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  “I know. He’s fine. He looked great today, actually.”

  The words seemed to reassure the young man, and he nodded to himself, still looking down at the sidewalk as they talked. “Yeah. He’s up and running again. He had a lot of his own healing to do, you know, with what happened at the university.”

  “When you died.”

  Sandburg groaned. “Do you have to keep saying that?”

  “Well, you did.”

  Sandburg stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand in his jeans’ pocket, the other capturing his hair at the base of his neck. “Rafe, do you mind if I ask . . Just wondering what it looked like …Uh, how did Jim … when I, you know … What did it look … I don’t know how to ask this. What happened that day?”

  The sun was in his eyes when he tried to look at Sandburg. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  Sandburg shook his head slowly, afraid to look away from him now. “Please?”

  Rafe glanced around and saw a deserted bench not too far away, and he motioned for Sandburg to join him there. “Okay. What happened… We got there, and you were already in the fountain. We didn’t see you at first. Headed up the stairs to Hargrove Hall. Jim suddenly did an about-face and saw you. Brown and Jim pulled you out. Then the captain and Jim did CPR on you until the ambulance arrived.”

  “I know the paramedics gave up.”

  “They did.” He paused, trying to figure out how to word the next part. The strange part. The part he didn’t understand. “Simon was trying to get Jim to leave your side, to let the paramedics do what they needed to do. Jim was pretty torn up. Then he turned around and went back to your body and knelt beside you. He touched your face … and then there with this light—” Rafe stopped short at the sharp gasp from Sandburg.

  “You saw it?”

  He nodded, swallowing, then continuing because he knew if he didn’t finish his sentence right then, he probably never would finish it. “And the light went from his hand to your face. And then you came back to life. He put his hand over your heart and pressed and fountain water started coming out of your mouth.”

  Sandburg had his arms wrapped around him, as though he were freezing cold. “Shit.”

  Rafe panicked. “I mean, that’s what I saw. I think. Could have been the angle of the sunrise or a lot of other things. Maybe even—”

  “No.” Sandburg shivered. “No, you saw it right. I’m sure.”

  It was Rafe’s turn to ask. “What happened there, Blair?”

  Sandburg stood up, and for a brief moment, Rafe thought he was going to start running down the sidewalk. But he only looked up at the Cascade PD building, his eyes probably staring at the seventh floor, too. “I don’t know, man. My memories of that day are like swiss cheese. I was just wondering what it looked like to others. Believe me, this was a new one for me … ” Sandburg started walking again, drawing Rafe along with him. “That wasn’t in the report. I read Simon’s report.”

  “No. It wasn’t it any of our reports. We all saw it though.”

  “I did, too.” Sandburg stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and Rafe had to gently direct him to one side, to let the pedestrians walk by. “I saw it. The whole out-of-body experience. You were wearing a blue shirt, a long beige coat, right?”

  He nodded, wiping his sweating palms on his jeans.

  “Jim kept yelling, ‘No’. Simon said, ‘It’s all over.’ Jim came back over to me, and said, ‘It’s not over, do you hear me?’”

  “Maybe you weren’t dead—”

  “Simon told someone to call the coroner. I was dead.”

  “But maybe—”

  “Rafe?” Sandburg’s voice had an odd quality about it.

  “Yeah?”

  Sandburg was studying the sidewalk. “Thanks for telling me. About what you saw. About the light.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know what it was or what it meant.”

  “Neither do I. But thanks for telling me.” Again, he wiped his hand over his face, as though drying tears.

  “No problem.” He quickened his pace as they turned the corner to the police station. Only a block away, and he could safely deposit Sandburg in Ellison’s capable hands. At this point, he wanted nothing more. All the energy that Sandburg had shown earlier in the day was gone, and Rafe knew instinctively that once the kid was back with Ellison, things would be right again. “Come on.”

  A white van drew up in front of them as they went to cross the street, just missing them. It jerked to a stop and blocked the crosswalk, preventing them from going forward. “What—?” Rafe grabbed at Sandburg and pulled him back onto the sidewalk. “Move it!” he yelled at the driver.

  The side door panel opened to reveal two men with guns raised, pointing at Rafe. “Hands on top of your head, both of you. Move away from him.” He could hear the back door open and a third man appeared, also with a weapon.

  “Get behind me, Blair,” Rafe whispered fiercely as he raised his hands, stepping between them. “No way,” he called out as he tried to catalog their attackers. One: Hispanic, five-eleven, thirty years, straight black hair that needed a cut. Armed with a Magnum. No visible scars. Two: White, brown hair, short, almost military cut, six feet, thirty years, scar along side of jawline. Third: white —

  “Get in here,” Mr Hispanic ordered, moving aside so the van door was clear.

  “Leave him alone,” Rafe said loudly, risking a quick glance to the police station. Where the hell was everyone?

  The kidnappers were eerily calm, considering what they were doing in broad daylight. “We want you, not him, Detective Rafe. Just come peacefully, and he won’t get hurt. Come on. Hands up.” The third man pushed Sandburg back and jabbed his weapon at Rafe’s shoulder, sending him staggering forward.

  “Rafe?” Sandburg had his hands on his head, fingers interlaced, and Rafe knew how much that must be hurting him. Ribs still only partly healed …

  “Just stay cool, Blair.” He was motioned into the van, and he froze, trying to figure out what to do, how to play this. Surely someone in the scattering crowd would have reported it to the station. Maybe if he went with them, they’d leave Sandburg alone. He took a step toward the van, ignoring Sandburg’s shout.

  “What are you doing? What do you want with him?” the kid yelled, moving toward the van, hands still on his head.

  No, Blair. Stay back.

  One of the men in the van put his gun down, then stepped out and grabbed hold of Rafe’s elbow, dragging him to the door while he roughly tied the detective’s hands behind his back. “You can tell your friends at the station that he’s joining the chorus line,” the man said to Sandburg.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sandburg kept edging closer. “Are you guys crazy? We’re a block from the police station!”

  “Exhilarating. Daring. Deadly,” the third man said, laughing.

  “Sandburg, stay back!” Rafe ordered, as the police observer came closer yet.

  “No way, man. I’m not letting them take you anywhere. What do you want him for?”

  Rafe saw the man inside the van move his weapon to rest on Sandburg. With a quick shift of his hips, Rafe balanced on his left leg and gave a sharp snap kick with his right foot, catching the kneecap of the man who was tying him up, and putting himself once again between the gunman and Sandburg. All he needed to do was buy another thirty seconds or so and help would surely be there. They were only one fucking block from the station!

  The third man grabbed Sandburg and flung him out of the way, and as Rafe tried to shield Ellison’s partner, he heard a gun go off and felt the fierce, blinding pain of a bullet passing through his side. He fell heavily to the pavement, his cheek scraping along the rough surface of the street.

  “Damn it!” The man who had been tying Rafe up a moment before, kicked him sharply in the ribs now, adding to the blackness settling over him. “Look at him! He’s no good to us now.”

  Rafe’s h
earing began to fade on him and he struggled to stay awake. They weren’t out of danger yet. Sandburg was unprotected.

  “Take the other one, then,” the man in the van suggested.

  No! Rafe tried to scream, but nothing came from his mouth but a garbled moan. The roar in his ears merged with a echoing ringing noise and he opened his eyes, forcing himself to stay with the scene. He couldn’t move his head, but he saw as Sandburg’s feet and the third gunman passed within inches of where the detective’s face rested on the street.

  Then they were gone. Into the van. With a distant squeal of tires, the van pulled away.

  Too late … he tried to tell the police when they arrived. You’re too late.

  The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was Jim Ellison’s face, as dark as the blackness that swallowed him a moment later. I’m sorry …

  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.”

  *

  Seattle, Washington

  Friday, June 19, 1998, 12:45 p.m.

  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 prot��g��. 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 kidnaped not even a block from SIU, in broad daylight.