by Beth Manz
"What's that?" Simon asked.
Jim returned his attention to Simon. "I didn't realize how late it was. I really wanted to find Blair before he had to spend another night wherever Eddie has him."
Simon squeezed his shoulder. "He'll be okay," he said again, desperately wanting to believe his own words.
Blair leaned back against the wall, watching the last of the light fade from the room, leaving him in darkness again.
Two days. It had been two days since he had first woke in this room. Two days and he was still no closer to escape. He could hear the rats moving around on the other side of the room, feasting on the tuna sandwich he'd tossed there hours earlier. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He'd had to toss the sandwich away, not because of the smell of it but because even though he knew it was bad, he'd been so hungry that he'd actually been tempted to eat it.
He prayed that tomorrow when Eddie came, he would bring another peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
He brushed his hair away from his face, surprised to feel how damp the strands were, how hot his face felt beneath his fingers. He eyed the orange Kool-Aid. His lips and throat were parched and he longed for something to drink, but he knew that the syrupy drink Eddie had prepared would only make him thirstier. He pushed the drink away and swallowed against the dryness in his throat.
"Tomorrow's the last day."
Eddie's words played through his mind. Blair had thought that he'd have longer than this. That Eddie would wait at least a week before... what? What would he do tomorrow when he returned?
Pushing away the questions, knowing they weren't helping, Blair turned his attention to something that could. He pulled off his left sneaker, rolled down his sock, and worked again at his bonds. He'd spent most of the afternoon trying to slip out of the iron clasp. His anklebone was scraped raw from his previous efforts to get the loop of the rusty shackle across his foot, and his instep had bruised a deep, angry purple.
He hissed in pain as the shackle slipped out of his hand and cut into the tender flesh at the back of his heel. Quickly, he pulled the fetter back up across his ankle, then leaned down to inspect the damage the rusty instrument had done to his foot. The cut was deep, but not very long. He placed his fingers against the bleeding gash and pressed down hard for several minutes. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Blair pulled his sock back up across his ankle. Gingerly, he slipped his foot into his unlaced shoe.
Pulling his legs up to his chest, he rested his chin against his knees and tried to ignore the stinging cut on his heel. Sighing, he determined that he'd try to work the shackle across his foot again later... maybe after he'd rested a bit. He pushed away the nagging spark of fear in his stomach--the fear that he wouldn't be able to escape after all, that all his efforts would be for nothing and Eddie would win his bizarre game.
He straightened his legs just slightly, causing the shackle around his ankle to shift and the chain to clang dully in the silence. The sound made by his bonds ripped away the last of his resolve and left bitter frustration in its wake. How? How could he possibly escape?
I'm trying, Jim. I'm honestly trying, but I don't think I'm going to be able to get out of here.
His thoughts cycled back to the time just under a month ago when he and Jim had been trapped in that cave up in the North Woods. He had been feverish, sick, dying, but he still remembered the words he'd spoken to his friend and partner. "I looked for you forever... I always wanted a brother... you filled that missing part..." He couldn't recall any words he'd ever spoken that he had meant as much as he did those.
Blair closed his eyes and dropped his head down to rest against his knees. A measure of peace settled over him as he thought about the fact that his friend knew how he felt. "At least I was able to give you that much, Jim," he whispered into the growing darkness. "No matter how this turns out, at least you know how much your friendship meant to me."
/
/
The day dawned to a cold Northwest mist falling from a dismal gray sky. In fairness, to say that the mist fell would not be an entirely equitable observation. Rather, it hung in the air, swirling lazily and touching everything, dampening, softening, and eventually saturating. It was the kind of weather that chilled the bones and depressed the heart.
Jim Ellison stood at the balcony windows and looked out at the gray morning, not really seeing it at all. A dampness of a monumentally worse kind had invaded his heart--a dampness that had nothing to do with the weather outside. This was the third morning since Blair had been abducted and Jim was still without any clues as to where Eddie had taken his partner. Blair was out there somewhere, beyond Jim's help and care, and it panicked him.
Jim's only consolation was in the fact that the men and women under Captain Banks' command were treating this case as much more than just an abduction of one of Cascade's residents. Blair Sandburg was one of their own; the enthusiastic anthropologist had worked his way into the heart of each and every one of the officers within the department, and they were working tirelessly, around the clock, to find him.
Jim sipped absently at his coffee, staring out at the mist-shrouded city before him. "Where are you, Blair?" he asked himself for the thousandth time since his friend had been taken from the apartment building. "Where are you?"
Where are you...
He lifted the coffee cup to his lips again, then lowered it quickly in stunned surprise. The liquid inside was cold. Cold? He turned and glanced at the clock that hung above the kitchen sink; it read 9:49 a.m. Three hours had passed since he poured the cup of coffee he held in his hand. Three hours! The realization of what had happened slammed into him, stealing his breath. He'd zoned. Again.
He carried the mug over to the sink and dumped its cold contents down the drain. Placing the cup in the sink, he gripped the counter and leaned forward heavily, closing his eyes. He'd stood at that window and zoned for three hours! He sighed deeply as the reality of what had happened washed across him again. I need Blair. Blair would have never have allowed him to zone for that long. He lifted his hand and rubbed at his tired eyes. Who was he kidding? He realized that if Blair had been there, he probably wouldn't have zoned in the first place. You're my control, buddy. I can't do this without you. I won't do this without you.
But with that thought came a sensation of guilt. How long could he expect Blair to put his life, his future on hold for him?
He straightened and walked over to the coat rack, determination etched in his jaw line and in his rigid, no-nonsense posture. Standing in the loft worrying about Blair, about his future wasn't doing the anthropologist a bit of good. Maybe it was time to talk to Dr. Grant again. As he pulled his coat on, the image of the smug, self-absorbed young psychiatrist crossed his mind and Jim had to push back at the anger that the mental image evoked within him. He won't help me. He's only out for himself. He pulled the loft door closed behind him and made his way quickly down the stairs to the lobby.
Jim had just inserted his key in the ignition of the truck when his cell phone rang. "Please let this be news about Blair," he muttered to himself as he quickly pulled the phone from his pocket and held it up to his ear. "Ellison," he answered.
There was a moment's pause, then a boyish, teasing voice came across the line: "You're losing, Jimmy."
Jim's grip tightened on the phone. "Eddie," he said, surprised that Blair's captor was actually calling him. His initial surprise quickly gave way to anger, and he shouted into the receiver: "Where's Blair, Eddie? Tell me where he is!"
Again, there was a slight pause, then Eddie spoke again. This time his tone was pouty, disappointed. "If I give you clues, you're going to lose major points, Jimmy," he explained. "I thought you knew that. That's one of the rules of the game."
"This is no game, Eddie. You're playing with a human life and it is no game! Now, where is Blair Sandburg?"
"I'm sorry, Jimmy. To tell you that would be cheating. You never wanted me to cheat before. That would have spoiled the game."
"The game?" Jim exploded. "Forget about the stupid game! I concede the game! You win, okay? Just tell me where Blair is!"
Jim's only answer was the droning sound of a dial tone. Eddie had hung up.
/
/
A cry of pain escaped Blair's lips as he finally managed to pull his foot free of the confining shackle. Panting, he fell back against the wall, blood oozing between his fingers from the deep cut the shackle had made in his heel.
He squeezed his eyes shut as the room did a slow spin around him. This morning when he'd first awakened, his hair damp with sweat, a headache pounding relentlessly against his temple, he had tried to convince himself that he wasn't really sick. Some small part of him had hoped that if he just pretended he was okay, he would be. But he couldn't pretend anymore. He was running a fever, he was nauseous and lightheaded, and his headache had turned into an almost maddening throbbing, making it difficult to even think.
Too much. The stress of being abducted by Eddie and left in this dank, dirty place for three days had just been too much for his still recovering system. But he couldn't think about how bad he felt because he needed to concentrate on the only thing that mattered now...
Get out, Sandburg. Get out before he comes back.
Blair opened his eyes and focused on the door opposite him. All he had to do was get to that door and he was free. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the sock back up around his foot, ignoring the blood dying it a deep red. Somehow, he managed to stumble to his feet. He leaned against the wall at his back until the room stopped rotating and the nausea subsided.
Just get to the door. All you have to do is get to the door.
He pushed himself away from the wall and moved slowly, each step leaving a bloody smudge on the dirty linoleum floor. More than once he was forced to stop and close his eyes as the room did another slow spin. Then, when he felt steady enough to move without falling, he would start the slow trek again. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the door.
Please don't be locked, please don't be locked, please don't be locked.
He grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. It didn't budge. "Dammit!" He fell against the thick wood that was keeping him trapped, desperation gnawing at him. Wiping a hand over his sweat-dampened brow, he turned his head and let his gaze travel over the debris-filled room. He needed to... needed to...
He squeezed his eyes shut. He was having a hard time thinking past the pounding in his head and the throbbing of his foot. "I need to open the door," he muttered after a time. "Need to get to Jim." Opening his eyes again, his gaze fell on a piece of pipe laying just a few feet from where he now stood. Moving as quickly as he could, he grabbed up the piece of steel. But before he could reach the door again, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
"...wants to cheat. Never wanted to cheat before..."
Eddie's angry muttering reached his ears, echoing in the stillness of the building. He's coming back. He's coming back and he's going to catch me again! Blair's gaze shot to the empty, blood-covered shackle on the other side of the room. No, I won't go back to that. I won't! Biting back gasps of pain, he limped quickly to the door and positioned himself behind it. He gripped the pipe, holding it over his shoulder like a baseball player would hold a bat, and waited.
Keys jingled outside the door. A bag rustled and shifted. And then the door swung wide.
"Hey, Blair-" But Eddie's words were cut short as Blair swung the pipe down, hitting him squarely on the side of the head. Blair cried out as he heard the sickening thud of metal impacting human flesh. He didn't wait to see Eddie fall. Dropping the pipe, he fled the room, limping toward the stairs that would lead him outside.
His breath came in harsh gasps as he stumbled down two flights to the lobby of the dilapidated building. Ahead, he could see the entryway leading outside. A small sound of relief escaped his lips as he fell against the door and it swung wide.
Blair stumbled from the building, lost his footing and collapsed to his knees. "Dammit," he ground out as jarring pain radiated through his body. He gritted his teeth and, closing his eyes, dropped his chin to his chest. Inhaling deeply, he tried to calm himself.
He's not coming after you. He's unconscious... or worse.
A shudder passed through him. He hadn't wanted to hurt Eddie, he just didn't have any other choice. Opening his eyes, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. He didn't recognize the area. But it was rundown, deserted. He stood, swaying slightly as the dizziness swept in again. Lifting his hand, he pushed fever-dampened strands of hair away from his face. He licked his lips against the dryness in his throat and tried to clear his foggy mind. To think.
A phone. I need to find a phone. To call Jim. Determination burned through him as a plan took shape in his weary mind. He would find a phone, call his partner and be home before sunset tonight. He limped down the street, each step taken by his left foot leaving a bloody print in its wake. As he crossed in front of the dark alleyway beside the building where he had been held captive, a dirty, disheveled man stepped out, blocking his path.
"Give me a dollar," he demanded, thrusting his grimy hand toward Sandburg.
Blair flinched back, holding up his hands, trying to protect himself. "Stay away!" He took two shambling steps backward, turned and fled. He pounded down the sidewalk, each step sending a jolt of pain up his leg and through his ribs. He gritted his teeth, pushed past the pain and ran on. Ahead, he could see a phone booth. A small cry of relief escaped his lips. He stumbled toward the glass booth, misjudged the curb and went down hard, his knees hitting first before the rest of him followed. His hands hit the pavement, scraping away skin, drawing blood.
He came to rest on his stomach. His breath rasped in and out. His cheek rested against the cool pavement "Please," he muttered, "Please just let this end." He lifted his head, his hair falling over his eyes, and stared at the phone booth just a few feet away. So close. It's so damn close. Summoning his remaining strength, he pushed to his feet. His left foot ached with each step. His head pounded and his stomach churned. But somehow, he made it to the phone.
Sliding into the booth, he closed the door and leaned heavily against it. He pulled the receiver from its cradle and blinked, trying to focus on the numbers. His vision shifted, blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut. Held his breath. "Come on, Sandburg. You can do this." He opened his eyes. The numbers came into focus. He punched 911.
/
/
"None of this is helping!" Jim picked up the folder in front of him and flung it across the bullpen. "It's useless. All of this is useless!" He stood and swept an arm across his desk, sending files, pencils, pens flying.
"Detective! That's enough!" Simon's barked command caused Jim to freeze. He forced himself to turn toward his captain, his body shaking with barely controlled rage.
What am I doing?
Jim dropped into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Tried to regain some control of himself. He hated this. Hated feeling helpless. Hated knowing that Blair was out there somewhere, hurt, alone, possibly dead. Because of him.
The thought sent a shudder of guilt through him. First Quinn. Now Eddie. Both men had gone after Blair and used him as bait in their twisted schemes, not because the anthropologist was Jim's partner or his guide, but because he was Jim's friend. Somehow, that made it worse, made the guilt cut deeper, made the ache that much more painful.
He's hung on, stayed with me even when I didn't deserve his friendship. Not because he's my guide or my partner but because more than either of those things, he's my friend. And now he could die for it.
He shuddered again.
"Jim, maybe you should go home." Simon spoke softly from just beside him.
The detective shook his head. "I'm not going back to the loft."
"Jim--"
"I'm not going home when Blair can't," he snapped. "I'm not relaxing on the couch when Blair can't. I'm not-" The phone on his desk rang, interrupting his tirade. He snatched it
up. "Ellison," he growled into the receiver.
"Detective James Ellison?" an unfamiliar voice asked.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Dispatch, sir. I have a 911 caller who insists on being put through to you. He won't give his name and-"
"Put him through!" Jim shouted into the phone. He pushed to his feet, his hand nearly crushing the receiver. He waited through a series of clicks, then, "Jim?" Blair's voice, weak and whisper-soft, reached him.
"Chief? Chief, are you okay? Where are you, buddy?"
"Jim, I got away. I... I don't know where..." His voice trailed off. Jim heard a moan followed by a heavy thud. Then there was nothing but silence.
"Sandburg!" His gaze darted to the captain. "Simon, trace this call."
"Already on it," Simon answered, a phone to his ear.
"Blair, we're coming," Jim shouted into the receiver. "Can you hear me? We're coming to get you!" He extended his hearing. Blair's heartbeat came through, weak but steady. His breathing sounded congested, labored. He tried to move past his Guide, hoping to pick up a clue from the area surrounding Sandburg. But he could hear nothing beyond his friend.
"Got it," Simon announced, slamming down his receiver. "Downtown phone booth, near the docks."
Jim signaled Taggert over. "You stay on this line with him, Joel. I think he's passed out, but if he comes to, I want him to know he's not alone. Just let him know you're going to stay with him and that we're on our way."
Taggert nodded, his brow creased in concern. He took the phone from Jim and immediately began talking to Blair, offering reassurances to the silent man on the other end of the line.
Jim jogged from the bullpen, Simon close at his heels. "How did he sound?"
"I don't think he's completely coherent. Otherwise, he would have talked to the 911 operator instead of insisting on talking to me. He wouldn't have wasted time like that." They pounded down the stairs, jogged through the garage and piled into Jim's truck. "He said he got away, Simon. So Rostin is probably still nearby."
"We'll get to him first, Jim. We have to."
