No Center Line

by Lois RH Balzer

  Chapter Six

  *

  “Nash.”

  “Hi. It’s Joe.”

  “What’s up? I just spoke to you half an hour ago. Is Harvey okay?”

  “Yeah. I took him home. Where are you now?”

  “At the motel, trying to figure out if it’s too late to call Frank Black.”

  “What do you mean ‘too late’? Is it over? Did you find them or something?”

  “No, I just meant that the man has a little daughter and I remember how much I hated being called at home late at night when Cassidy was little.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. I remember that. Lisa didn’t like when I called all the time.”

  “That wasn’t work, though, Bubba. That was just you calling all the time.”

  “I didn’t call that much, Nash.”

  “No. Only three or four times a night.”

  “See? Not the ‘ten thousand times’ she always said it was.”

  “Bubba, why are you calling? Is there a point to all this?”

  “No. I guess not. Just felt like calling.” (pause) “Harv’s pretty down. Wouldn’t let me stay around.”

  “He’ll work it out.” (pause) “Stay close to him tomorrow, though. Don’t let him close up.”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll talk to him.”

  “No, listen to him, Joe.”

  “Right. I can do that.”

  “I know you can.”

  “Nash, you got any gut feelings about this one? About Evan?”

  (pause) “I think about him. About the things that might be happening to him. Then I think about Cassidy and the feelings she’s going to have to cope with if he’s dead — or if he’s alive. She’s my baby girl, Joe. I don’t want her to have to deal with any of the things that might have happened to him. And I don’t know if Evan’s gonna survive this, either way.”

  “He’s strong, Nash — you know that. And she’s your kid, man. Give her some credit.”

  “There were four bodies in that trailer tonight, Joe. They were all strong men. Good cops. And they’re dead.”

  “Harvey believes Evan’s still alive.”

  “And I’m going to keep on believing that along with him, Bubba, until I know one hundred percent otherwise.”

  *

  Present

  12:10 a.m.

  Seattle, Washington

  Frank Black carefully hung up the phone, watching as the receiver cut the connection. He sighed and leaned back in his desk chair, staring at the computer screen before him, the screen saver idly spinning. It had been a quiet evening after he left the police station. He had picked up Jordan and brought her home, then they had walked down to the neighborhood park so she could run around and play after staying inside all day. When full darkness came, it was almost 10:00 p.m. They had strolled back, hand in hand, silent, comfortable, walking through the tree-lined streets. The weather was mild but the rain came down in uneven patches: pouring rain, then a light sprinkle, almost a mist, then the heavy rain again. Twice they had stood under a tree, protected by the leaves, and waited until the downpour ended.

  “I’m going to miss the rain,” Jordan had said, looking up at the gray sky.

  “You are? Why would you miss the rain, honey?”

  “It’s alive. It makes the world feel alive. I like the sun, too,” she added, looking up at him earnestly. “But I’m going to miss the rain.”

  “It rains in Virginia, Jordan.”

  “Mary said it didn’t rain there like it rains here. How does it rain in Virginia?”

  He had rested his hand on her curly red hair. “We’ll find out. I really don’t remember how it was different.”

  “I won’t forget this.” She had stared at him, serious, at her small hand grasping his larger hand.

  “Neither will I.”

  “Do you know Ten Little Indians?”

  The sudden question had startled him. “The story?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s a song.”

  “Why, Jordan? What made you think of the song?”

  “The men were talking about them before. The men you were looking for.”

  They had reached the house, and he faltered as they walked up the stairs. It was one thing to have this gift — this curse — himself, but Jordan also had it and the thought sent pain through his chest. He saw things, and she did also, in her own way. What would that do to the mind of a child? How could she interpret the pain, the sick and inhumane things people did to each other?

  “Only five left, Daddy. Five are dead, and five are left.” Large blue eyes looked up at him, this little six-year-old child, made in his image.

  Please don’t ask me how they died. Please don’t ask me why ��� He had bent down and hugged her, then they had entered the house and she had readied herself for bed, finding her stuffed animal and a book for him to read to her. Life righted itself again.

  Five dead and five alive. Time was running out.

  Nash Bridges had just confirmed what Jordan had told him, except Nash had only mentioned four bodies found. One man had been found alive. With the slightest touch to his mouse, the explicit photographs from the Internet site reappeared on the screen, bursting onto his consciousness, pushing him farther into the dark world of his other sight. His head jerked back in reaction, his eyes blocking the depictions on the screen. The humiliation and fear on their faces. Eyes already hollow and lost. Prisoners of war, held in Seattle’s backyard somewhere.

  With a soft sigh of frustration, he turned off the computer and went to bed. He had no answers for even himself tonight.

  Please don’t ask me why ���

  *

  Present

  12:15 a.m.

  Bellevue, Washington

  Midnight passed. Nash Bridges stood at the window of the motel suite staring down at the parking lot. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still damp and water pooled in the lower areas, reflecting the security lights. He was bone tired. It had been a long day, from the first phone call from Woodward, the hurried flight arrangements, the six-hour meeting in Seattle, the drive to Everett that was cut short by the discovery of the semi-trailer at the rest stop at the side of the freeway. Then back down to Bellevue. And now ���

  And now I’m damned pissed off.

  Questions that he had put off were clamoring to be answered, or at least addressed. He had just spoken with Frank Black. Black’s lack of surprise at what they had found was equally disturbing, almost as though the FBI profiler had expected the news. Nash had given him the address to the motel, and Frank had said he would join them for a late breakfast the next morning.

  So, the next step would be ��� ?

  Harold Woodward. Nash fingered the cell phone number, folding and unfolding the small piece of paper. Considering the case, it was unlikely Woodward was asleep, but Nash’s reticence had more to do with the uncertainty of how Woodward would handle the information. Would he feel constrained to immediately open the semi-trailer, especially since the Seattle detective who had been kidnaped, Glenn Relkie, was not among those believed to still be alive? Or would Woodward be willing to go along with their suggestion that the ‘discovery’ be put off?

  Ellison had seemed convinced that his partner would be able to provide them with information, and Banks had agreed. That was placing a lot of faith in a traumatized civilian. The trust between them was apparent. And I’ve obviously been caught up in their belief system.

  Or maybe it was because they reminded him of the SIU. Nash, Joe, Harvey, Evan. It had not happened overnight, but now they worked together flawlessly — he trusted each one of them with not only the job, the cases, but with his own life. And more importantly, not just his safety, but his friendship, and his family.

  Nash stepped out of the motel room into the night air, pulling the door closed behind him. Down a flight of stairs into the parking lot, he crossed over to his rental, his hand pausing on the door handle, the key not quite connecting to the lock.

>   This was what was wrong. Nothing felt quite right, and it was throwing him off. The car was wrong. The city was wrong. The people he was with were wrong. He wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing with these men. Why him? Why had he chosen to check out the van in Everett, or pull off the road when they did? What was it about them that drew him to them? Yes, he had known of Ellison. Had that been enough for him to hook up with them?

  How had Ellison known that his partner was in that particular semi-trailer at that particular rest stop?

  Nash had seen the truck abruptly pull to the side of the road. It hadn’t been planned. He had thought there was car trouble, or maybe they had received a call on their cell phone. So he had pulled over to the shoulder behind them, got out of his car, and then, baffled, followed Ellison down the side of the freeway to the semi-trailer.

  There’s no way in hell that Nash would have found Evan. Not like that. It was as though there was a string pulling Ellison toward it unhesitatingly, right through the rest area and up to the correct trailer.

  Damn it. He must have known something. Ellison must have received some kind of prior information. No one is that lucky.

  I’m the one who’s famous for being lucky. So why can’t I find Evan? Why isn’t it that easy? Nash’s fist came down on the hood of the car, frustration tearing at him. He was overtired, that was it. Stress.

  The image of the bodies wrapped in plastic inserted itself into his consciousness. Evan wasn’t one of them. He couldn’t be.

  “He’s still alive.” He said it again, out loud. “He’s still alive. Evan Cortez is still alive, and I am going to get him back.”

  And if that meant ducking the rules and putting off a phone call to Woodward, then that’s what he would do.

  *

  “Relax. I’m here. Just relax, buddy.” Ellison did his best to keep out of the technician’s way, but his partner did not want to stay on the x-ray table; it was a battle to keep him calm enough to have the necessary x-rays taken. Sandburg continued to fade in and out of awareness, sometimes hardly cognizant of his surroundings, at other times caught in a different reality, memories taking over and forcing their terror on him. “Lie still, okay? One more picture, Chief. One more x-ray. I’m right here. Whatever is scaring you, it’s not going to hurt you any more.”

  He’s not going to hurt you.

  Ellison touched his forehead. “It’s over. You’re with me.” It was heartening how that phrase worked time and time again, easing the frantic heartbeat.

  “Jim?” Eyes closed, Sandburg whispered for him, even as he struggled against him.

  “Right here. I’m here! Look at me.” Calling it frustration did not begin to cover it. Anger at what had caused the fear in the first place. Sentinel rage that his guide had been hurt. Grief, welling up within him. And then back to frustration that he couldn’t get through to his partner. At a nod from the technician, he added, “Okay, just lie still for a few seconds. Got that? Come on, Sandburg, work with me here! Lie still!”

  The reprimand got its desired effect, although Ellison’s jaw muscle echoed the frightened stiffening of his partner. Then it was over, the x-ray taken, and he released Sandburg’s wrist, catching him as he rolled off the wide table and landed on his feet, clutching his lower ribs.

  The technician avoided looking at them. “Just wait here for a minute. Let me take a look at these to make sure they turned out.” He disappeared into another room, and Ellison ignored his request, wrapped the blanket securely around his partner, and ushered him into the hallway.

  So what is it about tables, huh, Chief? First the examination room table, then this one.

  Sandburg shivered, glancing up at him, searching his face. Then he moved a step away from Ellison, eyes closed, and the detective allowed him the need to reestablish himself.

  “Just let me know what I can do,” he said softly, listening to the rapid pounding of his guide’s heart.

  Sandburg nodded, shifting slightly closer to him, but still standing on his own.

  Ellison looked up as Dr Morrison exited the room at the far end of the corridor. Morrison glanced around, searching out who else was there at this hour, then moved quickly to join them. “Why are you out here?” the doctor asked, quickly.

  “The technician told us to wait until he checked the x-rays.”

  “Let’s go back to the room. He can call us there if there’s a problem. Simon and Amy have gone to the pharmacy to fill an order for me.” Morrison drew them along with him, speaking softly as he walked. “I’ve got some medications for you, Blair. I’ll explain what they’re for. And I have some soup, some broth, for you. I’d like you to try to drink the whole bowl before you go. You need to get some nourishment into you. That first IV drip won’t take you far.”

  Sandburg nodded, gradually needing — and accepting — Ellison’s help by the time they reached the room. The padded exam table was still missing, but now, in its place, were four chairs, and Sandburg gratefully sank into one of them, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders. Dull eyes opened briefly, glanced around, then closed. At Ellison’s brief squeeze to his shoulder, he nodded again, acknowledging the gesture.

  “Chicken or vegetable broth?” Morrison held out two bowls, smiling gently when Sandburg opened his eyes to stare at them, blinking back the exhaustion.

  “Vegetable,” Sandburg murmured, accepting the bowl in hands that still shook. Spoons forgotten, he lifted the rim to his mouth and took a tentative sip.

  The doctor handed the other bowl to Ellison, shrugging at his surprised reaction. “You should eat this.”

  The detective started to refuse, then changed his mind and accepted the bowl with a nod of thanks. The broth was good, nourishing, touching a need that he hadn’t realized he had. Hunger. He finished the bowl and put it on the counter behind him. “How are you doing?” he asked his partner.

  “Okay.” Sandburg’s voice was quiet, lacking the energy to speak in anything above a whisper.

  Simon Banks poked his head in the room, handing a paper bag to Morrison. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he quipped. White teeth flashed a smile at Sandburg, then he looked over to Ellison. “I just spoke with Bridges. He’s on his way here.”

  “We’ll probably be ready in—” Ellison looked at the doctor, who held up one hand, fingers splayed, “—in five minutes, if the x-rays look okay.”

  “I’ll go watch for him. He’s got us rooms booked at the motel, and I, for one, am looking forward to sleeping tonight.” Banks left, closing the door.

  Ellison looked back at Sandburg, then lunged quickly to catch the bowl as the lax fingers released it. It was almost empty, just a few mouthfuls left, so Ellison retrieved his own spoon. “Let’s just finish this off, okay?” he asked, softly.

  Sandburg allowed himself to be fed the last few spoonfuls, then nodded as the bowl was put aside. The nod turned into a shaking that within seconds became half-choked sobs, his face twisting into a mask of grief and misery.

  Ellison knelt quickly in front of his partner. Exhaustion wore at Sandburg, just as it wore at Ellison, and the younger man’s breaking point had just been shattered. “Chief?” he murmured, his hands resting on the arms of Sandburg’s chair. He wanted to embrace the younger man, but he sensed this was not the right moment. His own need for contact was not as important as his partner’s need for autonomy. “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. “We’ll get through this.”

  Sandburg held his hand up as though warding him off, but as Ellison moved to withdraw, his guide shifted so their palms met, pressed together tightly, desperately, fingers meshing, knuckles white. “Yes,” Sandburg answered, gulping for air, believing his partner’s words even through his despair.

  Morrison touched Ellison’s shoulder, then handed him a tissue box. “This will probably happen on and off tonight. Just let him work through it. He needs to let this out.”

  “I will.” Ellison watched Sandburg struggle to breathe around the sobs while the doctor quick
ly explained how the two different ointments were to be applied and when the pills were to be taken. “What about his ribs? Is he hurting them like this?”

  Morrison shook his head slightly, then bent over to rest a hand on Sandburg’s curled back. “Blair, I’m going to go check on the x-rays on your ribs so you can both get out of here. Jim is here. Let him help you, okay?”

  That seemed all the encouragement that Sandburg needed. Ellison leaned forward to accept his partner as Sandburg took refuge in his arms, clinging to his shirt, burying his face against his chest. Morrison smiled gently, his hand resting on Sandburg’s head for a moment, a silent blessing, then the doctor left the room.

  “Jim? Jim?” Eyes closed, Blair’s hands desperately, blindly, clutched at him.

  “I’m here,” Ellison whispered.

  *

  Nash pulled into the hospital parking lot. The evening was cooling down, but it was still pleasant. No rain. He walked briskly through the Emergency ward, catching sight of Banks slumped on a bench in a side corridor. “How is he?”

  Banks tried a smile, but the overall effort was wasted. “The drugs are continuing to work through his system, they tell me, but he had a hard time with the examination. Spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.” The Cascade captain let out a slow sigh. “He’s almost ready. The doctor is in looking at his x-rays.” He wiped sweating palms on his suit pants.

  “Any word yet on what he was drugged with?”

  “No. Anything from chloroform, alcohol, Rohypnol, GHB.” Banks stood and stretched, fighting back a yawn. “Did you have any problems getting the motel rooms?”

  “I got a suite. I figured it would be cheaper and more efficient in the long run.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Simon, I spoke with Frank Black. What’s your call on contacting Harold Woodward?”

  Weary dark eyes stared at him. “Why?”

  “He’s leading the cooperative effort to find these men.”

  Banks rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. “Your concern, then, is if he’d go ahead and investigate the trailer, without giving us the time we need to set up something else.”