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  *

  Seattle, Washington Friday, June 19, 1998, 6:15 p.m.

  Jim Ellison took a deep breath, trying to get past the pain in his temples. He’d given up on the dials; it didn’t seem to work without his guide. He didn’t want it to work without his guide. He sat stiffly in the leather-padded armchair, letting his thoughts drift, his head tilted back to relieve the stress on his tight neck muscles, eyes closed. Listening. Straining to hear that familiar voice.

  The voice of his guide. Deep, resonant, calming. Achingly honest. Demanding. Piercing. Exacting. Loving. Caring. And these last few hours — desperate, weak, and oh, so trusting.

  It was the trust that tore at the sentinel now. “Where are you?” he whispered, so low that he could scarcely hear it himself.

  No response, not even the shadow whispers he had heard that afternoon.

  Somehow, he felt Sandburg was sleeping, off wherever he was, and that small thought cheered him. For if he was sleeping, then nothing more was happening to him. Or if he was unconscious, then he was safe in the oblivion.

  Yet he missed his guide’s voice.

  In Mexico, he had indulged himself, letting the words and timbre of the young shaman’s voice bathe him like soothing oil. They had talked a lot in those two weeks, reclining on the warm sands during the day, walking along the ocean beach in the evening, and waking from a bad dream in the middle of the night. Hours and hours of talking in between hours and hours of companionable silence. Reconnecting, in many ways. There had been great healing in the moments and days after Blair’s near-drowning, but much of it was instinctual, putting aside what had gone wrong and reinserting themselves into their destiny.

  Chief? That destiny, as you called it, is plural. And singular. Together. One. I’m not doing it without you. I’ll find you.

  Fears abounded still, but they were fears that they held in common. They had discovered that their greatest worry was that it would happen again one day. Another sentinel. Another misunderstanding. Another series of events that would begin to drive them apart.

  So they had begun to redefine themselves. To reaffirm who they were as individuals, and who they were as Sentinel and Guide.

  And beyond that, to find within their collected selves their answers and their peace.

  Chief? I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m still here. I’m looking for you. Believe that. Keep yourself together. Don’t let them destroy what is you. The rest we can deal with — you know that. Hell, we’ve been through it all before. Just don’t let them get to that part of your heart that is mine also. Fight for it. Keep it safe.

  The healing had begun in Cascade, been tested in Mexico, then healed there again. Idealism faced reality. Good intentions faced outside forces. Despite it all, they had managed to communicate. It had been shaky, but he had done it. After his first encounter with Alex in Mexico, he had stood on the beach and asked for Sandburg’s help. He had talked to him when they were following Alex’s trail. He had been honest about his fears. About the strange forces that pulled him in different directions. The temple. Alex.

  Stay near to him, and he will Guide you, the old Sentinel-Warrior had told him.

  Yet Incacha had twice told him to go on alone. It made no sense. First he had left Sandburg behind in Cascade. Then he had left him in the jungle to go after Alex at the temple. Because Incacha had said so. Even now, he couldn’t say if Incacha had been right or wrong. But Incacha had told him how to bring his guide back to life, and he had trusted those words. Sandburg had told him to trust the visions. To do what they told him to do. If he left, he would return.

  And he had returned. When he had the visions while in the pool, Incacha had pointed him back to his guide, to his Light. He understood now that the temple experience was something a sentinel had to do alone, without his guide. To be tested. To find his path. His Light. Alex had only herself, and in the end, it had not been enough.

  Blair Sandburg was enough. All. After everyone had left, he had stood inside the temple with his guide, and he had read to him the words on the walls. He had placed his hands on his guide’s shoulders and pointed to the drawings and had explained them to him, not stopping to consider why he knew what he knew. And then, when they sat together the edge of one pool, he had started to tell him about what he had seen in the visions ��� and it had started to vanish from his memories. “You’re my Light,” he had whispered, no longer remembering exactly what that meant, but only that it was true.

  And the writing on the walls became meaningless. And the pictures became meaningless. And the future faded into the present. He had traveled the circle and had returned to his beginning. His guide. His Light.

  Who had not forgotten. The things he had told Sandburg, Sandburg remembered.

  I’m looking for you, Chief. I haven’t forgotten you. I may have forgotten the secret of the Universe, but not you.

  *

  “If he comes up with anything else ��� Thanks, H. We’ll keep you informed��� . Right ��� Take care of yourself. Bye.” Simon Banks disconnected the call, staring thoughtfully across the surface of Harold Woodward’s paper-strewn desk. “Brown says that Rafe was approached, too, while we were in Mexico.”

  “Does he have a description?” Ellison asked, still sitting with his eyes closed.

  “White male, mid-forties, bleached white hair, nose-ring, slim athletic build, between six foot two and six foot four. Wore a designer beige suit, white shirt, silk tie. Rafe said he had a mid-American accent and used the phrase ‘excellent opportunity’ several times.”

  Frank Black looked up, impressed. “He has an excellent memory.”

  Ellison cracked an eye open, a smile touching his lips. “Mr Efficient strikes again. Did he get a name?”

  “No name given, no identification, no specific names presented for who was behind the calendar.” Banks shrugged. “Henri said that the guy gave Rafe ‘bad vibes’ so he jotted down his description. Nothing ever came of it, but it’s all recorded in Rafe’s notebook.” The captain stood. “I’m going to the next room to pass this on to Woodward.”

  “Simon, if you don’t mind, I’m going to stay here. My head is buzzing.”

  Simon rested one hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly before leaving him to the relative quietness of Woodward’s private office.

  Ellison endured the silence for sixty seconds, then said, “You’ve been wanting to ask me something all afternoon. Go ahead.”

  Frank Black moved to sit in the chair next to him, leaning forward, hands steepled before him. “When was the last time you felt your partner’s presence?”

  “At the beginning of the meeting.”

  “And before that?”

  “Outside. Just before we came in. Then nothing for three days previous.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  Ellison pushed himself out of the chair, pacing, trying to find the words he wanted. It was strange vocalizing any of this to anyone but Sandburg, or perhaps Simon. “I don’t know. I don’t usually sense him. This is all new for me. The first time, I thought maybe it was a one-shot deal, you know? Nothing permanent.”

  “What did you feel the first time? What did you get from him?”

  “It was three in the morning, thirteen hours after he was abducted. It was his heartbeat, accelerated. He was frightened.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Not for a few hours. Then I thought I heard him call out to me. Again, his fear. That was it.”

  “Then this afternoon?”

  “He was cold. Terrified. Hungry. In pain. He felt like he was suffocating.” Ellison sat back in the chair, suddenly exhausted. “Maybe I was just overtired. Reaching. My subconscious at work.”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  He shook his head. “No. No, it felt real.” He drummed the armrests of his chair, then looked up at Black. “What about you? You said you see visions or images of what a killer sees. Is someone trying to kill my partner?”


  Black said nothing for a moment. When he did speak, he chose his words carefully. “I noticed something when you walked into the other office. An awareness. A level of awareness.”

  Ellison listened, registering the man’s heart rate, his breathing.

  “I see visions,” Black continued, when it was clear the Cascade detective was not going to respond. “Images. Glimpses into the mind of a killer. I pick up these images when I’m at a crime scene, or perhaps physically in contact with something belonging to one of the victims. I shouldn’t have seen anything today.”

  “But you did.”

  “Yes. When you walked into the room. You’re connected to him somehow.”

  Ellison sat up slowly. “What did you see?”

  “I had three separate visions of this young man,” he said, pointing to Sandburg’s picture from the Cascade file.” Black paused. “I think we saw something at the same time.”

  “I’m not a psychic,” Ellison said, bluntly. “I didn’t see anything. It’s just a feeling.”

  “I’m not a psychic either. I don’t see into the future. I see the present, or the past. I see what impassions a killer, what they are focusing on.”

  “A killer was focusing on my partner?”

  “Yes. But there was a difference this time.” Black frowned, then looked up at him sharply. “I believe I saw whatever it was you were feeling.”

  “How? How do you see these things?”

  “I don’t know. It just happens. How is it that you can hear him? Sense what he’s feeling?”

  Ellison stared back at him, finally shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Then we’ll put aside what we don’t know and concentrate on what we do know. Agreed?”

  He nodded slowly.

  *

  Nash Bridges closed his cell phone, staring at the file in his hands. Evan’s picture stared back at him: the black leather jacket, T-shirt, dark hair, earrings. Nash couldn’t remember at first why this picture was taken, but as he studied it, the memory came slowly. A case about a college theater group. Evan had auditioned for a part to get closer to the lead actor, a man suspected of trafficking heroin during his off-time. Evan had needed a series of photos to go with his fake resume, and Michelle had dressed him up and taken the shots. They had stayed in Evan’s file at SIU, and when Nash had needed several photographs to bring with him, he had brought them, since they were recent and much larger than the small ID photo on his official file.

  And now it was a photo, eerily like nine other photos on display on the credenza. Just like the other missing detectives. What is it, Evan? What is it about your look that got you kidnaped?

  Bridges met the eyes of the man across the table from him. Santa Barbara. Bill Franklin. Franklin shrugged, discouraged, and closed his file. A moment later, the captain stood and walked over to the credenza, hands in his pockets, staring at the photographs as though willing the answers to come.

  The room echoed with conversations between other police department representatives, private discussions on cell phones, speculation, past cases, and, basically, a lot of question marks. Bridges glanced across to the chairs where Banks, Ellison, and Frank Black had been sitting at various points in the afternoon. Only Banks was there now, on the cell phone, speaking quietly to someone in Cascade. Ellison and Black were nowhere to be seen, probably back in Woodward’s office.

  Nash leaned back in his chair, the file momentarily forgotten. Something was going on with that trio. Bridges had worked with Frank Black once before on a case in San Francisco involving serial killers. The FBI profiler had been professional, distant, and somewhat vague about his source of information. If the guy was making intuitive leaps, he was a bonafide athlete. He had helped with their case in San Francisco, though, and Harold Woodward certainly had great faith in his abilities. Nash Bridges was not one to ignore a source that worked.

  Ellison was a strange one, as much an enigma as the man who was his partner. The observer. The one who didn’t match the rest, and who, according to Black, wasn’t an intended victim. It was clear to see his appearance was different, as was his vocation, but he had double earrings and was every bit as sensual in appearance as the other men. He worked with, if not for the police. There still were some similarities, yet Frank Black had confidently taken his picture away, replacing it with that of another man.

  James Ellison. Nash remembered Ellison from the News magazine article almost eight years ago, the joys of having a photographic memory. “Beyond the Call: G.I. Survives Jungle Ordeal” the cover read. The face had been haunted, lost, and he had turned to the article and read the powerful story of the man’s fight to live in the jungles of Peru. Through the years, Nash had noted Ellison’s name whenever it appeared in articles or police reports, always entertaining the thought of bringing Ellison to work for him in San Francisco, to the SIU, if circumstances worked out. But Ellison had settled into Cascade and Joe Dominguez had decided not to take an early retirement and had stayed and worked with him, so Nash Bridges had let the idea go.

  His cell phone rang. “Nash.”

  “Nash? Harvey. I got your message from Joe, but I can’t help you there, man. Sorry. I wish I could. If Evan was approached by anyone, he didn’t tell me about it. Did you try Cassidy?” Harvey asked, cautiously. They all still considered the affair between Cassidy and Evan as unspeakable, as though Nash would explode in anger at any moment it was mentioned. Where they got that idea ��� Nash smiled. Possibly, because he had exploded at Cassidy when he found out, then had calmly, clearly, threatened Evan. Both kids had held their ground before him, which was something he wasn’t used to with either of them. They were both willing to fight for their relationship, even from the big, bad, Dad. It made him feel a little better about the situation, although he hadn’t told them that.

  Maybe he would now.

  “Thanks, Harvey. I’ll call her. It was a try.”

  “Boss, I’m onto something here, though. That gave me an idea. I’m tracking down a few names and I’ll get back to you. Maybe in an hour?”

  “I’ll be here.” He broke the connection with Harvey Leek and stared thoughtfully at his phone. With a sigh, he hit the speed dial for his daughter’s phone, almost wincing when she answered right away.

  “Hello?”

  “Cassidy, it’s Dad.”

  “Hi, Daddy. Did you find out anything?” She was trying to be calm; he could hear it in her voice, the words quiet, but tumbling out faster than she normally spoke.

  “Still working on it, honey. Listen, Cass, I have a question for you. It may not mean anything, but we’re just tracking down some leads.” He stopped, hearing the sounds of traffic. “Are you driving? Pull over for a minute. You’ll need to think about this one.”

  “Okay. Just a sec.” The phone crackled as she put it down. A moment later, she picked it up again, “Okay, I’m back. What’s your question?”

  “In the last few weeks, did Evan ever mention being approached to have his picture taken for a calendar or a magazine article?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Nash blinked. “Was that a yes?”

  “Yeah, it was no big deal. Why?”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t know ��� Grandpa was still in the hospital. We were walking around in the park by the hospital and Evan told me that when he was getting into his truck to come meet me, someone stopped him in the parking lot at SIU and asked if he was interested in doing some modeling for a magazine. The man said it was for a charity or something like that.”

  “What did Evan tell him?”

  “I think he said he told him that he had a job that took a lot of his time, and he hoped they were able to find someone.” Cassidy paused, and Nash could picture her sitting in her car, winding her hair nervously around one finger. “Dad? Does that mean something? Is that who kidnaped Evan?”

  “I don’t know, honey. Maybe. Did he say anything else about the conversation with this man?”
>
  “Um…. No, not really. Said the guy was creepy.”

  “Creepy? Did he say what he meant by that?”

  “No. Wait— Yeah. He said something about knowing I feel when Larry stares at me.”

  “Who’s Larry?”

  “A guy at school. Larry. You know the kind, the ones who look at you and you feel like they’re picturing you with your clothes off.”

  “Gotcha. So this guy made Evan feel that way?”

  “Yeah.” A sniffle came through the phone. “Dad?”

  “I’m here, honey.”

  “Did this happen to the other missing detectives?”

  “Some of them. We’re just checking now.”

  “This guy might have kidnaped them?”

  “He might have.”

  “Find this bastard, okay? Kill him if he so much as touched Evan.”

  Nash sat up, rubbing his forehead at his daughter’s harsh words. “I hear you, Cassidy. I won’t promise I’ll kill him, but I’ll certainly make sure he stands trial and gets put away.”

  “And if you find Evan — Tell him I love him, okay? No matter what.” The last words were whispered. Cassidy knew. She was well aware of what the possibilities were.

  Nash’s eyes brimmed unexpectedly, and he covered them with one hand. “I will. And I care about him, too, you know,” he added.

  There was no response for a moment, but he could picture her again, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Thanks, Daddy. That means a lot to me.”

  “I’ll call you later tonight. Are you heading home?”

  “Yeah. I just stopped off for groceries on the way.”

  “Good girl. Bye now. Give Nick a hug for me.”

  “I will, Daddy.” The line went dead.

  Nash composed himself, then lifted his head and called out to Harold Woodward, “Add San Francisco to that list. Unknown male approached Evan Cortez about a photo shoot.”

  Woodward added a checkmark to the whiteboard. “So far, that’s five of the ten. Let’s see if we can put together a description of this guy.”

  *

  7:50 p.m.

  Ellison had joined the other group in the conference room, half-listening to the conversation. Ten names were pinned up on the corkboard, none of which was his partner’s. It was strange to be there, yet somehow excluded. While Simon had joined the other in putting together a profile of the victims, using Rafe as the tenth cop, Ellison and Frank Black had spent most of the afternoon and evening trying to find clues in the brief images and feelings they had experienced.