the front. His wavy dark hair was cut short in the back, but long in front, one heavy curl sliding down over his forehead, his olive skin darkly tanned. Not just one, but three gold chains hung around his neck, another thick gold chain on his wrist, along with three rings on his left hand, and more, probably, on his right. Nash smiled, ready to bet that the man was doused in after-shave and cologne.
Turnalo had taken Blair into the store and now was exiting it, leading him by the hand, and gently helping him into a red convertible sports car. Blair looked lost and young and vulnerable, his arms crossed over his ribs, still protecting them as he worked his way past Pete’s suspicions. Through the binoculars, Nash was able to see that already Blair had evoked a similar need in Turnalo to protect him that they all had experienced.
On closer examination, he realized that Blair was probably hugging the sweater about him — his partner’s sweater — more for security than to ease any pain. For a moment a tear lingered in the corner of Nash’s eye at the deadly risk this young man was taking for Evan and the others.
“Everything looks okay so far,” he ventured, trying to convince himself by hearing it out loud.
Ellison nodded, his jaw clenching, and Nash knew he had come to the same conclusion. “He’s getting ready to pull out.”
Nash started the rental car, listening to it idle as Ellison passed on Turnalo’s car information and license plate into his cell phone. There were two possibilities for a route Turnalo might take, both leading to bridges. The northwest route left from Kingston along Highway 104 toward Port Gamble, over a bridge to Shine, then branched off into several directions. The southwest route was a two-lane paved road that intersected with Highway 305, then went over a bridge to Bainbridge Island. The only way on or off the island was via that bridge on the north side, or on a ferry that ran from Winslow on the eastern side of the island, across Puget Sound over to Seattle.
“Let’s go,” the Cascade detective ordered, still staring down the road. He continued talking to Woodward on the phone, “He’s pulling out, heading southwest toward Indianola. Cancel the crew along 104.”
Nash drove along the tree-lined road, quickly losing sight of the small sports car as he kept back. Far overhead, a traffic helicopter held an extra passenger, a member of the Seattle SWAT team who was tracking the red convertible. Beside him, Ellison monitored the conversation in the car half a mile ahead of them, the cold look on his face testament to his continued concern over the situation.
Unable to hear anything, Nash drove on down the road, comparing the man next to him with the one he had seen earlier that morning, his arms wrapped around his partner, unwilling to let him go. And comparing him to the man who had sat later at the breakfast table, listening without comment, silently supportive, as Sandburg went over his undercover role with Woodward, the young man’s expressive hands moving as he talked. Sandburg was an excellent communicator, able to explain exactly what he felt Turnalo would do if he found him. So far, he was right on the money.
It was an unusual partnership across the board. Age. Background. Appearance. The rather disturbing fact that Sandburg was not a cop. Yet their record in solving cases was phenomenal. At first, Nash assumed it was all Ellison’s ability and the kid was just for show, but as events unfolded, he had come to realize the important part Sandburg played in their partnership. What he had seen initially as Ellison playing a dominant role had more to do with Sandburg being half-alive. Even as they sat in the restaurant, Nash had thought that Ellison would usurp his authority and flatly refuse to let him go. But however much Ellison wanted his partner safe and by his side, somehow within himself, he found the strength to let him go. And it was tearing him apart, but he was letting the rope out as far as he dared, ready to pounce the moment things started going bad. That the case had proceeded as far as it had, indicated a high level of support between them and his belief in Blair’s abilities.
Nash had to do that himself, every time he sent one of his team out on an assignment. And it only got worse, the closer he became to them personally and emotionally. He thought back to times when Joe had been under deep cover, and remembered his own trepidation, beyond the concern for a co-worker, for a friend. It was part of his soul out there.
Still at the restaurant — before Harvey and Frank and he had left, leaving Blair the opportunity to believably wander away — the group had said goodbye and wished the young man luck. Jim had held out his hand palm out and Blair had looked at him for a long moment, then pressed his own palm against his partner’s. It was more passionate than if they had kissed, more emotional, somehow, to those who watched them. A promise, a covenant between them. One soul dedicated to the other.
Yet Jim Ellison had let him walk out of the restaurant.
Nash glanced at him now, seeing what that decision had cost Ellison, the pain on his face.
It was part of Jim Ellison’s soul — part of who he was — riding in the sports car ahead of him on the winding road. Nash had seen the depth of love and support and comfort this man had given to his partner over the last thirty-six hours and knew that it was because of that total acceptance that Blair was able to do what he was doing now, instead of staying that traumatized victim he had been when they recovered him. If I learn nothing else from this, it would be this. That I have seen a man restore his partner to health and sanity, by simply overwhelming him with the tangible reality of their belief in, their devotion to, and their love of each other.
And that’s what had happened. Ellison had simply absorbed Sandburg’s pain. Nash was sure of it. He’d driven out the humiliation, the fear, and the anxiety, replacing it with himself. No easy feat.
Nash geared down, glimpsing the car a quarter mile ahead of him. He was glad he had asked Harvey to come up. Between the two of them, maybe they would just have enough support and love to offer Evan when they got him back.
We’ve got to find him. That was all there was to it. Yet the second thought crept in. What if Evan’s already dead, and this is all for nothing? Nash’s fingers clenched on the steering wheel as he fought back the thought, focusing himself on the current situation. Seconds later, it had returned. Evan, hang on. For God’s sake, hang on, man. We’re doing the best we can.
*
Shit.
His first sight of the warehouse sent his heart hammering again. There it is. That’s where everything happened.
It didn’t look like much, just a nondescript building that could have been a new barn or other storage area. Lumber was stacked to one side, under tarps, waiting to be used. Besides Pete’s car, the only other cars were a black Bronco 4x4 parked by the house and over by the warehouse was an ancient purple Gremlin with rusted fenders and a Ford pickup truck that was probably a lot newer than Jim’s. Trying to look dazed at where he was, Blair looked around sleepily, noting that the trees bordering the property hid the road from his sight, and so the opposite would apply. Not that there would be much traffic anyway along the gravel road, other than the local landowners.
He wondered how Jim was going to proceed. The roads would surely be watched, and by now the men would be familiar with the cars belonging to the locals.
“Come along, luv. Jurgen’s not here — just as well. He’s not going to be happy that I brought you back. But I couldn’t let you stay there, now, could I?”
Blair summoned up a shining smile for him, pushing his hair back from his face as he turned all his charm on the camera man. “I remember you.”
Pete beamed. “What else do you remember?”
Blair shrugged, looking around again. “Not much.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They?” he asked, looking back at Pete, frowning.
“The people who found you. What did they tell you?”
“I don’t remember them. I didn’t understand them.”
“But you remember me?”
Blair nodded. “I remember you had a camera and there were bright lights here. Am I an actor?” he asked, slowly, looking up at Pete with puzzled eyes.
“Oh, yes,” the man breathed, closing the distance between them, his hands resting on Blair’s shoulder. “I’m going to make you a star.”
“Yeah?” Blair asked, feigning interest, smiling.
“I will most definitely take pictures of you. But first ��� I want to make sure no one has touched my new set for tonight. Let’s go inside and see what’s happening.” Pete frowned suddenly as he looked around, his eyes glancing up to the high-flying traffic helicopter with its station’s call-letters clearly marked on the side.
“It’s a helicopter,” Blair said.
“Yes, my love, and the helicopter is making me nervous.” Pete took him by the elbow and steered him inside the warehouse.
Hope you got that info, Jim. That helicopter is way too close, man.
He followed Pete like a faithful puppy dog through the building, but there was no sight of any of the other men, so he said nothing. Pete seemed to be looking for someone. At the far end of the building, past the room he had been held in before, was an exit to the back of the property, and when Pete pushed the door open and went through it, Blair stayed with him, trying to mutter under his breath what it was he was seeing, hoping that Jim could hear him.
Pete walked out across the field, his boots stepping through the mud that Blair’s thin sandals were no match for. Not wanting to be left behind, he slipped out of them, holding them in one hand as he picked his way after the camera man.
“Karl? Why are you here? I thought we were doing nothing until tomorrow!” Pete called out to Muscle Man, who was overseeing two men digging a trench, all three clad in heavy work gear.
Karl’s eyes went straight to Blair, who kept his gaze as childlike and innocent as he could as the angry man crossed toward him. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“I found him sitting outside the place I stop at for coffee,” Pete said, moving between Karl and Blair before he could make a grab at the young man. “I figured I better pick him up before someone else does,” he said, lowering his voice so the workers couldn’t hear.
“Get him inside.” Karl looked back to the two men he was supervising, probably hired locally and not part of the regular crew. “Keep working,” he called to them, then began to walk toward the warehouse. “Turnalo, I swear you are going to get us noticed. What if you were followed? What if it was a fucking setup?”
“You heard the news last night — hell, you called me and told me to watch it. The kid has amnesia.”
“Since when do you believe everything they say on television? — Get him out of sight.” Muscle Man gave him a sharp whack on the back.
Turnalo grabbed Blair by the arm, steering him back toward the warehouse. “Karl, what are you doing here?”
“Jurgen called us in. He wants to be ready to get out of here mid week. After what happened with the semi-trailer, we’re going to bury the bodies here before we go. With all the construction and everything, it won’t be noticed. These two think they’re digging a trench for underground pipes.”
“What about the other workers that were here?” Pete asked, absently handing Blair a rag to wipe his feet with as they went into the building and waited just inside the entrance for him to finish. “What happened to them?”
“Jurgen did them on Friday morning. I dumped them, but I doubt if they’ll be found any time soon.”
“That’s what Raul said about the semi-trailer.”
“He’s livid about that. Says that someone had to have given the cops the information. How else would they know to break into that particular semi out of all the semi-trailers that are parked up and down the freakin’ I-5?”
Turnalo shrugged. “No idea. Bad luck, I guess.”
“Jurgen thinks this whole setup is falling apart. First the semi-trailer found, then Mr Cascade here being still alive. He’s ready to close up shop and move elsewhere. Says the merchandise deal is the only one worth anything. His buyer confirmed this morning.”
“What about the film tonight? Is it still happening?” Turnalo stood behind Blair, his arm resting casually over his shoulder, as he leaned forward to nuzzle his neck. “I’ve got a willing partner to do the set up for it.”
“Unless you hear otherwise, better to continue with the plan. The set’s ready, isn’t it?”
“I did the finishing touches myself.” Turnalo’s voice dropped, his tongue tracing the edge of Blair’s ear. “The executive comes home from work, comes into his bedroom, puts down his briefcase, and stretches. It’s been a hard day. He removes his suit jacket, letting it fall on the floor. Then he goes over to his bed and looks down. At you. Lying waiting for him. It’s every businessman’s fantasy. Of course, in Jurgen’s version, he’ll have a parking ticket in his hand and the cop who gave it to him is the one lying there. Ready to take his payment, if you get my drift.”
Blair swallowed, feeling his already pounding pulse go up one notch. This was one freaky man. He managed to keep his face looking vaguely uninterested, as though he wasn’t really following the conversation and screaming inside. Instead, he focused his attention on Karl’s earlier comment. ‘Says the merchandise deal is the only one worth anything. His buyer confirmed this morning.’
That could only mean that Evan was still alive. Yes!
Now he had to concentrate on keeping himself alive, or Jim would kill him later.
Turnalo tugged on his hair, the other hand sneaking around to tug his shirt from his jeans. “You’re still muddy. Strip out of those clothes and have a shower.”
“Don’t leave him alone,” Karl ordered, heading back outside.
“Oh, I won’t,” Pete said, with an intense smile.
Blair shifted slightly away from the older man’s enthusiastic clutch, rubbing his eyes as though tired, in an attempt to keep out of his reach.. It worked for a few steps until he stumbl
ed blindly over an electrical cord, groaning as Pete caught and steadied him, then used the opportunity to turn the helpful hand into a seductive caress.
“Come on, luv.”
“Pete, where’s Evan?” Blair asked.
“Evan? Your little friend? He’s with Jurgen, luv,” Pete answered, pulling the sweater over Blair’s head, then gently fingering the dark bruise over his stressed ribs.
“I want to see him.”
“You do? He’ll be here tonight. You can see him then, okay?” Pete let him reclaim the pullover.
“I miss him.”
“Maybe Jurgen would let me get some pictures of the two of you together. Would you like that?”
“Could you ask him?”
“He should be calling soon. I’ll ask him. Now come on; let’s get you cleaned up.”
*
4:30 p.m.
Ellison rubbed his forehead, listening. His headache was monstrous, but he dared not take the pain level down — he was quietly terrified that he would lose Blair’s voice and be unable to find it again. This was the longest he had ever sustained focus on his hearing, and at a much further distance than he normally attempted. And all without his guide. So he sat stiffly in the passenger seat of the car and repeated most of Blair’s words all afternoon, peripherally aware that Nash and Harvey were writing everything down. There was no chance to put anything in context for them. He couldn’t even listen to them or monitor what was happening around him, or he’d lose his precious connection to his partner.
The day had progressed slowly. Blair had showered around noon, but as yet his clothes had not been returned. He had largely been ignored, back to lying on the bed in the back room, his ankle cuffed to one bed post. Turnalo had apologized profusely for locking him up, but he said he had business to take care of and Blair would be safer there out of the way. Around 3:30, just as Ellison was ready to suggest that they forget Jurgen and go in immediately and get his partner, Turnalo walked into the back room and told Blair that Evan would be brought to the warehouse that night sometime.
No Center Line Page 26