No Center Line

"Jim, I need to go back there. To let them capture me again. And I know how to do it."

"No. No way."

"Yes." He waited, watching Jim's cold expression spread from his eyes throughout the man's body. Jim could do 'stubborn' better than anyone. Well, almost anyone. Blair was also regarded as rather skilled in that area.

"No," the sentinel repeated. "I'll go. Just tell me what--"

"Sorry. I'm going. I owe them. I owe Evan. And I need to do this."

"I understand how you feel, but -- no. You're not going. You're not a cop. Let someone else--"

"Isn't that Simon's line?"

"He's right about that."

"Jim, it's got to be me. No one else will do."

"No."

"You're not listening to me. You're not even giving me a chance to explain what--"

"We'll rescue Evan, but you're not going back there."

"Then how are you going to find him?"

Ellison frowned, drawing back, a spark of anger in his eyes. "Sandburg, if you know where he is, why haven't you told us?" he growled. "What is this martyr complex that you feel you have to do this on your own?"

"Jim, I haven't even told you what my plan is."

"It won't--"

Blair turned around and headed to the door of the men's room. "No use talking to you."

"Chief--" Jim took a few steps and dragged his partner to a halt with a quick yank on his arm. "Just wait a minute."

"What for? Are you going to listen to me?" he asked, pulling away from the detective, his left arm held tight against his ribs. Now was not the time to admit how much that had hurt physically. "No. You just assume that--"

"Yes," Ellison exploded in a fierce whisper. "Yes, damn it, Sandburg. I'll listen."

Well, that took him by surprise. His eyes narrowed. "You will? Really?"

The jaw tightened. The hand on his arm released. It took a moment before the detective could get himself under control to respond calmly. "Let's go back upstairs. You're right; we need to talk." Jim held open the door for him. "I'm not convinced there is any way in hell I'm going to let you go back there. And if you can't convince me, you're never going to convince them."

"I have to do it, Jim," he said, not moving.

"Fine. Let's go talk. Convince me."

Blair stood uncomfortably, shifting from one foot to the other. His back hurt. His arm hurt where Jim had grabbed him. He had a headache the size of Pittsburgh. His stomach was starting to feel decidedly weird. "Go where?" he asked, still suspicious. He had expected a major battle for this and was just starting it when Jim suddenly caved. But appearances could be deceiving. He knew he had the only way of getting to Evan, and there was no way Jim could do it for him. "Jim--" he said as Ellison was heading out the door. "Where are we going to go?"

"Upstairs. Private. Alone."

"What about Simon and the others?"

"No."

Single words. Not good. "Upstairs?" he repeated. Well, Jim wouldn't handcuff him to the bed or anything like that. Not with witnesses. "Okay." Blair moved past him to the hallway, pausing as Jim's hand on his shoulder directed him to stop.

"I'm going to tell them you need to lie down for a few minutes."

"It's only been like half an hour or so since I was lying down," Blair pointed out. "Can't you think of something else?"

"No." Jim's head tilted in that 'I'm-listening-to-your-vital-signs' kinda way. "Besides, you need to lie down." Blair leaned back against the corridor wall as his partner went inside and spoke to the four men. Whatever it was Jim said, he didn't take long to say it, for he was back out in less than a minute. "Come on."

The stairs were worse than last time to manage, the pain in his side growing worse, the cut on his lower calf throbbing. And Jim knew he was hurting; there was no way Blair could disguise it. His forehead had a sheen of sweat on it, his body language clearly showing injury.

But it would work into his plan beautifully. He hoped.

They finally reached the top of the stairs and Jim opened the motel room door. Blair scooted in quickly and walked through to their room. He turned after a moment and stared back through the open doorway, but Jim was still standing in the other room, unmoving, his body rigid with controlled tension.

Deal with it, Jim. Please don't fight me on this.

Blair crawled onto the bed, moving higher until his back was against the headboard, his knees raised to ease the pull on his abdominal muscles. A stupid tear ran down his face, and he angrily wiped it away. Damn it, you bastard. Trust me!

Jim appeared in the doorway, his image a blurry watercolor. "I'm trying, Chief. I'm trying, but do you know how difficult this is for me? Do you know what you're asking me to do?"

"I'm asking you to be my backup. That's it. Just back me up and get me out of there."

"Where? We don't know where the warehouse is."

"I can get to it. But I'm going to need your help. It's more complicated than just finding the warehouse. Evan's not there anymore."

"What?" Jim finally stepped into the room.

"Pete told that me that Evan was taken to a different place, to get him ready to be sold. It wouldn't be good for the buyer to go to the warehouse for him, and the man would be picking up Evan in person."

"So how is you going to the warehouse going to get Evan back?"

"I'll get Pete to take me to him, then you can take it from there."

"No."

"Jim, listen to me! Pete won't hurt me. I think he'd take me there."

"Why don't we just find the warehouse, rush it, and arrest them all? Force them to talk. Plea bargain. I'm sure Jurgen's assistants will tell us--"

"They don't know where he is."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't know. I think Pete told me. He talked to me a lot."

"Then why does Pete know where he is?"

"Pete drove them."

"Then why wouldn't Pete tell us, if we arrested him?"

"Because it would be too late. If they're threatened at all at the warehouse, the guy guarding Evan at the other place would just kill him."

Jim came to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. "And why would Pete take you there?"

"Because I'm not a threat. If you arrest Pete, I don't think he'd say anything about Evan -- he's scared. But if I fake amnesia, he finds me, takes me back to the warehouse, and then I convince him that seeing Evan one more time would make me happy, I'm sure he'd do it."

"Just because you asked him?"

"This guy is … well, he's different, Jim. He's kinda obsessive. And he's obsessed with me, which might be to our advantage."

"Might?"

"It will be to our advantage."

"Still not convinced. Besides, how are you going to let Pete find you?"

"By remembering." Blair shivered, reaching to pull a pillow onto his lap, something to hang on to. "That's where I need your help."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember how I helped you recall the message Jack left for you the time your answer machine didn't record it?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm no sentinel, but I am a sentinel's guide. I don't have your phenomenal memory for things, but I'm probably more aware of sounds than most people, because of my training with you."

"So what do you want to remember?"

"I was in a truck -- well, a semi-trailer -- going to the warehouse that first time I woke up. I remember a bridge, a gravel road. A dirt road. I remember the feel of the pavement changing. We might be able to figure out around where I was."

"I don't know this area, but we could get the others to help us." Jim paused.

"And your secret will still be safe. This isn't anything Sentinel-like, Jim. This is just remembering. And I think you can help me remember a bit better." Blair sat up straighter, wincing again from the ache in his side. He looked up as Jim moved closer up the bed, the man's hand reaching under Blair's shirt to touch his ribs, to trace the path of the pain. "I'll need a map."

"I've got one in the truck."

"A good map -- detailed. And someone who knows the area."

"Harold Woodward. Frank Black. And Simon lived in Seattle for a while."

"He did? When?" he asked, gasping as Jim's fingers touched a particularly sore spot.

"In college."

"Oh. I didn't know that."

"Chief--" Jim withdrew his hand impatiently.

"Okay. The point is, Jim, Pete likes me. I think this plan will work. I don't think he would let anything happen to me." Blair eyed Jim carefully, aware of his partner's intense stare at the far wall.

"He likes you? That's supposed to reassure me?"

"He didn't do anything to me, Jim. It wasn't him."

"How do you know that? How much do you remember? Not very much, as I recall."

"He just wants to film me."

Jim turned to him, incredulous. "Are you nuts? Don't you get it, Sandburg? The man makes snuff films!"

"That's not what he wants to do with me--"

"The man makes snuff films -- What are you talking about? You can't seriously think it would be safe for you to be with him?"

"Jim, listen to me. You have to trust me. You have to trust my judgement--"

"Oh, no," Ellison said, bouncing from the bed to stand before him. "You are not going to wave that word in my face. Trust. Sure, I trust you. I trust you with my senses. I trust you to watch my back. I trust you with my life. And I trust you to find trouble if it's anywhere remotely in the same neighborhood that you are--"

"It's still about trust!" Sandburg yelled back, clutching his side. "You have to trust me on this, because you weren't there, Jim! You don't know what I saw. You weren't there!" He watched, stunned, as his partner crumpled before him, dropping to his knees at the side of the bed, his head resting on crossed arms, face hidden. "Jim?" he whispered softly, one hand reaching to touch the top of the sentinel's head.

"If I could have been there, I would have."

"I know. I know, Jim. That's not what I meant," he whispered, bending over his partner, resting his head on Jim's curved back.

"Do you know what you're asking me to do?" The muffled question was fraught with pain.

"Yes," Blair answered, his eyes brimming with tears. "I'm sorry."

Frank opened it, his solemn face almost smiling as he rescued several sugar packages that threatened to slide from the tray. "We're just getting started."

Nash put the tray down by the sink and glanced quickly at the others, trying to read the mood of the room. Harold Woodward was rummaging through his briefcase, looking for something. Simon was definitely hovering over his two men. Jim was aloof, all business. Blair sat almost listlessly on the edge of one bed, his thoughts far from the bustle around him. Frank was doing what he had done all along -- studying the two partners, seemingly fascinated by whatever it was he was seeing about them.

"Here they are. I've got detailed maps of the county and neighboring counties," Woodward said. "Which do you need first?"

"A general road map of this part of the state." Ellison took the proffered map and spread it out of the table in the main room of the suite where they had all retreated to. "Could you also arrange for a police composite artist? We need to get an idea of what these men look like, and Sandburg can help us there." As Woodward picked up his cell phone to make the call, Ellison smoothed the creases of the map, his hands flattening the diagram as he studied it briefly, then pointed to one specific spot. "Sandburg was found here, at a rest station on the east side of the I-5, heading north. He has some memories of that trip, and of the first trip he took to the warehouse where he was held. We feel he has some specific indications that might be helpful in pinpointing an area."

Nash looked over at Blair, still seemingly disconnected to the proceedings in the room, his shoulders slumped, his face far sadder than any face deserved to be. Without pausing to consider his actions, Nash moved to sit next to him, one arm slipping around him, unsurprised when the young man leaned into the embrace. A lone tear ran crossways down Blair's face to drop onto a curl, caught and glistening in the sunlight coming in through the open window. His lower lashes, as were his partner's, were ringed in red. These tears were not the first for either of them.

"Are you in pain?" he asked quietly as the other men were gathered at the table looking at the map. He would be of no help to them, not knowing the area at all, but he could offer what he was able to this one. It didn't bring Evan any closer, but it still helped ease some of the tightness across his chest.

Blair shrugged, then sighed. "Not really. Just a little. My ribs," he added, softly.

"Are you comfortable? Would you rather lie down?"

"No," came the soft reply. "I'm fine, thanks. Just tired." Without moving his head from where it rested against Nash's shoulder, Blair looked up, meeting his partner's searching gaze and a soft smile touched his lips, reflecting through the expressive eyes.

Ellison nodded, as though to himself, then continued his search. With a heavier sigh, Blair straightened up, one hand resting briefly on Nash's leg as he stood. "We'll find him." He moved to his partner's side, Ellison making room for him automatically, although he hadn't turned to see him coming.

Nash fixed Blair a coffee, remembering how he had ordered it at breakfast -- another plus for a photographic memory -- and took it to him, smiling as it was gratefully accepted, Blair's long fingers curling around the warmth of the ceramic mug.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He brought the others their coffees, then perched against the back of a chair, watching the proceedings. We'll find him. He closed his eyes, holding on to that thought. It was difficult to just sit. He should be doing something. Maybe he should be elsewhere looking for leads. For anything.

But there was nowhere to start but in this room.

His cell phone rang, startling him. He flipped it open, irritated by his reaction. "Talk to me."

"Nash? It's Harvey. I've got a rental and I'm heading your way. Joe said Bellevue. Where abouts?"

He gave Harvey the address, then hung up, already feeling less scattered. His own people were coming. Maybe Jim Ellison could find Blair by some supernatural method, but if anyone could be trusted with finding Evan, it would be Harvey.

Ellison pulled out a chair at the table and had his partner sit in front of him. His hands rested on Sandburg's shoulders, grounding both of them. "What do you remember about the road?" he asked, his voice level, taking on an entirely different quality. "Think back. Go back to it."

The young man's eyes were closed and he sat with his hands on top of his partner's. "I can remember … At the end of the trip it was gravel. Bumpy. For at least five minutes. Before that it was paved, but there were lots of bumps on it, like pot holes."

"A private road, or seldom used road," Woodward said, slowly shaking his head as he stared at the map. "Lots to choose from. How long were you on that road?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe ten or fifteen minutes … There was a bridge we crossed. I could feel the grates or whatever they are as we went over it." Blair sat up straighter. "First was a smooth road. We were going fast, but not fast like a freeway. It didn't feel like a freeway. Then the bridge. Fairly long bridge. Then the bumpy road for ten or fifteen minutes, then the gravel road for five minutes."

Woodward had fastened on the word 'bridge', laying down a clear plastic sheet over the map, then circling several possibilities with a felt pen. "You could feel the grates of the bridge?"

"Yeah. Sort of a shivery vibration."

"How long did that go on?"

"A few minutes. It was a long bridge."

Woodward stared at his map. "We're talking about a bridge crossing a river, a bay, or even Puget Sound, and that would be high enough to let the occasional boat pass through a few times daily, probably at set times." He looked across at Blair, thoughtfully. "We're narrowing it down. You turned off the bridge to your left?"

"A sharp turn. Very soon after leaving the bridge."

"Did the truck slow down or stop at all?"

"No. I don't think so."

Frank Black spoke up then, his voice, as always, sending shivers down Nash's spine. "Blair, can you remember much about what happened yesterday? Your trip in the semi-trailer?"

The young man shook his head. "Not too much. Just bits and pieces. No. Sorry."

Woodward turned over a sheet in his legal-sized note book. "Let's set up a time schedule. That might help. What was the first contact with Sandburg yesterday?"

"Friday morning, 3:00 a.m.," Ellison said immediately, then stopped, his eyes moving to Simon Banks' as though asking permission to say more. The two men stared at each other, both weighing whether it was safe to speak.

Woodward picked up on it and straightened up from where he was bent over the table. "If I may," he said, "if something confidential needs to be said, it stays in this room." He looked around at each man, accepting the curt nods of agreement. "Now, I've worked with Frank Black. I have no idea how he does the things he does, but as I said before, I trust him. Whatever it is between you, Ellison, and your partner here, I'm willing to work with it, if there's a chance we can rescue the others before they are killed. Right now, my usual ways of getting information are drying up. I'm more than willing to try the unusual." He waited a moment, then asked, "What happened at 3:00 a.m. yesterday morning?"

"I dreamt that Sandburg was terrified and in pain, then lost consciousness. It seemed to me it was happening at the same time as I was dreaming it." Ellison's hands moved on his partner's shoulders, kneading the tight muscles.

"Blair?" Woodward asked.

Nash groaned at the frightened look of panic that crossed the young man's face. He clutched at his side, as though his body remembered something that hadn't reached his conscious thoughts yet. "How did you hurt your ribs?" he asked suddenly.

Blair turned to him, gasping to catch his breath, his tongue licking dry lips before answering, "I don't remember how I hurt them."

Blair groaned. The floor was cold beneath his cheekbone, where the side of his face rested on the smooth tiles.

Water was running. He could feel the echo of it, the rumble along the floor, along his hip and thigh. His back hurt.

Steam. There was steam and water.

He was cold. A shiver shook him, waking him from his forced sleep.

I've zoned again, he thought. For it wasn't really sleep. He suspected that he did things during that time, that part of him was awake during his 'absences'. A part of his mind was still working.

Just like Jim, he mused, comforted by even thinking the name. Jim would zone out, lost in a whiteout of his senses.

Except I've been drugged and can't remember what happened.

There was water running.

He opened his eyes, surprised that he could.

Now where am I?

It was a large room, considering the relatively limited size of the warehouse. A luxurious bathroom. Water was running into a black bathtub near where he lay. It had clawed feet. Gold clawed feet. The floor was a shiny black. The facets were gold.

Probably fake.

He glanced up. No ceiling. A set, then. Now what?

The camera man came back into the picture and set his styrofoam cup on the edge of the sink. "A bath will make you feel better," he cooed, hoisting Blair up and helping him into the bathtub. "You did well, luv. Jurgen got everything set up and he's happy about the performance we're filming later."

The water was hot -- not scalding, but hot enough to make the cuts and bruises ache, and it made other parts of him hurt. Pete whistled a tuneless song as he turned the water off. He snapped a pair of handcuffs around Blair's left wrist and then around the handhold on the wall.

"That's so you don't slip under the water and drown," the camera man said, retrieving his coffee. "Have a nice soak, luv. We just got the tub set up for a film on Sunday night, so you're the first occupant. Enjoy. I'll be back in a few. Jurgen asked to see me. I think I'm staying the night. Jurgen usually locks up at midnight, but filming ran late. Maybe we can spend some quality time together later, hey? Would you like that? We could use the set with the round bed. Proper lighting. I've got a nice bottle of wine, too …" He left the room, still whistling the door closing with a hollow thunk.

Propelled into action as his arms and legs began to reconnect with his brain, Blair stood up, only to come up short as his wrist stopped him, knocking him off balance in the tub. His feet slipped on the smooth bottom, his legs going out from under him, and he landed heavily on the rim of the tub, cursing loudly at the fiery pain that flared in his side when he tried to breathe.

There was no way he could lie back in the tub, his left wrist keeping him just high enough for his body not to reach. It made the drag on his ribs hurt more, and he had to get his legs underneath him to ease the stretch. He was still there, draped over the edge of the footed tub, his eyes closed against the bright studio lights, when Pete returned two hours later to take him out of the cold water.

"You done?" The key turned in the lock, the handcuffs falling from his numb hands. "Sorry I took so long, luv. Not very comfortable, was it? I thought you'd like it more than that disgusting shower, but Jurgen wanted to see the footage we took, so I couldn't stay with you. Maybe another time. I'm usually here by nine in the morning, but it could be slow then, so … We could have scented candles and soft lights … Maybe some bubbles. And white wine -- no -- Champagne. Would you like that?"

Strong hands reached into the tub and dragged him up, hoisting him over one shoulder. "You're all wrinkles. We've got to do something about that hair. Jurgen wanted me to cut it off, but I like it on you. Never was one for a hairy body, but yours," Pete said, patting his rump, "Yes, yours I can't keep my hands off, luv. My million-dollar baby. I've got some shampoo in the bathroom. I'll shower you off, shave you, then maybe Jurgen can be convinced to keep you around longer. You fix up pretty. I don't have anything for your curls though. What do they use now? Gel?"

Dazed, Blair was taken to the small shower that was used by all the men, a cheap stall that was probably newly purchased but already showing the stains of not being cared for. It looked like someone had rinsed paint brushes in it earlier, smelling of turpentine and other fumes. He coughed from the scents, then cried out as the pain shot through his ribs.

Pete continued to talk but his words no longer translated to Blair's sleep-fogged mind. Rough hands worked a cheap vanilla-scented shampoo through his hair, then pushed him under the dribble of water and impatiently tried to get the shampoo out again. He was pulled out before he could turn his face to capture some water to drink, the cool spray teasing on his cracked lips.

He wasn't sure what happened next.

Three men blocked the door of the bathroom. His vision faltering as dizziness hit.

Pete's voice -- outraged as he was taken from the camera man.

Hands dragging him away.

Then nothing.

"They?" Simon asked, gently.

Blair looked up at him, grateful for Simon being there, the solidness of the captain's presence in the room. "The henchmen. Muscle Man, Scar Man, another guy, too. Maybe the Hispanic guy. I'm sorry, Simon. I wish I could be more exact."

"You're doing fine, son."

"Do you know what happened when they took you out?" Jim asked, from where he had knelt at Blair's side as he related his memories.

Blair looked down to see their hands clasped together, in the way that gave him strength and calmed his emotions. Why or how it worked, Blair wasn't ready to investigate that. It worked, and right now, he needed it to work. But Jim had asked a question, one he had no answer for.

"Sorry. It comes in bits and pieces. I don't know why I remember what I do remember."

"That's okay. You're doing fine."

Woodward was writing notes, but finally stopped, his pen tapping against the paper. "So, you think that's what happened at 3:00 a.m. that matches Ellison's--" Woodward's voice broke off.

"My dream," the detective filled in.

"What else do we have?" Woodward looked down at his legal pad of paper. "What time was he found at the rest stop south of Everett?"

"About 9:30 p.m.," Simon answered.

"It was raining then, wasn't it?"

"Pouring."

"Was there water under the trailer?"

"It rained all day yesterday," Jim answered, still holding Blair's hand.

"How long do you estimate the trailer was there?"

"Blair was in the trailer approximately three or four hours, according to the doctor. Much of this was based on how old the wounds were, scrapes and bruises, and his absorption of the odors from the bodies. The van itself was not dirty, but he had dirt that had to be cleaned from the cut on his right calf, dirt not found in the trailer. The wound was fairly recent."

"My leg hit the side of the door when they threw me into the van," Blair said. "It was muddy." He shrugged as the men turned and stared at him. "Sorry."

"Feel free to add whatever you want."

"I just remembered it."

"Tell us about the van," Woodward asked, softly.

"I think I told you everything already. That's all I remembered."

Frank Black stood up suddenly and moved over to Blair. There was something about the look in his eyes that was frightening. He put his hand on Blair's shoulder, but looked at Jim as he spoke. "I saw him in the van. He was gagged. They threw him inside. He landed on top of bodies. They threatened him with a knife to lie still and not move."

"Were these the wrapped bodies from the semi?" Woodward asked.

"No. These had been recently killed. The blood hadn't dried yet on their skin. Their throats were slit. The men held a knife at your throat," Frank added, looking at Blair's neck.

"The meeting at Seattle P.D. had already started," Jim said. "That would make it about -- 2:15 p.m.?"

"Sounds right," Frank agreed.

Blair shivered. They were talking about something he didn't remember -- didn't want to remember -- but he knew they were right. He knew it had happened. He knew … "Their eyes were open," he whispered. He looked to Frank, who nodded, then turned to the man still close at his side. "I was in a van, Jim. A white van."

"The van discovered in Everett. Forensics in Everett have been going over the vehicle and will call me with their report -- I was actually expecting their call an hour ago." Woodward took his cell phone out and placed it on the table, ready.

"We could verify the blood samples. Blair's wound would have bled." Simon smiled at him apologetically.

He smiled back, curiously detached from what they were discussing. He had seen the bandage on his leg, but hadn't paid attention to what Jim was doing when he changed the dressing. It was strange to suddenly remember getting the injury.

Woodward was flipping pages in his notebook. "From what we were already told by the Everett police, the van was found at 6:00 p.m. The motor was still warm, indicating it had been abandoned approximately twenty to thirty minutes previous."

Simon glanced at the map. "So, Sandburg is put in the van with several bodies at approximately 2:15 p.m. He is taken from the van prior to 5:30 p.m."

They all turned and stared at him, but he had nothing to add, so they kept talking.

"At about … 6:30 p.m. last night, I had the feeling that Sandburg was sleeping or unconscious," Jim said. "He wasn't moving."

"He wasn't moving, or the vehicle he was in wasn't moving?" Nash asked.

"I don't know. I just had the impression he was safe." Jim shrugged. "Safer, anyway."

"Away from the others," Frank mused, then nodded, agreeing. "The time is right. If they transferred Blair into the semi-trailer near the mall parking, abandoned the van there at 5:30, then drove to the rest stop, 5:45 or 6:00, disconnected the semi-trailer, they could have left in the truck tractor. It could easily hold three people across the front."

"In that case, we are still trying to ascertain where he was between 2:15 and 5:30 p.m.," Woodward said, staring at the map. "And there are five grated bridges within the area, with similar road conditions around them."

Bridges … There was something about a bridge, about water … Blair closed his eyes, remember the sensation of the bridge, of crossing the grated metal surface.

His breath caught in his throat as a second memory detached itself. He felt Jim's hand on his back.

"You're in the trailer. Remember how it feels going over the bridge deck," Jim's voice said, a soft echo of his own words, his own voice when he spoke as a guide. "Do you have it?"

"Yeah," he whispered, trying to catch the second memory, the echo.

"Remember the feeling of the bridge … except now you're in a van. It feels different. Just a little bit different." Jim's voice was hypnotic. "The tires, the vibration is different, but you can still recognize it."

He felt the bridge deck as they passed over it. It sent unpleasant vibrations through his body, giving him a sour taste in his mouth. The gag hurt, biting into the side of his lips.

A cell phone rang, and the van swerved as the Muscle Man -- Karl -- picked it up.

"Yeah? … The Indian reservation … Uh-huh. Lighten the load… I dunno. The 3:10 if I can make it. If not, the 3:50… . It's Friday; the traffic will already be a bitch coming over this way … Yeah, I'll be there … yeah … No problem. You just be there on time. We need to be back by nine … Huh? … 7:55 if we're lucky… . No way. Next one will be too late… . So I fucking memorized the schedule I've done it enough … If you don't hear from me … Fuckin' idiot," he finished, tossing the cell phone on the passenger chair.

The van swerved again, but the road seemed different; the feel of the pavement had altered. Ten minutes of driving and they left that road, heading along an unpaved road, deep bumps as the van hit potholes knocking Blair about. His hands tied behind his back gave him no way to keep himself from falling, and one particular bad jolt rolled him onto his side, face to bloody face with a corpse. He lunged backward, knocking his head against the back of the van in his desperate attempt to get away from the body.

The van had stopped.

The side door opened and Muscle Man took out first one body, then the other.

Yes, they were getting closer to an idea of where this warehouse might have been located. Woodward was going through his massive briefcase looking for a Western Washington information book that would give him the times of the local ferries.

Yes, Sandburg was handling this all remarkably well. Even Simon seemed to be relaxing as the kid calmly answered their questions, relating traumatic details of his capture in as clear a style as though he were giving a damned lecture on correct victim responses in a hostage situation.

But there was no way that Sandburg had remotely come close to convincing him that there was a safe, or reasonably safe way for him to get back to the warehouse and help rescue Evan. Yet his pleas remained sound. If Evan was at a different location -- it was quite possible they would lose him if they rushed the place as Woodward proposed to with his SWAT unit.

"Sorry, that's all I remember," Sandburg said finally, exhausted by their questions and his memories, sagging ever-so-slightly against Ellison hand.

"You seem sure about the times he gave."

"I remember thinking them over and over, trying to remember them. I couldn't figure out what he meant, but you're right," he said, with a curious smile, as though this were some damned puzzle they were trying to solve. "They're probably sailing times. A ferry."

"Which the Sound is riddled with," Woodward muttered. He started to say more, but a sharp rap on the door caused them all to turn, hands going to weapons.

Simon went to the door, as Ellison moved to stand in front of Sandburg. "Who is it?"

"Is Nash Bridges there? Captain Bridges?"

Nash stepped forward, a relieved smile on his face. "Harvey." He opened the door to a man in his early-to-mid forties, comfortably embracing him, drawing him into the suite, then embracing him again before introducing him to the others. "This is Evan's partner, Harvey Leek, a valued member of our SIU group."

As well-tailored as Nash Bridges appeared to be, this man was the opposite. His clothes looked as though they had been thrown on, an almost 'Blair Sandburg' style of dress that came from shopping at the local thrift store because the salesclerk was cute. Harvey had an orange and green shirt that looked to be a reject from the sixties, a yellow woven vest that was loose and bulky enough to hide his police-issue holster and weapon, and curiously enough, a Jerry Garcia/Grateful Dead black armband. Brown curly hair was interrupted by a patch of white curls on his forehead, an unruly mass of contradictions, much like Ellison's own partner.

Harvey Leek was not what Ellison had expected. He looked nothing at all like the pictures they had of Evan Cortez, either in age, or dress, or style. But then, Jim admitted, he looked nothing like Sandburg, just as Rafe looked nothing like Brown.

Blair stood up and approached him, still walking awkwardly, past time for his pain medication. "Evan talked about you a lot," he said.

Harvey looked embarrassed. "Aw, he probably either exaggerated or made it up."

"I'm sorry he's not here," Sandburg whispered, eyes once again filling with tears. "We'll get him back."

"Damn right we will," Harvey whispered back, then closed the distance between them and drew Blair into a warm hug. "I'm glad you're safe," he said softly, but still heard by sentinel ears. "I deeply wish that Evan was here, safe, too, but please don't think that I would wish your places reversed."

Sandburg nodded against his shoulder, then pulled back from Leek and stumbled against Ellison, who was directly behind him.

Ellison held out his hand. "Jim Ellison. We'll do what we can. We think we have some good leads here."

Harvey smiled, his sad eyes crinkling as he looked at the other man. "Thank you for your help, Detective Ellison. You have my undying gratitude for helping us. I'm sure that after everything your partner has been through, it would be so easy to just pack him up and go back to Cascade, rather than stay and assist us."

"My pleasure," Ellison found himself saying. "We'll do everything we can."

"Any news?" Harvey asked, then. Dark circles beneath his eyes matched those in the group he was now joining.

Nash filled him in on what they were working on while Harvey commandeered a corner of the table, took out a lap top computer, and set it up, tying into the phone line and pulling up information on Western Washington State ferries before Woodward had found the correct page in his book.

"Kingston to Edmonds is a match," Harvey said, as he keyed up the correct screen. He turned and pulled another item out of the large black briefcase he had come in with, and within two minutes, the streamlined, portable printer was spitting out copies of the on-line schedule.

"He mentioned an Indian Reservation," Woodward said. "I've got information on them here in my book. Where--"

"Port Madison Indian Reservation is to the south of Kingston," Harvey announced, peering at his computer screen as Woodward tossed his directory onto the bed, in defeat. "And Port Gamble Indian Reservation is to the north."

"Bridges nearby?"

"There is a bridge in the south to Bainbridge Island, and one in the north to the peninsula near Shine."

"Distance?"

"About the same to each. Ten to twelve miles."

Sandburg leaned forward, staring at the computer. "Could you look something up for me?"

"Certainly." Harvey's eyes softened as he looked at the young man, knowing what Blair had been through, and who he had been with. "What would you like?"

"Could you look up the 7-Eleven stores in Washington?"

"What do you need, Sandburg?" Simon asked, shaking his head. "The Yellow Pages are right here. We can have it delivered."

"Specifically," Sandburg said, "I want the 7-Eleven stores by Kingston, Washington. Get their fax numbers, too, if they have one."

"Why?" Harvey asked.

"Because that's how I'm gonna find Pete. Every morning he has a cup of coffee with him. And it's hot. It has to be nearby."

"We fax or take Pete's picture to the 7-Eleven stores in the area," Ellison said, his hand resting on his partner's shoulder, "we find out which one he frequents, then tomorrow morning--"

"--he'll get his coffee, a donut, his newspaper -- and me," Sandburg said, with a triumphant smile, looking at the others, then turning to face Ellison. "Thanks for backing me up, Jim," he whispered. "It'll work. I know it will work."

The thundering noise in the sentinel's ears was the echo of his own heartbeat. That's what I'm afraid of. How can I possibly let him walk away with you?