Blair was ecstatic, thrilled that his plan was working and, in no uncertain terms, insisted that Jim wait until then. He maintained that he was safe, that no one was bothering him, and that maybe the officers watching the bridge would spot Jurgen and they’d be able to pull him over before he even got back to the warehouse.
Sandburg mumbled constantly, lying on the bed, trying to sound like he was still mentally confused, in case the men at the warehouse were listening in on him. “I like Evan, you know? He’s my friend ��� I had a dog once, did I ever tell you about him? I remember him. His name was Industry. I didn’t name him. Johnny did. Really, truly, he wasn’t my dog, he was Johnny’s, which was why he named him. The other one was named Business. Business and Industry. I always thought they were strange names for dogs, but they didn’t seem to mind.”
And so it continued, all afternoon. Ellison sat and listened to his partner, aware of Sandburg’s battle to keep him focused and not zone on his hearing. After the third adventure of Johnny and Blair and Business and Industry, Jim started repeating them for Harvey and Nash’s benefit. If nothing else, the kid could tell a story.
*
6:45 p.m.
” ��� which is why Industry didn’t have a tail.” Blair coughed, his throat dry.
The door opened and he glanced over at it, aware suddenly of the dark shadows in the room. Somehow it had gotten closer to night.
“Hey, luv.”
“Hey, Pete,” he answered, trying to sit up on the bed.
“Still hungry?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. He’d been hungry for quite a while now. “Thirsty.”
“I bet. Whatever were you prattling about in here? I could hear you talking away to yourself.”
“Just talking. Telling myself stories so I wouldn’t be lonely. Is Evan still going to come?”
“Should be here in a few hours. Here’s your dinner. Come eat with me.” Pete put the soup on the table, then released Blair and helped him to his feet and over to the chair. He took the seat opposite him and ate his soup, a piece of bread in one hand.
Blair stirred the mushroom soup, then drank it. The sour dough bread was buttered, and Pete had brought him a piece of lemon meringue pie that he ate rather quickly, all the while chatting with him and getting very little back in the way of conversation.
He sipped on his tea, slowly feeling the room grow warmer. I’m naked. It was strange to sit across from someone and eat your dinner while naked, when they were clothed. Not that being naked usually bothered him — Naomi and he had lived at a nudist colony one summer. It’s just that suddenly he felt like he was being stared at.
The tea smelled funny, and he said that to Pete.
Pete was looking at him. From wwwaaayyy across the table.
Blair blinked, grabbing hold of the table edge as the room shifted.
Oh-oh.
*
7:10 p.m.
Harvey noticed it first. “Nash?” he called out the driver’s side window. “I think we have a problem here.”
His boss turned his way, eyes widening at the look on face, then Nash mumbled apologies to the group he had been speaking to and came over to the car. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure exactly.” Harvey unlocked the door to the backseat and Nash slid in. “He hasn’t moved in about three minutes. Nothing. Not even blinking. I’ve tried shaking him, yelling at him, and there’s no reaction.”
“What happened?” Leaning forward to the passenger seat, Nash waved his hand in front of Ellison’s face, but there was no response.
“Near as I can figure, he’s catatonic. Now Blair mentioned this to me. Said it happens when he focuses too hard on hearing or seeing something, but this time, I think it was neither.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think,” Harvey said, scratching his head, “I think he was trying to smell something.”
“Smell? Something in the air?” Nash rolled down the window and sniffed the air.
“No, I think it had to do with something that he heard from Blair. The last thing I heard Jim say was something about the tea that Pete had brought Blair.”
Nash stared at the motionless man. “He was trying to smell it from here?”
Harvey shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a super-nose, too.”
Nash groaned. “Great. So what’s wrong with him now?”
“Blair said that if anything like this should happen, that maybe Simon Banks could bring him out of it.”
“There’s nothing we can do?”
“I tried, but he’s like a zombie.”
“Then I guess we call Simon Banks quick. Without Ellison’s super-ears, we don’t know what’s happening there.” Nash moved to get out of the car.
“Is the road block at the bridge set up yet?” Harvey asked.
“Just now.” Nash leaned against the passenger side of the car and stared once more at Ellison. “Damn. This is not good, Bubba. I’ll go talk to Banks. He’s in Seattle with Woodward, but maybe they can helicopter him here.” Nash started to move away, then paused at the grimace on Harvey’s face. “What?”
“Oh. Nothing. Just Blair’s gonna be pissed at me for letting his partner zone.”
“Forget Blair. I’m pissed at you.”
“Really?”
“Nah. But when we find Jurgen, please give me at least a minute alone with him before the rest show up, okay?”
*
9:30 p.m.
The bed was soft beneath his face.
He forced his eyes open, focusing on the candles. Lots of candles.
His cheek moved across smooth cool sheets as he turned his head to the other side. Whatever he was lying on was black and shiny. Satin? It felt good and he moved his face back and forth over the silky fabric.
He giggled to himself, humming. Blair on black satin ���
A harsh light came on, blinding him, and he tried to cover his face with his hands, but he couldn’t seem to find them. How could I have lost my hands? Panic set in, robbing whatever coherent thoughts had managed to escape his drugged stupor. Where are they? How will I finish my thesis? How will I ���
Just as suddenly, the panic vanished as pain registered. He opened his eyes again, realizing they were shut, and he was face down on a bed. The pain — his wrists ��� He squinted, focusing his attention, working his way through the confusing thoughts teasing at his mind. I’ve got handcuffs on. He lifted his head, gasping at the dizziness that caused, then looked at his other hand, equally locked to the brass headboard of the wide bed.
Handcuffs.
Bright lights.
I’m naked.
He cried out, a strangled sound that frightened him.
“Easy, luv. I’m not quite ready for you yet. As soon as I have this set up, then we’ll have some fun.” The voice had no body, but he knew who it was.
The handcuffs were loose and he fought to get out of them, but his sluggish brain only seemed to be able to interpret every other command, leaving him to flail helplessly on the mattress. Both legs, he soon discovered, were tied with leather straps and buckles to the brass foot posts, leaving him spread-eagled across the bed as he tried to get loose.
“Mmmm ��� looking good, dearie. Wiggle that ass for me. Come on,” the voice encouraged.
He froze then, realization seeping in, then taking hold as the fog lifted even more. He knew the who, what, and why, and the when seemed to be right now. “No,” he whispered. “Jim?” The word popped out of his mouth, too soft for the camera operator to hear him, but it scared Blair anyway and he bit his tongue. “Let me go,” he said, louder.
“When we’re ready. You don’t mind, do you, luv? It gives the film a bit more mood if we use the cuffs. They’re padded,” Pete said, as though that should make all the difference. He stepped from behind the camera, a bottle of oil in his hand, and approached the foot of the bed.
Turnalo was dressed differently than he usually did. Gone were the jeans and offbea
t Tshirts, and in their place he wore a pair of black leather skintight pants and a sheer black shirt open to his naval. The camera was to Blair’s right so Turnalo moved to his left, climbing onto the bed behind him. “No, luv, keep looking toward the camera; don’t watch me. Don’t worry, we’ll do fine. This is just a test piece I’m doing to send to some friends in Los Angeles. They’ll let me know what kind of money they’ll put up for the whole project. Since Jurgen was nice enough to provide the set ���”
The oil was cold, but quickly warmed in Turnalo’s hands, the fingers smoothing the lubricant over his legs, while murmuring Italian phrases that Blair was glad he didn’t know. The hands moved up his thighs, and rested on his buttocks, kneading lightly. Turnalo groaned in ecstasy as Blair tried to escape the probing fingers that slid within him and beneath him to caress his genitals. The more he fought, the more turned on the man was.
JIM? Where the hell are you? Please! What are you waiting for?
The sound of a door slamming had Pete cursing, doing up his zipper, and reaching for a towel. “What are they doing here? We were supposed to be alone. I said I would watch everything.” He dried his hands, throwing the towel to land on the small of Blair’s back as he went to his camera and turned it off.
“Turnalo?” a voice yelled out. A voice that wasn’t Jim’s voice, and Blair bit back a sob, trying to control his wild fluctuating emotions.
“What is it? I’m on the bedroom set,” Pete yelled back, fussing with his camera, rewinding his video tape.
“Pack up! We’re getting out of here!” Pounding feet followed the voice, a crash of equipment echoing and re-echoing through warehouse, then Scar Man appeared in the doorway, his eyes wild. “Get out of here!” he yelled at Pete. “Get rid of him and get out of here — now!”
“Why?” Turnalo demanded, not moving from his camera.
“Jurgen wants us to be off the property in fifteen minutes! He’ll be here in two — says there’s a roadblock up just before the bridge. He wants all the stars dead and buried. We’ve got the backhoe ready.” Scar Man disappeared down the hallway, still knocking into things as he ran.
Jim? Blair held his breath as Pete moved quickly to unlock his handcuffs and release him from the bed. Jim? Did you catch that? Are you out there?
The backhoe. The big ditch.
Jim?
Turnalo swore loudly, the string of Italian curses punctuated by his arm gestures as he ranted for five or ten seconds. Still muttering to himself, Pete’s anger turned to action as he unlocked both sets of handcuffs, then moved to the straps around Blair’s ankles that had also served to hold him immobile on the bed. As Blair stared at him wide-eyed, Turnalo wiped at the sweat running down his face, blinding his eyes to his task. “Not fucking now. Why fucking now?” The last strap was undone and he turned away, ignoring Blair as he stared at his equipment, hundreds of thousands of dollars he was going to have to abandon. He touched one camera, his body shaking as he tried to suppress his anger and remove it from its mount.
Head still reeling from whatever drug Pete had given him, Blair rolled from the bed and moved away from the camera man, taking a step toward the door, not knowing what else to do. His back prickled from the massage oil, chilling him as cold air brushed across his bare sensitized skin. Oil ran down the inside of his legs, his legs wobbled as he tried to walk. A door was open somewhere. In the confusion and panic, maybe he could get out, maybe he could even find the other men, maybe he could ���
He had almost reached the door when Karl staggered down the hallway, a body slung over his shoulder, blood dripping from the black skin to the ground. Pat Hollis. Blair groaned; he had lost one already. Karl roared a curse at him, and Blair’s heart slammed against his ribs as the first true wave of terror struck him.
“Turnalo! Forget the fucking cameras!” Karl yelled. “Kill this one and dump him in the ditch with the others! Now! We don’t have time for this!”
“Leave him to me. I’m just getting my camera — it cost me a bloody fortune. I’m not leaving it here.”
“I said ‘leave it’!”
“Mind your own fucking business!”
Blair made his move as Karl stepped inside the doorway to confront Turnalo, slipping past him out into the hallway, his bare feet sliding on the damp floor. He was halfway to the outer door when there was a roar like a tidal wave behind him as Karl slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. The muscle man grabbed him by the hair and one arm, picking him up and throwing him against the wall. Blair hit hard along his shoulder, his head jerking on his neck, then he crumpled to the floor, landing awkwardly as he collapsed. A searing pain through his right ankle almost sent him into unconsciousness, but he fought to stay alert, rolling immediately as Karl came at him again, a vicious kick impacting on his already damaged ribs, but missing his head and face, where the kick had been aimed.
“Stop!” Pete’s voice echoed through the dark hallway. “He’s mine. I’ll take care of him! — You take care of your own fucking mess,” Turnalo snarled, pulling himself up to his full height as he came between Karl and Blair.
“Just do it!” Karl snarled back, bending to grab the Los Angeles detective’s body he had dropped moments before. “Jurgen said that no one is left alive. Metzger’s already taken care of the two workers out back and me and Raul’s got the stars. Kill your fucking toy, Turnalo, or I’ll do him for you!”
“Fuck off! I said I’ll do it.” Pete grabbed Blair’s arm, dragging him to his feet, hardly aware of the strangled scream the young man made as his foot touched the floor. He pulled him down the hallway in the opposite direction to what Karl had taken.
It was dark already outside, the cool air heavy with moisture, the ground muddy beneath his feet. The fluorescent overheads that usually lit the compound were out; the only light now was the inconsistent illumination of the full moon as black rain clouds rolled across the sky, blanketing it, as though covering the massacre from rational sight.
And it was a massacre. And it was going to get worse.
The pain in Blair’s ankle was blinding and he fell to the ground when Turnalo released him, gagging on the bile that rose to his throat.
“Run! Go across the field,” Turnalo hissed at him. “I won’t stop you. Just go!!”
“I can’t,” Blair gasped, trying to stay conscious, to fight his way past the incapacitating nausea that was cramping his stomach. “I can’t w-walk, let alone run! What did you g-give me?”
“Oh, for—” Turnalo dragged him upward again, striding across toward the house, heedless of Blair’s cries of pain and narrowly avoiding the car that careened up the gravel road, wheels spinning as it came to a sudden halt just a few feet from where he stopped.
“What are you doing?” Jurgen stepped out of his car. “Kill him.”
“Evan?” Blair yelled, grabbing at the man’s arm. “Where is Evan?”
“In my trunk. And you,” Jurgen said, turning and backhanding Blair with such force that his head snapped back from the impact, “this time you will stay dead, do you understand.” Jurgen strode toward the warehouse, disappearing inside.
“Fuckin’ shit!” Turnalo kicked the side of Jurgen’s car, his fury momentarily out of control. “I could have made a fortune off you,” Turnalo said, his last kick connecting with Blair’s hip and sending him into the mud. “Damn him. Him and his stupid macho flicks. He doesn’t care a fuck about art.” Turnalo stood motionless for a moment, then laughed to himself, reaching into the car and swiping the keys from the ignition. “He takes my money, I take his money,” he muttered, and went around to the trunk and opened it.
Darkness hid what was happening, but hope flared within Blair for the first time since he had been recaptured. Movement toward him made him flinch automatically, but the hands that touched him were soothing. “Evan,” he whispered, but it came out as a half-sob.
“What did you do to him?” Evan’s voice. Evan’s hands.
Jim? You can come now, okay? He’s her
e. I found him.
“Lie still,” Evan said, as he tried to sit up.
“No. Get out of here. Now! Before it’s too late,” Turnalo snapped, pointing across the field, then turning to go back into the warehouse.
Evan pulled him upright, struggling to catch him again when he couldn’t stand. “What’s wrong?”
“M-my ankle’s broken — are you okay?” Blair’s face was buried against the other’s bare shoulder, his hands digging into Evan’s forearms. The world was tilting dangerously, his head was reeling, and he had a good suspicion that he had a concussion.
Evan got his arm over his shoulder, half-carrying him as they stumbled toward the back of the house and out of sight. Blair could feel the other man’s body shaking, Evan trying to catch his breath.
“Evan?”
“I’m fine,” he said, shortly, resolutely moving them forward, but Blair could hear the pain in his voice. “Consider me Jurgen’s fattened calf.” Evan stumbled again, cursing as he tried to get a better grip on Blair. “What I wouldn’t give for my automatic right now,” he gasped, “except I can’t see anything.”
“And w-where would you put it?” Blair laughed, a hiccuping sound bordering on hysterical. He quickly clamped his mouth shut. Neither of them had on a stitch of clothing; the mud he had fallen in was at least helping to darken his skin from the damning moonlight that had chosen to reappear from behind the clouds. “Evan, we can’t get out th-that way. They’ll see us. Evan!” he whispered, unable to hold his head upright. Tears streamed down his face, his ankle aflame with pain.
Evan faltered finally, ten steps past the corner of the building, weaving to a halt. “Blair?” He groaned, his body going limp as he dropped, pulling them both down onto the muddy field. “There’s nowhere to go,” he gasped.
“They’ll k-kill us if we stay here.” It was hard to think. He had to do something.
“They’ll kill us anyway,” Evan said, his voice scarcely loud enough for Blair to hear. The moon slid out from behind a cloud, and the shadows on Evan’s face showed that he had been beaten recently, despite Jurgen’s promise to keep him undamaged for the buyer. His eyes stared upward, one a narrow slit, almost swollen shut. “When they come out that door, they’ll see us.” Evan groaned again, then curled on his side, his hands around his waist, bent double.
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