“We don’t have time, Jim,” he answered, harshly. “I need to do this.”
“I’m not stopping you. But give yourself time to process—”
“I don’t want to process it,” he hissed, under his breath. “I don’t want to fucking remember any of this.” He covered his face, taking a few deep breaths, then dropping his hands to rest flat on the surface of the table. “I was held in two places, in a large break room along the rear of the building,” Blair said, his voice louder as he pushed himself onward, “and in a closet near where the video storage room was. I remember seeing the room as I passed by it.”
“Were you allowed to walk in the building unescorted?”
“No. Not that I remember.”
“Can you draw the layout of the building?” Woodward asked, placing a pen and paper before him.
“I don’t know.” Blair picked up the pen and stared at the paper, then turned it sideways. “Here is the entrance,” he said, touching a point on the far left of the paper. “Jurgen came out of an office here.” He then pointed to the other side. “I was held here, usually. In a break room,” he looked up and around the meeting area, “in a room about this size, about ten by ten.”
“Any windows?”
“No. Not in the that room. There were windows, but they were way up high in the warehouse and had been blacked out so the light wouldn’t get in.”
“Why?”
“Because of filming,” he answered.
“What else to you remember about the building?”
“Lots of hallways. Small rooms with no ceilings — open to the roof.”
“Because of the filming?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you hear any other noises? City sounds? Airplanes?”
“No, sorry.”
“How many men were there, besides the abducted men?”
“Jurgen. He was the leader. Karl, the muscle man. Scar Man. The tall Hispanic guy. The camera man. The guy in charge of fixing the building up and putting together the sets. He had a helper. I heard them working, but I didn’t see them. I think there was a guy who drove the truck.”
“The camera man’s name is Pete,” Jim said, startling Blair until he remembered that they had already talked about him.
“Right.”
“Who drove the truck?” Woodward asked.
“I don’t know. I think he was black, but the lighting wasn’t good. Maybe it was the Hispanic man. Maybe Muscle Man.”
“What kind of weapons did you see there?”
“Guns. Big guns.”
“Like submachine guns?”
“No. Just regular guns, I guess. I’m not much help with guns. They all look the same when they’re pointed at you.”
“Jurgen didn’t like you?” Woodward asked.
“Not at all.”
“What did he do to you?”
“What?”
“How did you know he didn’t like you?”
“I told you, he said I wasn’t the right type.”
“And the other men were the right type?”
“I guess.”
“So how did he treat you?”
Blair started shaking and he didn’t know why. Across the table, Frank Black caught his breath, one hand covering his eyes, and at the same time beside him, Jim tensed, looking as though he was going to zone. “Jim?”
“He held a knife on you.” Jim opened his eyes and stared at Blair’s throat, as though the faint pink marks would begin to bleed again if he looked at them closely enough, carefully enough.
“He slit the throat of at least one man, possibly two,” Frank Black added, his voice a smoky rasp. The measured, calm words were frightening. “Ear to ear. One stroke. The knife always discarded. He doesn’t keep the knives. Someone brings them to him.”
“He held a knife on you,” Jim repeated, anger building in the man’s face, the chiseled jaw tight.
“Jim?” Blair whispered, his eyes closing as he slid into the memory.
*
Previous
The Warehouse
His eyes wouldn’t open. His eyelashes were glued together. His eyelids were too heavy to lift.
His back hurt.
His stomach ��� He swallowed ineffectively, fighting the bile that rose to his throat. He tried to raise his head, but his sense of direction was off kilter. He wasn’t lying on his back; he was lying on his stomach. No, that wasn’t right, either.
One eye opened, but what he saw made no sense. His hands dangled down in front of him ��� because he was over someone’s shoulder, maybe ��� but as his brain began to fill in other blanks, he realized he was lying sideways, bent over an examination table, his arms hanging off one side, his legs hanging off the other. Which was probably why his head felt funny and his stomach hurt.
Or not.
Nothing made much sense and he couldn’t get his brain to work. Think! he ordered himself. Jim! “Jim!” he called out instead, the word muffled. He was gagged. Which explained why he had trouble swallowing.
“Who are you asking for, luv?” A man came into the room and Blair lifted his head slightly, long enough to recognize the camera man.
No, not again.
“Hngh,” he croaked.
“Oh, you’re not too bad. You’ll be fine.” The camera man was doing something to the lights, adjusting them. “Jurgen’s angry.” The man’s voice dropped, as though that was an unthinkable thing to consider. He crumpled up a 7-Eleven styrofoam coffee cup and threw it away as he cleaned his area.
“Hngh,” Blair repeated.
“Bothering you, huh? Poor lamb,” the camera man said, patting Blair’s backside as he went passed him. “Well, they’ll take you back to the break room. Maybe you can have a nice hot shower later, and you’ll feel better.”
As if on cue, two more men came in the room and spoke with the camera man, but Blair couldn’t follow what they were saying anymore than he could move. The voices became louder, all merging together. They were fighting, yelling. He felt the table jostle and he groaned as it continued. Finally, another voice, louder yet, exploded in the room, and then he was suddenly flipped over unto his back, his head hanging off the edge still, his throat bared. A hand grabbed his jaw, pushing his head back farther, so he couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes as he tried to get enough air through his nose, but the touch of a knife at his throat made him freeze.
Jurgen was standing by his head, one hand at his chin, the other holding the knife. At his throat.
The man was laughing, but his eyes were dead. Lifeless. Cold.
Then Jurgen stopped laughing, and Blair didn’t know which was more frightening.
The knife cut downward, slitting the gag.
“Beg,” he said.
Blair stared at him, his tongue dry and swollen in his mouth.
Fists grabbed his hair, lifting his head and slamming it against the side of the table. Without letting go, Jurgen dragged him sideways until his head rested on the examination table.
“Beg,” Jurgen repeated.
Blair gasped, trying to make his mouth work. He groaned as water was flung in his face, some finding its way to his parched lips.
“Beg!”
“Please,” he whispered, although the sound that emerged from his mouth was distorted.
It was enough for Jurgen, though. “Give me a rag to wipe my hands,” he said coldly, as he turned to Pete. “Get rid of him. After tonight, I don’t want to see him again.”
“But I need him to set up the shot, the lighting.”
“I want to do the film in one take. I’ll use the star. I don’t want him here.”
“Why not just give him to me? I’ll cut you in on the proceeds,” the camera man said quickly.
“Keep him out of my sight.”
“Can I have him?”
“No.” Jurgen turned and left the room, Pete following him.
Blair was alone. The lights blazed down on him. He still couldn’t move. His legs and
arms trembled as muscle control slowly returned.
“Please,” he whispered again, staring directly into the white glare, his tongue thick.
No one answered. His ears were ringing. His heart was pounding so hard, it felt as if a giant fist were hammering into his chest.
Time drifted by. He heard a noise, footsteps echoing, then the familiar voice. “We’ll fix you up, luv,” the camera man said, sliding into the room. He brought a glass of water, holding Blair’s head while he drank. “I don’t have time to help much right now, but I know where your friend is. He can take care of you. I have to go soon. I don’t stay here and Jurgen likes to lock everything up after midnight. The security alarms are turned on then.” Hands fussed with him, straightening him to lie on the table, then stroking over his skin.
Trying to evade the hands, Blair rolled onto his side, almost off the table, then pushed himself upright, praying the room would quit revolving. He clutched Pete’s arm as the man came around the table, steadying himself. He felt the soft hands cupping his face, the man’s lips on his cheeks, the smell of cigarettes on the man’s breath.
“You’ll be okay, luv. I gave you something to make you feel better. I won’t let anything happen to you. We’re going to make a lot of money, you and I, once this is over.”
“Please,” he whispered, feeling the drug taking effect. “No.”
Pete helped him off the table, but his legs wouldn’t hold him upright and he felt himself spiraling downward, darkness claiming him before he hit the floor.
*
Present
Ellison groaned at the look on his partner’s face. Is this what I look like when I’m zoning? He gently reached to touch his guide, hoping to ground him somehow, but Blair responded to the light touch with a sudden jerk, obviously shaken from what he remembered. “Chief?”
“Jim?” The lost blue eyes found his, searching his face.
“You back?”
“Yeah.” Blair looked down at the table, his hands still clenched together before him as he struggled to control his breathing. “Excuse me,” he said glancing up to the men sitting around the table. “Give me a sec. I’ll be okay.”
“We can take a break, Sandburg—”
“No, Simon. I’m fine. I just remembered some stuff.” Blair closed his eyes, exhaling through his mouth, then drawing in a raspy breath.
Frank Black appeared beside them and handed Blair a glass of water. “Here. Drink this. It’s only water.”
There was something in the slight emphasis the man put on the words that caused Sandburg to frown. “What do you know?” he asked. “How do you know about the drugged water?” Other words came back to him. “Do you know who this is? How did you know about the knife? I heard someone say that there. That he only uses one once, then throws it away. How did you know?”
“Probably the same way that your partner knew that you were at that particular rest stop, and which trailer you were in,” Nash Bridges said softly.
The room got quiet. Quieter. Six pairs of eyes sought each other as secrets fought to stay hidden. Trust comes at a price, and these men had paid the price too many times already.
“Does it matter?” Simon Banks asked, finally.
“Maybe,” Bridges said, not meeting their eyes. “I want to find Evan Cortez. Alive. I need to know who I’m working with. I’m placing my man’s life into your hands. What do you expect me to do?” He looked up then, searching their faces.
Woodward spoke. “I can vouch for Frank. I don’t know exactly what he can do, or how well he can control it, but I stake my reputation that he is trustworthy.”
“Thank you, Harold.” Black returned to his chair.
“I’ve worked with Frank before,” Nash said. “I don’t understand where he gets his information, but it helped solve a near impossible case.”
“And I will vouch for Jim Ellison.” Simon Banks took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “And I don’t pretend to understand why he can sense the things he does, but I listen to him. And I trust him.” Simon looked directly at the police observer. “And I trust Blair Sandburg.”
“And you are connected somehow,” Black said, looking from Blair to Jim. “Whatever the reason, what I normally see is amplified.”
“What do you normally see?” Blair asked.
“I see what the killer sees.”
“Jurgen?”
“In this case, yes, I believe I saw what Jurgen saw.” Black paused. “The detail is beyond what is typical for me, though. He amplifies it,” Black said, looking at Ellison. “There is a resonance between you that ��� that is not important now. I saw a long hallway. It is dark. Night. You were in a small room. A doctor’s office.” He pressed his eyes together, then relaxed as the images came back into focus for him. “The killer comes into the room. You are naked, lying on your stomach crossways over the examination table. Another man is there. Two other men. They are fighting. The killer looks at your body. You are just as he has left you. His marks are on your skin. He is angry at what he had done.”
“Are you saying he is remorseful?” Simon asked.
“No. He is angry that he was weak. He shouldn’t have bothered.” Black thought about it for a moment. “This is important. He has an image in mind. The perfect body. Powerful. The body before him is beautiful, but he has no time for beauty. It offers nothing for him.”
Jim reached a hand around Blair’s back, feeling his partner lean toward him.
*
Blair shivered, trying to control his reactions in front of all these men, but the images Frank was painting were far clearer than his own memories, his words drawing out the events, the events drawing out the terror he had felt when the knife had been at his throat. He had felt the blade bite into his skin and knew the man had the capacity to kill him, the desire to see him die in his arms.
Distantly, now, he felt Jim’s touch. How totally opposite. One man wanted him dead, wanted to feel him die. The Sentinel’s overwhelming desire was for him to live. One man saw no value in him, threw him out with the other discarded bodies. To Ellison, he was of utmost worth. Another man wanted his body, saw him as a toy, a thing to be desired and used. To Jim, he was a friend, a brother, a guide, a man to be cared for and protected.
Frank Black’s voice droned on. “He wants to kill, he likes to kill, to destroy, but he can’t pull the knife across your throat. He has difficulty going through with it, as though your body has a barrier surrounding it that he cannot get past. The powerful, strong bodies, he can kill. His own power and cunning are a match for them. But the beauty and innocence of your body leave him no weapons to fight against. He is not beautiful. He is not innocent. He holds the knife at your throat, wanting to slit it. He lets it rest by your jaw, knowing he can kill you with one swipe. But he can’t do it. Instead he makes you beg, so that he can attempt to feel his power. He had to free you from the gag.”
“He wanted me to beg,” Blair whispered. “He kept telling me to beg.”
“Did he do anything else to you?” Woodward asked, quietly.
“I don’t know. Like I said, my memory is like—” He froze as other images dropped into place, but they were isolated and, at first, made no sense. “Evan stopped something once. It wasn’t then. It was another time.”
“Chief?”
He looked up at Jim, not wanting to voice what the Sentinel already knew, what everyone else at the table already knew. “I don’t remember what happened,” he whispered, staring at the pain in his partner’s blue eyes. “But I know what must have happened, Jim.” Blair turned to Woodward, then glanced to the tape recorder. “I remember bright lights. People in the room. The camera light. Evan came in, and Jurgen started screaming at him to go away. Evan pulled me off the table, had me up against him, holding me up. I couldn’t stand. I— I had no clothes on. I kept trying to grab Evan’s sweatshirt but my hands wouldn’t work. Evan was yelling at Jurgen. Jurgen was putting a bathrobe on. It was black. With a red dragon embroidered on it.
He said it was time. They had to start. He told the other men not to hurt Evan. When we went out, another man was brought in. The Chinese man whose picture you showed me.”
“William Fong.”
“Yeah. He was drugged; he couldn’t stand up either. They were holding him up. Scar Man and Muscle Man. The room was black with lots of Chinese words and it looked like ��� I don’t know, an opium den or something. Not that I know what an opium den looks like, but it’s sorta what I imagined it would look like. I’m not sure why I was there ��� I think I was supposed to be the test run or a standin or something. There was a mat on a table, and they put the man — Fong — on the mat. Jurgen yelled at Evan to take me out of the room and then Jurgen took some needles ���” Blair’s voice trailed off and he pulled up the sleeve of his sweater. “Do I have spots on me? Like from acupuncture needles?”
Jim shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen.”
“Oh.” Blair stared at his bare arm, then pushed the sleeve back down. “I was just wondering if that was what he had done instead. But he raped me, didn’t he?” He stared at his partner’s shell-shocked face. “Jim, I know it happened. I don’t remember it, but Evan knew it. And you know it, too, right?”
From his other side, a quiet entreaty. “Blair ���”
“It’s okay, Simon,” Sandburg said, turning to the captain. “It’s okay.”
“We’ll get him,” Banks said, his dark eyes smoldering with anger.
“And I know how,” Blair said simply. Nausea threatened, and he pushed back from his chair, stumbling backwards, then running from the room. He could hear footsteps following him as he ran to the restroom across the hallway from their meeting room. Once inside, the queasiness left as he came to a shaky halt, waiting for Jim to catch up to him before he turned and flung himself against the detective, desperate for a moment of safety.
A minute passed before Jim relaxed his hold and asked, “Are you okay? Are you going to be sick?”
He shook his head, reluctant to move away. “I thought I was, but it passed. I’m all right.”
“Do you want to go back in there?”
“Give me a minute, okay?”
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