No Center Line Read online

  *

  1:15 p.m.

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

  “And have a cigar.”

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

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

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

  “I’m okay, Simon.”

  “What?” he asked, straightening in his seat.

  “Sandburg’s alive. I’ll find him.”

  “Damn right, we will.”

  “I mean it. He’s alive.”

  Banks looked over to the detective, the conviction in Ellison’s words beginning to make him nervous. “Jim … We don’t know for sure if—”

  “I do. I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

  “But not this time.”

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

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

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

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

  “Captain, it’s Brown.”

  Banks braced himself, waiting for the news, knowing Ellison was probably listening. “How’s Rafe?”

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

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

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

  “Oh, man … I wish I had better news for Jim. I know what he’s been wanting to hear.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who got shot?” Ellison asked, sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yeah. Okay …. Sure, man … Um … where are you? I need a piece of paper or something. I can’t find anything. Gimme a sec—”

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

  “Okay … Right … Fax it to you at your office.”

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

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

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

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

  “I wanted to talk to him.”

  “You wanted to interrogate him , Jim, and he’s barely coherent. Rafe is asleep, as well.”

  “They might know something—”

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

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

  “I know you’re anxious about the kid—”

  The detective’s jaw tightened in anger. “What do you expect? I should have this down pat by now. ‘Proper behavior by an officer when his partner has been kidnaped.’”

  “A moment ago you were convinced he was alive—”

  “He is!”

  “Then what’s with the attitude now?”

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

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

  “I want to get to the station.”

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

  “The meeting—”

  “We’ll be on time for the meeting. That’s why they call it ‘fast food’.”

  *

  1:30 p.m.

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

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

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

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

  The universe unfolds as it should.

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

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

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

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

  Second floor. The doors opened. The doors closed.

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

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

  Third floor.

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

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

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

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

  “I’m sorry, Inspector Bridges. I haven’t had a chance to see the file yet. Are you here about the Seattle police officer who was kidnaped?”

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

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

  “Nash Bridges, Special Investigations Unit, San Francisco.”

  “Evan Cortez,” Woodward replied, putting another name to the city. “He’s your man?”

  “Yes.” Bridges tensed, as though waiting for more.

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

  “What is the pattern?” Black asked.

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

  “Thank you, Harold; I’ve eaten.”

  “I’m fine,” Bridges said. “I’d like to read this.”

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

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

  *

  1:45 p.m.

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

  “I’m okay.”

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

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