No Center Line

    Chapter Twelve

"Bridges."

"Nash? It's Joe."

"Now's not a good time to talk, Bubba."

"What's happening?"

"Hang on. Let me pass you to --"

"Joe? It's Harvey."

"What's happening?"

"Not good, man. I don't know how to describe it, but it's like Ellison's catatonic. We can't get through to him. His captain is here now trying to bring him out of it, but meanwhile we have no idea what's going on."

"What happened? I thought he was like a Superman guy or something. So why's he catatonic?"

"Blair said he zones out when he concentrates too much on one of his senses--"

"Huh??"

"He zones -- I don't know, man. That's what the kid called it. I just know that now we've lost our contact with what was happening there. It's been over two hours."

"So un-zone him."

"We would if we knew how."

"So what's he doing? Just sitting there in his Superman cape and drooling?"

"More like he's frozen. You know, like my computer when it freezes up."

"Oh. Right. Strange, huh?"

"You said it. Wait a sec …I think we've got him back. Joe -- I promise we'll call you whenever we've got something, but I gotta go now, man."

"Hello? Hello? …Figures. Sure, you'll call. Sure. I'll believe that when my hair grows back."

Ellison came back with a frantic gasp for air, his heart wildly pounding in his chest and a splitting headache threatening to tear his skull open.

Jim?

"Jim?"

"Sandburg?" he gasped.

"Damn it, Jim. It's Simon." Banks' thumb was pressed into his shoulder, using pain to bring him out of it. "Concentrate! We need you here!"

"I am here," he murmured, his upper body tilting forward so he could rest his forehead on the dash of the car, the heels of his hands pressed against his temples. His head was whirling, the headache increasing as he realized he had zoned, and he had the sinking suspicion that it had been for quite awhile.

"About time, Ellison." Banks' ragged sigh only reinforced his suspicions.

"How long?" he asked, when he found the strength.

"Too long," Simon muttered. "Two and a half hours -- maybe more. I've been here for almost thirty minutes and I was about ready to give up. Jim, listen to me. We show activity at the property. We've stopped the ferries and all traffic from the bridge for the last several hours, but Jurgen still managed to get there. He must be based on the island at a different location."

"Where's Sandburg?" Ellison sat up then, his enhanced sight struggling at first, then focusing properly as he looked through the crowd of people outside the car. He could have sworn he had heard Sandburg's voice just a moment ago …but there were only a handful of SWAT members -- their jackets spelling out their unit -- mixed with men in dark suits and loosened ties from a half dozen different police departments. Frank Black stood with Harold Woodward, and at the far end of the group, off to one side, were Nash Bridges and Harvey Leek. No Sandburg.

Feeling himself under scrutiny, Bridges turned and looked at him, then nudged Leek and the two men moved to join him. "Are you okay?" Nash asked. "You scared the hell out of us."

"What happened?" Ellison's voice sounded low and harsh to his ears, his throat still tight with tension.

"I don't know," Harvey said, smiling slightly, one arm leaning on the roof of the car as he bent over to talk. "And I have a feeling I'm never really going to find out, am I?. One minute you were telling me what was going on, that Turnalo was giving Blair something to drink, and then you said that Blair said it smelled funny, and you just sorta faded out on me."

"Then what?"

"Well, then we couldn't bring you out of it, so we called Simon and he came over as soon as he could. He said not to call an ambulance or anything, that you were zoned."

"That's what Sandburg calls it. It happens sometimes," Ellison confirmed, still rubbing his forehead as he pulled himself from the car to stand with them.

"Which is why Blair is your partner, right? He keeps that from happening?" Harvey asked, steadying him.

"Yeah. Usually. Or he can bring me out of it right away." He ignored them for a minute, trying to listen again, but he'd lost the direction. "What's the situation? Simon?"

JIM!

Ellison pushed away from Harvey, taking several steps to the south, his body and senses alert.

"Jim?" Simon Banks came up behind him. "What is it?"

JIM!

"He's calling me. He's--" Ellison started walking, blindly, almost stepping off the road into a ditch, stopping only when Banks tugged on his arm. "I thought I heard him before, too. I've got to go," he said, still feeling dazed. "He's hurt . . ." There was a phantom pain in his ankle, another that fanned his headache until he willingly scrambled to find the dials, trying to turn it down so he could think. He pressed his fists hard against his temples, gasping at the pressure at the base of his skull and at the crown of his head.

"Ellison!"

He opened his eyes to see Frank Black approaching at a run, and he knew what the man wanted. What he had seen. The two men seemed to amplify each others gifts; with every step of Frank's closer to him, the pain became clearer and focused. The fear -- Sandburg's fear for his life -- and for Evan's. The thought -- the impression of his guide's desires -- that the sentinel would go to him.

Black arrived at his side, pulling at his elbow. "Hurry!" he said tensely, without apology, pushing Ellison back to the car. "We've got to go!"

Not questioning the authority in the man's voice, Banks grabbed Ellison's other arm and they ran with him to where Bridges already was behind the wheel, the motor started, and Leeks had the back door to the car open. They pushed Ellison ahead of them into the rear, then Black crawled in behind Ellison, while Banks ran around to the passenger side. The car was rolling before the captain had the door shut, laying black rubber marks on the road as Bridges pushed the car through its gears. "What do you see, Frank?"

"The knife. Bodies. He's slitting throats. But he's angry. This isn't how he likes to do it." The detached, emotionless voice was eery.

"Simon, he's having trouble breathing." Ellison's face was buried in his hands as he put every ounce of control at his disposal on his hearing.

Banks looked back at the startled group they had left behind. "I've got to advise Woodward what we're doing. Any suggestions?" They rounded the corner and lost sight of the gathered SWAT team. His cell phone rang as he was pulling it out. "Banks."

"What the hell is going on?" Ellison heard Harold Woodward exclaim into the phone.

"Tell him we're moving in," Frank Black said, then took the phone that Banks handed to him. "Harold? We've got to move now. Get your men in place. They're killing the officers. Hold off until you hear from us again." Black continued talking, but the words faded out.

They're killing my guide.

Harvey was sitting sideways in the back seat, and he leaned forward, his ear by Ellison's. "Concentrate, Jim. Find him. You can do it. You've heard him already."

They're killing my guide. His world began to spin with the loss. With the distance. He needed to be there and he wasn't. They're killing my guide.

"Jim! Listen to me."

They're killing my guide. I need-- He struggled to get out of the car, then, when that didn't work, he tried to get into the front, to make the car move faster, but they pulled him back, holding him in the rear seat.

Soft words in his ear. "Jim, listen. Listen to me."

"Sandburg?" he whispered, but it wasn't the voice of his guide.

But it was the voice of a guide, nonetheless.

"Jim? Concentrate. Find him. You can do this. You've heard him once; you can hear him again."

"Where is he?"

"Listen to me. Focus and look for him."

The words and voice began to register. Take shape. A speaker. Harvey.

He turned and stared at the man, watching his mouth move, watching the words, lulled by the tone.

And it fell in place. He had control.

He shook off the hands and closed his eyes. Listening.

A child complaining about a broken toy.

A woman talking to a friend on the phone about dinner plans.

A dog scratching at the door.

Television.

Radio.

Television.

Music.

A teenaged girl giggling with another on the phone.

A bird's wings brushing the air.

A leaf detaching from a branch and falling, falling . . .

A man's voice, enraged. What have you done?? The sentinel clung to the words, trying to stabilize his fragile connection as best he could.

He recognized the other speaker as Turnalo. You robbed me of my money. I robbed you of yours. So how does it feel?

Where is he? Damn you! Fucking damn you! Where is Evan?

I let them escape.

Why? WHY?

You should have let me keep Blair. You should have--

A gun fired and a bullet tore the life from Turnalo.

Ellison reeled from the sound, his hands over his ears, blocking the echo that no one else in the car could hear. He tried to find the connection again, but it was gone. Wild elation that Sandburg was free mixed with his other knowledge that his guide was injured, in pain, frightened. Yet -- and he had to focus on this -- yet, Sandburg was free. And as long as he was free and alive, there was concrete hope. Ellison wasn't sure exactly why he had let Sandburg do this, how the kid had convinced him. It went against everything his gut told him, every instinct he had. And they were good instincts, too. 'Protect the guide' was his most sacred instinct, and it was the first one that Alex had corrupted.

He had spent the next two weeks 'after Alex' letting that instinct take root again, letting his desire to keep his guide safe, protected, and at peace have full reign. That time in Mexico, walking together on the beach, talking, laughing and crying, had been idealistic, for he knew he wouldn't be able to take that degree of neediness into the city, into their busy schedules, into their careers and jobs. It wasn't practical; it was suffocating in its extreme. Blair Sandburg was a grown man who had his own life to live. As much as Ellison had a need to keep him safe and protected, Sandburg was not some domesticated bird in a cage. He needed -- required -- demanded -- his freedom.

Ellison was just amazed that Sandburg came back to him, time after disastrous time. That was the wonderful thing about homing birds; they came home. They knew where home was. Sandburg had a way of seeing past Ellison's own insecurities into his heart and knew that he had a home there.

Confident bastard.

Then again, it was practical; it was love at its best.

"A gun."

"I know. But who is shooting whom?"

Blair stared at him, unable to think of anything to say, so Evan continued, "Only one shot. Why?"

"Maybe it's Jim," Blair said hopefully. He closed his eyes, his face sinking into the mud, but Evan's sharp rap on his arm woke him before he could slide further into sleep and suffocate himself.

"We've got to keep going. The woods."

Blair nodded, pushing himself back to his hands and knees. They crawled forward over the clay-like soil, staying close to the uneven ground as they moved through the partly cleared land behind the warehouse. Neither could stand, but running quickly over this bumpy ground in the darkness would probably have been disastrous, anyway.

He'd gone on all of twenty-five feet when Evan's hand on his foot stopped him, and he collapsed, exhausted, his limbs shaking from the brief exercise. "What?"

"Shh."

He lifted his head slightly to see what it was that had alerted Evan.

Jurgen.

Shit.

The sliver of moonlight escaping the clouds lit up the bleached hair. It was Jurgen all right. He was dragging something. Someone. By the legs. Blair's heart nearly jumped from his chest when Jurgen came close enough for him to see that it was a leather-clad body. The gun shot he had heard then …It was Pete. Pete was dead. Pete was …Oh, my God! Jim, Pete is dead.

He flattened himself, hardly aware of the clammy mud chilling him to the bone, and clamped a hand over his mouth, keeping the scream in. He wanted to sink further into the cold muck, to let it cover his naked body like quicksand. And adding to his horror -- he had no idea why he was grieving. Why the thought of Pete dead terrified him. The man had just tried to rape him on camera, and here he was crying because Jurgen had killed him. But he couldn't stop the tears.

He felt Evan's hand touching his bare leg, holding on to him, trying to comfort him as best he could, rubbing his calf, the only place he could reach. But the tears wouldn't stop once they had started, blinding him as he lay huddled on the ground, his fist in his mouth, crying. Jim …Where the hell are you? Please. I'm so tired.

Evan slapped at his foot, then pointed once he had Blair's attention. The back door to the warehouse opened and Raul came out, striding through the mud to grab one of Turnalo's arms and help Jurgen drag him to the edge of the freshly dug ditch. "What happened?" they heard the Hispanic man ask tersely. "Who shot him?"

"He let Evan out of the trunk of my car, just so his precious toy could escape."

"Idiot." Raul dropped his side of the body, standing by and watching as Jurgen kicked it until it rolled into the ditch. "The tractor is ready when we're done. It'll only take two minutes to fill this in. Karl knows how to run it; just say the word. I confirmed the boat. It'll be there. The Bronco's almost ready. See if there's anything else we need. I've already loaded the small filing cabinet, the computer, and the raw videos. We're clear unless there's something else you need in there."

"I'll tell you what I need," Jurgen spat out. "I want Evan back. I need him alive. I've taken the money for him already. Chan Lu will be by Tuesday for him and I fucking better well have something to give him."

"Will one of the others do?" Raul asked in his monotone, flapless voice.

"No! Chan was specific. Evan matched. No one else matched that closely -- not for the money Chan was offering. Find them! He was with the reject who couldn't walk -- how far could they get?" Jurgen whirled around, staring blindly into the darkness around him. "Evan!" he screamed. "You will come here now! Unless you want a repeat of this morning--!" The threat hung in the night air.

"No," Evan whispered, his hands over his ears. Blair twisted to face the other way and wrapped his arms around Evan, shocked to feel his skin hot with fever. He was sick, Blair realized. Not just in pain, but actually ill with fever, as hot as Blair was freezing cold.

Blair watched silently as Jurgen stormed back into the warehouse, Raul trailing him as though caught in his whirlwind and sucked right along. Clouds had crept over the moon, hiding it, hiding the light, and hiding them. Evan was crying.

The wind had picked up, shaking the trees. It swept over their bodies, chilling them. At least it would help Evan's fever, Blair reasoned, but it made him shiver and made his head ache fiercely and the shaking sent stabs of pain through his leg. He started to get up, then dropped down again quickly when Karl and Metzger came out of the warehouse, dragging another body through the mud. Blair could barely see what they were doing; in the darkness he couldn't make out who it was they had brought out, except that he was naked and male.

The wind brought the sound of them talking his way and Blair wondered briefly if wind affected Jim's hearing. He had once said to Jim that not everything was about him. But that wasn't really true. It was amazing how few steps there were between any topic and a connection he would make to his sentinel. Forget the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Try the Two Degrees of Jim Ellison.

They rolled the body into the ditch and wiped their hands. Metzger counted quickly. "I'm starting to lose track here. The two workers, Turnalo, and two of the stars," he said as they turned back to the warehouse. "Just our two runaways and one star left, but he wants to do them himself."

"Why? What does it matter who kills them?"

"He just fucking does. He was going to kill our black star tonight; he probably feels cheated that we did him ourselves. Humor him. Meanwhile we can get the flashlights out and search for his missing prized star." Metzger quickened his pace. "Hurry up. I want out of here."

"Do we have time for this?" Karl asked, jogging beside him, then he grabbed Metzger's arm and pulled the other man to a halt. "I say we bug out and get clear. This entire project is gone --why's he risking everything on it? If there's a roadblock up, the cops have an idea where we are. We should have just left everything. The boat's ready. What's stopping us from just going there and leaving this?"

"Jurgen."

"Not me. He doesn't scare me. He's a fucking lunatic. Why's he got to be the one to kill them? He takes too bloody long."

Metzger, his scarred face distorted in the light from the open doorway, only shrugged. "Like my shrink used to say back at the Vet Hospital -- maybe he needs closure." Any reply was lost as they disappeared into the building.

The wind howled through the trees, the leaves rustling, sounding like a flock of birds lifting off.

"Evan?" Blair whispered, into the young detective's ear. "We need to get to the woods."

Evan stared hopelessly at the hundred yards that separated them and the shelter of the trees. "I can't do it. You can't do it." He looked back the way they had come. "Maybe the house? All the lights are out. I bet no one is in it."

"What if it's locked? We'd be stuck there." Shivering, Blair looked back at the black indication in the shadows of where the ditch was. Five bodies. Metzger was losing count. "I have an idea."

"What?" Evan groaned as he pushed himself upright.

"If we can't hide in the woods, we've got to get to the ditch. It's not very far."

"What? Why?"

"Don't ask. Just stay with me."

Don't stop and think about it.

Blair made himself move quickly, shaking wildly as he crawled the fifty feet to the edge of the ditch. If it had been lighter out, he would have seen dark spots before his eyes. As it was, he just felt faint, thinking that at any moment he would pitch forward in a dead faint. He could hear Evan behind him, trying to keep up. His hands and legs alternated, moving him forward. His foot hurt from his broken ankle bumping against the ground. His hands and knees were scraped raw from the rocky surface. He didn't want the men to exit the warehouse and see him crawling naked across the field. The thought launched him forward, and with a sigh and a shudder, he rolled himself over the edge of the ditch, down into the tangle of dead bodies.

"Blair?" Evan gasped, as he reached the edge. "What are you doing?"

"Get down here!"

Evan looked over his shoulder at the warehouse, then slid down into the ditch.

"We have to get under them." He didn't think about what he was doing; he couldn't. He just did it. Not looking at the twisted faces, Blair grabbed at one torn throat, his hand catching the blood that still oozed from the body long after the heart had stopped pumping it. Then he wormed his way under the last naked body they had put there, the blood smeared over his own throat. Beneath him, he felt Turnalo's rapidly cooling body, and Blair pushed him aside, crawling into the hollow he had left, Evan beside him. They tugged Turnalo's body back until it lay sprawled over them, the blood from his bullet-torn face dripping onto Blair's throat. Don't look. Don't look. Oh, man. Oh, man.

Evan shifted beside him, reciting prayers or something in Latin, and Blair turned to look at him. Evan's face was bloodied like one of the Chopec warriors, streaks of mud and blood covering his chest. His eyes were closed, his lips moving soundlessly. He had two earrings in his left ear.

My earrings are gone.

They had removed them when he was in the hospital, after the fountain. When he was back in the loft, Jim had given them back to him, along with his wallet and pocket watch, but the earrings were in a little plastic bag and there was blood on them. He had left them on the dresser in a bowl. Then he was in Mexico for two weeks and when they returned, the earrings felt strange in his hands, so he had put them back in the bowl. But he had cleaned them first. One day, maybe he would wear them again.

Evan's earrings had blood on them.

He turned his head. Turnalo was lying on Blair's other side, his lifeless limbs half covering him, the intimate embrace copying his actions of an hour before. Had it only been an hour? Half an hour? What happened? Everything was going smoothly, Pete had shown up and taken him back to the property, Evan had been brought there -- his plan was working perfectly. Then it all started falling apart. I tried, Jim. I really did. I thought I could do it.

He was so cold. He wanted to go to sleep, but there was a dead, naked body above him, and the sightless eyes stared down at him. He knew it was Jack Kelly, but he didn't want to think about it. And beneath him somewhere was Pat Hollis. Why? Why are they dead and not me? So far, Jurgen and the other bastards had claimed the lives of seven of the ten men they had kidnaped. Why did I bother coming back here? I didn't do any good. They're still dead. I didn't help at all.

Can you explain it to me, Jim? Huh? Where are you, anyway? The weight on his chest was making it hard to breathe. Evan's leg was against his, and he could feel the fever heat radiating from him. His own ankle seemed to have settled into a nightmare throbbing, shafts of pain piercing his leg every time he shifted. He felt himself drifting the moment he lay still, and he remembered he had a concussion. He glanced at Evan. Dark, bleary eyes were fastened on him, and their hands touched, clasping, hidden beneath Turnalo's body. Evan squeezed his hand, and Blair returned the pressure. Evan was alive, even if everyone else was dead.

"Stay awake," Evan whispered.

I found you, Evan, but I haven't helped any, have I?

The damp earth stank around them. Everything stank in a grave. He was in a grave. They were going to bury him here, but maybe they would be safe then.

He listened, eyes closed first, casting his net upon the water and pulling in the sound, just as his guide had taught him. Throw, bring it in, filter. Throw, bring it in, filter. Throw, bring it in, filter. And it worked. A heartbeat.

Sandburg's heartbeat.

Fast. Terrified. But it was Sandburg's heartbeat.

"Got it." He moved forward, gun drawn, ready, his eyes already adjusted for the cloud-dark night. The ground was uneven, muddy from the rain late that afternoon, trees and brush and a thicket of blackberry bushes gone wild. He paused long enough to untangle a branch from his jacket, unsurprised to see Frank Black at his heels, helping him. To his left and back, Simon, and beyond him, Nash and Harvey. Simon said something to him, but he shook his head that he couldn't hear him; his hearing was anchored somewhere beyond the warehouse that was within their sight now.

He moved forward another thirty feet, then angled to his right and paused again behind the farm house. There were no curtains on the windows, no blinds. He shifted his hearing then, cast another net over the structure, but there was no sound. No heartbeats, anyway. A house with no one in it. He shook his head at Simon, then looked around the corner of the house toward the warehouse, leaving Simon to explain to the others what he meant, but probably not what he was feeling.

A black Bronco 4x4 sat in the middle of the dirt road, its doors wide open, the interior light on. Ellison traced the direction it was headed in and tracked its path through the mud, noting it had come from behind the warehouse, not from the gravel lane leading to the public roads that they had driven in on. He moved sideways, sliding to the far edge of the house, following the muddy tire gouges with his sight until they disappeared into the woods. He forced his sight beyond that until the trees halted his progress. He threw his hearing further, pushing it eastward until it reached the water. Voices. The creak of a boat on the dock.

He crouched down as the door to the warehouse opened. A man, from his appearance probably the Hispanic man that had been reported at the scene of the abductions, exited with a box of papers, placing it the back of the already packed 4x4, then went back inside.

Ellison stayed with him, listening to the footsteps, letting them carry his hearing inside the building. It paid off instantly.

I'm done. Take this, Raul. That's the last of the videos. Grab the cameras, at least the Panavision one. I don't want to replace it.

That's about all I can take if Metzger's coming with me.

Put the camera in the passenger seat. Metzger can take Turnalo's car.

We need to go. We don't know how soon before they storm the property.

I'm not ready yet. I haven't finished with them.

Who's left? I thought there was only one.

One of the workers.

Let Metz and Karl take care of him.

I want to do it.

They might have beaten you to it. They're in a hurry.

I told them to leave one for me.

Whatever. I'll meet you at the boat. I'll grab the camera and head out. I'm not waiting.

Ellison's hearing jumped from Raul to the other man, Jurgen, centering on him as he moved through the warehouse. Ellison turned his head, looked at Simon, and said quietly, "One man is preparing to leave in the Bronco. He's got all the videos and paperwork."

Simon nodded and indicated that he would take care of it.

Ellison looked back toward their car, then pointed to Frank Black, talking quickly and almost silently. "Call Woodward. Tell him there are two heartbeats in the back field to the south of the warehouse. One of them is Sandburg's. Currently inside the building, a man by the name of Raul and one other who I assume is Jurgen, plus four other distinct beats. Tell Woodward there is a private road leading to the east side of the island. Somewhere there is a dock with a boat at it. He needs to secure that as well. Got that?"

Black nodded, stepping back into the darkness and disappearing.

Blair felt the tear run down his face. He couldn't even laugh at his own puns. At least the wind didn't bother him here. He could hear it up above, whistling as it traveled through the trees. The bodies around him were still warm, too -- even Evan's body was fever hot -- but he was cold.

He couldn't keep his eyes open, but he knew he had to. Staying awake was very important at this point, despite his great desire to sleep. He had to stay alert, especially because Evan was sick. But Evan kept squeezing his hand every time his eyes closed, so maybe Evan was thinking the same thing.

They heard voices approaching -- Metzger's calm voice and then Karl's angry one. "I say we leave now. Let's just dump him and go."

"We have our flashlights; we can check around. Realistically, how far could they have gotten?"

"Who gives a shit--"

"Shut up," Metzger said. "He's coming. Don't rile him now."

Blair braced himself as the new body rolled in on top of them. Evan's grip tightened on his hand. The blood dripped from the man's neck to run across Evan's bare shoulder. Evan made a soft, strangled sound.

Jurgen's voice floated over to them, the harsh consonants of his accent distinct as his frustration topped. "I said I would take him here."

"He's just one of the workers, not one of your stars. We left him for you."

"Go find Evan. We aren't leaving until I find him, Metzger."

"Just going to get the flashlights from the tool box," Scar Man said. "We can't see anything."

Karl cleared his throat. "Why don't we just go, Jurgen? This is fucking ridiculous. We can get another one like him on any street corner."

"NO! It has to be that man."

"Why?"

Jurgen's shadow fell on them. Blair could feel the tremors coursing through Evan. He squeezed his hand, willing him to not move as the man came to stand at the edge of the pit. Don't look down here. Don't look. Don't look.

Ellison heard the scream of rage from the back of the warehouse and moved quickly along the side of the building, Nash and Harvey still with him. They stopped and looked around the corner as an automatic fired twice in succession. Jurgen had his gun out, shooting one of his workers point blank. The man toppled back out of sight into a ditch. The other man had his hands up talking quietly, moving away from the edge of the hole. Ellison found Sandburg's heartbeat again, but it seemed to come directly from where Jurgen was standing.

"Fuck! Listen to me, Jurgen. I didn't kill them. Neither did Karl; he was with me the whole time."

"Then who did?"

"Who's left? Raul's the only one who is left."

The sound of the Bronco's engine turning over snapped both heads to the warehouse, but the 4x4 was on the far side of the building.

"Jurgen, Raul's leaving now. Did you say he could? Huh?"

"Why would he do this to me?"

"I don't know. But I didn't do it. We've got to get out of here now!"

Metzger turned his back on the enraged man and started running toward the warehouse, pulling a Luger from the holster beneath his jacket. Jurgen aimed his automatic at him, but didn't fire, his hand shaking as he continued to fume. Another shot rang out, but it was behind the detectives, near the Bronco. Jurgen's head turned, and Ellison could see the question on his face. If Raul was the only one left, besides Jurgen and Metzger, who fired the shot or who was Raul shooting at?

Ellison was asking the same question. It hadn't been Simon's automatic, but a double-action revolver. Was Raul shooting at Simon then or had someone else entered the picture? There were too many things for sentinel ears to listen for. And only one thing he wanted to listen to.

But if they stepped out now, they risked being shot from behind. Two weapons against two weapons. And he hadn't found Sandburg's exact location yet. He'd lost the heartbeat.

"Jim? Is anyone alive inside?" Bridges asked, leaning against the side of the warehouse and watching back the way they had come.

Ellison tilted his head, straining to listen, to go through the motions of throwing that damned net out, catching the sounds, and filtering them for what he wanted to hear. It worked, or at least he thought it had. The warehouse was empty, but for one heartbeat -- not his guide's. Someone was in the warehouse trying to free themselves from a pair of handcuffs. A man -- he could hear the frantic curses and prayers, and he could hear chains rattling as the man moved, and remembered what Sandburg had told them about the metal cuffs at their ankles. Noises …Metzger was inside now, Jurgen close at his heels.

Ellison turned to the two men beside him, snapping out orders. "Harvey, go check on Simon. He might need help. Be careful though. I can't tell if there are others back there. Bridges, you're with me." His words all ran together, he spoke so fast.

Harvey's eyes met Nash's, silently checking, then he moved out at Bridges' quick nod.

"You're in charge," Bridges said to the Cascade detective. "Call the shots."

Later he would thank him for cooperating, but now was not the time. Ellison took a quick look around the corner to the back entrance of the warehouse. "Stay with me. I'm going in the warehouse after them. There's a man in there that won't be alive long."

Bridges grabbed his arm as he started to move. "First -- are they out there? Blair and Evan?" he asked, looking to the field where the one man had been gunned down before their eyes.

Ellison turned his hearing back out to the field. Sandburg's heartbeat was still there, still strong and far too fast. Another heartbeat with his. They were breathing, not speaking. Not moving. "Sandburg is there. Someone is with him. And someone else is inside. I don't know if one of them is Evan, but the one inside is in trouble, and he's got company."

"Then let's go."

"Why? It worked."

"But what if they bury us here? The tractor is sitting there ready. We're trapped under these bodies." It was getting to him, Evan knew. Lying naked in a grave of dead bodies would probably get to anyone, but it certainly had pushed him past his ability to cope. He knew he was sick, too. His head throbbed. His eyes wouldn't focus right. His body hurt in places he didn't want to consider, didn't want to remember. His fevered skin crawled with the sensations of dirt and mud and cold and dried blood and wet blood and the stench of the pit he was in.

He tried to push Karl's body off him, his struggles growing more frantic as the heavy body refused to move. He was suddenly suffocating, feeling like the dirt was already coming down on him, trapping him, surrounding him. He turned his head, shoving the weight to one side, but an arm fell back and hit him on the face as the body moved.

Blair moved the arm before Evan could scream, but he lay with his hands over his face trying to catch his breath.

Come on, Cortez. They're dead. They aren't the ones you need to be concerned about. Concentrate now. Concentrate.

He had to get out of the pit.

The body was still over his legs, sideways. He sat up partway and tried pushing it off. Blair was trying to help but was too tired and in too much pain to do much. The young man had gotten them this far, but Evan knew he wouldn't last much longer. With a last shove, Evan finally succeeded in freeing them, the body rolling to one side, Karl's head back and mouth still open in a silent death scream.

Evan twisted away from the sight, his breathing ragged as he tried to catch some air. He pushed himself up to his knees, then gingerly stood on Karl's body to look out of the ditch. His eyes had become adjusted to the dim light, and he could see across to the back door of the warehouse, still propped open with a brick. "Blair, they must be busy inside," he whispered, then looked over his shoulder the other direction. "This is our chance. Let's get out of here and into the woods. We're almost halfway there."

"He's going to come looking for us," Blair mumbled, but accepted Evan's hand up, groaning as the wave of dizziness hit him. "You can't lift me," he added, feeling Evan's hands at his waist preparing to boost him from the ditch.

"I just did." Evan shook from the effort, possessed by a second wind that was already fading. As he paused to catch his breath, he looked down and caught the briefest glimpse of metal below Karl's shirt. He brushed the material aside and drew a knife from a sheath on Karl's belt, then scrambled out of the ditch. He sprawled beside Blair, rolling to his stomach to stare back at the warehouse. "Damn. Someone just went in there. Not Jurgen or the others." He shivered, trying not to cough. "Someone else."

That got Blair's attention, shaking him from the stupor he was slowly drifting into. "Yeah? Who?" he asked attempting to arch his head and look.

"I don't know. I didn't get a good look at them. They were in black. Neither Jurgen nor Raul were wearing black. Blair …I've got a feeling something is going to happen soon. We've really got to get out of here. I have a knife. I can protect us. I have a knife. We can do it." He was babbling, clinging to the knife's hilt.

"Or maybe we should just wait then," Blair said, collapsing back to the mud. "Jim will find me."

"No. Come on." Evan managed to get to his feet, hoisting Blair up again. "I have a knife."

"I can't walk!" his companion gasped, grimacing in pain. "Evan, no . . ."

With a quick twist, Evan had Blair up over his shoulder in a fireman carry and started moving. That lasted all of ten feet, before his knees gave out, and he tumbled over to his side. Blair flew from his shoulders to land in a crumpled heap beyond him.

"Shit." Evan reclaimed his knife before it disappeared from his sight in the sodden ground, then he crawled over to Sandburg, trying to get him up again. Blair rolled away from him, curling up. "Come on -- move!"

"Go without me!" Blair hissed, his body shaking from cold and pain. He had landed on his right arm, a stone cutting into the skin, blood seeping from the wound. It was raining now, the moon virtually gone.

"You can't stay here." Evan pulled him upward, hooking his shoulder under Blair's arm, moving them forward, then putting both his arms around Blair's torso and dragging him when it was clear Blair couldn't put any weight whatsoever on his damaged foot. The rain steadily increased in intensity. Low clouds held the echo of light from Seattle, across Puget Sound from the island; they could see shades of black, but depth vision was robbed. The sliver of light from the warehouse's back door outlined a path directly to the pit they had been in.

Evan had his left arm around Blair's back, his right hand, still clutching the knife, was trying to help him move. At least Blair was smaller than he was, shorter and lighter. Maybe he could do it. He could get them to the woods, then find somewhere to hide. With the knife he could protect them. The knife would help.

He stumbled, almost tripping over an exposed stump root. He had to concentrate on what he was doing. The wind was distracting him, making things move around him, making him think things were out there. The wind sent the rain pelting against his skin. He could feel Blair shaking helplessly from the cold.

Nash? Harvey? His mind screamed the names. His body shook with cold now, colder than he'd ever imagined being.

"Jim?" Blair whispered, hanging onto Evan.

Crack!

A bullet whizzed by them and they were down in the mud again. Evan raised his head, looking back. "It's Jurgen. He's coming from the side of the warehouse."

"He won't shoot you," Blair mumbled, staring up at the dark sky. The rain tapped across his face, soothing his forehead with cool strokes. "Jurgen needs you."

"I'd rather die."

"No!" Blair took a deep breath and Evan could hear the rattle in his chest. "Jim's here."

"Where is he then?" Evan demanded, looking up as Jurgen drew closer to them, passing the ditch, his bleached hair almost glowing in the dark.

"Jim's here," Blair murmured, his eyes closing, his head falling to one side.

Then suddenly, he froze outside a door, listening to the sound of a struggle, one man cursing, begging for his life, as another swore back at him. Ellison kicked the door open, the hollow wood smashing against the inside wall from the force, and Nash moved into the doorway firing as soon as he saw Metzger, his knife at Scott McBride's neck. The bullet hit the scar-marked man at the center of his throat, at the same place he was preparing to slice through his victim. The body jerked, the knife clattering to the floor as Metzger released his hold and collapsed backward.

"Help him," Ellison ordered, and kept moving, leaving Nash behind to release the Monterey detective.

There should be another heartbeat. Where was Jurgen?

He had left his guide unprotected.

Ellison raced out the main entrance into the courtyard, lowering his weapon slightly as Simon emerged from behind the badly eroded, purple Gremlin. "Where's Jurgen?" he demanded, his sight flickering over the area. The police cars and SWAT trucks were just arriving, the red and blue lights flashing over the property.

"I don't know who we got. Harvey and I wrestled one guy down and cuffed him. Fucking martial arts expert. I didn't see anyone else come out," Simon said, gasping for air. He had a cut over his left eye that he batted at angrily. "We had our hands full."

"Raul or Jurgen?"

"Hispanic guy. Harvey's taking him to the SWAT boys."

"It was Raul. Jurgen's fair; white hair." Ellison moved to the edge of the warehouse, then around the corner, gun out. No one was there. "He's gone back to the field. Tell the SWAT captain that we're only missing Jurgen now. The rest are dead. Bridges is inside with McBride. I'm going after Jurgen." The mud clung to his soft-soled shoes as he ran along the side of the building, making an odd slapping sound. As if reacting to the crisis, the wind picked up, gusting through the trees, tearing the new spring leaves from the branches with gale force. Rain drenched him, running down his collar and cooling his neck and shoulders as he sprinted toward the back of the property.

At the corner of the building, he paused for a brief second, then spun around it, gun out. Jurgen was running east toward the trees, and the sentinel's heightened sight brought another distant figure into focus near the line of trees bordering the field, a man lying face down in the mud. Dark hair, rain plastering it to his forehead, the glimpse of two earrings in his left ear. Evan Cortez. And a body beneath him, unmoving.

My guide.

Long legs pumped into action as he raced after Jurgen, peripherally aware of Nash Bridges emerging from the back of the warehouse and following him.

Jurgen turned, spotted him and danced back, changing his position so he could see Ellison clearly in the light from the doorway. "I'll shoot him!" Jurgen screamed, waving a gun in each hand, a knife handle glinting from his left boot. "Stand back! I'll shoot them both!"

Ellison stopped, wavering in the darkness. Directly behind him, he could hear Nash running still, out of Jurgen's line of sight.

"Jim, move aside and I'll take him."

"He's mine," Ellison whispered, then darted to his right, drawing Jurgen's attention as the sentinel's sight focused and he took aim. Three shots rang out almost spontaneously, two taking Jurgen, one between his eyes, one over his heart. The third, from Jurgen's gun, narrowly missed Ellison, but sped off into the night without meeting a target. Jurgen spun and dropped, convulsed once, then was still in the mud and rain. The sentinel looked back at Nash, his gun still in position after firing. He had to clear his throat before the words would come. "He's dead. We're clear."

He turned then and staggered toward the two men huddled ten feet from the edge of the woods. He dropped his gun and showed both hands to Evan who was bent over Sandburg, trying to protect him from yet another unrecognizable man.

"Stop! Leave him alone," Evan screamed, rain and tears running down his face, one step away from collapse. He held a knife out before him, waving it menacingly. "Take me instead! I'll go with you. He's dead! It's too late."

Ellison dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge, still moving forward, desperate to get past the last five feet to his guide. The heartbeat was clear. Sandburg was alive, but Evan was delirious and armed with a knife that made him dangerous to get near. Dangerous for Sandburg, as well, since Evan's control would be hampered by his fevered desperation to protect his friend. "Evan, I'm a cop! James Ellison, Cascade P.D," he yelled over the roar of the wind. "That's my partner. I'm here to help you."

Please, God. Not this close.

Evan choked, gasping, hardly able to make sense of what he was seeing, what was happening. The knife was still held out before him. "Don't hurt him. Please don't hurt him. I'll kill you if you come any closer. I swear I will."

"I won't hurt him. He's my friend, my brother. Let me get to him."

"Evan?" Bridges came up behind Ellison, moving past him, his hands out as his calm voice shrouded the scene. "It's okay, Evan. It's over."

"Nash?" Evan sounded confused, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"I'm here. It's over."

With a groan, Evan looked away, his face turning to stare at Jurgen's body. A movement caught his attention, and his gaze slowly traveled up to Bridges' face as Nash holstered his gun and knelt beside his young detective.

"Hey, Bubba."

Evan said nothing, just stared at him blankly.

Slowly Nash took the knife from his hand, laid it aside and gathered him in, gently wrapping his arms around him. "It's over. You done good. He's safe."

Evan closed his eyes and leaned against him, the weight gradually increasing as he relaxed. He nodded that he had heard.

Ellison moved past them, dropping to his knees at his guide's side. "Chief?" He slid his hand down the bare back, then checked his neck before turning him onto his back. "Sandburg?"

The world shifted again. He touched Blair's forehead, his hand trailing down the side of his face. The pulse was steady, but fast. Skin icy and clammy. Shock and the early stages of hypothermia. He kept touching him, checking him, willing him to respond. "Hey, buddy. It's me, Jim."

At his name, his guide seemed to pull himself from a great distance, eyes flickering open. Nothing happened for a long moment, then suddenly his hands were reaching up for Ellison, grasping his arms, letting himself be swept up to the sentinel's chest, pressing against him, sobs wracking his body when he knew, finally, that he was safe. Ellison collapsed with him, sheltering him, wrapping his arms around his battered guide, rain washing the tears from his face as he murmured Sandburg's name.

'It's over' could hardly express what he was feeling.

"Jim?" The whisper caught in the air.

"Yes," he answered.

"Evan?" Blair asked. "Is he--?"

"He's here. He's safe."

"Good," his guide breathed, still clinging to him.

"Evan! My God, Evan!" Harvey appeared out of the darkness, almost knocking Nash out of the way as he tried to get at his partner. "You're alive. My God, you're alive." He wrapped his arms around Evan, pulling him closer. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Reaction hit then for Cortez. With a sob, Evan buried his face against Harvey's neck, fingers taloning into the back of the other's jacket as he held on. "Harv, I thought I'd never see you again," he wept, resources gone. Nash's arms went around them both, and Evan grabbed hold of Nash's hand and held onto both men as though terrified to let go.

Simon brought an armful of emergency blankets, handed half of them to Nash, then the two captains wrapped their respective men carefully, trying to protect them from the wind and rain and the swarm of officers that now flooded the area, after the fact. Cameras flashed at the ditch and by Jurgen's body, a scant twenty feet away from where they sat huddled against the downpour. Ellison could hear Simon's voice, calling for the paramedics, calling for two stretchers, barking orders at anyone who came near them.

"I knew you'd come," Sandburg whispered, his face pressed into Ellison's neck.

"I said I would." He leaned over so his cheek touched his partner's forehead.

"They're all dead, Jim." Sandburg shivered and Ellison wrapped the blanket tighter around them both, lifting his head briefly to watch as the paramedics drove the ambulance along the side road toward them. They'd have to stay on the gravel or risk getting stuck in the muddy back field.

Sandburg had said something that he needed to respond to. "You and Evan are alive, and so is Scott McBride."

"I wanted them all to be alive." Tears ran down Sandburg's face, spilling onto Ellison's neck.

"So did I. But we did the best we could."

"Even Pete is dead."

"I know. Jurgen shot him."

"Why?"

"Because he let you and Evan escape."

"He did that for me? He risked his life for me?"

Not quite, Chief. He did it because he thought he could make money off you, and he was angry that Jurgen spoiled his plans. Later, he would talk to Sandburg about what had happened, put it in some sort of perspective. Who knows? Maybe Turnalo did care for Sandburg on one level, but Ellison knew he'd never feel sorry that the man was dead.

Ellison looked up, watching the scene unfold, his sight fastening beyond the warehouse, beyond the farm house, to a single man standing by the roadside. Frank Black looked at him across the distance and smiled, as though he knew the sentinel was watching. He saluted his farewell, turned, and walked down the gravel road alone, his hands in his pockets, hunched slightly against the harsh weather.

Ellison sighed, content for the moment to let the wind and rain rage about him. Sandburg was crying softly, but he was safe. The sentinel looked down at him and shifted their positions slightly, so that beneath the blanket he could take his guide's hand and press his palm against his partner's.

Sandburg's breath caught. Lost blue eyes flickered open to look at him. Ellison bent to kiss the muddy forehead, and when he looked at him again, the eyes were soft with tears. No longer lost, but found.

By the time the stretcher arrived, Sandburg was asleep in his arms, calm and peaceful, blissfully trusting his partner to take care of the world.

And he was more than willing to do just that.