“No!” Blair rolled to one side and shook him.“Evan? — No!” He tried sitting up again, but fell back to the ground, gasping from pain that was quickly becoming incapacitating. He could hear voices around them, then a scream of agony from the warehouse, suddenly cut off. Someone else was dead. Jurgen was yelling, telling everyone to hurry.
He crawled to his knees, trying to breathe. A choked sob bunched in his throat, strangling him. He had to hurry, too. But hurry where? There was nowhere to go, not quickly.
Jim! I need you! Where are you? Don’t leave me here!
JIM!
Chapter Twelve
*
“Bridges.”
“Nash? It’s Joe.”
“Now’s not a good time to talk, Bubba.”
“What’s happening?”
“Hang on. Let me pass you to —”
“Joe? It’s Harvey.”
“What’s happening?”
“Not good, man. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s like Ellison’s catatonic. We can’t get through to him. His captain is here now trying to bring him out of it, but meanwhile we have no idea what’s going on.”
“What happened? I thought he was like a Superman guy or something. So why’s he catatonic?”
“Blair said he zones out when he concentrates too much on one of his senses—”
“Huh??”
“He zones — I don’t know, man. That’s what the kid called it. I just know that now we’ve lost our contact with what was happening there. It’s been over two hours.”
“So un-zone him.”
“We would if we knew how.”
“So what’s he doing? Just sitting there in his Superman cape and drooling?”
“More like he’s frozen. You know, like my computer when it freezes up.”
“Oh. Right. Strange, huh?”
“You said it. Wait a sec ���I think we’ve got him back. Joe — I promise we’ll call you whenever we’ve got something, but I gotta go now, man.”
“Hello? Hello? ���Figures. Sure, you’ll call. Sure. I’ll believe that when my hair grows back.”
*
Sunday, June 21, 9:48 p.m.
Bainbridge Island, Washington
JIM!
Ellison came back with a frantic gasp for air, his heart wildly pounding in his chest and a splitting headache threatening to tear his skull open.
Jim?
“Jim?”
“Sandburg?” he gasped.
“Damn it, Jim. It’s Simon.” Banks’ thumb was pressed into his shoulder, using pain to bring him out of it. “Concentrate! We need you here!”
“I am here,” he murmured, his upper body tilting forward so he could rest his forehead on the dash of the car, the heels of his hands pressed against his temples. His head was whirling, the headache increasing as he realized he had zoned, and he had the sinking suspicion that it had been for quite awhile.
“About time, Ellison.” Banks’ ragged sigh only reinforced his suspicions.
“How long?” he asked, when he found the strength.
“Too long,” Simon muttered. “Two and a half hours — maybe more. I’ve been here for almost thirty minutes and I was about ready to give up. Jim, listen to me. We show activity at the property. We’ve stopped the ferries and all traffic from the bridge for the last several hours, but Jurgen still managed to get there. He must be based on the island at a different location.”
“Where’s Sandburg?” Ellison sat up then, his enhanced sight struggling at first, then focusing properly as he looked through the crowd of people outside the car. He could have sworn he had heard Sandburg’s voice just a moment ago ���but there were only a handful of SWAT members — their jackets spelling out their unit — mixed with men in dark suits and loosened ties from a half dozen different police departments. Frank Black stood with Harold Woodward, and at the far end of the group, off to one side, were Nash Bridges and Harvey Leek. No Sandburg.
Feeling himself under scrutiny, Bridges turned and looked at him, then nudged Leek and the two men moved to join him. “Are you okay?” Nash asked. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“What happened?” Ellison’s voice sounded low and harsh to his ears, his throat still tight with tension.
“I don’t know,” Harvey said, smiling slightly, one arm leaning on the roof of the car as he bent over to talk. “And I have a feeling I’m never really going to find out, am I?. One minute you were telling me what was going on, that Turnalo was giving Blair something to drink, and then you said that Blair said it smelled funny, and you just sorta faded out on me.”
“Then what?”
“Well, then we couldn’t bring you out of it, so we called Simon and he came over as soon as he could. He said not to call an ambulance or anything, that you were zoned.”
“That’s what Sandburg calls it. It happens sometimes,” Ellison confirmed, still rubbing his forehead as he pulled himself from the car to stand with them.
“Which is why Blair is your partner, right? He keeps that from happening?” Harvey asked, steadying him.
“Yeah. Usually. Or he can bring me out of it right away.” He ignored them for a minute, trying to listen again, but he’d lost the direction. “What’s the situation? Simon?”
JIM!
Ellison pushed away from Harvey, taking several steps to the south, his body and senses alert.
“Jim?” Simon Banks came up behind him. “What is it?”
JIM!
“He’s calling me. He’s—” Ellison started walking, blindly, almost stepping off the road into a ditch, stopping only when Banks tugged on his arm. “I thought I heard him before, too. I’ve got to go,” he said, still feeling dazed. “He’s hurt …” There was a phantom pain in his ankle, another that fanned his headache until he willingly scrambled to find the dials, trying to turn it down so he could think. He pressed his fists hard against his temples, gasping at the pressure at the base of his skull and at the crown of his head.
“Ellison!”
He opened his eyes to see Frank Black approaching at a run, and he knew what the man wanted. What he had seen. The two men seemed to amplify each others gifts; with every step of Frank’s closer to him, the pain became clearer and focused. The fear — Sandburg’s fear for his life — and for Evan’s. The thought — the impression of his guide’s desires — that the sentinel would go to him.
Black arrived at his side, pulling at his elbow. “Hurry!” he said tensely, without apology, pushing Ellison back to the car. “We’ve got to go!”
Not questioning the authority in the man’s voice, Banks grabbed Ellison’s other arm and they ran with him to where Bridges already was behind the wheel, the motor started, and Leeks had the back door to the car open. They pushed Ellison ahead of them into the rear, then Black crawled in behind Ellison, while Banks ran around to the passenger side. The car was rolling before the captain had the door shut, laying black rubber marks on the road as Bridges pushed the car through its gears. “What do you see, Frank?”
“The knife. Bodies. He’s slitting throats. But he’s angry. This isn’t how he likes to do it.” The detached, emotionless voice was eery.
“Simon, he’s having trouble breathing.” Ellison’s face was buried in his hands as he put every ounce of control at his disposal on his hearing.
Banks looked back at the startled group they had left behind. “I’ve got to advise Woodward what we’re doing. Any suggestions?” They rounded the corner and lost sight of the gathered SWAT team. His cell phone rang as he was pulling it out. “Banks.”
“What the hell is going on?” Ellison heard Harold Woodward exclaim into the phone.
“Tell him we’re moving in,” Frank Black said, then took the phone that Banks handed to him. “Harold? We’ve got to move now. Get your men in place. They’re killing the officers. Hold off until you hear from us again.” Black continued talking, but the words faded out.
They’re killing my guide.
Harvey was sitting sideways in the back seat, and he leaned forward, his ear by Ellison’s. “Concentrate, Jim. Find him. You can do it. You’ve heard him already.”
They’re killing my guide. His world began to spin with the loss. With the distance. He needed to be there and he wasn’t. They’re killing my guide.
“Jim! Listen to me.”
They’re killing my guide. I need— He struggled to get out of the car, then, when that didn’t work, he tried to get into the front, to make the car move faster, but they pulled him back, holding him in the rear seat.
Soft words in his ear. “Jim, listen. Listen to me.”
“Sandburg?” he whispered, but it wasn’t the voice of his guide.
But it was the voice of a guide, nonetheless.
“Jim? Concentrate. Find him. You can do this. You’ve heard him once; you can hear him again.”
“Where is he?”
“Listen to me. Focus and look for him.”
The words and voice began to register. Take shape. A speaker. Harvey.
He turned and stared at the man, watching his mouth move, watching the words, lulled by the tone.
And it fell in place. He had control.
He shook off the hands and closed his eyes. Listening.
A child complaining about a broken toy.
A woman talking to a friend on the phone about dinner plans.
A dog scratching at the door.
Television.
Radio.
Television.
Music.
A teenaged girl giggling with another on the phone.
A bird’s wings brushing the air.
A leaf detaching from a branch and falling, falling …
A man’s voice, enraged. What have you done?? The sentinel clung to the words, trying to stabilize his fragile connection as best he could.
He recognized the other speaker as Turnalo. You robbed me of my money. I robbed you of yours. So how does it feel?
Where is he? Damn you! Fucking damn you! Where is Evan?
I let them escape.
Why? WHY?
You should have let me keep Blair. You should have—
A gun fired and a bullet tore the life from Turnalo.
Ellison reeled from the sound, his hands over his ears, blocking the echo that no one else in the car could hear. He tried to find the connection again, but it was gone. Wild elation that Sandburg was free mixed with his other knowledge that his guide was injured, in pain, frightened. Yet — and he had to focus on this — yet, Sandburg was free. And as long as he was free and alive, there was concrete hope. Ellison wasn’t sure exactly why he had let Sandburg do this, how the kid had convinced him. It went against everything his gut told him, every instinct he had. And they were good instincts, too. ‘Protect the guide’ was his most sacred instinct, and it was the first one that Alex had corrupted.
He had spent the next two weeks ‘after Alex’ letting that instinct take root again, letting his desire to keep his guide safe, protected, and at peace have full reign. That time in Mexico, walking together on the beach, talking, laughing and crying, had been idealistic, for he knew he wouldn’t be able to take that degree of neediness into the city, into their busy schedules, into their careers and jobs. It wasn’t practical; it was suffocating in its extreme. Blair Sandburg was a grown man who had his own life to live. As much as Ellison had a need to keep him safe and protected, Sandburg was not some domesticated bird in a cage. He needed — required — demanded — his freedom.
Ellison was just amazed that Sandburg came back to him, time after disastrous time. That was the wonderful thing about homing birds; they came home. They knew where home was. Sandburg had a way of seeing past Ellison’s own insecurities into his heart and knew that he had a home there.
Confident bastard.
Then again, it was practical; it was love at its best.
But for now, he had to find his guide.
*
“What was that?” Evan whispered.
“A gun.”
“I know. But who is shooting whom?”
Blair stared at him, unable to think of anything to say, so Evan continued, “Only one shot. Why?”
“Maybe it’s Jim,” Blair said hopefully. He closed his eyes, his face sinking into the mud, but Evan’s sharp rap on his arm woke him before he could slide further into sleep and suffocate himself.
“We’ve got to keep going. The woods.”
Blair nodded, pushing himself back to his hands and knees. They crawled forward over the clay-like soil, staying close to the uneven ground as they moved through the partly cleared land behind the warehouse. Neither could stand, but running quickly over this bumpy ground in the darkness would probably have been disastrous, anyway.
He’d gone on all of twenty-five feet when Evan’s hand on his foot stopped him, and he collapsed, exhausted, his limbs shaking from the brief exercise. “What?”
“Shh.”
He lifted his head slightly to see what it was that had alerted Evan.
Jurgen.
Shit.
The sliver of moonlight escaping the clouds lit up the bleached hair. It was Jurgen all right. He was dragging something. Someone. By the legs. Blair’s heart nearly jumped from his chest when Jurgen came close enough for him to see that it was a leather-clad body. The gun shot he had heard then ���It was Pete. Pete was dead. Pete was ���Oh, my God! Jim, Pete is dead.
He flattened himself, hardly aware of the clammy mud chilling him to the bone, and clamped a hand over his mouth, keeping the scream in. He wanted to sink further into the cold muck, to let it cover his naked body like quicksand. And adding to his horror — he had no idea why he was grieving. Why the thought of Pete dead terrified him. The man had just tried to rape him on camera, and here he was crying because Jurgen had killed him. But he couldn’t stop the tears.
He felt Evan’s hand touching his bare leg, holding on to him, trying to comfort him as best he could, rubbing his calf, the only place he could reach. But the tears wouldn’t stop once they had started, blinding him as he lay huddled on the ground, his fist in his mouth, crying. Jim ���Where the hell are you? Please. I’m so tired.
Evan slapped at his foot, then pointed once he had Blair’s attention. The back door to the warehouse opened and Raul came out, striding through the mud to grab one of Turnalo’s arms and help Jurgen drag him to the edge of the freshly dug ditch. “What happened?” they heard the Hispanic man ask tersely. “Who shot him?”
“He let Evan out of the trunk of my car, just so his precious toy could escape.”
“Idiot.” Raul dropped his side of the body, standing by and watching as Jurgen kicked it until it rolled into the ditch. “The tractor is ready when we’re done. It’ll only take two minutes to fill this in. Karl knows how to run it; just say the word. I confirmed the boat. It’ll be there. The Bronco’s almost ready. See if there’s anything else we need. I’ve already loaded the small filing cabinet, the computer, and the raw videos. We’re clear unless there’s something else you need in there.”
“I’ll tell you what I need,” Jurgen spat out. “I want Evan back. I need him alive. I’ve taken the money for him already. Chan Lu will be by Tuesday for him and I fucking better well have something to give him.”
“Will one of the others do?” Raul asked in his monotone, flapless voice.
“No! Chan was specific. Evan matched. No one else matched that closely — not for the money Chan was offering. Find them! He was with the reject who couldn’t walk — how far could they get?” Jurgen whirled around, staring blindly into the darkness around him. “Evan!” he screamed. “You will come here now! Unless you want a repeat of this morning—!” The threat hung in the night air.
“No,” Evan whispered, his hands over his ears. Blair twisted to face the other way and wrapped his arms around Evan, shocked to feel his skin hot with fever. He was sick, Blair realized. Not just in pain, but actually ill with fever, as hot as
Blair was freezing cold.
Blair watched silently as Jurgen stormed back into the warehouse, Raul trailing him as though caught in his whirlwind and sucked right along. Clouds had crept over the moon, hiding it, hiding the light, and hiding them. Evan was crying.
The wind had picked up, shaking the trees. It swept over their bodies, chilling them. At least it would help Evan’s fever, Blair reasoned, but it made him shiver and made his head ache fiercely and the shaking sent stabs of pain through his leg. He started to get up, then dropped down again quickly when Karl and Metzger came out of the warehouse, dragging another body through the mud. Blair could barely see what they were doing; in the darkness he couldn’t make out who it was they had brought out, except that he was naked and male.
The wind brought the sound of them talking his way and Blair wondered briefly if wind affected Jim’s hearing. He had once said to Jim that not everything was about him. But that wasn’t really true. It was amazing how few steps there were between any topic and a connection he would make to his sentinel. Forget the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Try the Two Degrees of Jim Ellison.
They rolled the body into the ditch and wiped their hands. Metzger counted quickly. “I’m starting to lose track here. The two workers, Turnalo, and two of the stars,” he said as they turned back to the warehouse. “Just our two runaways and one star left, but he wants to do them himself.”
“Why? What does it matter who kills them?”
“He just fucking does. He was going to kill our black star tonight; he probably feels cheated that we did him ourselves. Humor him. Meanwhile we can get the flashlights out and search for his missing prized star.” Metzger quickened his pace. “Hurry up. I want out of here.”
“Do we have time for this?” Karl asked, jogging beside him, then he grabbed Metzger’s arm and pulled the other man to a halt. “I say we bug out and get clear. This entire project is gone —why’s he risking everything on it? If there’s a roadblock up, the cops have an idea where we are. We should have just left everything. The boat’s ready. What’s stopping us from just going there and leaving this?”
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