by Beth Manz
Blair exhaled a short laugh and shook his head. "You solve that mystery and you'll be the richest and most famous man in history."
Ryan's laugh rang out across the clear evening air. "I suppose I would, wouldn't I?" The professor grew thoughtful as he continued to wheel forward. "You know Blair, I've studied violent natures to a certain degree, but I've never really seen a lot of violence up close until now. I really do find it fascinating--though I don't know if that makes me sane or as sick as the criminals."
"You're a psychologist, Ryan," Blair granted graciously, "and violence is just another aspect of what makes up the human psyche. Frankly, I guess I'd be surprised if you didn't find a certain measure of fascination in what makes criminals 'tick'."
"Perhaps." Collins was thoughtful for another moment, then he looked up at Blair again. "Working with Detective Ellison, you've seen more than your share of violence, haven't you?"
"You've heard the stories, remember? 'Stuff of legends,' as you said." Blair let out a small laugh. "I've seen it and been the victim of it. You name it, I've had it happen to me." He held out a hand and began ticking off his points. "I've been stabbed, shot, hit over the head, drugged--"
"That's awful," Collins interrupted softly.
Blair glanced down at him, raising one eyebrow. "You want to hear awful? I'll give you awful. Some guy who had it in for Jim and me locked me in a mausoleum once! Right inside an old crypt. It was unbelievable."
Collins stopped his chair. They had reached the professor's van but he made no move to open the door. Instead, he stared up at Blair, his expression one of amazement. "A crypt? How did you escape?"
"Well, I didn't exactly escape," Blair answered, remembering how Marcus Grant had come back to him just before his oxygen supply had run out and dragged him from inside his cement tomb. "It's kind of a long story. Let's just say I got away and leave it at that."
Ryan shook his head and exhaled a huff of air. "Trapped in a crypt. I can't imagine.... That had to be the longest sixteen hours of your life!"
"Yeah, well, I-" But Blair's words cut off mid-statement as Collins' comment registered in his mind. And with it came a sinking, apprehensive sensation that settled deep in the pit of his stomach. He gaped down at the wheelchair-bound professor, his mouth dry. And as he studied Collins, the older man's features shifted from open interest in Blair's story to surprise, and then morphed into a resolved yet predatory sneer.
"I guess that was a mistake wasn't it?" the professor asked after several moments.
"I guess it was," Blair heard himself answering as though from a distance, his mind still racing in a dozen different directions. "I never told you how long I was in that mausoleum, Ryan."
"No, you didn't, did you?" Collins dropped his gaze to his hands where they rested in his lap. And when he looked back up at Blair, his features were cold, calculating.
Blair's heart began to beat hard in his chest. "Who are you?" he breathed out.
Collins smiled coolly. "Well, my dear Dr. Sandburg--I'd think that an even more appropriate question would be, 'Who was I'?"
Then, as Blair stared in stunned fascination, Collins kicked aside the wheelchair's footrests and pushed himself upward. The man stood easily, without difficulty or hesitation, and suddenly Blair realized--the professor's handicap had been a ruse all along.
Before Sandburg could call out or even think about running, Collins grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. "Do you like my new face?" the professor sneered, his breath hot against Blair's skin. "I had to pay a lot of money for it."
Blair struggled in Collins' hold, but the taller man held him firm. "Who are you?" Blair demanded. "What do you want?"
Collins shook his head and stared absently past Blair, his gaze distant, introspective, but the hold he had on Blair's shirt remained firm, unflinching. "Funny what a fall into the rapids of a river can do to one's features, Dr. Sandburg," Collins intoned softly. "All those rocks...." He brought his gaze, cold and focused now, back to Blair's face. "But I think the doctors did a rather excellent job, don't you?"
"Grant!" Blair breathed out. "No, it can't be.... You're dead...."
But Marcus Grant simply laughed--a robust, elated sound that sent a pronounced shiver through Blair. "I've missed our little chats, Dr. Sandburg," he said dryly.
Behind him, Blair heard the van door sliding open. He twisted around, trying to see what was happening, then began to struggle in earnest against the grip Grant still had on him. A man in a ski mask--the man who had been attacking people on campus--climbed out of the open side door.
Blair cried out but the sound was muffled by the cloth the masked man pressed over his face. Panic welled up inside him as the sweet smell of chloroform filled his nostrils. He grabbed at the hands holding him, jerked his head from side to side, but the two men held him firm. Then, moving as one, they lifted him off his feet and dragged him into the van.
This can't be happening! This can't be happening!
The dark pull of unconsciousness invaded Blair's mind. He struggled against it, tried desperately to remain awake, alert. But it was impossible. And as his limbs grew heavy and his eyes slipped shut, he knew--whatever game Marcus Grant had planned, it was far from over...
The End