NO CENTER LINE

LRH Balzer

Prologue

Cascade Washington,

Monday, June 15, 1998

"-- So that's when Joel decided to give up riding horseback," the detective said, with a shrug, draining the last of his pint of beer.

"You're kidding. That's freaky, man. Then what happened?" Sandburg grinned across the table. "Well?"

"Then he joined the bomb squad." He pretended to ignore the resulting howl of laughter and casually raised his hand to catch the attention of the waitress, motioning for her to bring him another beer.

"I'm almost done with this glass," Sandburg said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Make that two. That story was hysterical. Joel really was on the mounted police squad? I never knew that."

"Yeah, well." His eyes focused on Blair's hands, wrapped around the beer glass, and panic hit him with irrational speed, superimposed with remembered images of the kid on life support, of oxygen, morphine, and all the other drugs and devices used that had been used to keep the pain away and the young man breathing. "Are you sure you're allowed to drink this stuff?" Rafe asked, his voice harsher than he had intended.

"Yes." Sandburg finished off the last of his glass with a defiant tilt of his chin. "Or do you need to check with my doctor to verify that?"

Rafe looked up from Blair's tanned hands, past the browned arms showing beneath thin white cotton shirt, to stare at the police observer's face, concentrating on the faint sunburn on his nose and forehead from his days in Mexico. There was little trace of his own nightmare in the man sitting across from him. Blair was very much alive. Not dead. "Sorry." He shifted, uncomfortable for the first time since they reached the restaurant, and he let the action turn into a glare in the direction of the kitchen. "What's taking so long with our food? We don't have all day."

"Relax, man. It's only been ten minutes since we ordered." Sandburg leaned across the table and touched his forearm for a moment, conveying his understanding of what had just happened. Once the tension had drifted away, the younger man withdrew his hand and glanced around the restaurant, changing the topic. "This place isn't half bad, you know. Nice atmosphere, with all the plants and everything. I've never been here before. Is the food good?"

"I don't know. I haven't been here before, either. It just opened up two or three weeks ago."

"Amazing what can happen in three weeks," Sandburg said, with a laugh. "One minute this place is empty. For lease. Then suddenly it's full of people and the hip place to be. Kinda weird, man. Kinda--" The carefree voice broke off as he suddenly became aware again of his lunch companion's pale face. "Now what did I say?" Blair asked, exasperated, edging toward anger.

"Sorry," the detective mumbled. "This was supposed to be a pleasant lunch to celebrate you coming back to work at the station. I didn't mean to remind-- It just sneaks up on me sometimes."

"I thought nothing sneaked up on you cops. Aren't you supposed to leave your emotions at the door?" Sandburg's flippant attitude faded when he saw his friend's jaw tighten. "Sorry, that was out of line. It's my turn to apologize, okay? Listen, I know it's been a strange couple of weeks, but it's all behind us now. Alex got away from us initially, but she's safely locked away now, right? I'm okay. Everyone's okay. Even the nerve gas has been found. Everything is fixed." As though it completed his thought, Sandburg picked up a bread stick and bit into it, absently wiping the crumbs off the table.

"You were dead."

He heard himself say the words and wished fervently he could recapture them when he saw the young man across from him flinch.

A soft exhalation. "Yeah, I was. Just for a little while." Sandburg chewed the bread stick slowly, not meeting his eyes.

"We haven't talked about it. Not really. We've talked around what happened, but we haven't discussed.." He was feeling braver now. The waitress put the refills in front of them, and he took a healthy swallow of his beer. Then a second swallow while he waited for Blair to answer him.

"Up until now, every time we've had a chance to talk, you've steered the conversation away from what happened. I didn't think you'd want to talk about it." The reply was so quiet he could hardly hear it.

"I figured you would tell me whatever you were comfortable in telling me, whenever you were ready. I'm not even sure how much you remember of it."

"I remember most of what happened. Why are you asking me this now?"

"Why not?" he pressed on. "We're friends, right? Friends talk, right? That's what you're always telling me."

Sandburg nodded, then looked up at him, intense blue eyes pinning him back against the fake leather seat. "That's right. Okay then, what do you want to know?"

It was all suddenly back in his court, and he wasn't sure how to frame his questions. He took another gulp from his glass, and Sandburg interrupted before he could speak.

"Hey, how come you're drinking on duty?" The chewed off bread stick was pointed at his glass.

"Huh?"

"You never drink on duty." Sandburg was studying him thoughtfully, and he didn't like the feeling. He never liked it.

"I'm not on duty. The captain gave us the rest of the day off. Weren't you listening? We were just in to do some paperwork."

"Oh."

"The Brighton case is wrapped. So are the robberies at the Springcrest mall."

Sandburg looked puzzled for a moment, as though he couldn't place that case.

"The jewelry stores? The emerald display?" he prompted. "It's been an on-going case for several months."

"Oh, right. The clerk died at one store."

"Yeah." He died, but you're alive. The detective picked up his glass, taking the few swallows that were left. He studied the empty glass, frowning. He should have ordered another pint instead of a glass. He looked back toward the kitchen, willing the swinging door to open and the waitress to bring their food.

"You can have mine. I've had enough." Sandburg slid his untouched second glass of beer across the table.

"No, that's okay. I can get another later."

"Really, take it. You're right, I still have medication I'm taking. Technically I can have alcohol, but I think I've reached my limit on an empty stomach."

Again the nervousness hit him, and the detective could feel a tightness across his chest. If it was hitting him like this, how was Jim handling it all? How did Ellison sleep, remembering his friend -- his own roommate -- lying dead on the grass at the university? What had happened?

Rafe found himself shivering suddenly. He had seen something that morning. He wasn't sure what it was -- a light. A shimmer of something from Jim's fingertips as his hands cradled Blair's face.

He wasn't sure what was plaguing his dreams at night the most: remembering that Blair had died or remembering that little spark of electricity that had brought him back to life. The cough. The water dribbling from his mouth. Blair Sandburg dead. Then, not dead. Pronounced dead by the paramedics. Pronounced alive by Jim Ellison.

Brought back to life by . . .

By who? By what? How?

How?

As if out of nowhere, shocking him back to the present, the waitress appeared with their meals, putting the Thai noodle salad in front of Blair and the chicken pita sandwich in front of Rafe. He stared at if for a moment, trying to remember where he was and why he was having lunch in a restaurant with a formerly dead man.

"What's wrong?" Sandburg asked quietly. "Something in your pita?"

"No. Uh, maybe I will have your beer, if you don't want it. My throat's dry."

"Sure." Sandburg passed it back to him.

Rafe took a quick sip, then dug into his meal quickly, letting trite comments about the quality of the food replace other topics. Despite his consuming curiosity, he really wasn't sure he wanted to know what happened. And Sandburg didn't bring up the subject again, so he assumed that it was still too uncomfortable for him to talk about. The last thing Rafe wanted to do was force the kid to relive that morning. He had made the offer, at least. He had let Blair know that he was willing to talk about it, if he wanted to talk about it with someone.

When the two partners had entered the bullpen that morning after a three week absence, there had been actual silence in the room. No one knew what to say. How to you say 'welcome back' to someone who had died and come back to life? It sounded so trite. 'Hi, Blair. Glad you're not dead anymore. So how was your holiday in Mexico?'

Something had happened in Mexico. The captain knew about it. So did Megan Connor. Neither were talking, outside of a few rehearsed statements about Alex being caught and Ellison and Sandburg staying behind in Mexico to vacation for a week or two. Apparently they had 'earned it', but it wasn't clear what they had actually done. Simon Banks had immersed himself in paperwork and brought out some cold cases that had been shoved aside while they had worked on more urgent matters. Megan had taken a month holiday and gone back to Australia to make a few long term arrangements, since she was going to stay on in Cascade for a while longer than originally intended. Convenient.

Whatever had gone wrong before Sandburg had died, was now right. Life had backed up two months, picked up some stitches, patched up some rips, mended the fences, and Ellison and Sandburg were back. Presto. Case closed.

"You're making me nervous, man," Sandburg said, softly, the noodles wrapping and unwrapping around his fork.

"Sorry."

"That's the third time you've said that since we got here."

"Well, I mean it."

"Okay."

Rafe took a bite of his pita sandwich.

"I'm fine, now." Sandburg put down his fork. "If you need to know this, then I'll tell you. No--" he said, waving down Rafe's urgent apology, "I want to tell you. You and Henri were there. You were in the bullpen when we were fighting a month ago, when Jim really started losing it. You knew he had kicked me out of the loft. You were there at the university, at the fountain. You were there when I came to. You saw what happened when I went to the station a day after I got out of the hospital. You have a right to know."

"But I don't need to know, Blair. I don't even think I want to know."

"Well, I can only tell you part of it, anyway. The rest is between Jim and me. We are--"

"Oh, don't tell me, please. I don't need to know this," Rafe said, burying his face in his hands.

Sandburg grinned at him. "I won't ask what you thought I was going to say. Rafe, Jim and I have been through a lot the last few months, but I think we're okay now, if that's what you're asking. We spent the last two weeks in Mexico just talking about what's happened, trying to fill in all the pieces for each other. Last month . . . It's difficult to explain, but Jim had a breakdown of sorts, and I didn't help matters any by refusing to acknowledge it. I'm supposed to be his friend, his partner. But I messed up and so did Jim. Alex-- she was unfinished business for us. He and Simon went down to deal with it, and as soon as I could, I followed."

"With Megan," Rafe said, the quiet anger heard by both of them.

"She just happened to be there. It could just as easily have been you. Or Henri or Joel, for that matter. I was in the hospital for a twenty-four hour test when Megan came by to bring me Jim's message that he and Simon had gone to Mexico. I asked her to check into it, then we followed them down." Sandburg became pensive, lost in memories of whatever had happened down there.

Rafe cleared his throat. "I guess we all couldn't go. Someone had to stay up here in Cascade and take care of the home front."

Sandburg nodded, suddenly wiping a tear from his eye. "I better start eating this or we'll never get back to the station."

Half an hour later they wandered out into the mid-June afternoon sun and began their walk back to Cascade Police Department where their partners were interrogating one of the accomplices to the Springcrest robberies. The police department was four blocks away, the tinted blue windows reflecting the buildings around it. Rafe's eyes automatically sought it out now, almost as though checking to make sure it was still there. That nothing had happened to it while he was off at lunch.

He smiled at his own compulsion. Strange how central that building was to his life. He focused on the seventh floor, knowing Brown would be there, and he wondered how they were doing. They hadn't joined them for lunch as originally planned. Yet, it had worked out well, just him and Sandburg. It was actually the first time they had done something together, usually part of a larger group, playing poker, watching a game, catching a beer after work. Like tonight. He frowned, trying to remember if there were extra tickets to offer Ellison and Sandburg.

Rafe had dressed casually today, accepting the ribbing of his partner about slumming it. Faded jeans, comfortable tennis shoes, and his Cascade PD cap. A light jacket over his T-shirt, hiding his holster and gun. There was a baseball game that night he was going to with some of the guys at the station, and he didn't feel like going back to his apartment and changing first, especially since Brown's wife had offered to make them dinner before the game. That woman could cook!

Beside him, Sandburg walked silently, obviously enjoying the day, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his face raised to the sunshine. The light breeze rippled through his untucked Mexican shirt and blew his hair back from his face. It was so rare that the kid wore his hair loose these days. It was almost always drawn back into a ponytail, as though that would make him appear older. Trouble was, when you were the youngest, you were always the youngest -- until someone else came along to fulfill the role. Rafe was only a year or two behind Jim and Henri, but he had still been the kid of Major Crimes for long enough. When Sandburg had arrived, he had gladly handled the title on.

"How's Jim doing?"

Sandburg glanced over at him, but didn't seem surprised by his sudden question. "Jim? He's okay. I'm glad Simon gave us the time off. Jim really needed it. Especially after what happened in Mexico. You know, with Alex and everything."

"Yeah, I read their reports."

"Oh. Right." Sandburg glanced at him, eyes wary. "I haven't had a chance to read them yet."

"I'm sure they left out all the good stuff," Rafe said, enjoying the uncomfortable glaze on the other man's face. "So how was Mexico?"

"What do you mean?" Sandburg asked, the words striving for casualness.

"Your holiday."

Sandburg stared at him for a moment, then smiled and shrugged, as though he knew he'd been left off the hook. "Mexico is Mexico," he said, kicking at a pebble as they walked. "We stayed at one of the beaches on the west coast. Mainly just slept and recouped. I was kinda tired at first. Guess I wasn't as healthy as I thought I was -- I swear I slept the first forty-eight hours straight. My ribs still hurt a bit from the CPR. I thought about going to see some of the archaeological sites, but I had already seen the ones in that area and Jim wasn't really interested. Guess we were both burned out. We talked a lot, like I said."

"Everything okay between you, two?"

"Yeah." Sandburg smiled to himself, then shrugged again. "It'll take a while to work it all out, but at least we're together again." He laughed suddenly. "We sound like an old married couple. Together again."

"I knew what you meant," Rafe said. "You don't have to explain."

"It was strange going back to the loft," Sandburg admitted, softly. "After what happened at the university--"

"When you died?"

He nodded. "Afterwards, I was just back home from the hospital for a few days when Jim and Simon left for Mexico. He insisted I stay behind, since I was still under doctor care. I couldn't do it, though."

"Do what?"

"Stay behind. I thought I was going to go out of my freakin' mind. The loft seemed to close in on me." As though something had just occurred to him, he looked back to Rafe quickly. "Did I ever thank you for your part in putting the furniture back in the loft? If I didn't, then let me say that was really cool. I really appreciated it, man. So did Jim."

"No problem. My pleasure." Rafe said nothing when Sandburg turned down a side street, detouring slightly, stretching out the walk back. He still had the feeling the kid wanted to talk, needed to talk to someone who wasn't going to give him a lot of advice. Simon Banks, Joel Taggart -- and even Jim Ellison -- all three would probably leap to solve any misgivings Sandburg had. But sometimes a person just needed to talk, needed someone to listen to them. Rafe let the silence stretch out over several minutes, then nodded to himself when Sandburg spoke.

"I was scared when I left the hospital. So tired, and yet afraid of what it would look like, what I would find there. What I wouldn't find there. Jim's been . . . well, I guess I'd have to say that he's been my best friend for a few years now. I couldn't -- I can't -- even imagine him not there in my life. There was some other stuff going on at the time . . ." The voice trailed off.

"Like that business with your dissertation?" Rafe prompted after a minute or two. The entire station had heard Ellison's rant about the paper.

"Hmm? Yeah. That, too. Yeah. And other stuff. It's hard to explain. Jim was . . ." Sandburg sighed impatiently, running one hand anxiously through his hair as he tried to put into words what he was feeling, what he had felt then. "Jim was, like, majorly stressed out, I guess you might say. He'd been on edge for a while, for a few weeks, and I guess that whole business with the dissertation and that case we were working on with Alex, it all sorta pushed him over the edge. Just for a while. He's okay now," Sandburg added quickly, looking up at him, anxious.

"I know. He's fine. He looked great today, actually."

The words seemed to reassure the young man, and he nodded to himself, still looking down at the sidewalk as they talked. "Yeah. He's up and running again. He had a lot of his own healing to do, you know, with what happened at the university."

"When you died."

Sandburg groaned. "Do you have to keep saying that?"

"Well, you did."

Sandburg stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand in his jeans' pocket, the other capturing his hair at the base of his neck. "Rafe, do you mind if I ask . . Just wondering what it looked like . . .Uh, how did Jim . . . when I, you know . . . What did it look . . . I don't know how to ask this. What happened that day?"

The sun was in his eyes when he tried to look at Sandburg. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

Sandburg shook his head slowly, afraid to look away from him now. "Please?"

Rafe glanced around and saw a deserted bench not too far away, and he motioned for Sandburg to join him there. "Okay. What happened... We got there, and you were already in the fountain. We didn't see you at first. Headed up the stairs to Hargrove Hall. Jim suddenly did an about-face and saw you. Brown and Jim pulled you out. Then the captain and Jim did CPR on you until the ambulance arrived."

"I know the paramedics gave up."

"They did." He paused, trying to figure out how to word the next part. The strange part. The part he didn't understand. "Simon was trying to get Jim to leave your side, to let the paramedics do what they needed to do. Jim was pretty torn up. Then he turned around and went back to your body and knelt beside you. He touched your face . . . and then there with this light--" Rafe stopped short at the sharp gasp from Sandburg.

"You saw it?"

He nodded, swallowing, then continuing because he knew if he didn't finish his sentence right then, he probably never would finish it. "And the light went from his hand to your face. And then you came back to life. He put his hand over your heart and pressed and fountain water started coming out of your mouth."

Sandburg had his arms wrapped around him, as though he were freezing cold. "Shit."

Rafe panicked. "I mean, that's what I saw. I think. Could have been the angle of the sunrise or a lot of other things. Maybe even--"

"No." Sandburg shivered. "No, you saw it right. I'm sure."

It was Rafe's turn to ask. "What happened there, Blair?"

Sandburg stood up, and for a brief moment, Rafe thought he was going to start running down the sidewalk. But he only looked up at the Cascade PD building, his eyes probably staring at the seventh floor, too. "I don't know, man. My memories of that day are like swiss cheese. I was just wondering what it looked like to others. Believe me, this was a new one for me . . . " Sandburg started walking again, drawing Rafe along with him. "That wasn't in the report. I read Simon's report."

"No. It wasn't it any of our reports. We all saw it though."

"I did, too." Sandburg stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and Rafe had to gently direct him to one side, to let the pedestrians walk by. "I saw it. The whole out-of-body experience. You were wearing a blue shirt, a long beige coat, right?"

He nodded, wiping his sweating palms on his jeans.

"Jim kept yelling, 'No'. Simon said, 'It's all over.' Jim came back over to me, and said, 'It's not over, do you hear me?'"

"Maybe you weren't dead--"

"Simon told someone to call the coroner. I was dead."

"But maybe--"

"Rafe?" Sandburg's voice had an odd quality about it.

"Yeah?"

Sandburg was studying the sidewalk. "Thanks for telling me. About what you saw. About the light."

"You believe me?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know what it was or what it meant."

"Neither do I. But thanks for telling me." Again, he wiped his hand over his face, as though drying tears.

"No problem." He quickened his pace as they turned the corner to the police station. Only a block away, and he could safely deposit Sandburg in Ellison's capable hands. At this point, he wanted nothing more. All the energy that Sandburg had shown earlier in the day was gone, and Rafe knew instinctively that once the kid was back with Ellison, things would be right again. "Come on."

A white van drew up in front of them as they went to cross the street, just missing them. It jerked to a stop and blocked the crosswalk, preventing them from going forward. "What--?" Rafe grabbed at Sandburg and pulled him back onto the sidewalk. "Move it!" he yelled at the driver.

The side door panel opened to reveal two men with guns raised, pointing at Rafe. "Hands on top of your head, both of you. Move away from him." He could hear the back door open and a third man appeared, also with a weapon.

"Get behind me, Blair," Rafe whispered fiercely as he raised his hands, stepping between them. "No way," he called out as he tried to catalog their attackers. One: Hispanic, five-eleven, thirty years, straight black hair that needed a cut. Armed with a Magnum. No visible scars. Two: White, brown hair, short, almost military cut, six feet, thirty years, scar along side of jawline. Third: white --

"Get in here," Mr Hispanic ordered, moving aside so the van door was clear.

"Leave him alone," Rafe said loudly, risking a quick glance to the police station. Where the hell was everyone?

The kidnappers were eerily calm, considering what they were doing in broad daylight. "We want you, not him, Detective Rafe. Just come peacefully, and he won't get hurt. Come on. Hands up." The third man pushed Sandburg back and jabbed his weapon at Rafe's shoulder, sending him staggering forward.

"Rafe?" Sandburg had his hands on his head, fingers interlaced, and Rafe knew how much that must be hurting him. Ribs still only partly healed . . .

"Just stay cool, Blair." He was motioned into the van, and he froze, trying to figure out what to do, how to play this. Surely someone in the scattering crowd would have reported it to the station. Maybe if he went with them, they'd leave Sandburg alone. He took a step toward the van, ignoring Sandburg's shout.

"What are you doing? What do you want with him?" the kid yelled, moving toward the van, hands still on his head.

No, Blair. Stay back.

One of the men in the van put his gun down, then stepped out and grabbed hold of Rafe's elbow, dragging him to the door while he roughly tied the detective's hands behind his back. "You can tell your friends at the station that he's joining the chorus line," the man said to Sandburg.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sandburg kept edging closer. "Are you guys crazy? We're a block from the police station!"

"Exhilarating. Daring. Deadly," the third man said, laughing.

"Sandburg, stay back!" Rafe ordered, as the police observer came closer yet.

"No way, man. I'm not letting them take you anywhere. What do you want him for?"

Rafe saw the man inside the van move his weapon to rest on Sandburg. With a quick shift of his hips, Rafe balanced on his left leg and gave a sharp snap kick with his right foot, catching the kneecap of the man who was tying him up, and putting himself once again between the gunman and Sandburg. All he needed to do was buy another thirty seconds or so and help would surely be there. They were only one fucking block from the station!

The third man grabbed Sandburg and flung him out of the way, and as Rafe tried to shield Ellison's partner, he heard a gun go off and felt the fierce, blinding pain of a bullet passing through his side. He fell heavily to the pavement, his cheek scraping along the rough surface of the street.

"Damn it!" The man who had been tying Rafe up a moment before, kicked him sharply in the ribs now, adding to the blackness settling over him. "Look at him! He's no good to us now."

Rafe's hearing began to fade on him and he struggled to stay awake. They weren't out of danger yet. Sandburg was unprotected.

"Take the other one, then," the man in the van suggested.

No! Rafe tried to scream, but nothing came from his mouth but a garbled moan. The roar in his ears merged with a echoing ringing noise and he opened his eyes, forcing himself to stay with the scene. He couldn't move his head, but he saw as Sandburg's feet and the third gunman passed within inches of where the detective's face rested on the street.

Then they were gone. Into the van. With a distant squeal of tires, the van pulled away.

Too late . . . he tried to tell the police when they arrived. You're too late.

The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was Jim Ellison's face, as dark as the blackness that swallowed him a moment later. I'm sorry . . .

Chapter One

"Nashman..."

"Joe? Is something wrong? Is Nick okay?"

"Nick's fine. I called them just now and Cassidy says he's fine. He's sleeping."

"Is Lynette there? She's supposed to be watching him."

"She's there. She was making some lunch for him."

"Then why are you phoning?"

"Hmm? Just wondering if maybe you've heard anything yet?"

"No, I haven't heard anything yet, Joe. I just got off the damned plane. How could I?"

"Oh. I figured you'd be there already. Your flight was supposed to arrive thirty minutes ago."

"It was late. It happens. I just got off the plane and turned my cell phone back on and ten seconds later it rings."

"Who called?"

"You did, Bubba. I'm talking about this call."

"Oh. So I guess you haven't heard anything yet then."

"No, I haven't. Joe, remember when you drove me to the airport and I told you that I would call you from the Seattle hotel tonight after the meeting?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what part of that are you having trouble with, Bubba?"

"Listen, Nash, you weren't the one to talk to Cassidy on the phone twenty minutes ago. What am I supposed to say to her when I call back later?"

"Don't call her. I'll call her tonight, after I call you."

"What if she calls me?"

"Tell her I'll call her tonight."

"So I should just wait for your call then?"

"You got it, Bubba. -- Are you at SIU?"

"Yeah, why? Need something?"

"Just wondering how Harvey is doing."

"He's here. He's on the computer trying to find some leads, match up the disappearances."

"You tell him from me that he goes home at midnight and he doesn't come back until after 8:00 tomorrow morning. He will pace himself during this investigation, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Sure, Nash."

"Then you tell him. Make him understand."

"Sure."

"That goes for you, too. I'll call you tonight, Joe."

"Right."

(Pause) "You okay?"

(Pause) "Take care of yourself, too, Nash."

"I will, Bubba. I will."

Seattle, Washington

Friday, June 19, 1998, 12:45 p.m.

Rain lashed against the cab window, leaving Nash Bridges' view of the city a murky silver and gray. He glanced down at his clothes, absently brushing lint from the deep green jacket, tugging at the brocade vest, and wondering suddenly if his white T-shirt would be out of place in the more traditional Northwest city. It had been many years since he worried about what he wore to work; he judged the people who worked for him based on performance, not appearance. But this wasn't San Francisco; it was Seattle. And he wasn't in charge at this meeting.

That was always a sore spot with him. He liked being in charge. It just made everything easier. He liked having his people around him. He liked the feeling that his people, the Special Investigations Unit, were a living organism, each functioning in their own way, but providing him -- the brain, as it were -- with the information he needed to make an intuitive leap and put the pieces together. Nash Bridges had long since acknowledged his place in the grand scheme of things. He was the organizer. The focal point. The one who made the decisions. Not only the one in charge of the SIU, but the one responsible. Not only the Head of the Clan, but a father figure, a big brother, as well.

Joe had been left holding the reins back at the station, and Joe Dominguez was certainly capable of minding the store. Joe was his right hand. And his left hand. Hell, Joe was the reason SIU worked the way it did, although Nash would never have been able to put into words just exactly what it was that made it work. He wanted to believe it was his own skill, his own damned luck that kept it going, but he strongly suspected that Joe was the reinforcement to every move Nash made. Joe certainly was never intimidated by Nash. He had his own sense of style, his own way of going about things, often as though Nash's suggestions were 'cute' but to be humored, not seriously followed. Though he had tried, Nash had never broken Joe out of the habit of ignoring his orders, and deep down inside, Nash hoped he never would. Joe was Joe. That's what made him work. Yes, Dominguez would keep the investigation going while Nash took in the Seattle meeting. The SIU would continue on, because of Joe and all the people he had hand picked to work with him.

Harvey Leek, a veteran of the force, was probably glued to his seat, eyes fixed on the computer, pulling in every scrap of information he could that might, just might, give them a lead. He could picture the man now, bent over his desk, sharp eyes looking slightly unfocused as he scanned computer text at an almost super-human speed. The Jerry Garcia black armband, probably over clothing salvaged from a surplus or retro store. White lock of hair falling from the brown tangle of curls. A man of many contrasts. Peace-loving hippy, but deadly marksman. Heart of gold, but with a violent temper when it erupted. For all appearances a scatter-brained, absent-minded professor, but appearances were often wrong. He was a surveillance expert, computer hacker, and was up to date with all the latest gadgets. If anyone could come up with information, it was this man. He seemed to pull dates and names from the air -- not blessed with Nash's own photographic memory, but Harvey was still able to perform miracles.

Well, we need one now. Come on, Harvey. Work your magic.

Michelle Chan would be working along side him, flushing out her own sources, using her own way of dealing with this. She was on the phone, calling in favors, calling past snitches. She'd been working with them for a year now, formerly from juvenile and auto theft. Nash had worked with her on one case, then put a request for her to be transferred to his unit. She was young, but persistent. And she could take care of herself, despite Nash's admittedly chauvinistic tendency to want to keep her away from the danger. She was tough, she could survive on the streets. And there were times that a female could go where no male could, even though they had dressed Evan up on more than one occasion and sent him in as a female.

Evan Cortez.

Evan, the man Nash Bridges' daughter was in love in with. Evan was Nash's protégé. The rising star. The young man was passionate about his work, dedicated, persistent. Brilliant. Quick thinking. He needed to work on his temper and self-control, but then, so had Nash at his age. Evan was a trusted co-worker in SIU, someone Nash felt comfortable in sending on any assignment. He was proud to call Evan a friend.

And Evan Cortez was the reason Nash was in Seattle.

Damn it, Evan. Where the hell are you? You better damned well be alive. Just hang in there, buddy. Hang in there.

Because it all came down to family. Maybe not blood family like Nash's father Nick, or his sister Stacy, or his ex-wives, but they were family just the same.

Joe Dominguez was like a brother to Nash. They'd been partners and friends for twenty years, seeing each other through marriages and the birth of their children, divorces and death. Hell, Pepe was even convinced they were a couple, a gay couple. Try as he might, Nash couldn't convince Pepe otherwise, and he had finally stopped trying.

Harvey, the crazy cousin. Michelle, the younger ward.

Evan, at times, was his younger brother. And when Nash had first discovered that twenty-nine-year-old Evan and Nash's own nineteen-year-old daughter Cassidy were sleeping together, well, it had taken him some time to adjust to that little piece of news. He knew about Evan's reputation with women and Cassidy was so young. But they were in love, that was clear enough from the looks on their faces and his subsequent conversations with them over the next week.

Which ended up meaning that Evan was also edging into the son category. And Nash may not have given them his blessing, but he certainly had agreed to let them make their own choices

Evan had been a constant shadow at the hospital in mid-May when Nick had had his stroke, helping wherever he could, the pain of Nick's collapse visible on his face, as well. Nash had seen how the young man had supported Cassidy, still trying to stay out of her father's way, fearing reprisal for being there, for loving her. One dark evening, the night they thought Nick wouldn't make it, Evan had appeared at Nash's side, one arm hesitantly moving around his shoulders, then drawing him in. Nash had felt the fear in the tentative gesture, but he had felt the compassion, too, and found himself responding to the simple display of caring, releasing tears he didn't know he had been suppressing, even from Joe.

Co-worker, underling, friend, younger brother, son. Any and all of those reasons was why Nash Bridges had come to Seattle.

Evan Cortez was missing. He had been kidnaped not even a block from SIU, in broad daylight.

1:15 p.m.

Captain Simon Banks glanced at his watch, then looked back out at the gray June day, at the rain that fell without a break as they sped down the freeway. "We're almost there. We still have forty-five minutes before the meeting starts, Jim -- I'd like to stop somewhere to get a cup of coffee," he said as they finally pulled onto the off-ramp, heading downtown.

"And have a cigar."

He shrugged, patting the cigar pouch in his jacket pocket. "Maybe, if we have time." Banks smiled briefly. "Okay, Jim, I think you've convinced me. There's a place on Senega and Fourth."

James Ellison's hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, then he nodded, pushing past his reluctance to detour from his destination. "I'll watch for it."

Banks turned back to the passenger side window. It had been a long trip down to Seattle from Cascade. It was only an hour and a half, but the ongoing tension and silence of his detective weighed heavily in the truck. The captain closed his eyes, trying to rest them for a few minutes. He had almost fallen asleep several times in the past hour, but each time, the idea of leaving Ellison alone with his thoughts kept him awake.

"I'm okay, Simon."

"What?" he asked, straightening in his seat.

"Sandburg's alive. I'll find him."

"Damn right, we will."

"I mean it. He's alive."

Banks looked over to the detective, the conviction in Ellison's words beginning to make him nervous. "Jim . . . We don't know for sure if--"

"I do. I know."

"How? Still hearing things? Or did you have a dream this time?" he asked brusquely, then his eyes widened as he realized his almost sarcastic remark had been accurate. "You had a dream?" he repeated.

"Last night." Ellison drove onward, taking the '69 Ford truck through the city streets. "Do you want the long version or the short?"

"The short," he said quickly, adding with a smile, "As few details as possible, please."

Ellison nodded, the barest hint of a smile touching his face for a moment, then he took a deep breath. "I saw him, Simon. Well, I saw the wolf, actually," Ellison corrected, casually turning a corner on a late light. "In my dream, I was moving through the jungle when I heard him whimper. I followed the sound and found the wolf crawling toward me. He had been beaten. His ears were flat, his tail was between his legs. He was terrified and in pain. I knelt beside him, and he moved forward enough to put his head on my lap. When I touched him, he became Sandburg. He was unconscious. I couldn't rouse him. But he was alive."

"Maybe it was just a dream, Jim," Banks said softly. "He's been gone four days, without a word. Without a phone call, or ransom note, or anything," he amended. "Don't get your hopes set on this."

"I heard him that first day. And last night, it was a dream, but I know the difference. It was one of those dreams. A Sentinel dream."

"And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"But not this time."

Ellison was so damned calm about it, that the captain found himself gritting his teeth trying to hold back his comments. Yes, they had told Banks later what else had happened when Blair Sandburg died at the university that morning a month ago. But they didn't have to say much. He had been there. He had seen this man touch his partner's face and bring him back to life. The strange light. All because a waking dream had told Ellison he could do it.

But life wasn't like that. The extraordinary, inexplicable, and unexplainable events that seemed to hover around Ellison and Sandburg were not the norm. They were filed under "once-in-a-lifetime." Those moments were unique, different, not something that was going to appear around every corner, redeem every situation gone bad. It wasn't about to happen again four weeks later, no matter how much a part of the captain wanted to believe that.

Then again . . . Banks smiled, looking away. This is Sandburg we're talking about. All bets are off.

The shrill twitter of his cell phone broke the silence. He reached into his suit jacket and drew out the phone, answering as it rang a second time. "Banks."

"Captain, it's Brown."

Banks braced himself, waiting for the news, knowing Ellison was probably listening. "How's Rafe?"

"He's awake! Doc says he's going to be okay. He's going to be fine. He's awake, Captain." Detective Brown's excitement echoed through the digital phone.

Beside him, Ellison, of course, had heard and now let out a sigh of relief. "That's great, Simon. Tell him that's great," he said, eyes still on the road. "That's wonderful news."

"Brown," Banks began, then cleared his throat. "You take care of him for us. We'll come by and see him as soon as he can have visitors. I can't say how relieved we are. Jim's with me right now and he says to tell you that this is wonderful news."

"Oh, man . . . I wish I had better news for Jim. I know what he's been wanting to hear."

Ellison smiled grimly. "Tell him that Rafe being okay is the best news I've heard all week. We'll get Sandburg back, then we'll go watch that baseball game we all missed."

Banks passed the message on, then added, "Give him our best, okay?"

"Will do. Ah, man, he's awake. This is awesome, you know what I'm saying? You know what I'm saying?" Brown laughed, the thin edge of hysteria and exhaustion audible. "It's gonna happen, man. We're gonna get Hairboy back. Tell Jim not to stop believing, man."

"Is Rafe able to talk at all?" Banks asked, gently.

Brown's voice turned serious, reporting now as detective, not friend and partner. "A few words, not much. He's only been awake for a few minutes. He was anxious about Sandburg the moment he opened his eyes, though, sir. He was mumbling about Blair, saying he shouldn't have gotten shot."

"Who got shot?" Ellison asked, sharply.

Banks repeated the question. "Brown, was Sandburg injured or just Rafe?"

"Hang on, I'll ask him. I'm just standing outside his room right now, cuz the doctors were in with him. I had to tell you." Brown had obviously called them from the hospital on his cell phone, either ignoring the signs restricting the use of cell phones, or most likely, ignoring them in his excitement.

Banks could hear the muted voices as Brown and Rafe spoke to each other. Jim's sigh of relief beside him answered the question, though, before Brown even came back on the phone.

"Captain, he doesn't remember them hurting Blair. Just taking him. I've written down a description of the men, as best Rafe was able to give me. He's not too coherent at the moment. Oh . . . he's sorta faded out again."

"Let him sleep, Henri. Can you write up whatever you remember he said and fax it to me at Seattle Police Headquarters. It may be the first good description we have of these men."

"Yeah. Okay . . .. Sure, man . . . Um . . . where are you? I need a piece of paper or something. I can't find anything. Gimme a sec--"

Banks listened to the catch in Brown's breathing on the phone, knowing how exhausted the man must be. "Actually, Henri -- fax it to Taggart. He's in my office. He can fax it to me."

"Okay . . . Right . . . Fax it to you at your office."

Banks winced at the dazed undertone to his officer's voice. Brown had hardly moved from his partner's side all week. "Henri, once you do that, then I want you to call your wife, have her pick you up at the hospital, and go home. See your family. Get some sleep. We have a guard on the room -- Rafe will be fine until you get back there."

Ellison interrupted suddenly. "Simon, can he ask Rafe about the van? A license plate number maybe? Did they give any clues to where they had gone--" he began, pulling to the side of the road and stopping the car. "Let me talk to him," he said, reaching for the phone.

Simon shook his head, moving the phone to his right ear, away from Jim. "Brown, call me after you send the fax. Otherwise, I'll hear from you tomorrow unless there's something new to report."

Brown's answer was interrupted by a yawn. "Will do." The line went dead, and Ellison slapped at the steering wheel.

"I wanted to talk to him."

"You wanted to interrogate him , Jim, and he's barely coherent. Rafe is asleep, as well."

"They might know something--"

"Brown would have told us. Let's find out what his fax says, then if we have to, we'll give him a call."

Ellison rested his elbows on the steering wheel and rubbed at his forehead, trying to calm himself.

"I know you're anxious about the kid--"

The detective's jaw tightened in anger. "What do you expect? I should have this down pat by now. 'Proper behavior by an officer when his partner has been kidnaped.'"

"A moment ago you were convinced he was alive--"

"He is!"

"Then what's with the attitude now?"

"He's hurt! I told you. The wolf crawled over to me. He was frightened." Ellison looked over his left shoulder, getting ready to turn back into traffic. "He's frightened."

Banks put a cautioning hand on his arm. "Wait a minute, Jim."

"I want to get to the station."

"You haven't slept much in the last week. And I doubt if you've eaten a full meal." Banks glanced out the passenger window at the small strip of stores along the side of the road. "We're in luck. There's a fast food place on the corner. I'll go get my coffee and you can grab a hamburger."

"The meeting--"

"We'll be on time for the meeting. That's why they call it 'fast food'."

1:30 p.m.

Frank Black started up the stairs to the Seattle Police Headquarters, wondering briefly if this would be the last time he visited this building, at least for the near future.

Returning to Seattle was supposed to be returning home. The house, the dog, the neighborhood. Everything pointed to a time of peace in his life, a necessary break from the madness of the preceding years. A time where he could live with some measure of normality and enjoy his family. Maybe live as other families did, in the moment, in the here and now.

And beyond that, he had wanted to protect his wife and his child, and Seattle had seemed the best choice at the time.

He shrugged, opening the main door to the station. Maybe it had been the best choice. It gave them a few more years together that they may not have had otherwise. Maybe it had been the only choice, he had no way of knowing. For all his strange abilities, he had not been able to foresee the future nor stop the events that had unfolded over the last four years.

The universe unfolds as it should.

He shrugged off the murmured whisper of the old poem. He was not convinced.

Regardless, he thought, as he pushed the button for the elevator, it's time to move on, to get on with my life. He had spent two weeks in the cabin waiting, wondering what was happening in the world beyond. Catherine was gone, he had become convinced of that, and finally he had packed their bags, taken his daughter Jordan, and returned to Seattle.

The elevator arrived, and he stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor. When the car was full, the doors closed and it began to move upward.

Am I moving on or am I just returning to what I know? To some sort of anchor for my life? He and his little daughter were relocating to Washington, D.C., where he would be working with the FBI again. He had finalized the arrangements the day before and had originally planned to leave immediately for a brief trip there to see about leasing a home for September, but when Woodward had phoned him, Black hadn't found it within him to refuse the request. He owed these people a lot, and if they thought he could help -- if they were so desperate that they were asking for his help -- then he was willing to show up. He had found someone to look after Jordan for the afternoon and evening, and committed his time.

Second floor. The doors opened. The doors closed.

Frank Black was for many years an FBI agent who specialized in hunting down serial killers, and after his move to Seattle, he had continued profiling killers for the Seattle police and other police departments on the west coast. Added to that was his 'unique and disturbing ability' as one person had described it, of seeing inside the mind of one of these killers. His work, of late, had taken him away from serial killers as he turned his abilities toward even more devastating battles.

But this wasn't about the Millennium factions, or about serial killers. At least, not that Woodward had mentioned so far. He knew few details about what had occurred, but he had already gathered that this was a case that had shaken the Seattle PD. Woodward was grasping at straws, pulling in any help he could find. A Seattle police officer, one of their own, had been abducted. That alone was enough to make him want to help. It rang every bell for him, since it was hardly a month since Catherine's disappearance and presumed death. The memories surfaced and he battled them back into place. This wasn't about him, or his problems. He had to keep his mind focused on his task, or he'd be no use to the men and women gathered.

Third floor.

Once he and Jordan were settled in DC, then he'd take some time to process it all and deal with his wife's memory. Meanwhile, he would take one step after another and cope with what life had thrown at him this time. He had a daughter to raise. And there was always an agenda, whether he was in DC or in Seattle. The Millennium factions were still active, still pulling at him.

Fourth floor. The doors opened and he stepped out into the busy corridor. Woodward's office was to the left, so he threaded his way down the hall, pausing before the section chief's door before knocking. A familiar face was leaning against the wall outside the conference room on the far side of Woodward's office. Late forties. Tanned. The clothes were trendy, expensive, and the man wearing them was comfortable in them. They were an extension of his personality. T-shirt and jeans: casual, yet the quality was unmistakable, even to Frank Black. Brocade vest: expressive, different, flamboyant. Lightweight silk suit jacket: expensive, tailored, well-bred. It took Black a moment, but he placed the name with the face and took the few steps required to stand before the man.

"Nash Bridges," he said, softly, not wanting to startle him from his intense perusal of the file in his hands.

Fervent eyes met his, searched for the memory, then Bridges shifted the file and held out his hand in greeting. "Frank Black. Did they call you in on this? If they did, I'm breathing easier already. Or should I be more worried that it's that serious?"

"I'm sorry, Inspector Bridges. I haven't had a chance to see the file yet. Are you here about the Seattle police officer who was kidnaped?"

"It's Nash, please." He looked back to the documents in his hand. "One of my men has been abducted as well. Same M.O., from what I've read. And there were others."

They both turned as Harold Woodward stepped from his office and saw them. "Frank, thanks so much for coming. And you are?" he asked, shaking first Black's hand and then Bridge's.

"Nash Bridges, Special Investigations Unit, San Francisco."

"Evan Cortez," Woodward replied, putting another name to the city. "He's your man?"

"Yes." Bridges tensed, as though waiting for more.

"I know all the names. I've been studying these files since five o'clock this morning, which is why you received a phone call at nine o'clock. I wish we had noticed the pattern before."

"What is the pattern?" Black asked.

"Police officer kidnaped within a block of the station he worked at. Nine cases, up and down the coast, beginning a month ago in San Diego, then Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Monterey, Santa Cruz, San Francisco, Portland, Tacoma, and a week ago, here in Seattle. We have another possibility, although it doesn't fit the M.O. entirely, in that last Monday in Cascade, a police observer was kidnaped. It may or may not be connected." Woodward handed Black the file. "We've still got thirty minutes before the meeting," he said, unlocking the conference room. "You are both welcome to sit down in here and read the files while you're waiting. I'll have someone bring in coffee. Can I have anything else sent in? Did you have lunch?"

"Thank you, Harold; I've eaten."

"I'm fine," Bridges said. "I'd like to read this."

Woodward left them alone and they settled at one end of the executive table. Inspector Bridges returned to studying the documents, a blank pad of paper beside him on the table. Frank placed his file on the glossy surface and sat for a moment, his eyes closed, preparing himself for what would be inside. He was asked once if he was praying, and in all honesty, he didn't know. On one level, he probably was. Praying to a merciful God that somehow he, Frank Black, would be able to help solve the problem. But more than that, he did it to clear his thoughts, his expectations, his preconceived ideas, and to look at the case with uncompromised attention.

He couldn't bring back Catherine, but maybe there was a chance he could help Nash Bridges and the others.

1:45 p.m.

Ellison parked the truck, edging into the tight spot, aware of the thrumming of his nerves. When Banks got out to put some money in the meter, Ellison took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He was almost shaking from the tension, from trying to listen for Sandburg's voice in the madness of the last four days. He brought up a memory now, straining to hear his partner's quiet instructions to breathe, to center himself. When he finally opened the door and got out, he looked across the hood of the truck to Simon Banks' concerned face.

"I'm okay."

Banks nodded, then turned to glance up at the building they were headed to. "I haven't been here in years. You?"

Ellison shrugged, locking his door. "Not since I got back from Peru." He pulled his jacket closer, feeling chilled in the damp, spring rain, his hands icy. He tried fumbling with his touch sensitivity dials, but he was already having problems controlling his senses. He stared up at the building, blinking his focus clear as the rain fell on his face. Now that he was here and the meeting was fifteen minutes away, he found himself strangely reluctant to go inside. "How did they think to contact us?"

"Harold Woodward used to work in Narcotics in Cascade. We've kept in touch. He called me first thing this morning to ask if we had any cases with similar circumstances."

"Why hasn't this hit the papers?"

"I'm not sure. Some of the officers involved are undercover. Most of the abductions were initially attributed to local sources."

The edginess was getting worse. Ellison shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to keep pace with Banks. "How many?"

"If Sandburg's case fits the M.O., Woodward says he thinks there are ten related abductions."

"Ten." Ellison slowed down as they approached the building, then stopped, causing the captain to pause again to wait for him. "Why have they taken ten? Why from different cities?"

"That's what we're here to find out. Come on, Jim. Let's go inside."

Ellison felt his head buzzing, his captain's voice shifting volume as he struggled to listen. He was vaguely aware that he was falling forward, black spots disrupting his vision. His link with his partner. He felt Sandburg cry again. Not here. Not nearby. But somewhere, Sandburg was crying. Cold. Hungry. Afraid -- terrified. Ellison intimately felt the fear, the despair. His name being whispered. Suffocating. A gag or something in his mouth.

"Jim!" Suddenly, Banks' voice was in his ear. "Jim! Snap out of it!"

The shout pierced the fog in his mind, bringing some semblance of order to the confusing signals his senses were providing him. He was in Seattle, standing on the sidewalk outside the police station.

"Jim?"

"Give me a second," he mumbled, his grip tightening on Banks' arm. "Don't move." He tried to reclaim the link, the tenuous connection to his Guide, but it was gone again, and he groaned at the loss.

"What's wrong?"

He could hear Banks' tight question, the captain's whispered words not wanting to know if it was Sentinel-related. Sorry, Simon. I'm a Sentinel without a Guide. I know I'm falling apart, but this is the best I can do.

For a brief moment, he had felt Sandburg's presence. "He's still alive."

"Do I want to know how you know that?"

"Probably not." Ellison straightened and took another steadying breath. "He's alive. He's very cold -- his skin is icy -- and he's terrified."

"Oh, God." Banks pulled away from him, allowing him to stand on his own. "You sure about this, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Why is this happening now? It hasn't happened before, with you and Sandburg, has it? Is this just some leftover business from Mexico, from your enhanced senses then?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I haven't sensed his presence quite this strongly before." The word was wrong. "No, not his presence. I was picking up a sense of his awareness. What he's feeling. It's stronger now."

The captain's dark eyes met his, wide with apprehension. "Uh . . . Any idea where he is?"

"None. I don't think he knows where he is." Ellison glanced down at his watch. "Let's go in. We have five minutes."

"Jim?"

"I'm sorry, Simon. I don't have any answers for you or even answers for me. Let's find out what they have to say, then I want to go back to Cascade. He's not there, but he's not here in Seattle, either. I would have known that, I think."

2:00 p.m.

Frank Black watched the Cascade police officers walk into the room and take their seats. As with most of the men gathered in the room -- and it was entirely a male group, he had noticed -- these men had "cop" stamped all over them. He turned back to the picture of the officer taken -- no, this was the city that had an observer taken, whatever that designation meant -- and he looked down at the young face. The picture was dated a few years before, the observer staring into the camera with a disarmingly mischievous smile, long curly hair framing an inquisitive face. The eyes were what drew Black, and he knew immediately this man wasn't a cop. His eyes were fresh, innocent, and almost naive.

But an "observer"? What did that mean? Observing what? Black looked back at the date on the photo, then over to the two shell-shocked men. Sandburg had been an observer for well over two years. What exactly was his relationship to these police officers?

He studied the shorter of the two men. The detective looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, but there was also an edge of hope about him that was missing in many of the others gathered. As if he knew something.

The door to the conference room closed and Harold Woodward took the podium, set up at one end of the table. Woodward was in his early sixties, a veteran in police work, and a highly skilled detective in his own right. That he had pieced together this trail of abductions was quite a feat, for police departments, especially those crossing county or state borders, were notoriously self-sustained.

Introductions were made; some were names that Black had heard before, men he had spoken to or corresponded with about cases, and now he was able to connect the name to the face. The men from Cascade were introduced last. The tall, black man was Captain Simon Banks, Head of Major Crimes in Cascade, a port city to the north of Seattle, less than an hour from the Canadian border. It also had an international airport and the city was in the same battle they all shared against the drug trade and smuggling. He had come across Cascade tie-ins while dealing with the mafia, syndicates, and Asian triads, as well as gang warfare and weapons control. The man next to him was introduced as Detective Lt. James Ellison, also of Major Crimes.

Flash: Face dark with terror. A cry. A whimper cut off. A knife flashing, catching the light of a dying sun.

Frank Black sat motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Where had that come from? He wasn't on a crime scene. He had nothing personal of the victim's. Yet the image had been clear.

Across from him, Ellison sat with his elbows on the table, his face hidden in his hands. His captain was watching him, concern etched on the man's face. Ellison's shoulders moved as he took a long, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly.

As though he had seen the same visions.

Flash: Eyes wide in terror. Keening sound coming from the gagged mouth. The knife blade, reflecting the victim's face.

Ellison hadn't moved, face still hidden, his hands clenched in fists before his eyes, as though blocking the sight.

Black watched him for a moment longer, then looked quickly through the file. Sandburg, Blair, the profile read. Masters degree in anthropology. Currently employed by Rainier University in the Department of Anthropology while he worked on a doctorate in anthropology. Police observer, a copy of the application attached, stating he wished to study the police department, doing his doctorate on closed societies. The profile finished with two words: Ellison's partner.

Partner? Black glanced back at the file, wondering when the supplied profile was dated, but it was recent. Was Sandburg now an officer, as well? No, the current form still had him down as an observer. From the young man's appearance, perhaps the status was a more personal one. It was clear they were close friends, at least, from the look on Ellison's face. Several of the men gathered at the table had similar haunted, exhausted appearances. Others, the head of departments or units, like Banks and Bridges, were also fighting burnout and the heavy weight of responsibility for one of their own.

Woodward finished the introductions and opened his file folder. "I'd like us to look at the facts, gentlemen. Please open your files and follow me through the concrete evidence we do have, before we begin to take this a step further. Let's take it from the top. One month ago yesterday, in San Diego." He led them through the cases, not pausing on details, just enough to familiarize everyone with the cases.

San Diego: Monday, May 18. 11:15 a.m. Detective Jorge Diez, age 31, and his partner were walking back to the station after completing an investigation at a nearby crime scene, when a white van stopped beside them. Three men emerged, with sub-machine guns, and held the partner back while tying up Diez and securing him in the van. He wasn't injured at the time, although the partner suffered a dislocated shoulder from his efforts to break free of the powerful man restraining him. Descriptions of the men were attached. The muscle man: Caucasian, extremely strong, solid. 6'4". Dark hair cut short. Accent: possible German or Slavic, the partner couldn't say. The two gunmen: One was Hispanic, 6' tall, long straight uneven hair. Magnum gun. The other was white, brown hair, military cut. Same height, about six feet. The driver was black, but Diez's partner had only had a brief glimpse of him.

There had been no ransom note. It had been assumed the abduction was drug related, as Diez had been working on several cases involving drug trafficking.

Los Angeles: Wednesday, May 20. 4:40 p.m. Lt. Pat Hollis, age 29, was leaving the precinct after his shift, heading out to dinner with another officer. They had decided to walk to a restaurant on the next street over. As they walked through the parking area next to the restaurant and approached the door, a white van drove onto the lot. The officer accompanying Hollis was brutally knocked unconscious. Witnesses saw the other officer being pulled into the van, then the van sped away. There were no reliable descriptions of the abductors, other than that there were two or three men seen, all with guns. No ransom note.

Santa Barbara: Friday, May 22. 1:50 p.m. Peter Labenstoff, undercover officer, age 30. Abducted one block from station on his way back from lunch. Alone. White van reported by witnesses.

Monterey: Sunday, May 24 9:30 a.m. Detective Scott McBride, age 30. Abducted while walking from his car to the police station. Description of van and abductors matched previous descriptions. Brown-haired gunman also reported to have a tatoo on his forearm, and a scar along his jawline.

Santa Cruz: Tuesday, May 26 9:10 a.m.. Lt. Sam Faddis, age 29. Abducted a block from office. Faddis was speaking to his partner on the cell phone when it happened, so the partner heard the abduction, but no other witnesses stepped forward.

San Francisco, Friday May 29 6:20 p.m. Inspector Evan Cortez, age 29. Abducted while leaving the SIU headquarters with his partner, heading to their cars after their shift. Partner was able to give a matching description of one of the abductors, but was knocked unconscious during the resulting skirmish.

Portland: Wednesday, June 3, 2:45 p.m. Assistant Chief Jack Kelly, age 32. Abducted when he left the police station to go pick up his son from elementary school to take him to daycare. White van. No description of abductors.

Tacoma: Tuesday, June 9, 11:35 a.m. Undercover Detective William Fong, age 29. Abducted while walking with girlfriend outside the police station. White van, and long-haired Hispanic gunman were reported by the traumatized woman.

Seattle: Friday, June 12, 8:25 a.m. Lt. Glenn Relkie, age 30. Abducted while getting into his car parked a block from the station. White van reported.

And the last case, the possible tie-in. Cascade: Monday, June 15, 1:30 p.m. Civilian Blair Sandburg, a police observer, age 29. Abducted while returning from lunch with a police officer. White van. No description of abductors. Police officer accompanying him was shot in the side and also suffered a severe head injury. He has not regained consciousness.

While Woodward continued to speak, Frank Black closed the file, letting the images of the men settle into his thoughts. There certainly appeared to be a connection between the cases. The consistency of the white van and the abductors' pattern of behavior. The ages, according to his notes, were all between 27 and 32. All were involved in detective or undercover work. He checked back to Jack Kelly's file, the Portland officer, to confirm his suspicions, and noted then that all officers were single. Kelly was divorced and a single father.

Ignoring the conversation proceeding in the room, Black stood, taking his file, and moved over to the credenza beneath the window. Withdrawing the photographs from the file, he laid them out along the narrow table, looking carefully at the faces and ignoring the background material. Ten males. Two Hispanic. One black. One oriental. Six white. He closed his eyes and looked at them again, not seeing the differences but the similarities. Eight of the ten wore earrings in their left ears. Five of the ten wore double earrings. All but one had short hair, stylishly cut.

Black stared at Sandburg's picture. The anomaly. All but this one man abducted were the same height, same build. All but one could have been runway models. And the tenth, Sandburg, though he lacked the height for a model, had a beauty of his own, almost exotic in appearance. There were few men that Black had ever seen that he would use the word 'beautiful' in describing, but there was something very sensual about the young man. There was something very sensual about all of the young men pictured, but the rest had an edge to them that this one did not have.

Flash: The compact body tossed into the air. A tangle of bloody limbs. Slit throats. Sightless eyes.

He felt a presence beside him and looked into James Ellison's eyes. "Your partner was not the intended victim."

Ellison said nothing, but handed him a fax. Black read it quickly, realizing that this was a statement from the officer who had been with Sandburg when he was abducted. It clearly said that this officer, Detective Rafe, felt that he was the one the abductors had wanted, but when he had been injured, they had taken Sandburg instead.

"Do you have a picture of this man?" Black asked, quietly.

Simon Banks handed him a photo of Detective Rafe from the file they had brought with them from Cascade. Black placed Rafe's picture over Sandburg's and they stared at the mosaic spread across the credenza.

Ten almost identical faces. Same body type. Same build. Same age group. Same look. Same profession.

Black stepped back from the table as the others in the room gathered around to see what he had put together. Banks and Ellison came with him, standing before him, Ellison's intense blue eyes drilling him back against the wall.

"What do you see?" Ellison's question came out half under his breath.

Black knew he wasn't referring to the photographs. "Your partner."

"He's alive." Not a question. A statement.

"At the moment, he is." Black stared back. "You are connected to him." There was no verbal response, but the man's entire body language confirmed his thoughts. "I'm picking something up through you."

Ellison nodded. "Tell me."

The urgency was palatable. Black looked over to Woodward, and the man turned at his gaze and quickly joined them. "We need a room," Black said.

"Right now, Frank? We were hoping to profile--"

"I'll join you in thirty minutes. Right now, I need to talk to these two gentlemen. We have a young man who has been kidnaped who does not meet the abductors' criteria. There's a strong possibility that he might prove to be our link to them. We have to move fast, though. He's dying."

"How do you know--" Woodward cut off his own words. "What am I saying? This is why I asked you to come. Take my office. We'll continue on here. Anything we should know?"

Black took the offered magnetic card. "Harold, Cascade is part of the case. But take the information on the man accompanying Sandburg. Ignore Sandburg. He was not an intended victim." He turned to Ellison and Banks. "Gentlemen, we need to talk."

Chapter Two

"SIU. Joe Dominguez. Can I help you?"

"Joe? It's Nash."

"Already? What time is it?" (Pause) "It's only five. What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's wrong? I'm just phoning to talk for a minute."

"Why? Has something happened? You said you wouldn't call until later, man. What happened? Have all you detective bosses figured it out? Is the meeting over? Did you figure out what happened to Evan--"

"Hold on there, Bubba. I'm just taking a break. I want to talk to Harvey for a minute."

"Harvey? Uh, okay. Sure. I'll get him on the line." (Pause) "Hey, Harv! Harvey! Nash wants to talk to you. Line two."

"I'm here. Nash -- any word?"

"Not yet. Something interesting though, Harvey. I want you to look around and see what you can find."

"What have we got?"

"We're looking at the abduction of ten men from ten different police stations. All were detectives, either undercover or investigations. All were the exact same body type and weight as Evan. Eight had earrings in their left earlobe, five had two earrings. All had short hair, styled. All regularly wore sunglasses. All were sharp dressers. All were currently single. Any of them could have worked as a model. Six white, two Hispanic, one black, one oriental."

"Multi-racial group... Models, Boss? I'll pass that on to Evan later."

"Harvey, when we get Evan back, you can tell him anything you want. Get on it."

"I'm on it. I trust you'll let me know if you find out anything else."

"I soon as I know it, you'll know it, Harv."

"Thanks, Nash. Here's Joe again."

"Nash?"

"Joe, I see they just brought in a tray of sandwiches and I'm hungry. I'll call you after the meeting tonight."

"I know. I was listening before, last time I called. You'll call me tonight from the hotel after the meeting. I heard you. I just was wondering if there was anything else I can do."

"You're there, Bubba. Knowing you're there means the world to me. Keep an eye on Harvey. Get him whatever he needs. I have a feeling about this one."

"That's good, Nash. I'll leave my cell phone on."

"Later, Bubba."

Three days previous

3:00 a.m.

Blair Sandburg opened his eyes carefully, his head whirling like he was coming off a college drunk. With a low groan, his eyes fell shut and he pressed one hand flat against the cold surface beneath him to keep him from falling off the edge of the planet. At least the lights had the decency to be off, but he would be a lot happier if someone turned up the heat. And took out the garbage. And filled him in on what was going on.

Jim? Where are you, man? I think I'm in trouble here...

His body pains began to register, concentrating in his stomach and his tortured head. He was lying on his back, legs and arms sprawled bonelessly on a metal floor that wasn't quite even. It had grooves on it that dug into his back. It was hard to breathe past the fumes, and the suffocating feeling lingered, causing him to tilt his head back to take a bigger breath. He ended up coughing, which only sent painful spasms through his abdomen and skull. A hand was there to support his neck as he gasped for air.

"Jim?" he managed to croak out tentatively.

"Take it easy," a low voice beside him cautioned. "Once you wake up, it'll take an hour or so before your head clears."

A wave of nausea threatened, spurred on by the cold realization that it wasn't Jim beside him, after all. "What did you do to me?" Sandburg whispered, desperately trying to keep his stomach under control. He had no energy to turn to his side, which made throwing up definitely not a good idea.

"I didn't do anything to you, buddy. Unfortunately, I'm a prisoner just as much as you are."

That got his attention. Prisoner? Sandburg's eyes opened again, blinking back the distorted, shadowed images, and he turned his head cautiously until he faced the man stretched out next to him. "Who are you? Where am I?" he gasped, moaning as he realized that he was in something that was moving, and at the moment they were going over metal grates on a bridge, which set up a horrible vibration beneath him. His stomach complained again at the movement, the acid taste in his mouth close to dangerous.

The man seemed to understand how he was feeling, reaching out to place a hand on Sandburg's forearm. "Breathe slowly. They drugged you. It'll take awhile for the feeling to pass. In answer to your question, you've joined a traveling freak show. My name's Evan Cortez, with the San Francisco Police Department, Special Investigations Unit. I'll introduce you to the rest of the crew once we stop and everyone's awake."

"Are you undercover now?"

"No."

There were other things he could ask, other possibilities, but Blair couldn't think of them at that exact moment. His brain was having a hard time thinking at all. Come on. Come on. Prisoners? He decided that if Evan was a cop, and they were both prisoners, then Evan was probably in the 'friend' category. "Hey ..." He grasped at the young man's hand, squeezing it as a spasm shook him. "What do you mean by 'Freak show'?" His stomach hurt when he spoke, but at least they were past the bridge deck.

"Just lie still right now. You'll find out soon enough. What's your name?"

He started to answer when the truck took a left turn, sliding him up against the side wall. "Blair-- ouch -- Blair Sandburg. Uh ... I'm living-- here-- in Cascade." He had to force the words out. The truck continued down the road, and he tried to relax a bit.

Cortez gave a funny laugh. "Sorry to disappoint you, Blair, but I don't think we're in Cascade any longer." Cortez grimaced as he moved slowly back to lie on his side. Sandburg studied him in the faint light. He was wearing a gray pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He lay curled slightly, his arms clenched around his stomach, obviously in some pain.

"You okay?" Sandburg asked, still staring at him, his sight slowly clearing in the near darkness of the room he was in.

"I'm better than I was yesterday," Cortez said, softly, but his eyes stayed closed, shut tight.

What happened yesterday? Sandburg wanted to ask, but the words stayed silent. He closed his own eyes for a moment, then carefully opened them and looked up at the ceiling. Except it wasn't really a room; it was the back of a huge moving van or semi-trailer. He tried to lift his head and look around more, but he couldn't manage it. As he lay there, he listened intently, imaging he was Jim and could isolate the sounds ... Jim? Oh, my God ... Jim, where are you? Where am I? ... Rafe? They shot Rafe ... The memories slammed against his bruised mind as he fought to sort them all out. He remembered going for lunch with Rafe. Walking back. The van ... They shot Rafe, then grabbed him. The cloth pressed over his mouth and nose. Then ... nothing ... until now.

Until he had woken up here. Wherever here was. The traveling freak show. The traveling part was easy to figure out; he was in the back of a semi-trailer, he decided. The was no light except for the reflection of the brake and rear lights, the connections visible within the trailer. He could hear others with him. Others lying down on the cold, hard surface. Evan had said that he would introduce him later, so it sounded like they were all prisoners.

The truck turned onto a gravel road, and he slid slightly in the opposite direction, the rough vibrations jarring his aching body. Someone at his feet moved, groaning, rolling over. He looked down, seeing the light reflect off a chain. Moving one leg slightly, he saw his ankles were cuffed and chained to a post on the floor. Great. He let his head fall back to the hard floor.

"How many people are in here?" Sandburg whispered, not trusting his stomach with any further effort.

Cortez hesitated. "Eight. There were two more, but ..." His voice trailed off.

"Are they dead?" Sandburg asked, not wanting to know.

"Yeah." Cortez offered no further explanation, and Sandburg chose not to ask.

The smell registered on his mind, then. He had been with Jim once when they had investigated a murder scene. The body had been there a few days unattended. The room smelled like this, but not as bad. "Evan? Are the bodies here, too?"

"Yeah." Cortez moved closer to him. "Sorry, kid. You chose a bad time to wake up." He moved his left arm to rest on Sandburg's chest, gently patting his right shoulder in an attempt at comfort. "Why don't you go back to sleep? Take advantage of the time you have to rest. You'll probably feel better when you wake up. Excuse my closeness, but we're both cold."

"S'okay." Sandburg swallowed several times, forcing himself to breathe when he instinctively wanted to hold his breath and not inhale contaminated air. His lungs won, though. He shifted closer to Cortez, appreciative of the young man's efforts to calm him.

Jim had slept beside him while they were in Mexico. It was such a simple gesture, but somehow Jim had known that he was still unsettled inside and while he could reason with himself in the daytime, at night it all fell apart. He would lie in bed, scared of waking up in the cold fountain waters and drowning. Afraid to go to sleep because he might die. Afraid that Jim was going to die.

Oh, the list could go on ... Afraid of the nerve gas. Afraid of the men who had held Megan and him at gunpoint. Afraid Megan would be killed in front of him. Afraid Simon would never come back. Afraid he'd never find Jim in the jungle.

And the biggies ... Afraid of Alex. Of her hold over his partner. Afraid of what Jim was doing.

Jim had gone to her, drawn from his sleep, pulled down the street, ran down the beach, knowing she would be there. Jim's eyes had been half-lidded, glazed. She had been the same, groping him, her hands possessively over his body. Caught in some primitive vision that was compelling them both.

Blair had stumbled after his partner, tripping on the sand as he ran. And saw them. Together. Ripping their clothes off. Jim with the woman who had killed him. Jim and Alex. And she'd done it again -- pulled a gun out. Jim's gun. She had taken Jim's gun and was going to shoot him with it. With his own partner's gun.

Blair gasped now, fighting again for air. This was where Jim would pull him close every night, hold him until the fear ran out, until they both could sleep. For it wasn't just Blair who had nightmares.

Tears ran down his face, unseen in the darkness.

Jim. Oh, man. Where are you? Wish we were telepathic... I assume you're looking for me, right? ... Like I had to ask ... Yeah. Well, finding me would be like such a good thing, man. I don't know where I am. I don't know what happened, not really ... He shivered again, suddenly wondering if his partner was safe. His memories were rather hazy. He remembered Rafe pushing him back, the sound of the gunshot, Rafe falling ... As far as he could figure, Jim hadn't been there. If you were here, you'd hear my heartbeat skyrocket just now. I admit to being a little freaked. I mean, I'm flashing on not only Alex, but Lash right now. That same creepy feeling in that dentist chair and standing on the beach.

He gasped, trying to catch his breath, then pushing out the rank air from his lungs. Oh, man ... why did I think of Lash?

"Just relax. Get some sleep." Cortez's voice beside him was edged in pain and exhaustion.

Blair remembered Jim's voice in the church, telling him to go to sleep. He had felt better after that talk, knowing Jim was there, feeling everything work between them again. He hadn't wanted to go to sleep and later was glad that sleep had eluded him and he had heard Jim leave the church.

Jim ... where are you?

"Sorry." The gravel road was making his stomach queasy again, rattling his bones. His mind refused to shut down, swirling thoughts and images that he attributed only partly to whatever drug they had given him. Finally, the semi geared down, turned, stopped, then slowly the trailer moved in the opposite direction.

"We're backing up," Cortez whispered, not raising his head. "Probably back to the warehouse."

"Warehouse?"

The engine was turned off. A door slammed closed, but then there was silence. Except for the raspy breathing of eight men. And the flies.

"Get some sleep. They'll leave us here until morning."

"Who? Who's behind this? What do they want?"

He tried asking another question, but soon understood that Cortez was asleep.

Instead, he pictured his partner in his mind, knowing the Sentinel wouldn't rest until he was found. He pictured Jim's hand resting on his chest, where Cortez's hand was. Finally, Sandburg closed his eyes and gave in to the steady pull of drugs still in his system.

Find me, Jim. Jim?

3:15a.m.

James Ellison froze, his head tilted to one side, listening.

"What?" he heard from a distance.

He waved Simon Banks quiet, still listening to the rapid heartbeat. Sandburg's. He tried to follow it, tried to pinpoint it, but it wasn't something nearby. The sound was coming from ... within. He placed his hand over his heart, feeling his own body striving to echo the beat, to match it. Blair?

Jim?

He threw himself toward the sound, toward Sandburg's voice, unaware of his body's collapse in Banks' office or of the captain catching him before his head impacted with the edge of the conference table. He pushed through the darkness, following the faint trail of sound until he lost himself in the carrier hum of his Guide's soul.

6:30 a.m.

Someone was calling him.

"Not now, Harv," he mumbled. He hated stakeouts. Especially when he was cold. He could feel it in his bones this morning.

"Hey, Cortez. Wake up."

He froze. That wasn't his partner's voice. What? Harvey?

"Hey!"

Evan Cortez woke fully at the slight touch to his foot. "What?" He leaned up on one elbow, blinking first to see where he was, then groaning and wiping a hand over his face. "Something happening?"

Pat Hollis was already sitting up, one ear pressed against the side of the trailer. Slivers of light came in through the top of the rear doors. Hollis' black sweat suit was almost as dark as his skin, and in the dim light, he was difficult to see. "I hear voices outside," the Los Angeles detective said, calmly. "It's daylight. How you feeling?"

"You saw what happened last night. I fuckin' hurt, man," Cortez said, sharply. The trailer was damp and cold; it was hard to believe it was June. It felt like winter out, but the brief glimpse he had seen of the outdoors the previous day had been of pounding rain. Spring in the Pacific Northwest. He eased back from where he had been curled around Sandburg, immediately shivering at the loss of warmth.

"I was just asking." Hollis voice was distant, abrupt.

Way to go, Evan. Hollis is one of the good guys. Cortez rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease his pounding headache. His body hurt, sharp pains across his shoulders, his lower back. His thighs burned. He gasped as he sat up. "Sorry. I shouldn't have directed that at you. Not your fault. I'm just a little fuckin' on edge." He sighed slowly, setting his legs straight in front of him. "How long have you been awake?" he asked, as soon as he caught his breath.

Hollis shifted away from the wall. "An hour or so. I've been working at these cuffs. I used to be damned good at this stuff," he said with a grunt, resuming his efforts to get rid of the metal restraints around his ankles. Each of them wore the cuffs that had an eighteen inch chain linking their ankles. It made walking difficult. It made walking quickly impossible.

Not that I could get very far right now. A six-year-old could take me down. Cortez shivered, trying to pull himself back to the conversation with the Los Angeles detective. "Never was much good at locks without a pick set," he offered, raising one ankle an inch or so to look at the cuff. Nash would have had the cuffs off seconds after the lock had snapped shut on them. But then, Nash wasn't here and Evan had never gotten around to asking the SIU chief how he did that.

Hollis chuckled. "Now where I lived growing up, everyone knew how to spring a lock."

The words hung in the air for a moment before Cortez connected with them. "I thought you said your father was an actor in Los Angeles and you grew up in Beverly Hills," he said softly, rubbing at his forehead again.

"Hey, kids get their kicks somehow or other. We did our bad boy scene the same as the rest of them." Hollis gestured toward Sandburg's sleeping form. "He must have arrived while I was sleeping. I assume they drugged our dinner last night."

"He was here when I woke up. I don't think much of my dinner stayed down, so I woke up a few hours ago. He was pretty disoriented." Cortez drew his legs up, trying to ease the tightness across his stomach.

"Where's he from?"

"Says his name is Blair Sandburg. Cascade."

"Cascade, Washington. What's next? Canada?" Scott McBride, the detective from Monterey, joined the conversation, maneuvering his body to sit upright beside Hollis. "Shit, I hurt. How's everyone else doing?"

Hollis shook his head, indicating the man on his other side. "Sam's not doing too well. Bleeding hasn't stopped."

"Bastards. I thought I had it bad, but they did a number on him." McBride wrestled his anger under control, tugging on his ankle chain, anchored to one of a series of hooks that ran down the middle of the trailer. "Jorge's dead. Peter's dead. Sam might not make it. Are they going to do us all?"

"Maybe." Hollis listened again at the wall. "Voices have gone away. Something's happening though." He went back to studying the lock on his ankle.

McBride looked over to Sandburg, then to Cortez. "Is this guy a cop?"

"I didn't ask. The rest of us are, why wouldn't he be?"

"Doesn't look like a cop," Jack Kelly muttered, rolling over onto his back to lean up on his elbows. "I took a look at him earlier, when you were spooned up sleeping with him like he was your lover."

"He was cold. So was I," Cortez retorted. "It's called conserving body heat."

"Just so it's clear you're not going fruity on me. It's bad enough having to put up with the crap these guys are dishing out. I don't like it in the police force. I don't allow it in Portland." Kelly tugged on his dark blue sweatshirt. "I hate these cheap fleece things. They never make them long enough."

Cortez's hand formed into a fist, ready to turn on Kelly when Hollis kicked at Cortez's foot. "Take it easy. We're on the same side, believe it or not," Hollis finished, with a warning glare at Kelly.

The SIU detective forced his temper under control, turning his back slightly on Kelly and concentrating on Sandburg, one hand resting on his forehead.

"When did he get here?" McBride asked, arms wrapped around himself.

"Late last night. He woke up early this morning, but the drugs and chloroform wiped him out." Cortez patted the side of the man's face, but there was no reaction. "He's cold."

Kelly leaned over Cortez to get a better look. "Too scrawny for a cop," he said. "Hair's not right, either. Too girlish."

"Maybe he's vice," McBride ventured, missing the barbed looks the others gave to Kelly. "Or in one of those high school undercover units."

"Can't you keep it down? A guy's trying to sleep here," William Fong grumbled from the other side of Sandburg.

Hollis threw a rag across at Fong. "Wake up. We've got to talk here. This is the first time we've all been together and not drugged." He waited until they were all sitting up and staring at him. "With Sandburg here, we're at ten. Ten Little Indians. That's us, men. They're knocking us off one by one. Minus Jorge and Peter, that's eight. And Sam's not doing well."

"Neither is Glenn," McBride announced, looking at the man who lay between him and the rear doors. "His skin is like ice, and his breathing is off." He tried to rouse the man, but received no response.

"So there are five of us still functioning, six if you count Sandburg." Hollis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "And Evan and Scott won't be running around much today."

Cortez bristled at the words. "If there's a chance for us to get out of here, I'm with you. I'm not staying here, even if I have to crawl."

"I'm with him," McBride said. "I may feel like road kill, but I'm not going to lie there and let them drive over me again."

"So what do we do?" Fong asked. "In case you haven't noticed, they've got ample firearms and manpower to keep us under lock and key. We're prisoners, my friends. No one knows where we are. We ain't leaving here."

"I find it unlikely that ten cops could disappear without a public reaction. I know that if no one else cares, my partner is looking for me," Hollis said firmly. "Dan's the best."

"My partner, too," Cortez whispered, leaning his head back. Harv? Sandburg moaned, and Cortez moved his hand to the young man's shoulder, squeezing it gently, calming him. "I'm part of a unit," he added, proudly, "and I know they're all on this." Nash Bridges was a miracle worker. Between Nash and Harvey and Joe and Michelle and everyone else, he knew San Francisco was being turned upside down looking for him. Trouble is, I'm not in California.

McBride shrugged. "I don't have a partner. I work mainly on my own, but there were witnesses to my abduction, so I'm sure there's an alert out for me."

"Anyone have family?" Fong asked, looking around, then resting his head back against the side of the trailer box. "A girlfriend? I got me one. And right now, I bet she's half hysterical wondering what happened to me. She hates the fact I'm undercover. Didn't mind me being a cop, but hated when I transferred to the Port of Tacoma undercover unit."

Cortez smiled, one hand still resting on Sandburg's chest. "My family's in Chicago, but the SIU is my family, too. We take care of each other. And, yeah, I've got a girlfriend." Images of Cassidy came to his mind, the hot blast of water from the shower descending over their joined bodies. The soap in his hand, fingers trailing down her silky skin. Her laughter, her whispers. The two of them in bed, the covers a jumble of sheets and blankets that they took refuge beneath in the early hours of the morning, when they were too tired to do anything else. Waking up beside her, his hand tangled in her hair, his face next to hers on the pillow.

The scene was ripped apart by the memory of the previous day, standing blindfolded, naked and leather bound, restrained by some device that linked the collar around his neck to his wrists, pulled tight behind his back. His body then forced into positions he had heard of, and seen pictures of, but never imagined he would endure. Cassidy ...

She was so young. Too young to hear what had been done to him. Too young to hear about what might yet be done to him. If it happens, will I be the same then? Will I ever be able to look her in the eye? Look at my reflection in the mirror? Despair rushed over him, and he closed his eyes, drowning in the grief of a lost might-have-been, wondering if he'd ever see her again.

Hollis shifted, listening intently. "Voices again. Listen up. We make a promise, okay? If any of us gets a chance to escape, we do it. I want to know that someone gets word out about this operation. We don't try and save the next guy. If one of us gets loose, we run for it. Agreed?"

"Agreed." McBride raised his hand before him, locking it into a fist.

Fong and Jack copied the signal, Cortez joining them before turning his attention to Sandburg, who was groggily touching his head, eyes opening.

"Evan?"

"Yeah. Can you sit up?" Cortez helped the Cascade prisoner to lean back against the sidewall. Before he could say anything more, a sharp rattle at the end door signaled their day had begun. Six pairs of eyes watched as the doors were unlocked and then swung open.

6:45 a.m.

"Jim? For God's sake, man, what the hell am I supposed to do?" Simon's voice, hardly more than a whisper, was clear, the first sound his zoned mind had heard in hours.

Ellison opened his eyes to the foggy realization that he was lying on the floor of Banks' office, covered with a blanket, a pillow under his head. From the light visible through the slated blinds, it was early morning. He looked to one side to see Banks sitting on the edge of a chair nearby, his face hidden in his hands.

He tried to force his tongue and mouth to work. "Can you get me a cup of coffee? And some Tylenol?"

"Jim!" Banks was on his knees beside him. "Are you back? If so, may I say right now, don't you ever do that to me again! You got that?" The captain helped him up into a chair.

"I'll do my best," he murmured. "At the risk of sounding ungrateful, Simon, I really could use some pain killers, and I suspect we both could use a cup of whatever that coffee is that I smell." He took a tentative sniff. "What is that? Columbian Dark?"

"Yeah." Banks moved from his side over to the credenza behind his desk. "I made a pot about ten minutes ago. Had I known you could be lured out of a zoneout with coffee, I would have made it three hours ago."

"Three hours? I was zoned that long?" Ellison rubbed the back of his neck, amazed at the knots and tension there. "I'll have to mention to Sandburg about the coffee angle."

"What the hell happened, Jim? One minute I was on the phone talking to Brown at the hospital, and suddenly I see you move your head like you're doing that senses-listening thing you do, then you're taking a swan dive." Banks handed him a cup of black coffee, then dropped some pain tablets into his palm. "Has the kid okayed those pills?" The captain looked startled at his words, adding immediately, "Sorry, Jim. I shouldn't have mentioned--"

"It's okay. He's missing, not dead. Understand?" Ellison popped the pills in his mouth, swallowing a mouthful of too-hot coffee. "I heard him last night, Simon."

"Heard who?" Banks sat down at his desk, cradling his own cup of coffee.

"Sandburg."

"What?" Bloodshot eyes widened. "How? What kind of a range do you have with your hearing, anyway?"

"I've no idea. Sandburg seems to think that it will continue to extend as I get control of my senses. But I heard him. I heard his heartbeat."

"Then he was in the building somewhere?"

"No. I think he was a distance away. Simon ..." Ellison trailed off, staring at a spot on the floor. "Simon, I don't think I was using my sense of hearing this time."

"You're not making sense, Jim -- If you'll pardon the pun. What are you saying? That you heard his heartbeat with your eyesight?"

"No. But it was internal, rather than external. It wasn't with any of my five senses. It was beyond that. I ..." Ellison shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't have the vocabulary for this." He rubbed his neck and tried again. "For lack of a better way of saying it, I experienced his heartbeat. A different level of sensory awareness, maybe--"

Banks interrupted. "Hold it right there. Just stop a minute. What are you talking about? A sixth sense?"

"I don't know. Maybe a seventh or eighth sense." Ellison met the captain's disbelieving stare. "I don't know, Simon. I don't know what it was. But it was real, as real as I can hear your heart right now."

Banks grimaced. "I'd rather not know that you can hear my heartbeat. It quite frankly gives me the willies." He took a sip of his coffee, giving himself a moment to compose his thoughts. "Jim, I'm no expert at this stuff, but maybe you just hooked onto a memory of him or something. We'd been talking about him for twelve hours straight when this happened. It's possible, isn't it?"

"I don't think so. I don't know what it was, but it was real. Immediate. Almost like I was there with him for a moment."

"So where is he, Jim?"

Ellison shook his head slowly, his eyes closed. "I don't know. But he was alive and he was frightened."

7:00 a.m.

Holding his breath, Sandburg watched as the key slid into the lock at his feet. The chain was kicked free of the post, the noise jarring his raw nerves. Three men had stormed into the semi-trailer ten minutes before and had begun to remove their prisoners one at a time. Sandburg was the last of the group to be released, except for two men who hadn't moved since Blair had woken up. The anthropologist was also careful to keep his eyes away from the two bodies now visible at the back of the semi-trailer. It was bad enough knowing they were there; he didn't want to see them. Every time he heard a fly buzzing, his stomach rebelled.

"Get up." The tall man with arms like a wrestler snarled at him, and Sandburg scrambled to his feet, weaving as dizziness hit. He was turned around and pushed face-first against the side of the trailer. "Don't move." His arms were drawn back, leather cuffs were strapped to each wrist, then somehow fastened together. The man finished, then hooked his arm and sent him stumbling toward the door.

A sharp rapping sound got his attention, and as the police observer raised his head, he saw the one of the other men, this one with a scar above his eye and a very large gun, at the entrance of the semi-trailer, motioning for him to leave. "Well, little ugly duckling," the scar man growled, "let's see if you can keep yourself alive a few more hours."

Sandburg kept his gaze averted, trying not to meet the man's dark, flashing eyes. He walked unsteadily to the end of the box, then turned and clamored awkwardly down from the edge, landing with difficulty on his feet, then falling to his knees in a mud puddle, the cold water soaking his jean legs. A harsh yell brought him to his feet again and he stared down at his bare toes, only then noticing that his sandals were missing. Come on, Sandburg. Wake up. Pay attention.

It was early morning. The sky was gray and overcast. He stood motionless, waiting to be told what to do next. He could hear the wrestler man still inside the trailer ordering the injured Santa Cruz cop to get up.

The rain had stopped, but it was windy. A shot sounded and Blair stumbled forward, almost losing his balance as the chain between his ankles tripped him up. The sound echoed again in the semi-trailer, and the huge wrestler jumped down from the back, walking past him as though he didn't exist.

"Through the door."

Blair looked up to see a broad-shouldered Hispanic man at the entrance to what was probably a warehouse. A quick peak around showed a deserted field with a thick growth of trees at the far end. The semi-trailer, as well as a large, older house, hid most of the view.

"Inside," the scar man ordered.

He walked into the building, feeling the cement floor beneath his bare feet. It was a new building, smelling still of lumber and sawdust and fresh paint. The sounds echoed as he walked across the floor. A hammer. A power saw. From the entrance, it was easy to see that the ceiling was twice as high as any of the rooms within, and he wondered if it looked like a mouse's maze from the rafters above. He could hear voices, a man was shouting somewhere, but he could see no sign of the other men who had been held prisoner with him in the semi-trailer.

"What's this?"

Sandburg flinched at the sound of disgust in the newcomer's voice and turned his head to look at the lean man who had just emerged from an office. A black, long-sleeved, skintight T-shirt was tucked into low-rise black jeans, equally tight. His belt was studded leather, the buckle huge and polished silver. He wore a leather band on each wrist, diamond studded. He had short, platinum-blond hair. For all his youthful attire, the man was in his mid-forties and in excellent physique, his choice of clothing flaunting his body. Still, Blair thought, this is not how he normally dressed. This was a camouflage of sorts. An act.

The man stood now to one side, his hands on his hips, scowling at Sandburg as though he were a pile of excrement. "This is not what I wanted." The venom in the voice was deadly. The man spun around, reached to the wall by his office door and took down a clipboard, running his finger down a list. "Cascade? Did you go there? I thought I was quite explicit about what and who I needed." At six feet, four inches, the man had a few inches on the three men who obviously worked for him, but his domineering personality would have made him intimidating whatever his height.

"The guy you wanted was shot, Jurgen. We grabbed this one. Figured he was better than nothing." The Hispanic gunman slipped his weapon back in his shoulder holster, feet planted solidly as he held his ground. "If you don't want him, we'll get rid of him."

"I don't want him. I was quite clear that my standards were to be matched exactly. I don't have time for sub-standard material."

"Then we'll deal with him ourselves. Put him in the back room." The Hispanic man gestured for the scar-faced man to take him, and Sandburg found himself lifted by the back of his shirt, his legs barely touching the ground. Whoever had a grip on him moved through the building, through the maze of corridors and rooms. The walls they passed were unfinished on the corridor side, the joints and wiring uncovered. Several of the doors were open, and Sandburg glanced quickly, noting that there were no ceilings. The rooms were dark, so he couldn't see what was inside, but he had the impression they were empty. A power saw buzzed again from somewhere, echoing above him. Beneath that sound, a highspeed electric drill. This place was still in construction, he thought, dully, as he was dragged across a painter's drop sheet down the corridor.

The scar man opened a door, and Blair was released abruptly, wavering for his balance. He looked up, startled to meet Evan's eyes. They were in a room filled with boxes, and the scar man was rummaging through one of them. Blair stared at Evan, silently questioning what was happening, but Evan only looked away. The San Francisco cop was naked, arms tied behind his back, still chained at his ankles. The wrestler gunman was fastening a lock through the chain.

A rubber ball was stuffed in Blair's mouth, tied in place by a gag. Struggling only brought a sharp clout on the side of his head. He was lifted again by the back of his shirt, and the trip through the warehouse continued. It wasn't that large, but it had a maze of rooms.

Another door was opened. A room with a bed. And a ceiling. He was pushed down to the mattress, his feet then lifted by the chain. A lock fastened the chain to the bottom frame of the bed. Without being spoken to, the man turned and left the windowless room, closing the door behind him. The small area smelled musty, and Blair let his breath out slowly through his nostrils, trying to calm his frantic nerves. Fleetingly he wondered when the sheets were changed last and if there would be mice. The building seemed new enough, but that didn't mean that mice -- or worse yet, rats -- hadn't made the place their home.

After a moment of lying paralyzed, he shook himself alert and struggled to get his arms from where they were bound. Several minutes later, he knew he had no chance of escaping. He was bound securely. He was going to have to wait and discover what happened next.

With the gag in his mouth, he couldn't even scream for help, so he did the next best thing.

JIM!!!

7:15 a.m.

JIM!!!

Ellison put down his coffee mug slowly, but the hot liquid still sloshed over the edges when the ceramic mug hit the table.

He was vaguely aware of Simon Banks looking up from his phone call, then immediately excusing himself and hanging up. "Jim?"

Ellison turned to stare at him, eyes wide.

"Jim? What's happening?"

"I heard him again."

"Sandburg?"

He nodded, swallowing. Listening.

"What did he say?" Banks asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

"Just my name. He screamed my name."

"Shit." The captain moved slowly from his desk, approaching Ellison as though he were trying not to spook him. "Are you sure it was him?"

He nodded again, his mouth suddenly dry. "Same as last time. I heard him. But not with my hearing. I felt his fear."

"This is because of what happened in Mexico, right? Your senses heightened?"

"Maybe. We thought the effects had mostly faded." Ellison met Banks' worried frown. At least the captain believed him, and he knew how difficult it was for Simon to have to deal with anything to do with his Sentinel abilities.

"Can you tell anything else? Where he is? Who has him?"

"He's alive, Simon. Right now, that's all I know for sure."

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