No Center Line

Chapter One
 

"Nashman..."

"Joe? Is something wrong? Is Nick okay?"

"Nick's fine. I called them just now and Cassidy says he's fine. He's sleeping."

"Is Lynette there? She's supposed to be watching him."

"She's there. She was making some lunch for him."

"Then why are you phoning?"

"Hmm? Just wondering if maybe you've heard anything yet?"

"No, I haven't heard anything yet, Joe. I just got off the damned plane. How could I?"

"Oh. I figured you'd be there already. Your flight was supposed to arrive thirty minutes ago."

"It was late. It happens. I just got off the plane and turned my cell phone back on and ten seconds later it rings."

"Who called?"

"You did, Bubba. I'm talking about this call."

"Oh. So I guess you haven't heard anything yet then."

"No, I haven't. Joe, remember when you drove me to the airport and I told you that I would call you from the Seattle hotel tonight after the meeting?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what part of that are you having trouble with, Bubba?"

"Listen, Nash, you weren't the one to talk to Cassidy on the phone twenty minutes ago. What am I supposed to say to her when I call back later?"

"Don't call her. I'll call her tonight, after I call you."

"What if she calls me?"

"Tell her I'll call her tonight."

"So I should just wait for your call then?"

"You got it, Bubba. -- Are you at SIU?"

"Yeah, why? Need something?"

"Just wondering how Harvey is doing."

"He's here. He's on the computer trying to find some leads, match up the disappearances."

"You tell him from me that he goes home at midnight and he doesn't come back until after 8:00 tomorrow morning. He will pace himself during this investigation, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Sure, Nash."

"Then you tell him. Make him understand."

"Sure."

"That goes for you, too. I'll call you tonight, Joe."

"Right."

(Pause) "You okay?"

(Pause) "Take care of yourself, too, Nash."

"I will, Bubba. I will."

 Rain lashed against the cab window, leaving Nash Bridges' view of the city a murky silver and gray. He glanced down at his clothes, absently brushing lint from the deep green jacket, tugging at the brocade vest, and wondering suddenly if his white T-shirt would be out of place in the more traditional Northwest city. It had been many years since he worried about what he wore to work; he judged the people who worked for him based on performance, not appearance. But this wasn't San Francisco; it was Seattle. And he wasn't in charge at this meeting.

That was always a sore spot with him. He liked being in charge. It just made everything easier. He liked having his people around him. He liked the feeling that his people, the Special Investigations Unit, were a living organism, each functioning in their own way, but providing him -- the brain, as it were -- with the information he needed to make an intuitive leap and put the pieces together. Nash Bridges had long since acknowledged his place in the grand scheme of things. He was the organizer. The focal point. The one who made the decisions. Not only the one in charge of the SIU, but the one responsible. Not only the Head of the Clan, but a father figure, a big brother, as well.

Joe had been left holding the reins back at the station, and Joe Dominguez was certainly capable of minding the store. Joe was his right hand. And his left hand. Hell, Joe was the reason SIU worked the way it did, although Nash would never have been able to put into words just exactly what it was that made it work. He wanted to believe it was his own skill, his own damned luck that kept it going, but he strongly suspected that Joe was the reinforcement to every move Nash made. Joe certainly was never intimidated by Nash. He had his own sense of style, his own way of going about things, often as though Nash's suggestions were 'cute' but to be humored, not seriously followed. Though he had tried, Nash had never broken Joe out of the habit of ignoring his orders, and deep down inside, Nash hoped he never would. Joe was Joe. That's what made him work. Yes, Dominguez would keep the investigation going while Nash took in the Seattle meeting. The SIU would continue on, because of Joe and all the people he had hand picked to work with him.

Harvey Leek, a veteran of the force, was probably glued to his seat, eyes fixed on the computer, pulling in every scrap of information he could that might, just might, give them a lead. He could picture the man now, bent over his desk, sharp eyes looking slightly unfocused as he scanned computer text at an almost super-human speed. The Jerry Garcia black armband, probably over clothing salvaged from a surplus or retro store. White lock of hair falling from the brown tangle of curls. A man of many contrasts. Peace-loving hippy, but deadly marksman. Heart of gold, but with a violent temper when it erupted. For all appearances a scatter-brained, absent-minded professor, but appearances were often wrong. He was a surveillance expert, computer hacker, and was up to date with all the latest gadgets. If anyone could come up with information, it was this man. He seemed to pull dates and names from the air -- not blessed with Nash's own photographic memory, but Harvey was still able to perform miracles.

Well, we need one now. Come on, Harvey. Work your magic.

Michelle Chan would be working along side him, flushing out her own sources, using her own way of dealing with this. She was on the phone, calling in favors, calling past snitches. She'd been working with them for a year now, formerly from juvenile and auto theft. Nash had worked with her on one case, then put a request for her to be transferred to his unit. She was young, but persistent. And she could take care of herself, despite Nash's admittedly chauvinistic tendency to want to keep her away from the danger. She was tough, she could survive on the streets. And there were times that a female could go where no male could, even though they had dressed Evan up on more than one occasion and sent him in as a female.

Evan Cortez.

Evan, the man Nash Bridges' daughter was in love in with. Evan was Nash's protégé. The rising star. The young man was passionate about his work, dedicated, persistent. Brilliant. Quick thinking. He needed to work on his temper and self-control, but then, so had Nash at his age. Evan was a trusted co-worker in SIU, someone Nash felt comfortable in sending on any assignment. He was proud to call Evan a friend.

And Evan Cortez was the reason Nash was in Seattle.

Damn it, Evan. Where the hell are you? You better damned well be alive. Just hang in there, buddy. Hang in there.

Because it all came down to family. Maybe not blood family like Nash's father Nick, or his sister Stacy, or his ex-wives, but they were family just the same.

Joe Dominguez was like a brother to Nash. They'd been partners and friends for twenty years, seeing each other through marriages and the birth of their children, divorces and death. Hell, Pepe was even convinced they were a couple, a gay couple. Try as he might, Nash couldn't convince Pepe otherwise, and he had finally stopped trying.

Harvey, the crazy cousin. Michelle, the younger ward.

Evan, at times, was his younger brother. And when Nash had first discovered that twenty-nine-year-old Evan and Nash's own nineteen-year-old daughter Cassidy were sleeping together, well, it had taken him some time to adjust to that little piece of news. He knew about Evan's reputation with women and Cassidy was so young. But they were in love, that was clear enough from the looks on their faces and his subsequent conversations with them over the next week.

Which ended up meaning that Evan was also edging into the son category. And Nash may not have given them his blessing, but he certainly had agreed to let them make their own choices

Evan had been a constant shadow at the hospital in mid-May when Nick had had his stroke, helping wherever he could, the pain of Nick's collapse visible on his face, as well. Nash had seen how the young man had supported Cassidy, still trying to stay out of her father's way, fearing reprisal for being there, for loving her. One dark evening, the night they thought Nick wouldn't make it, Evan had appeared at Nash's side, one arm hesitantly moving around his shoulders, then drawing him in. Nash had felt the fear in the tentative gesture, but he had felt the compassion, too, and found himself responding to the simple display of caring, releasing tears he didn't know he had been suppressing, even from Joe.

Co-worker, underling, friend, younger brother, son. Any and all of those reasons was why Nash Bridges had come to Seattle.

Evan Cortez was missing. He had been kidnapped not even a block from SIU, in broad daylight.

Captain Simon Banks glanced at his watch, then looked back out at the gray June day, at the rain that fell without a break as they sped down the freeway. "We're almost there. We still have forty-five minutes before the meeting starts, Jim -- I'd like to stop somewhere to get a cup of coffee," he said as they finally pulled onto the off-ramp, heading downtown.

"And have a cigar."

He shrugged, patting the cigar pouch in his jacket pocket. "Maybe, if we have time." Banks smiled briefly. "Okay, Jim, I think you've convinced me. There's a place on Senega and Fourth."

James Ellison's hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, then he nodded, pushing past his reluctance to detour from his destination. "I'll watch for it."

Banks turned back to the passenger side window. It had been a long trip down to Seattle from Cascade. It was only an hour and a half, but the ongoing tension and silence of his detective weighed heavily in the truck. The captain closed his eyes, trying to rest them for a few minutes. He had almost fallen asleep several times in the past hour, but each time, the idea of leaving Ellison alone with his thoughts kept him awake.

"I'm okay, Simon."

"What?" he asked, straightening in his seat.

"Sandburg's alive. I'll find him."

"Damn right, we will."

"I mean it. He's alive."

Banks looked over to the detective, the conviction in Ellison's words beginning to make him nervous. "Jim . . . We don't know for sure if--"

"I do. I know."

"How? Still hearing things? Or did you have a dream this time?" he asked brusquely, then his eyes widened as he realized his almost sarcastic remark had been accurate. "You had a dream?" he repeated.

"Last night." Ellison drove onward, taking the '69 Ford truck through the city streets. "Do you want the long version or the short?"

"The short," he said quickly, adding with a smile, "As few details as possible, please."

Ellison nodded, the barest hint of a smile touching his face for a moment, then he took a deep breath. "I saw him, Simon. Well, I saw the wolf, actually," Ellison corrected, casually turning a corner on a late light. "In my dream, I was moving through the jungle when I heard him whimper. I followed the sound and found the wolf crawling toward me. He had been beaten. His ears were flat, his tail was between his legs. He was terrified and in pain. I knelt beside him, and he moved forward enough to put his head on my lap. When I touched him, he became Sandburg. He was unconscious. I couldn't rouse him. But he was alive."

"Maybe it was just a dream, Jim," Banks said softly. "He's been gone four days, without a word. Without a phone call, or ransom note, or anything," he amended. "Don't get your hopes set on this."

"I heard him that first day. And last night, it was a dream, but I know the difference. It was one of those dreams. A Sentinel dream."

"And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"But not this time."

Ellison was so damned calm about it, that the captain found himself gritting his teeth trying to hold back his comments. Yes, they had told Banks later what else had happened when Blair Sandburg died at the university that morning a month ago. But they didn't have to say much. He had been there. He had seen this man touch his partner's face and bring him back to life. The strange light. All because a waking dream had told Ellison he could do it.

But life wasn't like that. The extraordinary, inexplicable, and unexplainable events that seemed to hover around Ellison and Sandburg were not the norm. They were filed under "once-in-a-lifetime." Those moments were unique, different, not something that was going to appear around every corner, redeem every situation gone bad. It wasn't about to happen again four weeks later, no matter how much a part of the captain wanted to believe that.

Then again . . . Banks smiled, looking away. This is Sandburg we're talking about. All bets are off.

The shrill twitter of his cell phone broke the silence. He reached into his suit jacket and drew out the phone, answering as it rang a second time. "Banks."

"Captain, it's Brown."

Banks braced himself, waiting for the news, knowing Ellison was probably listening. "How's Rafe?"

"He's awake! Doc says he's going to be okay. He's going to be fine. He's awake, Captain." Detective Brown's excitement echoed through the digital phone.

Beside him, Ellison, of course, had heard and now let out a sigh of relief. "That's great, Simon. Tell him that's great," he said, eyes still on the road. "That's wonderful news."

"Brown," Banks began, then cleared his throat. "You take care of him for us. We'll come by and see him as soon as he can have visitors. I can't say how relieved we are. Jim's with me right now and he says to tell you that this is wonderful news."

"Oh, man . . . I wish I had better news for Jim. I know what he's been wanting to hear."

Ellison smiled grimly. "Tell him that Rafe being okay is the best news I've heard all week. We'll get Sandburg back, then we'll go watch that baseball game we all missed."

Banks passed the message on, then added, "Give him our best, okay?"

"Will do. Ah, man, he's awake. This is awesome, you know what I'm saying? You know what I'm saying?" Brown laughed, the thin edge of hysteria and exhaustion audible. "It's gonna happen, man. We're gonna get Hairboy back. Tell Jim not to stop believing, man."

"Is Rafe able to talk at all?" Banks asked, gently.

Brown's voice turned serious, reporting now as detective, not friend and partner. "A few words, not much. He's only been awake for a few minutes. He was anxious about Sandburg the moment he opened his eyes, though, sir. He was mumbling about Blair, saying he shouldn't have gotten shot."

"Who got shot?" Ellison asked, sharply.

Banks repeated the question. "Brown, was Sandburg injured or just Rafe?"

"Hang on, I'll ask him. I'm just standing outside his room right now, cuz the doctors were in with him. I had to tell you." Brown had obviously called them from the hospital on his cell phone, either ignoring the signs restricting the use of cell phones, or most likely, ignoring them in his excitement.

Banks could hear the muted voices as Brown and Rafe spoke to each other. Jim's sigh of relief beside him answered the question, though, before Brown even came back on the phone.

"Captain, he doesn't remember them hurting Blair. Just taking him. I've written down a description of the men, as best Rafe was able to give me. He's not too coherent at the moment. Oh . . . he's sorta faded out again."

"Let him sleep, Henri. Can you write up whatever you remember he said and fax it to me at Seattle Police Headquarters. It may be the first good description we have of these men."

"Yeah. Okay . . .. Sure, man . . . Um . . . where are you? I need a piece of paper or something. I can't find anything. Gimme a sec--"

Banks listened to the catch in Brown's breathing on the phone, knowing how exhausted the man must be. "Actually, Henri -- fax it to Taggart. He's in my office. He can fax it to me."

"Okay . . . Right . . . Fax it to you at your office."

Banks winced at the dazed undertone to his officer's voice. Brown had hardly moved from his partner's side all week. "Henri, once you do that, then I want you to call your wife, have her pick you up at the hospital, and go home. See your family. Get some sleep. We have a guard on the room -- Rafe will be fine until you get back there."

Ellison interrupted suddenly. "Simon, can he ask Rafe about the van? A license plate number maybe? Did they give any clues to where they had gone--" he began, pulling to the side of the road and stopping the car. "Let me talk to him," he said, reaching for the phone.

Simon shook his head, moving the phone to his right ear, away from Jim. "Brown, call me after you send the fax. Otherwise, I'll hear from you tomorrow unless there's something new to report."

Brown's answer was interrupted by a yawn. "Will do." The line went dead, and Ellison slapped at the steering wheel.

"I wanted to talk to him."

"You wanted to interrogate him , Jim, and he's barely coherent. Rafe is asleep, as well."

"They might know something--"

"Brown would have told us. Let's find out what his fax says, then if we have to, we'll give him a call."

Ellison rested his elbows on the steering wheel and rubbed at his forehead, trying to calm himself.

"I know you're anxious about the kid--"

The detective's jaw tightened in anger. "What do you expect? I should have this down pat by now. 'Proper behavior by an officer when his partner has been kidnapped.'"

"A moment ago you were convinced he was alive--"

"He is!"

"Then what's with the attitude now?"

"He's hurt! I told you. The wolf crawled over to me. He was frightened." Ellison looked over his left shoulder, getting ready to turn back into traffic. "He's frightened."

Banks put a cautioning hand on his arm. "Wait a minute, Jim."

"I want to get to the station."

"You haven't slept much in the last week. And I doubt if you've eaten a full meal." Banks glanced out the passenger window at the small strip of stores along the side of the road. "We're in luck. There's a fast food place on the corner. I'll go get my coffee and you can grab a hamburger."

"The meeting--"

"We'll be on time for the meeting. That's why they call it 'fast food'."

Frank Black started up the stairs to the Seattle Police Headquarters, wondering briefly if this would be the last time he visited this building, at least for the near future.

Returning to Seattle was supposed to be returning home. The house, the dog, the neighborhood. Everything pointed to a time of peace in his life, a necessary break from the madness of the preceding years. A time where he could live with some measure of normality and enjoy his family. Maybe live as other families did, in the moment, in the here and now.

And beyond that, he had wanted to protect his wife and his child, and Seattle had seemed the best choice at the time.

He shrugged, opening the main door to the station. Maybe it had been the best choice. It gave them a few more years together that they may not have had otherwise. Maybe it had been the only choice, he had no way of knowing. For all his strange abilities, he had not been able to foresee the future nor stop the events that had unfolded over the last four years.

The universe unfolds as it should.

He shrugged off the murmured whisper of the old poem. He was not convinced.

Regardless, he thought, as he pushed the button for the elevator, it's time to move on, to get on with my life. He had spent two weeks in the cabin waiting, wondering what was happening in the world beyond. Catherine was gone, he had become convinced of that, and finally he had packed their bags, taken his daughter Jordan, and returned to Seattle.

The elevator arrived, and he stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor. When the car was full, the doors closed and it began to move upward.

Am I moving on or am I just returning to what I know? To some sort of anchor for my life? He and his little daughter were relocating to Washington, D.C., where he would be working with the FBI again. He had finalized the arrangements the day before and had originally planned to leave immediately for a brief trip there to see about leasing a home for September, but when Woodward had phoned him, Black hadn't found it within him to refuse the request. He owed these people a lot, and if they thought he could help -- if they were so desperate that they were asking for his help -- then he was willing to show up. He had found someone to look after Jordan for the afternoon and evening, and committed his time.

Second floor. The doors opened. The doors closed.

Frank Black was for many years an FBI agent who specialized in hunting down serial killers, and after his move to Seattle, he had continued profiling killers for the Seattle police and other police departments on the west coast. Added to that was his 'unique and disturbing ability' as one person had described it, of seeing inside the mind of one of these killers. His work, of late, had taken him away from serial killers as he turned his abilities toward even more devastating battles.

But this wasn't about the Millennium factions, or about serial killers. At least, not that Woodward had mentioned so far. He knew few details about what had occurred, but he had already gathered that this was a case that had shaken the Seattle PD. Woodward was grasping at straws, pulling in any help he could find. A Seattle police officer, one of their own, had been abducted. That alone was enough to make him want to help. It rang every bell for him, since it was hardly a month since Catherine's disappearance and presumed death. The memories surfaced and he battled them back into place. This wasn't about him, or his problems. He had to keep his mind focused on his task, or he'd be no use to the men and women gathered.

Third floor.

Once he and Jordan were settled in DC, then he'd take some time to process it all and deal with his wife's memory. Meanwhile, he would take one step after another and cope with what life had thrown at him this time. He had a daughter to raise. And there was always an agenda, whether he was in DC or in Seattle. The Millennium factions were still active, still pulling at him.

Fourth floor. The doors opened and he stepped out into the busy corridor. Woodward's office was to the left, so he threaded his way down the hall, pausing before the section chief's door before knocking. A familiar face was leaning against the wall outside the conference room on the far side of Woodward's office. Late forties. Tanned. The clothes were trendy, expensive, and the man wearing them was comfortable in them. They were an extension of his personality. T-shirt and jeans: casual, yet the quality was unmistakable, even to Frank Black. Brocade vest: expressive, different, flamboyant. Lightweight silk suit jacket: expensive, tailored, well-bred. It took Black a moment, but he placed the name with the face and took the few steps required to stand before the man.

"Nash Bridges," he said, softly, not wanting to startle him from his intense perusal of the file in his hands.

Fervent eyes met his, searched for the memory, then Bridges shifted the file and held out his hand in greeting. "Frank Black. Did they call you in on this? If they did, I'm breathing easier already. Or should I be more worried that it's that serious?"

"I'm sorry, Inspector Bridges. I haven't had a chance to see the file yet. Are you here about the Seattle police officer who was kidnapped?"

"It's Nash, please." He looked back to the documents in his hand. "One of my men has been abducted as well. Same M.O., from what I've read. And there were others."

They both turned as Harold Woodward stepped from his office and saw them. "Frank, thanks so much for coming. And you are?" he asked, shaking first Black's hand and then Bridge's.

"Nash Bridges, Special Investigations Unit, San Francisco."

"Evan Cortez," Woodward replied, putting another name to the city. "He's your man?"

"Yes." Bridges tensed, as though waiting for more.

"I know all the names. I've been studying these files since five o'clock this morning, which is why you received a phone call at nine o'clock. I wish we had noticed the pattern before."

"What is the pattern?" Black asked.

"Police officer kidnapped within a block of the station he worked at. Nine cases, up and down the coast, beginning a month ago in San Diego, then Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Monterey, Santa Cruz, San Francisco, Portland, Tacoma, and a week ago, here in Seattle. We have another possibility, although it doesn't fit the M.O. entirely, in that last Monday in Cascade, a police observer was kidnapped. It may or may not be connected." Woodward handed Black the file. "We've still got thirty minutes before the meeting," he said, unlocking the conference room. "You are both welcome to sit down in here and read the files while you're waiting. I'll have someone bring in coffee. Can I have anything else sent in? Did you have lunch?"

"Thank you, Harold; I've eaten."

"I'm fine," Bridges said. "I'd like to read this."

Woodward left them alone and they settled at one end of the executive table. Inspector Bridges returned to studying the documents, a blank pad of paper beside him on the table. Frank placed his file on the glossy surface and sat for a moment, his eyes closed, preparing himself for what would be inside. He was asked once if he was praying, and in all honesty, he didn't know. On one level, he probably was. Praying to a merciful God that somehow he, Frank Black, would be able to help solve the problem. But more than that, he did it to clear his thoughts, his expectations, his preconceived ideas, and to look at the case with uncompromised attention.

He couldn't bring back Catherine, but maybe there was a chance he could help Nash Bridges and the others.

Ellison parked the truck, edging into the tight spot, aware of the thrumming of his nerves. When Banks got out to put some money in the meter, Ellison took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He was almost shaking from the tension, from trying to listen for Sandburg's voice in the madness of the last four days. He brought up a memory now, straining to hear his partner's quiet instructions to breathe, to center himself. When he finally opened the door and got out, he looked across the hood of the truck to Simon Banks' concerned face.

"I'm okay."

Banks nodded, then turned to glance up at the building they were headed to. "I haven't been here in years. You?"

Ellison shrugged, locking his door. "Not since I got back from Peru." He pulled his jacket closer, feeling chilled in the damp, spring rain, his hands icy. He tried fumbling with his touch sensitivity dials, but he was already having problems controlling his senses. He stared up at the building, blinking his focus clear as the rain fell on his face. Now that he was here and the meeting was fifteen minutes away, he found himself strangely reluctant to go inside. "How did they think to contact us?"

"Harold Woodward used to work in Narcotics in Cascade. We've kept in touch. He called me first thing this morning to ask if we had any cases with similar circumstances."

"Why hasn't this hit the papers?"

"I'm not sure. Some of the officers involved are undercover. Most of the abductions were initially attributed to local sources."

The edginess was getting worse. Ellison shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to keep pace with Banks. "How many?"

"If Sandburg's case fits the M.O., Woodward says he thinks there are ten related abductions."

"Ten." Ellison slowed down as they approached the building, then stopped, causing the captain to pause again to wait for him. "Why have they taken ten? Why from different cities?"

"That's what we're here to find out. Come on, Jim. Let's go inside."

Ellison felt his head buzzing, his captain's voice shifting volume as he struggled to listen. He was vaguely aware that he was falling forward, black spots disrupting his vision. His link with his partner. He felt Sandburg cry again. Not here. Not nearby. But somewhere, Sandburg was crying. Cold. Hungry. Afraid -- terrified. Ellison intimately felt the fear, the despair. His name being whispered. Suffocating. A gag or something in his mouth.

"Jim!" Suddenly, Banks' voice was in his ear. "Jim! Snap out of it!"

The shout pierced the fog in his mind, bringing some semblance of order to the confusing signals his senses were providing him. He was in Seattle, standing on the sidewalk outside the police station.

"Jim?"

"Give me a second," he mumbled, his grip tightening on Banks' arm. "Don't move." He tried to reclaim the link, the tenuous connection to his Guide, but it was gone again, and he groaned at the loss.

"What's wrong?"

He could hear Banks' tight question, the captain's whispered words not wanting to know if it was Sentinel-related. Sorry, Simon. I'm a Sentinel without a Guide. I know I'm falling apart, but this is the best I can do.

For a brief moment, he had felt Sandburg's presence. "He's still alive."

"Do I want to know how you know that?"

"Probably not." Ellison straightened and took another steadying breath. "He's alive. He's very cold -- his skin is icy -- and he's terrified."

"Oh, God." Banks pulled away from him, allowing him to stand on his own. "You sure about this, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Why is this happening now? It hasn't happened before, with you and Sandburg, has it? Is this just some leftover business from Mexico, from your enhanced senses then?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I haven't sensed his presence quite this strongly before." The word was wrong. "No, not his presence. I was picking up a sense of his awareness. What he's feeling. It's stronger now."

The captain's dark eyes met his, wide with apprehension. "Uh . . . Any idea where he is?"

"None. I don't think he knows where he is." Ellison glanced down at his watch. "Let's go in. We have five minutes."

"Jim?"

"I'm sorry, Simon. I don't have any answers for you or even answers for me. Let's find out what they have to say, then I want to go back to Cascade. He's not there, but he's not here in Seattle, either. I would have known that, I think."
  

Frank Black watched the Cascade police officers walk into the room and take their seats. As with most of the men gathered in the room -- and it was entirely a male group, he had noticed -- these men had "cop" stamped all over them. He turned back to the picture of the officer taken -- no, this was the city that had an observer taken, whatever that designation meant -- and he looked down at the young face. The picture was dated a few years before, the observer staring into the camera with a disarmingly mischievous smile, long curly hair framing an inquisitive face. The eyes were what drew Black, and he knew immediately this man wasn't a cop. His eyes were fresh, innocent, and almost naive.

But an "observer"? What did that mean? Observing what? Black looked back at the date on the photo, then over to the two shell-shocked men. Sandburg had been an observer for well over two years. What exactly was his relationship to these police officers?

He studied the shorter of the two men. The detective looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, but there was also an edge of hope about him that was missing in many of the others gathered. As if he knew something.

The door to the conference room closed and Harold Woodward took the podium, set up at one end of the table. Woodward was in his early sixties, a veteran in police work, and a highly skilled detective in his own right. That he had pieced together this trail of abductions was quite a feat, for police departments, especially those crossing county or state borders, were notoriously self-sustained.

Introductions were made; some were names that Black had heard before, men he had spoken to or corresponded with about cases, and now he was able to connect the name to the face. The men from Cascade were introduced last. The tall, black man was Captain Simon Banks, Head of Major Crimes in Cascade, a port city to the north of Seattle, less than an hour from the Canadian border. It also had an international airport and the city was in the same battle they all shared against the drug trade and smuggling. He had come across Cascade tie-ins while dealing with the mafia, syndicates, and Asian triads, as well as gang warfare and weapons control. The man next to him was introduced as Detective Lt. James Ellison, also of Major Crimes.

<<Flash: Face dark with terror. A cry. A whimper cut off. A knife flashing, catching the light of a dying sun.>>

Frank Black sat motionless, hardly daring to breathe. Where had that come from? He wasn't on a crime scene. He had nothing personal of the victim's. Yet the image had been clear.

Across from him, Ellison sat with his elbows on the table, his face hidden in his hands. His captain was watching him, concern etched on the man's face. Ellison's shoulders moved as he took a long, shuddering breath, exhaling slowly.

As though he had seen the same visions.

<<Flash: Eyes wide in terror. Keening sound coming from the gagged mouth. The knife blade, reflecting the victim's face.>>

Ellison hadn't moved, face still hidden, his hands clenched in fists before his eyes, as though blocking the sight.

Black watched him for a moment longer, then looked quickly through the file. Sandburg, Blair, the profile read. Masters degree in anthropology. Currently employed by Rainier University in the Department of Anthropology while he worked on a doctorate in anthropology. Police observer, a copy of the application attached, stating he wished to study the police department, doing his doctorate on closed societies. The profile finished with two words: Ellison's partner.

Partner? Black glanced back at the file, wondering when the supplied profile was dated, but it was recent. Was Sandburg now an officer, as well? No, the current form still had him down as an observer. From the young man's appearance, perhaps the status was a more personal one. It was clear they were close friends, at least, from the look on Ellison's face. Several of the men gathered at the table had similar haunted, exhausted appearances. Others, the head of departments or units, like Banks and Bridges, were also fighting burnout and the heavy weight of responsibility for one of their own.

Woodward finished the introductions and opened his file folder. "I'd like us to look at the facts, gentlemen. Please open your files and follow me through the concrete evidence we do have, before we begin to take this a step further. Let's take it from the top. One month ago yesterday, in San Diego." He led them through the cases, not pausing on details, just enough to familiarize everyone with the cases.

San Diego: Monday, May 18. 11:15 a.m. Detective Jorge Diez, age 31, and his partner were walking back to the station after completing an investigation at a nearby crime scene, when a white van stopped beside them. Three men emerged, with sub-machine guns, and held the partner back while tying up Diez and securing him in the van. He wasn't injured at the time, although the partner suffered a dislocated shoulder from his efforts to break free of the powerful man restraining him. Descriptions of the men were attached. The muscle man: Caucasian, extremely strong, solid. 6'4". Dark hair cut short. Accent: possible German or Slavic, the partner couldn't say. The two gunmen: One was Hispanic, 6' tall, long straight uneven hair. Magnum gun. The other was white, brown hair, military cut. Same height, about six feet. The driver was black, but Diez's partner had only had a brief glimpse of him.

There had been no ransom note. It had been assumed the abduction was drug related, as Diez had been working on several cases involving drug trafficking.

Los Angeles: Wednesday, May 20. 4:40 p.m. Lt. Pat Hollis, age 29, was leaving the precinct after his shift, heading out to dinner with another officer. They had decided to walk to a restaurant on the next street over. As they walked through the parking area next to the restaurant and approached the door, a white van drove onto the lot. The officer accompanying Hollis was brutally knocked unconscious. Witnesses saw the other officer being pulled into the van, then the van sped away. There were no reliable descriptions of the abductors, other than that there were two or three men seen, all with guns. No ransom note.

Santa Barbara: Friday, May 22. 1:50 p.m. Peter Labenstoff, undercover officer, age 30. Abducted one block from station on his way back from lunch. Alone. White van reported by witnesses.

Monterey: Sunday, May 24 9:30 a.m. Detective Scott McBride, age 30. Abducted while walking from his car to the police station. Description of van and abductors matched previous descriptions. Brown-haired gunman also reported to have a tatoo on his forearm, and a scar along his jawline.

Santa Cruz: Tuesday, May 26 9:10 a.m.. Lt. Sam Faddis, age 29. Abducted a block from office. Faddis was speaking to his partner on the cell phone when it happened, so the partner heard the abduction, but no other witnesses stepped forward.

San Francisco, Friday May 29 6:20 p.m. Inspector Evan Cortez, age 29. Abducted while leaving the SIU headquarters with his partner, heading to their cars after their shift. Partner was able to give a matching description of one of the abductors, but was knocked unconscious during the resulting skirmish.

Portland: Wednesday, June 3, 2:45 p.m. Assistant Chief Jack Kelly, age 32. Abducted when he left the police station to go pick up his son from elementary school to take him to daycare. White van. No description of abductors.

Tacoma: Tuesday, June 9, 11:35 a.m. Undercover Detective William Fong, age 29. Abducted while walking with girlfriend outside the police station. White van, and long-haired Hispanic gunman were reported by the traumatized woman.

Seattle: Friday, June 12, 8:25 a.m. Lt. Glenn Relkie, age 30. Abducted while getting into his car parked a block from the station. White van reported.

And the last case, the possible tie-in. Cascade: Monday, June 15, 1:30 p.m. Civilian Blair Sandburg, a police observer, age 29. Abducted while returning from lunch with a police officer. White van. No description of abductors. Police officer accompanying him was shot in the side and also suffered a severe head injury. He has not regained consciousness.

While Woodward continued to speak, Frank Black closed the file, letting the images of the men settle into his thoughts. There certainly appeared to be a connection between the cases. The consistency of the white van and the abductors' pattern of behavior. The ages, according to his notes, were all between 27 and 32. All were involved in detective or undercover work. He checked back to Jack Kelly's file, the Portland officer, to confirm his suspicions, and noted then that all officers were single. Kelly was divorced and a single father.

Ignoring the conversation proceeding in the room, Black stood, taking his file, and moved over to the credenza beneath the window. Withdrawing the photographs from the file, he laid them out along the narrow table, looking carefully at the faces and ignoring the background material. Ten males. Two Hispanic. One black. One oriental. Six white. He closed his eyes and looked at them again, not seeing the differences but the similarities. Eight of the ten wore earrings in their left ears. Five of the ten wore double earrings. All but one had short hair, stylishly cut.

Black stared at Sandburg's picture. The anomaly. All but this one man abducted were the same height, same build. All but one could have been runway models. And the tenth, Sandburg, though he lacked the height for a model, had a beauty of his own, almost exotic in appearance. There were few men that Black had ever seen that he would use the word 'beautiful' in describing, but there was something very sensual about the young man. There was something very sensual about all of the young men pictured, but the rest had an edge to them that this one did not have.

<<Flash: The compact body tossed into the air. A tangle of bloody limbs. Slit throats. Sightless eyes.>>

He felt a presence beside him and looked into James Ellison's eyes. "Your partner was not the intended victim."

Ellison said nothing, but handed him a fax. Black read it quickly, realizing that this was a statement from the officer who had been with Sandburg when he was abducted. It clearly said that this officer, Detective Rafe, felt that he was the one the abductors had wanted, but when he had been injured, they had taken Sandburg instead.

"Do you have a picture of this man?" Black asked, quietly.

Simon Banks handed him a photo of Detective Rafe from the file they had brought with them from Cascade. Black placed Rafe's picture over Sandburg's and they stared at the mosaic spread across the credenza.

Ten almost identical faces. Same body type. Same build. Same age group. Same look. Same profession.

Black stepped back from the table as the others in the room gathered around to see what he had put together. Banks and Ellison came with him, standing before him, Ellison's intense blue eyes drilling him back against the wall.

"What do you see?" Ellison's question came out half under his breath.

Black knew he wasn't referring to the photographs. "Your partner."

"He's alive." Not a question. A statement.

"At the moment, he is." Black stared back. "You are connected to him." There was no verbal response, but the man's entire body language confirmed his thoughts. "I'm picking something up through you."

Ellison nodded. "Tell me."

The urgency was palatable. Black looked over to Woodward, and the man turned at his gaze and quickly joined them. "We need a room," Black said.

"Right now, Frank? We were hoping to profile--"

"I'll join you in thirty minutes. Right now, I need to talk to these two gentlemen. We have a young man who has been kidnaped who does not meet the abductors' criteria. There's a strong possibility that he might prove to be our link to them. We have to move fast, though. He's dying."

"How do you know--" Woodward cut off his own words. "What am I saying? This is why I asked you to come. Take my office. We'll continue on here. Anything we should know?"