by Beth Manz
Simon shook his head. "Half a mile, tops. You think Rostin was trying to get back to the hospital?"
Jim took a deep breath and stared down the alley at Eddie. "I think he was trying to get back to Grant," he told the captain. "Has anyone informed the good doctor that his patient is here?"
Again, Simon shook his head. "No."
"Let's keep it that way for now." Jim moved forward, toward the cowering man at the end of the alley. He stopped about ten yards from Eddie. The man had watched his approach, eyes wide with fear, the strangled sounds in his throat growing louder and more and more plaintive as he became increasingly agitated. "Eddie," Jim called out. "It's me, Jim Ellison."
Eddie's moans died away and he leaned forward, squinting his eyes to get a better look at the man standing before him. "Jimmy?" he asked, his voice disbelieving. "It's you, really?"
"It's me," Jim assured him softly. "I heard you were asking for me."
Eddie nodded, but remained silent. He appeared to be having trouble breathing, and Jim noticed for the first time that there seemed to be a lot of blood on Eddie's clothing. More blood than the gash on the side of his head would account for. Jim opened his sense of sight, zooming in on Eddie's upper body, careful not to concentrate so deeply that he put himself at risk of another zone-out. His gaze traveled from the cut on Eddie's face, down across his neck to his chest. He drew in a harsh breath as he saw the gaping wound just above Eddie's rib cage. The man had been shot.
"Eddie," Jim soothed, moving closer. "I'd like to come over by you now. Would that be all right?"
Eddie squinted up at Jim, his expression one of pain and desperation. "Yes, Jimmy. I'd like that," he panted out. "I'd like that a lot."
/
/
Blair blinked open his eyes, unsure what had awakened him. He lay stretched out on the couch, his left foot slightly elevated, the mug of tea Jim had made him growing cold on the coffee table in front of him. Had Jim come home? But even as the question played across his mind, someone knocked at the front door and he knew that it had been that sound that had brought him back from sleep.
Sighing, he sat up and looked over at the door, then down to his foot. Damn. He hated making the trek across the room. His foot still ached and while using the cane worked, it was easier getting around with Jim's help. Maybe they'll go away. The knock sounded again, louder, more insistent. Then, "Mr. Sandburg? It's Dr. Grant."
Blair rolled his eyes. "Oh great," he muttered, knowing from what Jim had told him about this guy that he probably wasn't going to just go away. Grabbing up the cane beside the couch, he pushed himself to his feet, then hobbled across the loft. The knock sounded again before he reached his destination.
"I'm coming," he yelled, slightly breathless from the effort his steps were taking. He opened the door to a tall, blonde man in a blue suit and glasses.
"I'm Dr. Marcus Grant." The man held out his hand, smiling widely. "You must be Blair Sandburg."
Blair shook the offered hand, surprised when the man interpreted the handshake as an invitation to come inside and walked past him into the loft. "Dr. Grant, Jim's not home right now and I-"
"Yes, I saw Detective Ellison leave."
Blair stiffened. The man had been watching them? He remained at the door, holding it open, unsure of what he should do.
Jim would not be happy if he knew this guy was here.
But as he watched Grant stroll casually to the living room and sit down on the couch, he realized he didn't have much choice. He closed the door and limped back to the living area, dropping into the chair near the balcony windows.
"This place is nice," Grant said, his gaze traveling over the loft. "You lived here long?"
"Going on four years," Blair answered hesitantly, his brow furrowed at the odd question. Was he here to talk about Eddie? Or the loft? "Doctor, as far as Eddie goes-"
"I can definitely see your touches in the decor--it's easy to see that a student of human nature and cultures lives here." The doctor smiled benignly. "Coming here, seeing your things mixed in with Ellison's... Well, I can understand now why Eddie chose you over Ellison's brother." His gaze locked on Blair again. "That's who I expected him to go after, you know."
Blair blinked several times as the doctor's words settled over him. "Expected him..." His words trailed off, his mouth going dry. And as Blair stared into Dr. Grant's cold, calculating eyes, sudden understanding pounded through him. "You knew," he breathed out. "You knew all along."
"Eddie just needed to finish the game," Grant said, his predatory gaze never leaving Blair. "You should have let him."
The hairs on the back of Blair's neck stood on end. His stomach clenched. Why did he come here? What does he want? Blair didn't want to find out.
"Doctor," he began, somehow managing to keep his voice from shaking, "I think you should leave."
"Now, now, Mr. Sandburg. We both know that's not going to happen."
Fear pulsed through Blair's body. His gaze darted to the front door. He had to get out. Now! Pushing up from his chair, he limped toward the door. Pain spiked up his left leg and across his back with each pounding step. Before he was able to get anywhere near the front door, he felt hands on him.
Grabbing him by the shoulders, Grant pushed Blair across the living area of the loft and slammed him into the support beam, pinning his back against the wide pole. Strong hands gripped his biceps, holding him in place. Blair stared up into Grant's eyes, darkened with rage.
"All you had to do was let him finish the game," Grant said again, punctuating his words by pulling Blair forward, then slamming him backward again and again. Blair let out a grunt of pain as his back connected with the pole over and over. "He'd be cured if you'd just let him finish. But you had to run away, didn't you? Didn't you!" Grant pulled him forward and slammed him back one final time. Blair's head snapped backward, connecting with the pole. Grant released him and he slid to the floor, dazed and hurting.
"You planned it," he panted out, pain pounding through his skull. "You planned it all." He looked up at Grant, trying to focus on the man who stood glaring down at him.
"You have no idea how much time and effort I put into this. And I'm not about to lose everything I worked so hard for because of you." The doctor's voice was flat, emotionless. The sound of it, the finality behind his words, sent a foreboding chill through Blair. "You didn't let Eddie finish the game," Grant continued, "So now I'm going to finish it for him."
/
/
Jim knelt on the ground beside Eddie Rostin and gently pulled the man into his arms. He looked down at his childhood friend, forcing a smile in response to the boyish grin Eddie was giving him.
"I'm glad you came, Jimmy," Eddie rasped out, his hand clawing feebly at the sleeve of Jim's jacket.
"Eddie, can you tell me who shot you? Do you know?"
The grip on his jacket tightened, his hand fisting suddenly. "No. My fault. My fault!" He shook his head from side to side, his voice rising with each word until he was shouting. "All my fault!"
"It's okay," Jim soothed, trying to calm him again. "Don't worry. It's okay."
Eddie quieted, his grip on Jim's jacket loosening.
"Can I take a look at your stomach?" Jim asked tentatively, afraid of causing another outburst. "Would that be okay?"
Eddie nodded and relaxed against Jim, passively allowing his friend to lift his shirt and inspect the wound. "Hurts," he whispered up at Ellison.
Jim winced at the damage the bullet had caused. He needed to get Eddie to the hospital--fast. "Eddie," he began, speaking in deep, relaxed tones as he pulled the shirt back down across the man's exposed stomach, "We have some folks here who can help you, okay?"
Eddie closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "No. No more help."
"Eddie-"
"Dr. Grant said he'd help," he cut in, talking over Jim. "Always wanted to help but he... he didn't."
"I'm sure Dr. Grant did the best he could for you," Jim lied, p
ushing aside his personal feelings regarding Eddie's psychiatrist.
"Dr. Grant... he's mad at me now."
"Mad at you?" Jim inquired softly. "Why would Dr. Grant be mad at you?"
Eddie's eyes clouded with sadness and he shook his head back and forth against Jim's arm. "Because I wouldn't... finish..." he breathed out. "I wouldn't finish... the game."
"Shhhh, don't talk, Eddie," Jim said, sensing a weakening in the man's body. "Let's get you to a hospital and then you can tell me all about the game, all right?"
Again, Eddie shook his head. His hand latched firmly onto the front of Jim's jacket and he pulled hard, demanding the detective's attention. "Your friend..." he began.
"Blair?"
"Yes. Blair. He said... I hurt him. I didn't mean to hurt him." Eddie smiled again. "He was nice to me."
Jim nodded his head. "Yes, Blair is a very nice person."
"I'm sorry... I hurt him. You'll... you'll tell him?"
Jim pressed his lips together as the impact of what was happening hit him. Pulling Eddie closer to his chest, Jim whispered, "I'll tell him."
"Promise?"
"Yes, Eddie," he said. "I promise."
Eddie's expression softened into a satisfied smile, then his eyes closed and his head lolled backward against Jim's arm. The sentinel knew, even without listening for heart sounds, that Eddie Rostin was dead.
Sighing deeply, Jim lay Eddie's body gently against the ground before motioning the medical examiner's team forward. He stood to let them prepare Eddie for transport. He watched their preparations--as they lifted Eddie onto a waiting stretcher, folded his arms across his chest, and secured the safety straps across his lifeless body.
He wasn't aware that Simon had approached until he felt the captain's hand on his shoulder. "Jim, are you all right?"
"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I expected to come here and hate him but that's not what I feel." He turned and looked at Simon, his brow furrowed slightly. "I guess I just feel sorry for him more than anything else."
Simon squeezed his shoulder gently. "That's understandable. The guy certainly had his share of hard times."
Jim's eyes narrowed as Eddie's words played through his mind again. "Simon, Eddie told me that Grant was angry with him because he wouldn't finish the game."
"Well, he won't be finishing it now," Simon stated, watching the paramedics lift the stretcher bearing Eddie's body into the back of the ambulance.
A horrible thought began taking shape in Jim's mind, sending fear twisting through him. "Sir," he said, gazing steadily at the captain, "Eddie wouldn't know Grant was angry at him unless he'd seen him."
Simon's eyes widened as he realized what Jim was implying. "You think Grant shot Rostin?" he asked, his gaze shifting back to the corpse.
"Someone shot him, Simon." Slowly, Jim lifted his hands to his nose and sniffed. The smell of Grant's cologne assaulted his nostrils. "Shit." He turned his attention back to Simon. "Grant has been with him. I can smell that damn after shave he wears."
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. "I'm going to try and reach Blair. Can you get some units over to the loft?"
"Jim, you don't think--"
"That Grant might go after Blair? I hope to hell not." He punched in the number for the loft and listened as line rang through. "Come on, Chief," he urged. "Answer the phone."
/
/
Reaching down, Grant grabbed Blair by the arm and hauled him to his feet. The phone rang just as Blair legs steadied beneath him. His gaze cut to the counter. It's Jim. It's got to be Jim! He lunged for the phone as it rang a second time. Grant moved with him but he was faster. Snatching it from the counter, the doctor ripped the cord from the wall and spun toward Blair, striking the grad student high on the side of the head with the heavy phone.
Blair stumbled backward and collapsed to the floor. Absently, he reached up to touch his throbbing head. Warm blood matted his hair and stuck to his probing fingers.
"I'm sure that was Detective Ellison," Grant said, dropping the blood-splattered phone at his feet. "And I'm sure that since you didn't answer, he'll come rushing back to find out why." He crouched down in front of Blair, his eyes narrowing. "You know, if I didn't already have Eddie's case to document and publish, I might study you and Ellison. I've never seen such fierce devotion before. There's something... unique about the two of you." Reaching out, he traced the line of blood where it trailed down the side of Blair's face. "Perhaps I'll study Ellison's grief instead." He pushed to his feet again and strode to the kitchen.
Blair sat on the floor, his chin resting against his chest, his eyes squeezed closed. If the room would just stop spinning. He could hear Grant moving around in the kitchen, opening drawers, looking for something.
"What would Eddie use?" the doctor muttered as he searched. "He's a simple man. He'd use simple things."
Before Blair could figure out what Grant meant, the doctor returned to him and, hauling him to his feet again, pressed him face first against the support pole. Grabbing his arms, he wrenched them behind Blair's back. A small gasp of pain escaped the grad student's lips as the duct tape encircled his wrists, wrapping too tightly against his still tender skin. Finished, Grant turned him back around to face him, pinning him in place with one hand to his shoulder.
"Time to go for a ride," he whispered.
"Everyone is going to know that it was you who finished the game and not Eddie," Blair said when he was able to find his voice again.
Grant chuckled softly. "How could they? They'll never find his body and when you disappear, they'll just assume he came after you again."
"His body?" Blair repeated, his heart slamming into his ribs at the implication behind the words. "You... you hurt him?"
"He came to me, crying. Said you'd escaped, showed me where you hit him, started whining about not wanting to play anymore." He shook his head, his disgust with his patient evident. "He was going to ruin everything."
A shudder of fear passed through Blair. "What did you do to Eddie?"
"I couldn't let him stop playing," Grant explained. "Not after all the time I've put into my theory. All the effort I've made toward proving my case study. I had to stop him so I did the only thing I could. I shot him."
"How could shooting Eddie prove your case study?" he blurted out.
Grant exhaled an impatient huff of air, shaking his head as if it should all be so obvious. "My theory is that if the game ends, Eddie will leave Jim Ellison alone," he said, his voice infinitely patient. "If Eddie is never seen or heard from again... well, that means he left Ellison alone. Thus, my point will be proven."
"You're willing to kill your own patient... to kill me... to prove the validity of your theory?"
"If you would have just let Eddie finish the game, let him win or lose on his own, then I wouldn't have had to go to these extremes. My theory would have stood on its own merits." He raised one eyebrow as he stared at Blair. "Surely you understand, Mr. Sandburg. Being a scientist yourself, you know how important it is to document our theories and publish the results."
Blair stared at him in astonishment. "What about respecting the rights of your subject?" he grated out. "Eddie isn't some lab rat. He's a human being."
"I'm talking about a greater good here. Think of the multitude of people my research will help. Think about the bigger picture, Mr. Sandburg, and then tell me I'm wrong."
"You're wrong," Blair said without hesitation. "There is no greater good if we start trading our humanity for test results and prestige."
Grant rubbed wearily at the bridge of his nose. "I'm not going to stand here and debate this with you. I don't have the time." Taking Blair's arm, he began leading him to the door.
"Eddie's alive," Blair blurted out.
Grant stopped dead in his tracks. "You're lying," he challenged.
"He's alive," Blair insisted. "You may have shot him but you didn't kill him."
"It's not possible," he muttered. "There was to
o much blood. He couldn't have survived...." The veins in the doctor's forehead and neck stood out, and even without the benefit of sentinel senses, Blair was certain the man's heart was beating hard in his chest.
"Jim left here to go to him," Blair added. "He's not only alive but he's with Jim right now." Blair watched Grant, his own heart racing in his chest. Even if he believes me, he can't just let me go. He's said too much. He twisted his bound hands. The tape held tight.
Finally, Grant returned his attention to Blair. "I don't believe you," he said simply. Tightening his hold on Blair's arm, he forced him from the loft.
/
/
Simon grabbed at the door handle as Jim skidded around another corner and the back end of the truck fishtailed slightly on the wet pavement. The day had turned gloomy, gray clouds moving in, blanketing Cascade in a hazy darkness. A slow but steady rainfall had begun to fall just as they left the alley. And Simon was sure that if Jim didn't gain control of his anger, they'd both end up wrapped around a tree.
"Jim, you have got to slow down," he said as the sentinel struggled with the wheel after barely negotiating another sharp turn.
"How could I leave him alone, Simon? He's still weak, he can barely get around with that damn foot of his, and I leave." He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. "Dammit! I practically gift wrapped him for Grant."
"We don't even know if Grant is with Sandburg."
Jim's hard gaze cut to Simon. "You heard what Eddie told me. Grant was trying to talk him into finishing that stupid game. He was giving him permission to go after Blair again. Encouraging it."
"You think Grant became as obsessed with finishing the game as Rostin was?" Simon asked, still trying to put it all together in his mind.
"No," Jim answered. "I think he's obsessed with proving his theory about the game. He wanted to prove he was right, that if Eddie were allowed to finish playing, he'd be cured."
"So how will he prove that by going after Sandburg himself?"
Jim shook his head. "I'm not exactly sure, Simon. But I'm certain that Grant has found a way, or at least he thinks he has." Jim's phone rang, the sound echoing in the small truck cab. He pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Blair?" he shouted into the mouthpiece.
