No Center Line Read online

  Jim? Where are you, man? I think I’m in trouble here ���

  His body pains began to register, concentrating in his stomach and his tortured head. He was lying on his back, legs and arms sprawled bonelessly on a metal floor that wasn’t quite even. It had grooves on it that dug into his back. It was hard to breathe past the fumes, and the suffocating feeling lingered, causing him to tilt his head back to take a bigger breath. He ended up coughing, which only sent painful spasms through his abdomen and skull. A hand was there to support his neck as he gasped for air.

  “Jim?” he managed to croak out tentatively.

  “Take it easy,” a low voice beside him cautioned. “Once you wake up, it’ll take an hour or so before your head clears.”

  A wave of nausea threatened, spurred on by the cold realization that it wasn’t Jim beside him, after all. “What did you do to me?” Sandburg whispered, desperately trying to keep his stomach under control. He had no energy to turn to his side, which made throwing up definitely not a good idea.

  “I didn’t do anything to you, buddy. Unfortunately, I’m a prisoner just as much as you are.”

  That got his attention. Prisoner? Sandburg’s eyes opened again, blinking back the distorted, shadowed images, and he turned his head cautiously until he faced the man stretched out next to him. “Who are you? Where am I?” he gasped, moaning as he realized that he was in something that was moving, and at the moment they were going over metal grates on a bridge, which set up a horrible vibration beneath him. His stomach complained again at the movement, the acid taste in his mouth close to dangerous.

  The man seemed to understand how he was feeling, reaching out to place a hand on Sandburg’s forearm. “Breathe slowly. They drugged you. It’ll take awhile for the feeling to pass. In answer to your question, you’ve joined a traveling freak show. My name’s Evan Cortez, with the San Francisco Police Department, Special Investigations Unit. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew once we stop and everyone’s awake.”

  “Are you undercover now?”

  “No.”

  There were other things he could ask, other possibilities, but Blair couldn’t think of them at that exact moment. His brain was having a hard time thinking at all. Come on. Come on. Prisoners? He decided that if Evan was a cop, and they were both prisoners, then Evan was probably in the ‘friend’ category. “Hey ���” He grasped at the young man’s hand, squeezing it as a spasm shook him. “What do you mean by ‘Freak show’?” His stomach hurt when he spoke, but at least they were past the bridge deck.

  “Just lie still right now. You’ll find out soon enough. What’s your name?”

  He started to answer when the truck took a left turn, sliding him up against the side wall. “Blair— ouch — Blair Sandburg. Uh ��� I’m living— here— in Cascade.” He had to force the words out. The truck continued down the road, and he tried to relax a bit.

  Cortez gave a funny laugh. “Sorry to disappoint you, Blair, but I don’t think we’re in Cascade any longer.” Cortez grimaced as he moved slowly back to lie on his side. Sandburg studied him in the faint light. He was wearing a gray pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He lay curled slightly, his arms clenched around his stomach, obviously in some pain.

  “You okay?” Sandburg asked, still staring at him, his sight slowly clearing in the near darkness of the room he was in.

  “I’m better than I was yesterday,” Cortez said, softly, but his eyes stayed closed, shut tight.

  What happened yesterday? Sandburg wanted to ask, but the words stayed silent. He closed his own eyes for a moment, then carefully opened them and looked up at the ceiling. Except it wasn’t really a room; it was the back of a huge moving van or semi-trailer. He tried to lift his head and look around more, but he couldn’t manage it. As he lay there, he listened intently, imaging he was Jim and could isolate the sounds ��� Jim? Oh, my God ��� Jim, where are you? Where am I? ��� Rafe? They shot Rafe ��� The memories slammed against his bruised mind as he fought to sort them all out. He remembered going for lunch with Rafe. Walking back. The van ��� They shot Rafe, then grabbed him. The cloth pressed over his mouth and nose. Then ��� nothing ��� until now.

  Until he had woken up here. Wherever here was. The traveling freak show. The traveling part was easy to figure out; he was in the back of a semi-trailer, he decided. The was no light except for the reflection of the brake and rear lights, the connections visible within the trailer. He could hear others with him. Others lying down on the cold, hard surface. Evan had said that he would introduce him later, so it sounded like they were all prisoners.

  The truck turned onto a gravel road, and he slid slightly in the opposite direction, the rough vibrations jarring his aching body. Someone at his feet moved, groaning, rolling over. He looked down, seeing the light reflect off a chain. Moving one leg slightly, he saw his ankles were cuffed and chained to a post on the floor. Great. He let his head fall back to the hard floor.

  “How many people are in here?” Sandburg whispered, not trusting his stomach with any further effort.

  Cortez hesitated. “Eight. There were two more, but ���” His voice trailed off.

  “Are they dead?” Sandburg asked, not wanting to know.

  “Yeah.” Cortez offered no further explanation, and Sandburg chose not to ask.

  The smell registered on his mind, then. He had been with Jim once when they had investigated a murder scene. The body had been there a few days unattended. The room smelled like this, but not as bad. “Evan? Are the bodies here, too?”

  “Yeah.” Cortez moved closer to him. “Sorry, kid. You chose a bad time to wake up.” He moved his left arm to rest on Sandburg’s chest, gently patting his right shoulder in an attempt at comfort. “Why don’t you go back to sleep? Take advantage of the time you have to rest. You’ll probably feel better when you wake up. Excuse my closeness, but we’re both cold.”

  “S’okay.” Sandburg swallowed several times, forcing himself to breathe when he instinctively wanted to hold his breath and not inhale contaminated air. His lungs won, though. He shifted closer to Cortez, appreciative of the young man’s efforts to calm him.

  Jim had slept beside him while they were in Mexico. It was such a simple gesture, but somehow Jim had known that he was still unsettled inside and while he could reason with himself in the daytime, at night it all fell apart. He would lie in bed, scared of waking up in the cold fountain waters and drowning. Afraid to go to sleep because he might die. Afraid that Jim was going to die.

  Oh, the list could go on ��� Afraid of the nerve gas. Afraid of the men who had held Megan and him at gunpoint. Afraid Megan would be killed in front of him. Afraid Simon would never come back. Afraid he’d never find Jim in the jungle.

  And the biggies ��� Afraid of Alex. Of her hold over his partner. Afraid of what Jim was doing.

  Jim had gone to her, drawn from his sleep, pulled down the street, ran down the beach, knowing she would be there. Jim’s eyes had been half-lidded, glazed. She had been the same, groping him, her hands possessively over his body. Caught in some primitive vision that was compelling them both.

  Blair had stumbled after his partner, tripping on the sand as he ran. And saw them. Together. Ripping their clothes off. Jim with the woman who had killed him. Jim and Alex. And she’d done it again — pulled a gun out. Jim’s gun. She had taken Jim’s gun and was going to shoot him with it. With his own partner’s gun.

  Blair gasped now, fighting again for air. This was where Jim would pull him close every night, hold him until the fear ran out, until they both could sleep. For it wasn’t just Blair who had nightmares.

  Tears ran down his face, unseen in the darkness.

  Jim. Oh, man. Where are you? Wish we were telepathic��� I assume you’re looking for me, right? ��� Like I had to ask ��� Yeah. Well, finding me would be like such a good thing, man. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what happened, not really ��
��� He shivered again, suddenly wondering if his partner was safe. His memories were rather hazy. He remembered Rafe pushing him back, the sound of the gunshot, Rafe falling ��� As far as he could figure, Jim hadn’t been there. If you were here, you’d hear my heartbeat skyrocket just now. I admit to being a little freaked. I mean, I’m flashing on not only Alex, but Lash right now. That same creepy feeling in that dentist chair and standing on the beach.

  He gasped, trying to catch his breath, then pushing out the rank air from his lungs. Oh, man ��� why did I think of Lash?

  “Just relax. Get some sleep.” Cortez’s voice beside him was edged in pain and exhaustion.

  Blair remembered Jim’s voice in the church, telling him to go to sleep. He had felt better after that talk, knowing Jim was there, feeling everything work between them again. He hadn’t wanted to go to sleep and later was glad that sleep had eluded him and he had heard Jim leave the church.

  Jim ��� where are you?

  “Sorry.” The gravel road was making his stomach queasy again, rattling his bones. His mind refused to shut down, swirling thoughts and images that he attributed only partly to whatever drug they had given him. Finally, the semi geared down, turned, stopped, then slowly the trailer moved in the opposite direction.

  “We’re backing up,” Cortez whispered, not raising his head. “Probably back to the warehouse.”

  “Warehouse?”

  The engine was turned off. A door slammed closed, but then there was silence. Except for the raspy breathing of eight men. And the flies.

  “Get some sleep. They’ll leave us here until morning.”

  “Who? Who’s behind this? What do they want?”

  He tried asking another question, but soon understood that Cortez was asleep.

  Instead, he pictured his partner in his mind, knowing the Sentinel wouldn’t rest until he was found. He pictured Jim’s hand resting on his chest, where Cortez’s hand was. Finally, Sandburg closed his eyes and gave in to the steady pull of drugs still in his system.

  Find me, Jim. Jim?

  *

  3:15 a.m.

  James Ellison froze, his head tilted to one side, listening.

  “What?” he heard from a distance.

  He waved Simon Banks quiet, still listening to the rapid heartbeat. Sandburg’s. He tried to follow it, tried to pinpoint it, but it wasn’t something nearby. The sound was coming from ��� within. He placed his hand over his heart, feeling his own body striving to echo the beat, to match it. Blair?

  Jim?

  He threw himself toward the sound, toward Sandburg’s voice, unaware of his body’s collapse in Banks’ office or of the captain catching him before his head impacted with the edge of the conference table. He pushed through the darkness, following the faint trail of sound until he lost himself in the carrier hum of his Guide’s soul.

  *

  6:30 a.m.

  Someone was calling him.

  “Not now, Harv,” he mumbled. He hated stakeouts. Especially when he was cold. He could feel it in his bones this morning.

  “Hey, Cortez. Wake up.”

  He froze. That wasn’t his partner’s voice. What? Harvey?

  “Hey!”

  Evan Cortez woke fully at the slight touch to his foot. “What?” He leaned up on one elbow, blinking first to see where he was, then groaning and wiping a hand over his face. “Something happening?”

  Pat Hollis was already sitting up, one ear pressed against the side of the trailer. Slivers of light came in through the top of the rear doors. Hollis’ black sweat suit was almost as dark as his skin, and in the dim light, he was difficult to see. “I hear voices outside,” the Los Angeles detective said, calmly. “It’s daylight. How you feeling?”

  “You saw what happened last night. I fuckin’ hurt, man,” Cortez said, sharply. The trailer was damp and cold; it was hard to believe it was June. It felt like winter out, but the brief glimpse he had seen of the outdoors the previous day had been of pounding rain. Spring in the Pacific Northwest. He eased back from where he had been curled around Sandburg, immediately shivering at the loss of warmth.

  “I was just asking.” Hollis voice was distant, abrupt.

  Way to go, Evan. Hollis is one of the good guys. Cortez rubbed at his forehead, trying to ease his pounding headache. His body hurt, sharp pains across his shoulders, his lower back. His thighs burned. He gasped as he sat up. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have directed that at you. Not your fault. I’m just a little fuckin’ on edge.” He sighed slowly, setting his legs straight in front of him. “How long have you been awake?” he asked, as soon as he caught his breath.

  Hollis shifted away from the wall. “An hour or so. I’ve been working at these cuffs. I used to be damned good at this stuff,” he said with a grunt, resuming his efforts to get rid of the metal restraints around his ankles. Each of them wore the cuffs that had an eighteen inch chain linking their ankles. It made walking difficult. It made walking quickly impossible.

  Not that I could get very far right now. A six-year-old could take me down. Cortez shivered, trying to pull himself back to the conversation with the Los Angeles detective. “Never was much good at locks without a pick set,” he offered, raising one ankle an inch or so to look at the cuff. Nash would have had the cuffs off seconds after the lock had snapped shut on them. But then, Nash wasn’t here and Evan had never gotten around to asking the SIU chief how he did that.

  Hollis chuckled. “Now where I lived growing up, everyone knew how to spring a lock.”

  The words hung in the air for a moment before Cortez connected with them. “I thought you said your father was an actor in Los Angeles and you grew up in Beverly Hills,” he said softly, rubbing at his forehead again.

  “Hey, kids get their kicks somehow or other. We did our bad boy scene the same as the rest of them.” Hollis gestured toward Sandburg’s sleeping form. “He must have arrived while I was sleeping. I assume they drugged our dinner last night.”

  “He was here when I woke up. I don’t think much of my dinner stayed down, so I woke up a few hours ago. He was pretty disoriented.” Cortez drew his legs up, trying to ease the tightness across his stomach.

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Says his name is Blair Sandburg. Cascade.”

  “Cascade, Washington. What’s next? Canada?” Scott McBride, the detective from Monterey, joined the conversation, maneuvering his body to sit upright beside Hollis. “Shit, I hurt. How’s everyone else doing?”

  Hollis shook his head, indicating the man on his other side. “Sam’s not doing too well. Bleeding hasn’t stopped.”

  “Bastards. I thought I had it bad, but they did a number on him.” McBride wrestled his anger under control, tugging on his ankle chain, anchored to one of a series of hooks that ran down the middle of the trailer. “Jorge’s dead. Peter’s dead. Sam might not make it. Are they going to do us all?”

  “Maybe.” Hollis listened again at the wall. “Voices have gone away. Something’s happening though.” He went back to studying the lock on his ankle.

  McBride looked over to Sandburg, then to Cortez. “Is this guy a cop?”

  “I didn’t ask. The rest of us are, why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Doesn’t look like a cop,” Jack Kelly muttered, rolling over onto his back to lean up on his elbows. “I took a look at him earlier, when you were spooned up sleeping with him like he was your lover.”

  “He was cold. So was I,” Cortez retorted. “It’s called conserving body heat.”

  “Just so it’s clear you’re not going fruity on me. It’s bad enough having to put up with the crap these guys are dishing out. I don’t like it in the police force. I don’t allow it in Portland.” Kelly tugged on his dark blue sweatshirt. “I hate these cheap fleece things. They never make them long enough.”

  Cortez’s hand formed into a fist, ready to turn on Kelly when Hollis kicked at Cortez’s foot. “Take it easy. We’re on the same side, believe it or not,” Hollis fin
ished, with a warning glare at Kelly.

  The SIU detective forced his temper under control, turning his back slightly on Kelly and concentrating on Sandburg, one hand resting on his forehead.

  “When did he get here?” McBride asked, arms wrapped around himself.

  “Late last night. He woke up early this morning, but the drugs and chloroform wiped him out.” Cortez patted the side of the man’s face, but there was no reaction. “He’s cold.”

  Kelly leaned over Cortez to get a better look. “Too scrawny for a cop,” he said. “Hair’s not right, either. Too girlish.”

  “Maybe he’s vice,” McBride ventured, missing the barbed looks the others gave to Kelly. “Or in one of those high school undercover units.”

  “Can’t you keep it down? A guy’s trying to sleep here,” William Fong grumbled from the other side of Sandburg.

  Hollis threw a rag across at Fong. “Wake up. We’ve got to talk here. This is the first time we’ve all been together and not drugged.” He waited until they were all sitting up and staring at him. “With Sandburg here, we’re at ten. Ten Little Indians. That’s us, men. They’re knocking us off one by one. Minus Jorge and Peter, that’s eight. And Sam’s not doing well.”

  “Neither is Glenn,” McBride announced, looking at the man who lay between him and the rear doors. “His skin is like ice, and his breathing is off.” He tried to rouse the man, but received no response.

  “So there are five of us still functioning, six if you count Sandburg.” Hollis took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And Evan and Scott won’t be running around much today.”

  Cortez bristled at the words. “If there’s a chance for us to get out of here, I’m with you. I’m not staying here, even if I have to crawl.”

  “I’m with him,” McBride said. “I may feel like road kill, but I’m not going to lie there and let them drive over me again.”