PART ONE
It had snowed on Sunday.
White flakes had blanketed the wakening city, hampering the traffic, clogging the roads, shutting down buses and transit. It had lured the residents outside to play on a pleasant day off: to make snowmen, go for walks, throw snowballs. It was all a novelty. A game. A break in the usual Cascade weather. Laughter, the scraping of shovels on the sidewalk, an excuse to set aside the day's plans and escape into the magic of another land.
James Ellison hadn't laughed so hard in weeks. With a bit of coaxing, Blair Sandburg had emerged from the loft and gone to the park with him and had even tossed aside his aversion to the cold to help make what was probably the worst constructed snowman in Cascade's history. In the evening they had relaxed inside, hot chocolate by the fireplace, stretched out on their own couches wrapped in quilts, the gentle strains of music on the stereo system soothing tired minds and aching bodies. They had watched an old movie and talked about the tires on the Volvo, the deteriorating upholstery on the Ford, and whose turn it was to clean out the fridge.
All in all, a decadent winter's day, in a city famous for only springs and falls.
By Monday morning, it was over. Rain lashed down on the city, in true Westcoast fashion washing out the remains of the weekend's snowfall until the frosted trees were a dim memory of another time. They drove to the station, staring out the windshield as the wipers fought to clear the glass of the heavy rain. Cold winds caught the downpour and drenched the city's workers, sending them shivering through the streets, soaked and miserable, seeking shelter in doorways and under awnings. Traffic plowed through dirty slush, spilling over onto pedestrians already miserable with wet feet and ruined shoes.
"Have I mentioned how much I hate the cold?" Sandburg asked, hunkering down into his jacket.
"That didn't seem to stop you from throwing snowballs yesterday." Ellison cast a tolerant glance his way.
"I didn't have much choice, did I?"
Ellison grinned. "You could have just conceded right away. I ended up winning."
Blair looked back at his roommate and partner in mock astonishment. "It was a draw! We agreed it was a draw."
"Well, I've been thinking about it, Junior, and I think I actually won that fight." Ellison slammed on his brakes, his right hand shooting out to brace his partner as the car skidded through a pile of slush. "Pedestrians," he muttered, humor gone as his sharp eyes watched the bobbing yellow umbrella and a pair of legs cross the street. "She didn't even look before she stepped off the curb."
Blair stared out the side window at the group of angry commuters waiting at the bus stop. "You just sprayed all of them, Jim."
"And what do you suggest I could have done differently? Tell Miss Walk-Across-the-Street-Without-Looking about it, not me, Chief."
Blair stared back out at the gray day. His feet were wet already, socks absorbing the water leaked into his sneakers. His boots had still been damp from the day before, so he had opted to let them dry out and wear his sneakers, thinking he had only to get to the car and he'd be fine. He hadn't allowed for the small lake that had formed just outside the door to their building and had gone only two steps before realizing his folly.
He frowned at the rain, at the unfairness of Cascade's weather. Yesterday was unbelievable and today sucks. I'm uncomfortable and tired and cold--and we haven't even got to the station yet.
"Oh, you'll survive," Jim said, then shrugged as Blair glared at him for having the audacity to read his thoughts.
By eight in the morning, they were in the bullpen, sitting with too-weak coffee in hand as Ellison went through the email that had accumulated over the weekend. Blair took his sneakers off and hooked them on the heating vent, hoping they would dry out by the time he had to leave the station. He picked up his coffee mug again and wrapped his fingers around it, absorbing the heat into his body. It didn't seem to stop the occasional shivers that still sneaked up on him. Every time he would shiver, Jim would glance toward him, the automatic response funny at first to Blair, but now a little annoying after fifteen minutes. If only there were some switch or something which turned off that protective streak in his partner . . . but then again, Blair reasoned, maybe that wasn't something he wanted to mess with. At least until he managed to get through an entire month without almost killing himself.
The door to Simon Banks' office opened and the captain came out, saw they were there, then went back into his office to retrieve some files from his desk. Aware of the tension hovering around the man, Blair curled his stockinged feet around to the back of his chair, not wanting the captain to find any reason to explode in his direction. At least not until he had warmed up and finished his coffee.
Banks made his way over to Jim's desk, and Blair smiled a wan greeting at him, noting that he was totally ignored. Not a good sign. Simon usually didn't miss an opportunity to sigh in his direction, as if someone were blackmailing the man into letting Blair stay there. Actually, in a way, maybe Jim was doing just that. Blair knew damn well--and so, for that matter, did Simon-- that if the anthropologist were to ever decide to leave the department for good, so would Jim. Ellison had grown remarkably with controlling his senses, but, if history proved itself correct, the Sentinel would always need his Guide nearby. There were just too many risks for Jim to go without appropriate backup.
That was the problem really. Simon could always assign backup, but, like it or not, there was only one person in Cascade that could be the appropriate backup for Detective James Ellison.
Me.
Smiling into his mug and sitting a little taller in his chair, Sandburg accepted the file from Banks. His smile faded along with the color in his face as he opened it and realized what they were discussing.
The captain towered over them, his arms crossed, anger and frustration etched on his face. "We've had six pre-school aged children kidnaped in the last few months, all from the west side of the city, and we believe it's the work of one man. The first three children were found wandering the streets after their captor abandoned them at a playground. The next two were found dead. Last night, another four year old boy was abducted, Marty Leboir. His parents are well off, so we're not sure at this time if this is a separate incident and we should be expecting a ransom note, or if we're dealing with the same guy who's taken the others." Banks bent over to lean toward them, his hands flat on the desk and his voice lowered. "This case was passed over to us from our westside station. They're desperate for help on it. I've already got Rafe and Chan assigned---they're at the Leboirs' home right now--- but I'm going to put you in charge, Jim. Brown is just finishing up his case; he's in court this morning, then he'll be at your disposal, as well."
Ellison nodded. "I've been monitoring the case, sir. I've actually been following up some leads of my own, and Rafe and I interviewed someone about it on Friday. I haven't had the opportunity to read the full report, though."
Sandburg glanced to his partner. Strange that Jim hadn't mentioned this case to him. Strange that this was the first he had heard of it. He had been busy lately at the University, getting ready for the new term, but still, it was unusual for Jim not to have discussed any of it with him. Blair read the first page of the capsulized report in his hands, the facts laid out on cold, dispassionate paper without a trace of the horror and anguish that each case represented, of what the families of the four and five-year-old children were feeling. "What's with this guy?" he whispered. "Why target little kids?" His stomach churned as he read, and he swallowed hard to keep his breakfast down.
"No sign of sexual or physical abuse on any of the children and the children who died were suffocated?" Ellison confirmed, with a brief glance up to Banks before he looked back to the file, shaking his head as he scanned the information. "Has he called about this one? It says his trademark is to notify the media who he has, how long he intends to keep them, and how scared they are."
"Scared? Try terrified." His hands trembling, and no longer from the cold, Sandburg closed the file Banks had given him. It sent Blair's heart pounding just to think about what the children must have gone through.
Ellison glanced over at him, the look conveying nothing to the uneducated, but to Blair it acknowledged silently that Jim knew how he felt ---and understood. It gave him the strength to open the file again and keep reading. He could never get over what Jim could convey in a single glance, a nod, a touch on the back, or even a simple 'I'm glad you came.' It was that simple commitment, that physical and emotional awareness that the Sentinel extended toward him, that made it possible for the anthropologist to look back at the file and try to understand something of the psychopath they were dealing with.
Ellison looked up at the police captain. "If he's called, do we have a voice pattern on him? Something on tape that we can use for evidence?"
"Nothing of value. I have copies of the tapes for you to listen to. This guy is careful not to get caught. For the first three children, he would call, from a pay phone--almost politely--- and say where the child had been left. With the fourth child, he had a cassette tape special delivered to a local TV station, saying there had been an accident and the child had died. A few days later there was another tape left, saying the body was in a warehouse on the edge of town. When we got there, he had been dead for three days. The fifth child was a month later. Same thing happened; after a week, a tape appeared saying the child had died and two days after that there was another tape saying where the body could be found. The perp sounded more irritated than anything, although it was hard to tell, as he uses a voice altering device to make his recordings. That was three weeks ago, and we hadn't heard a word from him until yesterday afternoon's incident."
Sandburg shivered again as he read the report. "This really sucks, man. The little boy's family was at a matinee movie yesterday and were walking home in the snow when the child was snatched. It was beautiful out yesterday." He looked across to Ellison, remembering the snow fight and the sunset glistening off the snow. And what else was happening as they enjoyed the day.
Banks took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, trying to ease the tension the case had generated. "The mother had stopped to adjust the scarf on a younger child and the two older children had wandered ahead of her. The seven-year-old girl was knocked aside, and he deliberately went after the four-year-old boy when it would have been easier for him to take the girl."
"So he has a pattern established that he's sticking to so far." Ellison closed the file. "Anything else?"
Banks shrugged. "The first two children who were abducted had no evidence of being abused. They remembered watching TV and looking at books, but they couldn't describe the man who took them. The third child gave the same story, although he had traces of a mild sedative in his blood tests. The autopsies on the two murdered children showed the first died of suffocation, the other of heart failure. There was some minute trace of drugs in their systems, but not enough to establish what it was, other than a generally harmless sedative."
"Were there any witnesses to the abductions or when the children were left at the playgrounds?"
"None. The little girl who saw him yesterday was only able to tell us that he was big, and we assume from her description that he was Caucasian and probably in his late forties or early fifties. I've got the tapes and some pictures of the victims in my office, Jim," Banks said, glancing meaningfully down to Blair, then meeting Ellison's eyes again. "I figured maybe Sandburg might want to wait out here."
"Thanks, Simon," Blair said before Jim could ask him. "I've got to make a few calls about university stuff."
Ellison stood and Sandburg took over his chair, his hand already reaching for the phone. Jim leaned over and said softly, "You all right, Chief?"
"Yeah. I just need a few minutes. I can't look at those kids, okay?" Blair could feel his heart thumping again and put the receiver back. Jim picked up the file, gave his shoulder a brief squeeze, then headed into Simon's office. It took a few minutes for Blair's hands to stop shaking, then he wiped his palms on his jeans and made his phone calls. He was team-teaching a class each day, late afternoon, and his teaching partner agreed to take the entire week, freeing him to work at the station.
He didn't really want to be involved in the case, but, like someone driving by an accident scene, he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore it now that he had heard about it. This had been going on for months and it was the first he had heard about it. What else happened in this city every day that he never knew about in his safe little world? He had to stop and look. Maybe not at the pictures, but he had to be there for Jim. If not as observer, then as a support.
Blair looked at the closed file on his desk. Maybe if he read it again, he'd see something. Jim always maintained that Blair had a different way of looking at things that was sometimes helpful. But he really didn't want to even touch it. There was something about the case that was making him shiver now and again as though he were coming down with the flu. He felt sick just thinking about what had happened.
There were few cases in and of themselves that made him want to catch the perps, and this was one of them. He felt dizzy. And angry. His chest hurt to even look at the closed file. He was angry at the man who had done this, but terrified for the child who was just taken. Marty something. It wasn't just about helping Jim with his senses. He wanted to help that little boy.
And he didn't want to see the pictures that were in Simon's office. He had to believe that there was a chance they could find Marty in time.
He opened the file.
Blair jumped, startled, when he heard Jim slam down the phone in the other room. He could see his partner through the open doorway and winced at the way Jim was rubbing his forehead. Walking as quickly as his stockinged feet allowed, Blair slipped into the office and over to Jim's side. "What happened?" he asked quietly, tucking his rain-damp hair behind his ears as he leaned forward to look at his partner's face.
It took Ellison a moment to answer and even then the tense jaw and the icy stare at the telephone kept Sandburg at arm's length. "That was the kidnapper. He called the station and asked for the officer in charge of his case. When I answered the phone, all he did was say he had Marty Leboir and then hung up before we could run the trace."
Sandburg centered himself and let himself slip into his Guide mode. "Okay, what else did you hear? In the background?"
There was a quick negative shake of his head, then Ellison shifted slightly to sit on the edge of the conference table. "Give me a minute." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting the distractions melt away so he could concentrate on what he had heard.
"You picked up the phone," Sandburg coached softly, letting his voice be a path for the sentinel to follow.
"I said 'Ellison.' He asked if I was the officer in charge of the child kidnaping/murder cases, and I said yes. He said he had the kid, said where he had picked him up and what the child was wearing. Then he said he would return the child when he was finished, as long as we kept this out of the public eye. Then he hung up."
"Listen again. Run it through your mind again. Tune out the guy's voice and listen to whatever else is there." Sandburg watched as Ellison buried his face in his hands and focused on the memory. He placed the palm of his hand on Jim's shoulder, trying to let his presence offer whatever stability the sentinel could take from it.
The captain came back into his office, saw what was going on, and closed the door to the bullpen. "Anything?" Banks asked, moving around to sit at his desk.
Sandburg shook his head, but kept his attention on his partner. It was difficult to stand and watch Jim wrestling with the process of retrieving information. One day it would all be smoother, but for now they were both still learning.
Ellison jerked upright. "The kid was there. He was crying." The detective stood and pushed away from Sandburg, moving to the window and staring out at the gray sky. He slowly raised one fist, shaking it silently in frustration. "I am going to get this guy."
"At least the child is still alive," Banks said, softly. "Anything else?"
"Nothing. It was quiet there. No other sounds." Ellison turned around, restless, and retrieved his file. Without a word, he went back to his desk, leaving Blair to trail after him.
"Can I get you anything?" There were days like this when Blair felt totally useless. He watched Jim sit silently, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jim?" he whispered, sliding his chair closer. "Hey, man--"
For a moment, Ellison ignored him and Sandburg felt shut out. The worst thing Jim could do to him was act as though he didn't exist, to look right through him as though he wasn't there. It crippled him, denied him of his rights and negated his position, of his place at the Sentinel's side.
Then the detective turned his head and found a smile, ruffling Blair's damp hair affectionately, and the world righted itself. Just that easily. "I'll be fine. Thanks, Chief. Listen, I'm going to run down to Forensics and find out what they have to tell me. Can you look through the rest of this paperwork and see what else has come in over the weekend?"
"Sure. Unless you want me to go get the report from Forensics . . ."
"Not even remotely," Jim said, his hands raised up quickly to stop the thought from going any further. "Once you start flirting with Cassie, it'll take hours for me to get the file. Besides, with my luck you'd slip in your socks on the way there and knock yourself out."
"Ha, ha. Funny. And I am not flirting with Cassie. There's no reason why I can't be nice to her."
"Trust me. You're flirting. Everyone knows it. Cassie knows it. Simon knows it. Stay here and stay out of trouble. Okay?" Ellison pointed his finger in warning as he moved around the desk toward the exit.
"I thought it was impossible for me to stay out of trouble? Don't you say that I'm a magnet for it? It comes to me."
"Well, if you see trouble coming, run into Simon's office and shut the door, okay?" Ellison called over his shoulder as he headed out the far exit and down the hall to Forensics.
"Where did Sandburg go?" he asked Rhonda.
"Down to Starbucks to get a latte," Simon's secretary answered with a smile. "He said it was worth braving the cold to get a decent cup of coffee. I gave him a couple of dollars to bring one back for me as well."
Ellison sat at his desk, nodding at the organized stack his in-box was now in. Post-it notes identified the different division of topics, with another two notes stuck on his computer screen. He peeled one off and read Blair's announcement that he was going to get a cup of coffee and would be right back. The other was a note reminding him to check his email again. Amazing how the kid always managed to keep him organized, yet couldn't keep his own papers in his office at the university in order. The last time Jim had seen that office even remotely organized was when Maya had been Blair's temporary assistant. Of course, she had her own reasons for putting extra effort into helping the grad student, but--
Ellison shivered.
It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't sure why he had shivered. He wasn't cold. He wasn't nervous. There was no draft. But he had shivered.
He did it again.
Ellison stood up at his desk, head tilted to one side, listening for something. His entire body felt like there were thousands of pin-pricks on it, electricity charging his system. He felt lightheaded as his sight faded in and out. Then, as suddenly as it had began, it all stabilized. Except for the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
"Where's Sandburg?" he asked again, half to himself. He picked up the note, then glanced to the clock. "Rhonda," he called across to her, "what time did Sandburg leave? How long has he been gone?"
She looked up from her paperwork and shrugged. "I don't know. I wasn't really paying much attention. About thirty minutes, I guess. Shortly after you left."
"He should be back by now." Ellison was aware of Banks coming to stand at the door of his office and watching him. "Sandburg's not here," Jim said. "Something's wrong."
"Maybe he was just sidetracked--" Rhonda started to answer, but Ellison waved her silent and she went back to her files.
"Come in here." Banks stood back as the detective moved past him to the windows. "What are you saying, Jim?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
Ellison tried to see down to the street, to focus his attention on the sidewalk. The coffee shop was on the far side of the building. He spun around and stared at Banks. "Simon, I-- I don't know what to say. I feel that something is wrong, but I don't know what." He was pacing, his fists clenched. He didn't know what to do first. Listen? Try to see? Smell? Someone needed to talk to him, to tell him what to go after. Damn it, Sandburg needed to be here.
He'd go looking for the kid, that's what he'd do. He'd go get him and bring him back. He'd gone to Starbucks. That wasn't far. He'll be back in a minute. No, I'll go get him.
Strong hands intercepted him as he headed to the doorway and steered him toward a chair. Ellison dropped into it, hardly hearing the captain was saying to him, hardly aware of the telephone ringing and Banks answering it. But when he heard his partner's name, everything snapped back in focus. "What happened?" He jumped to his feet, leaning on Banks' desk, waving aside the captain's gesture to sit down again. He couldn't focus to listen in on what was said on the other end of the line.
Banks hung up the phone and reluctantly passed on the conversation. "Now don't leap to conclusions here, Ellison. Two of the secretaries from R & I just reported an abduction along the north side of the building. The description sounds like it might be Sandburg. They knew that the man who was forced into the car had long, dark curly hair and they've seen him around the building here. He was carrying a cardboard tray with a couple coffees from Starbucks. He was just about to go into the side entrance, when he stopped to talk to a man standing by an idling car, then he leaned over to look into the vehicle and that's when they saw the man put a cloth over the young man's face, then ease him into the back of the car."
"The north entrance? We normally don't use that entrance, but Sandburg uses it when it's raining. Then he only has to go across the street to the coffee shop."
"They said they started running toward the car when they saw what was happening, but the man had pulled out into traffic and was gone before they reached it. They only saw the back of his head."
"No one else saw anything?"
"No."
"What about the car?"
"Dark sedan. They had no idea of the make or model. Neither got the licence plate."
"What? What were they staring at then?"
"The women aren't cops, Jim. Don't fault them. They're both upset and are trying to remember everything they can."
"He's got Sandburg," Ellison said, sitting back in the chair, then leaning forward, his face in his hands. "That bastard has Sandburg."
"We don't know that was the guy we're after. It could have been someone else. And we don't know that was Sandburg either."
"No. It was him. Keep the phone lines open, sir. He'll be calling."
It came forty-five minutes later.
The caller read off Sandburg's Cascade PD identification number and said he would return his subjects when he was finished with them. Once more, he cautioned them not to put anything in the news, and then he hung up. The call was under fifteen seconds. Ellison heard his partner in the background, yelling at the man, furious, and he had heard the message his friend had delivered to him, in whispers between the shouted words. He was in a house, somewhere south of the bay. The child was there, too.
Sandburg was still alive. Still thinking. But Ellison had also heard the fear in his voice.
"His subjects? What does he mean by that?" Banks asked softly.
Ellison looked over to the photographs on the conference table of the last two children the man had taken; small, white-skinned corpses, looking like they were just asleep. As though any minute they would open their eyes and smile. His mind stubbornly provided the image of two more photographs which were now in circulation in the police department. One four-year-old little boy he had never met, posing with his Christmas gifts just two weeks before. And one sentinel's guide, sitting beside Jim on a log by the river the previous summer. Ellison had taken the photograph from where it sat on his desk and handed it to the officer who asked for a current photo, watching the man carry away more than just a framed piece of paper. He felt like a piece of his soul was gone.
Ellison sat down heavily on the chair in front of Banks' desk, delayed reaction hitting him.
He looked up finally, meeting Simon's eyes.
"So . . . Where do we start?"
Four days passed without a word.
Now, at four o'clock on a Friday afternoon, five blocks from the wind-tossed bay waters, Ellison stood on the sidewalk of a cul-de-sac and looked at the remains of the two-storey, wood-framed house that was the hub of attention of six undercover police officers and a determined crowd of spectators. Robbed of his sight in the pouring rain and in the tangle of boards that disappeared into darkness, he let his hearing skip around, unfocused, searching for some sign that life existed beneath the wreckage. Rain ran down his neck, beneath the collar of his jacket, unnoticed. The world stood still around him while he worked his way through the tangle of sounds.
Where the hell are you, Sandburg? The thought had run through his mind for days, repeating itself endlessly. Damn it. You better be here, because I'm tired, kid. I need to sleep, but I can't. Not yet. Not until I find you. Then we'll both get some rest. We're partners. We'll do this together, whatever happens now.
The police department had been tipped off by a neighbor that an older man had escorted first a young man and then a child into the deserted house a few hours previously, but only the older man had left the boarded-up dwelling a short time later. The wreckers had arrived, as previously scheduled, and had started to demolish the place. The neighbor, an elderly man who watched the world from his front window, had tried to interfere, and only his call to the police--and a clear, vivid description of Sandburg which was immediately recognized by the young woman taking the phone call--had stopped the destruction.
Darkness was falling as Ellison approached the building. The rain had eased as the week progressed, but it was colder now and windy as Ellison moved up the stairs of the semi-demolished house. He stood alone, a silent statue, and turned his head, listening, sifting through the unwanted sounds hoping against hope he would find the one he wanted. The harsh wind whipped at his exposed face and hands, cutting through his jacket, but not registering on the heightened senses of a man who had hardly felt anything for four long days.
Thump-thump
Senses flared suddenly, not responding. It took him long seconds to find it again.
Thump-thump Thump--
He stopped breathing, his lungs frozen as his concentration zeroed in on that one sound.
Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump
Eyes closed for a brief second, raindrops pooling on his lashes, then he exploded into action. "Sandburg!" The single name, grated from his throat, shouted over the sound of sirens and screams, came out harsher than Ellison had intended. He sprinted up the rest of the cement stairs and shifted around the wreckage of the house, his ears straining for sounds beyond the identified racing heartbeat of his partner. Sounds that would indicate the rest of the house was ready to collapse, to fall under the damage the back hoe and bulldozer had already inflicted on it an hour before.
In moving, he had lost it. He came to a halt, staring at shattered bricks that had once been a fireplace. Somewhere he had heard that heartbeat . . . but surely there would be another? Where was the child?
Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump
"Sandburg," he whispered, nodding to himself, unaware of the worried stares of his colleagues. Ellison filtered away the sounds of workmen and machinery, of children and dogs two blocks away, of angry residents of the neighborhood herded down the street by the police, even--for a brief moment--the sound of his own Guide's heartbeat. But there was nothing.
Frantically, he found Blair's heartbeat again, frowning at the too-fast pace. Calm down, Chief. You'll hurt yourself. Ellison looked down, forcing his sight between the cracked floorboards, the piles of rubble. "Sandburg's in the basement," he said, his voice remarkably stable, considering his own breathing was erratic at best.
Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump
Brown, then Rafe, joined him, stepping ever so carefully over the loose boarding. Two more black and whites pulled up to the house, lights flashing as the car doors fell open and more officers responded to the 911.
"How do you know?" Rafe asked him, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. "Ellison? Can you hear him? Did you hear him?" Rafe asked again, when the senior detective didn't answer him.
Ellison waved him silent, his head tilted, listening, and as he moved slowly, Rafe shadowed him. A signal passed from Brown to Rafe and the younger officer nodded in understanding, moving to kneel next to Ellison, who was examining the half-crushed door leading to the basement. Officers scattered between the houses, weapons drawn, but Ellison knew they would find no one. Whoever had done this was long gone, if he went to pattern.
Thump--thump Thump--thump Thump--thump
"Blair? Talk to me, buddy," Ellison yelled into a sliver of darkness that was open to the lower level of the house. "Come on, Blair. I need you to tell me where you are." He couldn't concentrate to pinpoint the heartbeat. It was loud in his ears, a staccato sound that hadn't slowed. He pulled his hearing away from the heart, far enough back to hear the hyperventilation, the racking, dust-filled cough, and the silent sobs. He let his sense of smell connect with the location. Blood. Not a lot of it, but there were injuries. How couldn't there be, when the top floor of the house was now compressed into the bottom floor?
Boards creaked as he moved, loud enough to Rafe beside him, but thunderous in the Sentinel's ears. He paused for a moment, getting himself under control, letting his senses filter back the distractions.
"Jim?"
At first, Ellison thought it was Rafe, as the young detective touched his elbow at the same time the querulous voice reached him. But the surge of adrenaline, the scream through his muscles as his whole body sought to respond, to leap into action and protect the Guide, alerted him to whom had called him.
He crouched down, trying to bring himself physically closer to his partner, to somehow calm the wave of fear that had accompanied the whispered name. "Blair? Just relax, Chief. We're getting you out."
"Jim!"
This time, both Rafe and Brown heard the anguished cry, faintly echoing through the flooring. It vibrated through Ellison's body to his soul.
"We're coming!" he yelled back, wanting to say more, but not knowing the words. "Don't move. Blair-- where are you? Answer me! Tell me something about your surroundings!" he demanded.
"C-c-closet. In a closet."
Ellison turned automatically to look at Simon Banks as the police captain worked his way over to them. "Sandburg is here. He's alive, but injured. He's in a closet in the basement."
"And the kidnapper?"
"Gone." Ellison wasted no more breath on an explanation, and Banks knew not to press the matter.
"The child?"
"I don't know. Not here."
Ten minutes later, they were still clearing out the stairway, the uniformed officers watching silently on the perimeter as the detectives had wordlessly rolled up their sleeves and, with the firemen who had responded to the 911, began the daunting task of moving aside the nail-spiked boards. Hammers and axes appeared, crowbars and more hands as the neighbors responded to the emergency. An ambulance pulled up beside the fire engine, waiting, along with the growing crowd, for a miracle to happen and someone to emerge from the wreckage alive.
The workers hired to demolish the house were now using their tools to help, the nightmare of what they had done, however innocently, something that would plague them for years to come. They had checked the house, as sometimes animals or vagrants would break into vacant dwellings, but they had found no one and there had been no response to their calls. No, they hadn't checked the basement. The door had been sealed earlier and if someone was down there the lock would have been unlatched so they could get back out. The burly worker Ellison had spoken to had gone white when he realized what their oversight had meant. They had never considered that someone might have been deliberately locked in the basement.
As soon as they had cleared enough space for him to maneuver in, Ellison carefully eased himself down into the darkness, enhanced sight aiding his fall so his feet landed flat on the cracked basement floor. Now was not the time to sprain an ankle. He could see through the rubble to the closet where Blair was trapped, but they would need more help, maybe even a crane to lift the boards. "Chief?"
He slid under some planks, his body bent almost double as he worked his way around the splintered wood, backtracking several times as he sought a path closer. "Chief?" he repeated, louder.
"Get me out of here," came the murmured plea. The heartbeat was slower now; he could hear the shivers, the slight rocking, as his partner trembled in his dark prison.
"We're trying, Blair. It'll be a little while yet; you're in here pretty good." He listened, wincing at the despair in the anthropologist's voice. "We found you, though."
"Let me out. I can't stay here, Jim."
"You'll be fine," he called back, hating the callousness of his words.
"I'm all alone."
"I'm here, Buddy."
"No. You're out there, Jim. I'm here alone. Just me and . . ." The heartbeat rose again, hammering on ribs.
"Who else is there, Sandburg?" Ellison listened to the gasps, as his partner tried to get his mouth to say the words the detective didn't want to hear.
"Marty." A sharp cough. "He's dead." Another cough. "I'm sorry, Jim. Get me out of here. I can't . . ."
"You can, Blair. I'm sorry about Marty, too. I'll get you out, but it's going to take some time. How are you feeling?"
A pause lengthened beyond Ellison's comfort zone, then Sandburg's voice came. "I'm fine, Jim. I'll be fine."
"I know you're hurting, Chief. Can you tell me what's wrong?" He tried to put together the smell of blood and sweat with the small sounds he could hear from his partner, but the answers he came up with could mean so many different injuries.
"I'll be fine until you get me out." Blair must have tried to shift position, to stoically settle in for a wait, for the faint shuffling sound was followed by a whimper of pain.
Yeah, right. "Sandburg? It looks a lot like that game Pickup Sticks out here. If we take one board away, the whole thing may come down. We've got to get it stable before we can get at you."
"Just hurry."
"We will." Ellison climbed back out of the hole, waiting only until his head cleared the surface before giving his report to Banks and the fire chief. "He's about ten feet in, east of the furnace room."
"How is he?" Banks asked, softly.
"I can't tell. He's in some pain. We can call off the search for Marty. Sandburg says he's dead." Ellison watched the news reach the female police officer standing on the front lawn of the ruined house, an emergency stuffed bear in her arms, ready to hand to a traumatized child. Donna Holgan had been with the force for over twenty-five years, a valuable asset to the department who specialized in trauma cases, especially those involving rape or physical abuse. With a shudder, Holgan hugged the bear briefly, then turned to return it to the trunk of her car, to wait again until it was needed. It was standard equipment now, in the back of each police car. Along with blankets and other supplies, a child's stuffed toy was waiting to help. Only this time, there was no one to give it to.
"Holgan!" he called out, his subconscious knowing what he was going to do before it reached conscious thought.
She turned her head as his voice, pausing before she shut the truck of the car.
"Bring it here."
"I thought--"
"Hey, he may punch me later, but right now I've got a partner who's trapped, injured and feeling very much alone."
Holgan smiled grimly and tossed him the brown bear. "Just don't tell Sandburg where you got him, okay?"
Ellison smiled, the expression foreign on his face, and he looked down at the scruffy bear. "I promise." Without an explanation to Banks or anyone else, he disappeared back down the hole and worked his way over to the blocked door. His hands itched to plow into the boards and planks responsible for this prison, to pull and shove and clear the doorway somehow. Memories of the archaeological site two weeks before taunted him with nightmare visions of the entire structure caving in on him, and he knew intimately why his partner was terrified. It was too close, their bruises hardly healed from that frantic race through a crumbling underground maze.
He studied the area, finally spying a break in the rubble, probably the place where his partner was able to get some breathable air. "Sandburg?"
"What?" The voice was whisper soft.
"I've got a friend for you." He pulled himself up high enough to shove the bear into the small hole, glad the fabric was able to stand up to such rough treatment as it was compressed and twisted and worked into the tiny area. Finally it disappeared. "Do you have him?" He could hear Blair shift slightly to retrieve the bear, the amplified sound of fingers slowly tracing the shaggy coat of the bear.
"What is it?"
Ellison could hear the exhaustion in his friend's voice. "Just hold him until we get you out. He'll remind you that I'm coming back." As he climbed upward, he heard the sound of Blair enfolding the bear, then the air being squeezed out of it as his partner clung to the stuffed animal.
He hurried back to Ellison, hoping his presence would somehow reassure the man that Sandburg was being helped by experts. It had taken both his own order and that of the officer in charge of the rescue to pry Ellison away from where they were working, but there simply wasn't room in the area for anyone other than the paramedics and those watching the structure. At first Banks had thought that the detective wouldn't listen to him, then they had both seen Ellison's hands shaking---from fatigue, from too much coffee, from who knew what else---and Ellison had stepped away.
Banks knew Ellison was listening though, by the clenched-fist tightness in the detective's body as he stood, eyes closed, and waited. And Simon knew what he was listening to. Listening to his partner's heartbeat. To the conversations below. To each creak of wood, each shift of the structure as they lifted Sandburg and placed him on the spine board. Simon saw the jaw tighten even more, and knew that Blair had made a sound, probably nothing more than a gasp or a single word, but it reverberated through the body of the man beside him.
It had been a hell of a four days. Ellison had been as intense as he had ever seen him, focused, determined. Not a smile nor a stray thought beyond the case. As far as Banks could tell, Ellison had only left his desk long enough to go to the men's room. He had taken calls, worked round the clock to organize the unit, eaten what they had placed in front of him, as long as it could be done with one hand and didn't hold him back. When his body absolutely demanded sleep, he had stumbled into Simon's office and slept on the couch there. Either Rafe or Brown had stayed with Ellison, putting in long twelve hour days, coordinating their time to work with Ellison and allow Simon to concentrate on his duties uninterrupted.
Even Cassie had only spoken to Jim in response to his questions, offering no more information than he needed. Cups of coffee had appeared on his desk. If he asked her for anything, she did it quickly. Banks had seen her talking with Rafe in the Break Room, had watched as both wiped away tired tears as they stared through the blinds. He knew what had captured their attention. Ellison at his desk rubbing the pain from his forehead, silently, methodically, going over every single piece of evidence again and again. And the empty chair beside him.
They did everything they could. They did it again. Phone calls, interviews with the families of the previously abducted children. More phone calls. They had involved not only the West Cascade Police Department, but also the suburbs and smaller cities surrounding Cascade.
And until an eighty-five year old man had handed them the information, they had come up with nothing.
Simon paced, never straying more than a few yards from Jim's side. It took the rescue team longer to retrieve Sandburg, each minute an hour to his top detective. Ellison's jaw continued to clench and unclench, his fingers bent into tight-packed fists. At last, they brought the spine board upward, and at the first sight of his partner, a low growl scraped across Ellison's throat as he surged forward to take one edge of the board.
"It's just a precaution," one of the rescue workers said reassuringly, as they approached Banks. "We don't know how seriously he might be injured. From what we could see, he has a bump on his head, a bad cut on his left forearm, another on his back. Numerous cuts, abrasions, and bruises."
Sandburg was strapped to the spine board, still curled on his side, holding the bear. Restraints kept his head in place; a padded brace was visible around his neck and straps crisscrossed the blankets holding him in one position on the board. As they lowered the spine board to the stretcher, Banks could see the kid's eyes were closed, dark lashes on pearl gray skin, his face stained with blood. But he was breathing, unassisted.
"Jim?" Banks glanced over to Ellison's stony face and groaned. "Jim!" he called sharply, not bothering to raise his voice. "Come on, man. Let's go to the hospital." He tugged Ellison away from the stretcher, muttering to himself about zoning and shock, hoping the words would reach the sentinel and break him out of the dazed, awkward trance. From what he knew of these zone-outs, they would happen if the sentinel concentrated too much on just one of his senses and just now, Ellison's entire concentration had been focused on Sandburg: hearing, touch, sight, and smell.
Three steps and Ellison was back, braking to a halt. "Wait, Simon." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, then determinedly walked over to the family of the murdered child. Holgan opened the front door of her cruiser, and Ellison sat in the driver's seat, his conversation with the child's parents brief. Holgan smiled weakly across to Banks, then went over to her own partner, a balding officer in his fifties, who was wiping the tears from his eyes as he filled out the reports.
The ambulance was ready to leave by the time Ellison backed out of the cruiser. Long strides took the detective to the door of the emergency vehicle and he conferred with the man and woman who were hooking Sandburg up to IV. His eyes darted for a moment to his partner inside before the siren came on and Ellison firmly closed the rear doors. He was heading for his truck when Simon caught up to him.
"Hold it, Jim."
Ellison opened his door, one foot already inside. "I want to be there when they arrive. What is it?"
"Are you okay to drive? I could get someone to go with you."
"I'm fine. Blair will be fine. You heard the attendant." Ellison slid onto the front seat, the door still ajar.
"Take it slow."
"I will."
"I'll meet you at the hospital."
"I'll be in Emergency," Ellison said, quite unnecessarily, and closed the car door.