“Why?”
There was a reluctant pause. “I think it was because they were selling him.”
“Was he injured?”
“Same as me. Not as bad as the others. Jurgen was—” Blair stopped suddenly, frowning, then turned quickly to his partner, a look of surprise on his face. “Jim! That’s something! The leader’s name was Jurgen. Jurgen ��� something. It was his first name.”
Ellison’s notepad was out and he was jotting down the information. “What did he look like?”
“White hair — you know, the bleached kind. Tall, as tall as Simon. Thin. Wore leather.” Blair was blinking rapidly, trying to remember. “Crude. European, I think. Trace of an accent, not much.”
“Matches Rafe’s description of the man who approached him,” Simon put in. “I’m going to call Brown and get him to trace it.” He pulled out his cell phone and glanced at his watch. “He should be up already.”
“Anything else about him?” Jim asked.
“Uh ��� Businessman. He’s in charge. What else, what else?” Blair muttered to himself. “He was into the whole domination thing. Power freak. Oh — this is the third time they’ve done this. There must be some sort of record of them if they’ve done this before, right?”
“Good. Good,” Ellison said, turning the page of his notepad and still writing. “Anyone else? Who was helping him? You mentioned Karl.”
“Karl?” Blair’s fist pounded lightly on the table. “Oh, right. Karl. Muscle man.” He shook his head. “Can’t come up with anything else on him. Scar man was another guy. And Pete.”
“Pete?” Jim stopped and looked up, eyes intent on his partner.
“Pete. The camera man,” Blair said, struggling to keep his voice level.
Nash glanced to Ellison’s face, not surprised to see the tight-lipped anger registered there. A long look passed between the two, with a slight shake of Sandburg’s head, asking for something to remain between them. Ellison nodded, agreeing reluctantly.
The waitress appeared at their table, perpetually smiling, and happily placed a hot plate in front of Blair. “There you go. Eggs Benedict with a side fruit dish, and for you, sir,” she said to Nash, “mushroom and ham omelet, whole wheat toast.” She turned and took the other two orders from a second waitress. “Your special with an extra side of bacon,” she said to Jim, “And Simon, your usual — made with margarine, not butter.”
“Thanks, Macie,” Simon said, checking out his deluxe cheese omelet.
“I’ll be right back with more coffee.” She moved on to the next table, checking with them before heading behind the counter.
“Your usual, Simon?” Blair asked, smiling.
“They’re quick here, aren’t they? Usually served within ten minutes of ordering,” he responded, still ignoring the teasing.
“Hey, Simon, could you ask Macie for some grape jelly? There’s only marmalade here,” Jim said, poking through the bowl of jams and jellies.
“Yeah, Simon,” Blair added. “And I’d like milk with my coffee, not cream. Could you see to that? Huh?”
Nash jumped in. “And ask about dry cleaning for my jacket—”
Simon swivelled to face him. “You, too?” He jabbed his fork in the direction of his friends. “I’m used to putting up with this stuff from these two, but I thought we understood each other. Captain to captain.”
It felt good to smile, to laugh, however short-lived it was. They settled down to eating their meals, the silences growing longer. Nash stared at his empty plate, wondering what the omelet had tasted like. He had no conscious memory of eating it. He looked up to see Blair push the rest of his eggs over to his partner.
“Eat the fruit, okay?” Jim said, softly.
Blair nodded, took the small bowl from the larger plate, and made an attempt to eat the fruit salad while Jim finished off his breakfast. Macie appeared again a few minutes later, refilled their coffee cups, and took their empty plates.
“Blair?” Nash felt Jim and Simon’s eyes fixed on him, then finally Blair looked up. “Blair, how much do you remember of what happened?”
The young man shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s like ��� I don’t know I remember it until it comes into my thoughts. But ���” his voice trailed off, then he looked over to his partner. “Jim, remember how it was with Crawford? I started remembering afterwards? A week or two later?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Jim said, studying the table.
“Jim, a week’s too long. I need to remember before Tuesday.”
Ellison’s eyes, when he turned to look at his partner, said volumes. Nash knew that look. That pain. He’d seen it on his own face that morning. To see it etched on Ellison’s hardened features was difficult, but then Ellison had his partner sitting next to him. Nash didn’t. Evan was still out there.
Blair looked back at him. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Anything I can do ���”
“Not now,” Ellison said, firmly. “Wait until the others are here. You only need to say it once.”
“It’s okay, Jim. I—”
“Just wait,” he repeated, reaching into his wallet and placing a twenty on the table.
Nash’s phone rang, and he answered it quickly. “Bridges.”
“It’s Frank. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
“We’ve finished breakfast — let me see where we can meet.” Nash looked over at Simon. “Any suggestions?”
“I’ll check if we can use a meeting room here. Easier than trying to talk about this in a public restaurant. Tell them to meet us in the lobby of the motel. We’ll figure something out.” Simon glanced at his watch, again, then at Jim and Blair. “Why don’t you go back up to the room for a few minutes and relax? I’ll call you when we’ve got a location.” He looked around for Macie, then caught sight of one of the motel employees and left to go speak to him.
“We’ll be in the suite.” Jim slipped out of the booth, Blair following him. Ellison reached back and snagged his partner’s jacket, still lying on the bench, and handed it to Sandburg, who silently put it on.
By the time Nash finished his conversation with Frank Black, he was alone.
*
Jim slid the key card into the lock, then pushed the handle on the door, holding it open for Blair, who moved past him and walked through the first room to the adjoining bedroom. Jim closed the door, pausing a moment before following him. His partner had been silent since leaving the motel restaurant, walking slowly beside him as they crossed the parking lot, then up the flight of stairs to their suite.
When he entered the room, Blair was already lying down along the foot of the bed, curled up, his arms folded over his stomach. His eyes, instead of being closed, were open, staring vacantly across the room, his heartbeat too fast and too loud. He was scared. Probably terrified of what he would remember, of the memories waiting to be unraveled.
I know I am. I couldn’t protect you this time. There had been times, only too recently, where he had left his partner unprotected, vulnerable. There was only so much he could blame on Alex’s influence, and the rest fell on his own shoulders. Despite admitting his guilt, despite the healing that had occurred between Blair and him, there was still an ache in his heart that condemned him for not taking better care of his guide.
He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on his partner’s back. There was nothing really to say, and besides, touch spoke louder than words, at least between them. Words were dangerous, spoken rashly, spoken without thought — even spoken with good intentions but no substance. Touch, however ��� touch between a sentinel and guide was different. Clearer. Touch said what words could not. He couldn’t lie through his touch — he could only connect.
Blair shifted slightly as Jim rubbed his back, rolling to look up at him through soul-dark eyes. Jim smiled sadly, leaning over him, his right hand moving to rest over the wildly beating heart. A month ago, he had touched Blair’s face, and Blair had breathed. He’d touched Blair�
�s heart, and it had begun to beat again. What could he do now to ease the pain? To heal the memories and the heartache?
His left hand opened and Blair put his hand in his, palm to palm, fingers folding over to complete the connection.
In the Temple of the Sentinels, there was a symbol that he had watched his guide studying thoughtfully, longingly. He had memorized it — in fact, it was all he had taken away from the temple, the memory of that drawing. One night a week later, while they stayed at the Mexican resort hotel far away from the jungle and the temple, he had followed Blair out to the water’s edge, watching him as he sat cross-legged on the sand, eyes closed, listening to the crash of waves on the shore. He could feel his partner’s pain, the uncertainties, the questions, the fear — and he had sat beside him, taking his hand and putting their palms together. Connecting.
It hadn’t been Blair who cried that night.
But it had been healing for them both.
And now, Blair’s fingers curled over his, echoing the symbol in the temple, the connection of their souls. It brought rest to them both. There was no time to sleep, no time to recharge themselves by conventional means. But this worked. The declaration of Sentinel and his Guide to each other. Palm to palm. Heart to heart. Soul to soul, knitted together.
The ticking of his watch finally registered, and he stood, releasing his guide’s hand. There was someplace they needed to be. From his duffel bag, he took out the pills and the ointment and handed them to Blair, who got up and went into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Blair came out and they left the room.
Not a word had been spoken, but sometimes, Jim Ellison knew, his arm resting across his friend’s shoulders, words weren’t necessary.
*
Blair followed Jim into the small conference room, reaching out to shake hands with two men he had never met before. Frank Black was the FBI profiler, he was told, and the furrowed face studied him with open curiosity. The other man, Harold Woodward, was the head of the combined task force looking for the missing policemen. He looked rough, as though he hadn’t slept for a long time, and Sandburg felt guilty that he had slept the night through.
Vague whispers reminded him that through those precious hours he had dreamt, that he had awoken, that he had spoken with Jim about his dreams, and that he had slept again in peace. Woodward looked as though peace was a word no longer in his vocabulary. He was angry. Determined. Driven. But mostly, he was angry.
Without meaning to, Blair moved closer to Jim, accepting the mantel of his partner’s aura resting over him, even though two inches of air separated them.
They sat at a table, Simon on his right and Jim on his left. Across from him was Woodward, Frank Black across from Jim and Nash across from Simon. Hands folded on the table before him, Blair waited nervously for the questions to begin. Woodward was on his cell phone, talking to someone, and as Blair listened, he realized they were talking about the trailer he had been found in. They were keeping it under surveillance, but no one had gone near it yet.
Frank Black was watching him.
Blair shifted uncomfortably, not sure of what to do. It was eerie, uncomfortable, knowing the man was looking at him, wondering what he was thinking. Sharp eyes dissected him, probed at him, and Blair’s hands clenched together, trying to ignore him. He knew his damned heart was beating fast again, and that Jim was hearing it, but at least Jim was letting him cope with this on his own. Which meant that this Frank Black guy must be okay, if Jim wasn’t having any bad vibes about the situation.
Damn freaky man, though.
He chanced a glance in Black’s direction and was caught. The mega-intense gaze softened instantly, and Black smiled gently at him, compassion and caring evident on the man’s face. Blair nodded at him and looked away. Okay, so Black wasn’t quite the ogre he had thought he was, at first. But still, the man kept watching him and Jim, too, almost as though he couldn’t keep his eyes off them.
Woodward put away his cell phone, and Blair’s heart double-beat again. “Mr Sandburg. Thank you for meeting with us. I know this must be a very trying time for you.”
“Thank you. But a friend of mine is still in danger — along with several other men — and I want to help any way I can,” he replied, grateful that his voice remained level.
“Let’s take it from the top, then,” Woodward said, removing a small tape recorder from his suit coat pocket. He placed it in the middle of the table, in front of Blair. “I’ll ask you some questions, Mr Sandburg, and you answer them the best you can. If any of you other gentlemen have questions, please pose them. Give your name first, so the transcriber can correctly identify you. She knows my voice, and will be able to identify Mr Sandburg, but I want to make sure everything is done correctly. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” they all murmured.
“Mr Sandburg, please tell us—”
“Can you call me ‘Blair’?”
“Certainly. Blair, please tell us what you can remember about your abduction.”
“My abduction? Uh ��� this van stopped in the crosswalk. Some men got out and approached my friend Rafe. They tried to grab him and he yelled at me to run. I was yelling, I think, trying to stall for time or something — I mean, we were a block away from the station. There were probably cops around somewhere, right? — but then Rafe tried to get at them because they were pushing me around, and they shot him.” He paused, staring at his hands on the table, and swallowed. “I don’t remember much after that. I guess they put me in the van and took me away.”
“What’s the next thing you remember?” Woodward asked.
“I was in the trailer. I woke up. I guess it was the same trailer Jim found me in; I don’t remember any of that. The trailer was on the road, driving around. I met Evan then, I remember. I was cold. It was dark, no lights. We were in the trailer a long time — I found out later it was because Jurgen, the leader, had the driver keep the truck away from the warehouse while the workers were there, so no one would be suspicious.”
Woodward put out ten photographs on the table, arranging them so Blair could see them all. “Did you see any of these men during your abduction?”
He blinked, pointing to Rafe. “He wasn’t there.”
“Sorry,” Woodward said, withdrawing the picture and returning it to his file. “I am removing Detective Rafe’s photograph,” he said, for the benefit of the tape recorder. “What about the others?”
Evan’s picture was right in front of him, and he rested his fingertips on top of it. “I saw him the most. We were put together a few times.”
“Evan Cortez, San Francisco, SIU. Anyone else?”
Blair studied the other eight photos, pointing finally to several. “I remember him,” he said, pointing to the black officer, “but I don’t remember his name. I’m sorry. I was drugged for a lot of the time and—”
“We understand,” Woodward said quickly. “Just tell us what you do remember. That man you just identified is Lieutenant Pat Hollis, Los Angeles, LAPD.”
“Oh. I didn’t know his name.”
“Anyone else?”
“Him,” Blair said, pointing to a man he remembered wearing a dark blue sweat suit. “And him,” he put his hand on a photo, remembering the young officer talking about his girlfriend, someone he obviously cared for a lot.
“Jack Kelly, Assistant Chief, Portland. And William Fong, Detective, Tacoma.”
It was strange having names attached to the faces. He stared at the other faces, but they all looked the same and it was hard to pinpoint any one person. He looked at them again, moving from face to face, then turned to his partner. “There seems to be a common theme here. They all look alike. I remember them saying that I wasn’t the right ‘type’. Jurgen didn’t want me because I wasn’t the ‘right type’. But these men all kinda look alike,” he repeated, frowning. “I don’t look like them.”
“Question from Bridges, SIU,” Nash said, “Blair, what did they say to you about the ‘look’ they wanted?”
<
br /> Blair stared at his hands, once again clasped on the surface of the shiny table. His memories felt like they were doors with glass windows on them. He could peak in quickly as he passed by them, but he had the horrible feeling that if he stopped and actually opened the door, it would all come out, like a flood wall breaking under the stress. He had fluttering images of the camera man talking to him, of Jurgen’s hands on his body, on his hips, of pain—
“Easy,” Jim whispered, his hand resting on Blair’s forearm. “Let it go.”
He smiled shakily. “You’re learning the lingo.”
“Have to, if I hang around you,” Jim said softly. “Just answer what you can.”
“Thanks.” He shivered, trying to focus again, looking up to Woodward. “Sorry. I—”
“That’s okay. We’ll come back to that question later. I have a few questions about several other points you brought up. Jurgen — do you have another name for him?”
“Like a last name? No. That was it.”
Jim interrupted and read off the information he had taken down at breakfast about Jurgen. “Did I get that right, Chief?”
“Yeah,” Blair said, wiping his palms on his jeans before continuing. “I didn’t see a lot of him. I think. I don’t really remember a lot of what happened while I was there.”
“Okay, that’s fair. Let’s just deal with what you do remember,” Woodward said. “You mentioned a warehouse. Tell us about that.”
“It was this building ��� single story, new, I think. Not huge, but a good size. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but I only so it once. Inside though, they were fixing it up to be a film studio. There were a lot of small rooms that looked like movie sets. They were all decorated differently: one was like cellar, another a dungeon, a bedroom, a— a doctor’s office—” He stopped and rubbed his eyes, feeling a panic building up within him. His hands were shaking, not much but enough to be a distraction to him. The room swam as tears filled his eyes and he blinked them back. Come on, come on. Don’t do this now.
Jim turned slightly and whispered, “Take your time.”
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