by Beth Manz
"Actually, he said that Rostin would choose someone important to you," Blair finally admitted. The hesitation in his voice was only too evident to the sentinel.
Jim's heart began hammering in his chest. "Someone important to me. Not necessarily a relative?"
There was another hesitation, then, "That's right."
"Sandburg, if Rostin was at that crime scene yesterday, he saw you with me. If he's been in the loft, he knows you live with me. That could very easily make you a target right along with Stephen."
"Yeah, I know. Dr. Wheeler said the same thing."
"Dammit," Jim breathed, worry stiffening his back. "Where are you, Blair?"
"I just pulled up to the loft. Hold on."
"Sandburg?" Jim said but he could tell that his guide had put down the phone. He heard the door to the car open, the sound of papers and books being shuffled around, then the door closed. "Sandburg?" he said again when Blair did not come back on the line.
"Hold on, Jim," Blair called, his voice distant, the phone still sitting away from its owner. "Just getting myself settled here."
Jim rubbed his forehead; a headache was building just behind his temple. He could envision Blair in his mind, standing outside the loft, hefting his backpack over one shoulder, grabbing up other books and papers in his arms, carrying more than he should with his still tender ribs.
But more than picturing Blair, he could picture Eddie Rostin... watching Blair. Waiting somewhere nearby, rushing him when he wasn't looking, grabbing him from behind. Jim shook his head, dismissing the disturbing images from his mind. "Come on, Sandburg. Come on," he urged.
"Hey, Jim, I'm back."
Jim nearly jumped out of his skin in relief when Blair's voice came across the line again. "Okay, Sandburg, listen to me. I want you to go upstairs and stay there. I'm leaving here soon. I'll just call Stephen first to be on the safe side and then--"
"Oh great!" Blair cut in, his voice edged with anger.
"What is it?" Jim said, worry churning through his stomach "Sandburg, what's wrong?"
"The elevator is out of order and I have about eighty pounds of books to carry upstairs."
Jim couldn't help but smile at his partner's grousing. "It's good for your heart."
"You're funny, man. You know, all this stuff is for you."
Jim chuckled. "Listen, Sandburg, just leave some of the books in your car. I'll grab them when I get home."
"No, I'm already inside. I'll just lug them up."
Jim heard the stairwell door open and close, then the hollow sound of Blair's footsteps as he started up the three flights of stairs. "I'm going to go through all my notes again," he said, now slightly breathless as he climbed. "I know I've left some stuff out. Plus, I really do think we should try to sort through your memory and see if we can pick out Rostin's scent from that crowd at the crime scene yesterday."
Jim nodded. "That all sounds good, Sandburg. I'll call Stephen. Maybe I can even assign him some protection."
"Okay, then we'll just--"
His voice cut-off abruptly. The phone clattered to the ground.
Jim shoved to his feet. "Sandburg? Sandburg!" His heart pounded in his chest. What the hell's going on? He could hear Blair speaking then another voice answering back, both sounds echoing off the walls of the stairwell. Jim closed his eyes, concentrating on that second voice as a strange feeling of déjà vu filled him. Oh no, it can't be. It can't be! "Sandburg!" he shouted into the line.
"Sorry, Jim," Blair said, finally scooping up his phone again. "I just about plowed into this guy with my eighty pounds worth of stuff. Nearly knocked the poor man down two flights of stairs."
"What did he look like?" Jim asked, struggling to keep from shouting.
"I don't know. Average, I guess. Oh, hold on, he's coming back."
And in that moment, as Jim stood at his desk holding the phone to his ear, he knew Eddie Rostin was with Blair. "Sandburg!" But even as he shouted his partner's name, he heard Blair cry out and the thud of his body as he tumbled down the stairs. "No!"
/
/
Simon's head jerked up as he heard Jim Ellison's cry of denial. Pushing up from his desk, he threw his office door wide just in time to see Jim slam down his phone and dash across the bullpen toward the elevator.
Simon didn't hesitate. He followed his best detective, knowing as he did that there was only one thing that would make Jim react this strongly--Blair was in trouble.
Leaning heavily on his cane, he made it to the elevator, somehow managing to slip inside the small car with Jim. "What's going on?" he asked as they were carried toward the garage.
Jim leaned against the back of the elevator, his eyes squeezed shut. "Simon, I heard him on the phone. I heard him on the phone and I couldn't do anything."
"Who did you hear? What's going on?"
Jim continued to lean against the back of the elevator, eyes shut, shaking his head from side to side, muttering over and over again, "This is all my fault. I should have seen this one coming a mile away."
Simon grabbed his arms and shook him. "Dammit, Jim, what is it? Is it Sandburg? Did something happen to Sandburg?"
"Yes," Jim blurted out suddenly.
Before Simon could get any additional details from Jim, they reached the garage. Jim slid between the doors even before they finished opening and sprinted toward his truck. Simon gritted his teeth and, abandoning his cane completely, jogged after him. He managed to slide into the passenger seat--the seat usually occupied by Sandburg--just as Jim jammed the truck into gear and roared out of the garage.
Simon groped for his seat belt, slamming it into place as the truck skidded around the corner, heading north. "Be careful, Jim. You're going to get us both killed," he yelled as Jim screeched around another corner.
"We're going to get there and he's already going to be gone," Jim said, his gaze darting to Simon before locking back on the road before him. "He's going to be gone and I'm going to have to find him. I've been through this before--"
"Jim, what the hell are you talking about?" Simon cut in. "Who's going to be gone? Blair? Are you talking about Blair?"
"Yes," Jim said, his voice softening. He swallowed hard and taking a deep breath, let it out slowly. "I can't believe this is happening. Not now. Not so soon after what happened with Quinn."
Simon's heart, which had been pounding heavily in his chest, seemed to jerk to a stop. "Jim," he said authoritatively, "I think you'd better tell me what's going on. Now."
And as Jim began to talk, telling Simon a story about a boy he'd known so many years ago, a boy with an obsession to play a certain game, the captain finally understood why they were driving toward the loft at breakneck speed.
Simon closed his eyes as he thought about the exuberant young police observer, not a month away from his ordeal with Quinn and already the victim of another man intent on using him to get to Jim. Let the kid be okay, Simon prayed silently. Please just let the kid be okay.
Because if he wasn't, Simon didn't know what Jim would do. He glanced at his detective out of the corner of his eye. He could see worry in the grim set of Jim's mouth, in the way he gripped steering wheel so tightly. Jim had killed Dawson Quinn in order to protect Blair. As much as Simon didn't want to admit it, he knew that was the truth. But Simon understood the motive behind that killing, knew he probably would have done the same thing if it had been Darryl that Quinn had gone after. He had assumed Jim's killing Quinn would be an isolated event. But now, he couldn't help but wonder what might happen to Eddie Rostin if he hurt Blair.
Simon braced himself as Jim's truck skidded to a halt outside the loft. He could see Blair's car parked in its usual spot at the curb in front of the building.
Maybe Jim's wrong. Maybe the kid just dropped the phone and he's in the loft right now, waiting for Jim to come home.
But Simon knew as he followed Jim into the building that the kid was gone, that what Jim had heard over the cell phone was his partner's abduction. He stop
ped in the lobby of the building, standing just behind Jim. He had expected the two of them to rush directly to the stairs, to the place Blair had last been. Instead, they stood in the lobby, doing nothing. "Jim," he said finally. "What's going on?"
"I should have seen this sooner," Jim muttered, staring straight ahead. "I should have warned him right away." Crossing to the elevator, he pushed the button. Seconds later, the doors opened, the small car ready for its passengers. Jim ripped down the Out of Order sign taped to the left of the doors. "Eddie did this. He wanted Blair to take the stairs. He lured him there and I let him." He flung the stiff cardboard aside. "Dammit!"
"Jim, you couldn't have known what he had planned. You did--"
"What, Simon?" Jim cut in bitterly. "What did I do? Nothing. I knew there was a possibility that Eddie was out there again and I did nothing to protect Blair from him."
"You thought Stephen would be the one Rostin would go after. You took steps to warn him, were going to try and set up protection." He gripped his shoulder. "You did the right thing."
Jim remained stiff, not at all consoled or convinced by Simon's words.
"Look, this isn't getting us anywhere," Simon said. "Let's do something that will." The captain's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Come on, Detective. Let's do our job."
Walking to the stairwell, the two men started up. Jim moved quickly, leaving Simon limping up slowly, wishing with each step that he'd kept his cane with him. As he reached the second landing, he found Jim, his gaze locked on the mess spread out before him. Books, papers and pieces of a cell phone lay scattered across the stairs and landing. But Jim wasn't looking at any of those things. The sentinel's gaze was locked on only one item--Blair's backpack. It lay upside-down, two steps above the landing.
"Ah, hell," Simon muttered as he watched Jim sink down on the stairs next to the backpack and draw the familiar bag into his lap. The sentinel's fingers traced over the blood darkening the left strap. Simon shifted his gaze back over the mess and realized he could see more blood, some splattered over the papers and books, some on the wall and one larger puddle in the far corner of the landing.
Probably where the kid came to a stop.
He shuddered at the image the words brought to mind. An image of Blair, laying on the floor of the stairwell, blood pooling around his body. He shook his head to dispel the dark thoughts and returned his attention to Jim. "What do you want to do now, Jim?"
"What we do best," the detective answered solemnly. "We look for clues." He turned his determined gaze up toward Simon. "It's Eddie's game and we're it."
"Do have any idea where he would take Blair?"
Ellison shook his head. "I don't think he'd take him out of the city because of the time limit."
"What do you mean 'time limit'?"
Jim sighed and in that sound, Simon could hear a weariness that went right to Jim's soul, could sense a loss that seemed to steal every ounce of his energy. "When I was a kid and Eddie would take something from me," Jim began, his voice low, emotionless, "He'd put a time limit on how long I had to find whatever it was he'd taken. He'll do the same thing with Blair."
Simon blinked several times as the words settled over him. "So, if we don't find Sandburg in that time limit, he'll kill him?"
"No," Jim choked out. "He won't kill him, Simon. He'll just bury him. Alive."
Part Three
Blair came around slowly, trying to piece together the jumbled thoughts running through his mind. He shifted where he lay; immediately, a sharp stab of pain sliced through his side. He sucked in a shallow breath and stilled. His entire body ached and his head throbbed dully with pain.
What happened?
But even as the question flashed through his mind, he remembered the tumble he'd taken down the stairwell and the stranger who had pushed him. "Oh man," he muttered. Rostin was playing the game and Blair was right in the middle of it.
Blinking, he opened his eyes. The room did a slow spin above him and he groaned as nausea twisted through his stomach. He closed his eyes again, gritted his teeth and waited for the sensation to pass. When he was sure he could sit up without passing out or being sick, he opened his eyes and moved, leaning on one hand and sliding slowly upright. Panting from exertion, he ran a hand over his forehead, feeling the crust of dried blood along his hairline. Well, at least it's stopped bleeding. His hand moved down to his side, running over his ribs. He gave silent thanks when he found them to be tender, but not broken.
His attention shifted to the gloomy room around him. It was filthy, a little bit smaller than the loft, and spray-painted names and obscenities covered the rotting wallboards. Above him, boards covered the only two windows he could see. Small slits of light slanted down across the floor, indicating that it was still daylight outside. The same day? He had no way of knowing.
Cocking his head to one side, he listened for the sounds of other voices, television sets, radios. But he heard nothing except a faint, scrabbling noise that came from within the walls themselves. Rats, his mind supplied as his gaze took in the small piles of feces that lay scattered throughout the room.
From the condition of the place, he surmised that the building had been abandoned for years. Condemned, no doubt. Probably an old apartment complex from the looks of it.
His gaze locked on the door opposite him. The only visible exit. Blair knew it would be locked, that Rostin wouldn't have been foolish enough to just dump him here and then leave the door open. His gaze swept the area around him again and a small flame of hope began building within him--there was plenty of junk scattered about that he could use to break the lock and get free.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he tried to draw his legs beneath him. His left ankle pulled tight at the movement. He let out a yelp of surprise, falling slightly forward, his head spinning again with the sudden movement. What the hell? Steadying himself again, he glanced down at his foot. A worn, rusty shackle encircled his left ankle and the chain attached to the confining ring trailed behind him. Turning his head in order to find where the chain ended, Blair saw that it was wrapped securely around an exposed pipe. A heavy lock hung from the chain, the sight of it lessening Blair's hope of escaping his bonds. He was securely tethered to the wall.
A prisoner. Rostin's prisoner.
Shifting closer to the wall, he grabbed the old pipe the chain was attached to and pulled. It held. Next, he picked up the chain and examined the links. They looked old; the original finish almost completely covered with rust. Bracing his right foot against the wall, Blair grabbed the chain and pulled again. It held as well.
"Great," Blair muttered under his breath as he tossed the chain to the floor. "The guy's certifiable but he knows how to find quality chain."
Before he could examine the shackle around his ankle, he heard a key turning in the lock on the door. Blair turned as it opened and a man walked in. He was of average height with short brown hair and wide, dark eyes. "Hey, you're awake," the man greeted with genuine ebullience, as though the sight of the young man chained to the far wall of the squalid apartment was not in the least unusual. "That's great!"
Blair stared at him, instantly recognizing him as the man from the stairwell. "You're Eddie, aren't you?"
"That's right. I'm Eddie. Eddie Rostin." He crossed to Blair, crouched down in front of him and held out his hand. Blair made no move to shake it. Eddie reached out and, grabbing Blair's hand, pumped it up and down enthusiastically. "You're Blair Sandburg. I'm so glad to meet you." He released Blair's hand as quickly as he had taken it, his eyebrows shooting up. "Oh wait, I almost forgot." He jogged back to the door, reached outside the room, and picked up a plastic grocery store bag. He strode back over to Blair, hugging the bag to his chest. "Look what I brought you." He sat cross-legged on the floor before Blair, reached into the bag, and withdrew a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a plastic jug and cup.
Blair looked down at the sandwich held out to him. Eddie's dirt-smeared hands had left gritty fingerprints
across the top of the white bread. "Um, thanks," he said cautiously, accepting the sandwich but not raising it to his mouth.
"You're welcome. And, look! I made you Kool-Aid, too." Opening the jug, he poured a glass of red liquid into the matching plastic cup and held it out to Blair. "I used extra sugar 'cuz I like it that way. I just figured you would, too."
"That's great, Eddie," Blair said without enthusiasm, accepting the cup. "But I think I'll save the Kool-Aid and sandwich for later, okay?"
"Oh sure. I just didn't want to forget. I forget a lot of things." Eddie set the bag aside and leaned toward Blair, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. "So, what's it like living with Jimmy? Is it fun? I bet you guys have fun."
Blair blinked several times as he stared at the man before him. He had expected Eddie to be frightening. Rough. Instead, he seemed like a big kid who was simply lost in the past. "Yes, it's fun living with Jim," he said at last, deciding it would be wise to go along with Eddie, reasoning that maybe his best chance at getting away would be to get Eddie to like him. To want to be his friend. "We do lots of things together. Camping, fishing, hiking."
Eddie nodded. "That sounds like Jimmy. He can be a lot of fun... especially when he plays the game." And at his mention of the game, something changed in Eddie's eyes... something darkened. A cloud seemed to pass over their brown depths. He was no longer looking at Blair, but past him, seeing another time, another place. A place that didn't seem to make him happy. "He... he stopped playing," Eddie whispered sadly. "We never finished the game." His attention returned to the present and he gazed steadily at Blair. "We needed to finish. I needed to finish." He grimaced, closed his eyes, and pressed his hand against the side of his head as if he were in sudden pain.
Blair shifted, trying to ignore the shackle around his ankle as the chain pulled tight. "Eddie," he began, working hard to keep the edge of desperation he felt from creeping into his voice. "I bet if you called Jim and told him where I am, he would offer to take you camping as a reward. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To go camping with Jim?"
