He didn’t want to think about Black’s vision of a knife in Sandburg’s face. Of bloody limbs and sightless eyes.
Sandburg was alive when that happened and although he had felt nothing since then, he was convinced his guide was still alive now.
A uniformed officer entered the room, heading straight to Woodward. “This just came in for you, sir,” he said, then left the room quickly.
Woodward scanned the document, then called everyone to order. “We’ve had a white van matching our vehicle description located in a shopping mall just off the I-5 near Everett. Stolen Washington state license plates. The Everett police have impounded it and their forensic team is going over it now.”
“How far is that from here?” one of the California captains asked. “Can we go take a look at it ourselves?”
“Everett is about forty-five minutes north. There’s no indication at what exact time the van was left in the lot, although it would have been abandoned there after the last parking lot check by security at five-thirty this morning. The stolen plates were discovered at six o’clock this evening, and they came across our investigation while running routine checks on the vehicle itself. They have agreed to work with us on this case.”
Simon Banks leaned over to Ellison and whispered, “Well? Should we go check it out? You might get something they missed. Would you be able to tell if Sandburg was even taken in that van?”
“Possibly. I don’t know.” He rubbed his forehead. “I wouldn’t mind heading back to Cascade tonight, once we finish here. We could stop in Everett on the way.”
Simon nodded. “Sounds fine. We’ve given them all the information we can about Sandburg and Rafe. We’ll all be more effective working at this from our own area. Joel’s already instigating a trace on the man who approached Rafe about the photos. That’s a good description to go by, if we can connect it to anyone. We’re sending a police artist around to the hospital tomorrow morning to get a composite drawing of him from Rafe, to see if we can match it to anyone on file.”
Nash Bridges’ cell phone rang, and the man stood up and walked into the corridor to answer it. Ellison extended his hearing to take in the conversation, no longer caring about privacy issues, not when his partner’s life was involved. He had been touching on all the calls, tuning out if the conversation was of a personal nature.
“Nash? It’s Harvey.” The man’s voice was low, in shock. Ellison listened closer to the rapid heartbeat, the catch of his breathing.
“Harv ��� What is it?” Bridges asked, quickly.
“I found them.”
“What? Where? Are they okay?”
“I mean, I found them on the Internet.” It didn’t sound good. Ellison sat up and turned to stare at Bridges where he stood frozen in the corridor.
Nash had one hand over his free ear, totally concentrating on the conversaton. “What did you find?”
“Got a pen? Write this down.”
Nash looked up at where he had left his pen and paper in the other room. Ellison scooped them up and brought them to him. Bridges nodded his thanks, then uncapped the pen. “Go ahead.”
Harvey reeled off a long Internet address, then a complicated set of instructions, ending with, “Got that? Then, at the second sign-in, put ‘Laraby’ under name, and ‘pixie’ is the password. Then choose ‘Extreme B&D’, then ‘Detectives in Bondage’. There are five pictures up. Evan’s is there. That means he’s still alive, Boss.”
“Harv, you’ve done well. I’ll get back to you. Have you found the source yet?”
“No. Finding the website was the first step. That took me several hours. Finding where this is happening might take weeks, at which time they might be long gone, I’m sure.”
“Stay on it,” Bridges said, then slipped his cell phone into his pocket. He stared at the piece of paper in his hand, then looked up to Ellison. “Well, this is the old case of good news and bad news,” he said, with a forced smile. ” I guess we need to find a computer and check this out.”
“There’s one in Woodward’s office. I’ll ask him.” When Ellison stood at the door of the conference room, he was suddenly aware of the noise in the room shutting down, all eyes turning to stare at him. He wondered what his face must look like.
Woodward turned from where he was writing on an easel, the felt pen in his hand stilled. “What did you find out?” he asked, straightening.
“The San Francisco office found a website. We need to use a computer.”
“Is it them?” someone asked.
“Yes.”
“Mine’s in my office.”
“Do you have Internet access?”
“Yes.” Woodward let them into his office and soon eighteen men were crowded into the small room. Nash Bridges typed in the URL then waited as the graphics-heavy, X-rated site loaded. Ellison stood at the back of the office, able to see every pixel on the screen. Beside him, Simon Banks waited, jaw as tight as Ellison’s, arms crossed over his chest.
“Gay porno? What is this? Why are we wasting our time here?” The burly Portland chief backed away from the monitor, already repulsed. “Jack Kelly would never be involved in something like this.” He looked across at Ellison. “Now his observer — His type I’d expect to find here.”
Nash Bridges pushed away from the desk and stood, his fist grabbing the front of the Portland chief’s starched white shirt. “Another comment like that, and you’ll be singing soprano with the best of them. We’re here to work together and support each other in this — not to attack each other. You got that?”
“I don’t answer to you, Bridges. Maybe you put up with this crap in San Francisco, but not where I”m from—”
Woodward broke in. “You can leave and go back there if you want to,” Woodward said, pointing to the door. “No one’s making you stay.”
The man glared back at him, then moved to stand to on the opposite side of the desk from Bridges. “Let’s just get on with this filth and see what’s so important here.” He looked once more at Ellison, who stared icily back at him.
“Ignore him, Jim,” came Simon’s advice, whispered near his ear.
“I am,” he replied. “I don’t really give a damn what he thinks.”
*
Pictures began to load on the screen, and Nash typed in the first set of names and passwords, taking them further into the web of links. A small black button flashed “Live Action Thrills” in one corner of the screen, and he moved the mouse over to it, then clicked. More images began to load. Men, mostly naked, wearing restraints, some in neck collars, head harnesses, various devices strapped to their bodies, some tied to tables or chained up to walls. Closeups shots of cock straps and cock rings, plugs and other paraphernalia. The pictures loaded slowly, provocatively, while the audience of stunned police officers stared mutely.
Bridges typed in the second set of name and password, waiting for the VISA okay to flash on to admit them. He really didn’t want to know how much it cost the SIU’s account for the privilege to enter this page. Judging by the pictures displayed, someone was making good money at it.
“Detectives in Bondage,” Bridges murmured, then clicked on the site. As Harvey had said, five small thumbnail pictures began to load, asking the viewer to vote on who’s turn it was that night. Viewer votes would determine the outcome. According to the clock on the screen, the action was going to happen in less than an hour. The victim’s name would be announced just before that. VOTE NOW! flashed at them. VOTE NOW! LIVE ACTION THRILLS… DEATH AT YOUR DOOR… YOUR PRIVATE GLIMPSE TO THE EROTIC PASSION OF ULTIMATE DOMINATION… COPS ‘SERVICING’ MANKIND… WHOSE TURN IS IT TONIGHT?
Nash clicked on the first thumbnail and it slowly began to load, filling the screen.
“My God. That’s Scott,” the Monterey Police captain whispered.
The naked man hung in chains, facing the camera, obviously unable to stand. He looked drugged, his eyes staring off into space.
The Portland Chief pushed closer, his finger on the
screen as the second picture loaded. “Jack Kelly. What the hell is he doing there? Who’s behind this perversion? Where is he?” The man was locked into full headgear, complete with gag, looking like something out of ‘Silence of the Lamb’. His stance was as animated as the previous picture was passive, pulling at his restraints, anger and fury evident in every muscle of his corded body.
The third image began to load, and the Los Angeles police captain groaned. “He’s black. Must be Pat. Yes, that’s him,” he said as the picture loading became clearer. Restraints pinned the man’s arms behind his back, sweat glistened off his chest as he strained against the bonds holding him in place.
“Oh, Evan,” Nash murmured, as the fourth picture loaded. He recognized the tatoo on Evan’s shoulder, as the picture slowly revealed Evan spread out, face down, on a bed, his hands chained to the bed post, his legs spread suggestively, ankles chained to the foot of the bed. Evan’s face, turned to the camera, showed half-lidded eyes, a caricature of sensuality probably caused by drugs.
The fifth man was William Fong, his face partially hidden by a head harness, arms drawn upward as he hung suspended from his wrists. The Tacoma captain he worked with sagged into a chair, beyond shocked, shaking his head in horror at the scene.
They returned to the first page. VOTE NOW! VOTE NOW! BE A PART OF THE ACTION… SHOW THE COPS WHO THE TRUE DOMINATOR IS.. YOU ARE… ACT NOW! RESERVE YOUR SPOT.
“What about the other five?” one man whispered desperately. “Where are they?”
There was an ad for videos, and Nash clicked on it. Thumbnail images came up, these large enough to see the faces of four of the missing men. “What are they? Sex films? Snuff films? For sale, just like that? Anyone can buy this stuff?” Sam Faddis’ captain dropped to a chair, his face buried in his hands. “They killed him?”
WHO’S NEXT? scrolled across the screen. VOTE NOW!
*
9:00 p.m.
Ellison stood beside the truck, his key fumbling in the lock. Rain lashed down around him, fueling his impatience, his own ineptness at performing such a simple task. His fist slammed impatiently on the doorframe as he tried to get himself under control and try again.
“Jim?” A dark presence at his elbow, a firm hand pressed into his shoulder.
Ellison leaned on the door, resting his forehead against the coolness of the window. “Damn it, Simon,” he whispered. “Sandburg’s out there. He’s waiting for me to come get him.”
“Let me drive.”
“I’ve got to find him.”
“I agree with you. But I think I need to drive.”
“He’s out there.”
“He is. We’ll find him.”
Ellison felt the keys gently pried from his fingers. Wordlessly, he released them and walked slowly around the truck to the passenger side, waiting a moment for Simon Banks to get in and open the lock. The door closed firmly behind him and he leaned back against the unfamiliar seat, feeling disoriented in his own vehicle.
“Do up your seat belt.”
He leaned the opposite way and grabbed the lap belt, fastening it, the reverse motion feeling awkward and enhancing his sense of ‘wrongness’ with what was happening. “Is everyone going to Everett?” he asked, as Banks turned the truck into the evening downtown traffic.
“Bridges is following us, but I think the Tacoma Chief and Woodward are the only other ones that will be there. A few people had to get flights back tonight. As a group, I think we’ve done all we can do at this point. There’s no need for all of us to go there.” Banks glanced at him. “You’ll be able to tell if it’s the one that took Sandburg?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a start.”
“He’s out there. He’s alone.” Ellison stared out the passenger window, his fists clenched tight against his knees. “Do you think they did that to him, too?” His question finally voiced, he looked across to Banks.
“We’ll find him. And them,” Simon said, facing forward, eyes on the road. “Jim, what if they did? Would you be able to handle that?”
“Handle it? What do you mean? I’ll kill them.”
“I mean ��� Sandburg. Would it affect your relationship with him? Come between you?”
“No,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, mentally reaching for his partner. “No, Simon, it wouldn’t. Whatever was done to him, was done to me.”
Banks nodded. “Maybe they spared him. That website ��� none of the men looked like Sandburg. He’s the wrong type for that.”
“And just what ‘type’ is he?” Ellison asked, his voice harsh.
“What did Kincaid call him? Mr Natural? Sandburg is different. Not into body building, the latest clothes, designer sunglasses, worrying about his appearance—”
Ellison laughed suddenly. “You should see him getting ready for a date. He fusses more than Carolyn ever did.”
Banks glanced over to him. “How so?”
“First it’s what to wear, as he drags out every tacky shirt he owns. Lately he’s taken to raiding my closet, although I make him dry-clean the shirts before giving them back to me. Then it’s showering early enough so that his hair has time to dry naturally.”
“I can see that. All that hair— Doesn’t it plug up the drains?”
Ellison grimaced. “I’ve got a special filter in the drain now. I make him clean it out every time he showers. Then he’s got to have a close shave at the last possible moment.” His face lost its smile. “Mr Natural,” he said, softly, affectionately. He looked out the side window. Where are you, Chief? I miss you.
Banks said nothing, his jaw set.
They traveled north along the I-5, heading to Everett. Ellison enhanced his eyesight slightly, without consciously being aware of it, looking through the darkness at the highway before them. The radio was off, the only sound in the truck was the whish, whish, whish as the wipers valiantly attempted to keep the windshield clear. Beside him, he could feel Simon Banks’ tension, the captain’s hands tight on the steering wheel.
Lights flickered past. Gas stations. Diners. Then nothing for a few more miles. A turnoff. More gas stations. More diners. Then nothing. Nothing.
Jimmm ���
The barest whisper of sound. He sat up straighter.
Jim?
Louder now. His hands hit the dashboard, gripping the smooth surface.
Jimmmm ���
Softer. Fading. Gone.
“Jim? What is it?” Simon’s voice, louder, but not closer.
“Sandburg,” he whispered. Then looked out the side window. “Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull over!” he demanded, leaning over to grab at the wheel. “Now!”
Banks knocked his hand away, steering to the shoulder of the road. Ellison was out of the truck, standing on the gravel at the side of the freeway, face uptilted to meet the rain. The car following them swerved slightly, its headlights catching him as Bridges’ rented sedan pulled up behind the truck. Ellison held up one arm, hiding his face from the painful glare that suddenly shut off. He was shaking.
“Jim?” Simon walked around the truck to him, shoes crunching on the loose stones. “Where is he? Jim?” Simon came right to his side, lending the physical support Ellison didn’t realize he needed. It was hard to stand upright, his knees threatening to buckle.
“He’s ��� back there.” Ellison waved in the direction they had come from. He’d heard him. Past by him. He was back there.
Nash Bridges stood at the open door of his car, eyes warily watching it all, not approaching them. Ellison could hear the rapid beating of the man’s heart. He met his eyes, knowing the worry and desperation he saw was mirrored in his own. Then Ellison stepped away from Banks, walking south along the side of the freeway, past Bridges.
The rain was cold. Miserable.
Blair was miserable. Frightened. It was hard to breathe.
Ellison looked further along the freeway, eyes reaching back the direction they had come. A red a
nd blue glow caught his attention and he turned to see his truck turned around and following him along the side of the road, the police lights warning motorists. He nodded briefly to Simon, strengthened by the answering wave of the captain’s hand.
He turned back to the darkness. It had been some time since they passed a town. Where had Sandburg been? Somewhere here. His feet quickened, drawn toward his guide, as surely as he had been drawn toward the temple in Mexico. But never there had his wants, his desires, and his needs been so totally in synch as they were now. His mind and body agreed.
A new presence at his side. He spared a quick glance to see Bridges walking next to him.
“Keep going. Don’t stop,” the SIU detective said. “Find him.”
He kept going. The surface changed beneath his feet. An entrance lane leading onto the freeway. A rest stop. He turned into it, his stumbling walk changing to a quick jog. Simon took the truck past him, parking it, then joining him on foot as he ran past the restrooms and picnic tables.
Three semi-trailers were parked in the back area. He stopped at the third. His hands rested on the side of the trailer as he walked down its length. He curved around to the back, the door sealed closed. “Open this.”
“How?” Bridges asked, already up on the ledge, staring at the bars and the door seal.
Simon turned and ran back to the truck, and Jim could hear the police radio, the request for the fire department. And an ambulance.
“Cancel that,” he said to Bridges. “Tell him to tell them not to come. Not yet. Check my truck for tools to open this.”
Ellison’s splayed hand stopped at the lower corner of the door. Listening. Listening. Zoning in on the sound of a familiar, beloved heartbeat.
“Jim?” Simon’s voice finally got through to him, and he blinked again. “Why no backup?”
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