Ten days
By Sylvia
Ten days. Sandburg had been missing for ten days.
At first, Jim had held out hope that there would be a call, a ransom demand; some contact to prove Sandburg was still alive. He was certain it was a kidnapping. The loft had been immaculate when he came home that night, except for the faint smell of blood. He'd piggybacked his sight and found a few drops just inside Blair's bedroom, a few more at the door. He'd also found Blair's travel bag missing, his clothes gone, and a rather convincing goodbye note on the fridge.
Jim didn't buy it, not really. The blood gave him doubts. Simon and the rest of Major Crimes were convinced, though. Blair'd probably cut himself shaving, in a hurry, he's long gone, so sorry Jim. Things have been rough for him lately; maybe he just needs time to process. That last was from Megan, who was still furious with Ellison for the diss fiasco and Blair's subsequent self-immolation at that damned press conference.
Ten days later, Jim was beginning to be convinced as well. He'd set up a track on Blair's credit cards, following him via computer to the bus terminal, then to motels in Nevada, Arizona, and Texas. Along the way, there had been purchases of food, books, and the occasional toiletry. Calls to the motels verified that a man of Sandburg's description had indeed stayed there for a night, but had left that morning. No, he left no indication of his intentions; can we be of any further assistance, officer?
But, the blood. Sandburg's blood and the smell of fear, like bitter almonds. Someone had taken him.
Then, in the early morning of the eleventh day, the phone rang. Jim scrambled to pick it up, "Hello. I'm here."
Silence, then, very softly, "Jim?"
He sounded confused and scared, his cracked voice barely a whisper in the deep night. Jim wondered if he was dreaming. "I'm here, Chief. Where are you?" The plastic of the handset creaked, and Jim forced himself to loosen his grip.
More silence, and Jim strained his ears until he could hear Blair breathing. It sounded strained, hesitant, and just a little wet. Barely louder than his breath, Blair finally said, "Cascade. Don't know how far out. K-Kincaid." Footsteps echoed down the phone line and Blair went silent until they faded. "They'll miss me soon, Jim. I'm tired."
He sounded more than tired. His words were slurring just a bit, thick and hesitant, like it hurt to talk. "I know you are, buddy. Give me some idea where you are and I'll come get you."
There was a short, bitter laugh. "Kincaid knows, Jim. Brackett got out." Muffled shouts in the background, and the banging of doors. "Get out of Cascade, Jim," the tired voice was urgent now. "Go far away. I think they took me so they could control you. Brackett got back yesterday and they're ready now." Footsteps coming closer now. Then, quite near, the explosion of a door being kicked open. "That's no anchovies, got it! Oh, hi guys. Did you want a pizza too? Hey!" Thumps, the rattle of the phone being dropped, then an ominous silence.
"Cute, Blair." A muffled thump, a gasp, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. The phone creaked in Jim's hand and he longed to just crawl through it. "Who the hell did you think you were calling? Ellison?" Louder, a familiar voice spoke into Jim's ear. "That you, Jim? What's taking you so long? Blair's not in great shape, here." Another thump, a groan. Jim ground his teeth in anger and frustration.
"Stop hurting him, you bastard! If you want me, tell me where he is and you've got as much of me as you think you can handle."
Brackett just laughed, and then Blair screamed. Jim's heart stopped.
"Come find him, Detective. And hurry." The line went dead.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Ten days. It had been ten days since Garrett Kincaid had walked into the loft, to Blair's utter amazement, and then carried him away to this tiny, dingy room. Ten days of handcuffs, poor food, little sleep, and intermittent agony. They'd told him about the good-bye note, the false trail to Texas, and how Jim had bought it hook, line, and sinker. Then they'd beaten him unconscious.
He'd tried asking questions, and was slapped for his trouble. Tried to cooperate, and they neglected to feed him for days. The brutality was constant and unfocused. They asked nothing of him, no questions or demands for information of any kind. It was damned frustrating, and confusing as hell. And Kincaid just stood there, an enigmatic look on his face, and watched.
Then, yesterday, another familiar face had peeked in through his door. "Hello, Blair." Lee Brackett, rogue CIA op, knew what Jim was, what he could do. Blair pushed himself to a sitting position, holding his aching ribs and leaning against the wall.
"Brackett. When the hell did you get out of jail? Does this mean I'm finally going to find out what the hell is going on here?"
In answer, Brackett threw him a sealed bottle of water. "I'm surprised Jim hasn't come riding to your rescue, yet. Aren't you?"
The bottle was still cold, the 7-11 price tag just beginning to peel off. No holes in the bottle that he could see, where drugs might have been injected. Blair ignored the question for a moment and ripped the cap off, drinking thirstily. It had been a while since anyone had bothered to bring in food or water. The cold water sloshed in his empty stomach, filling it for the first time in over a week, and threatening to come back up. He slowed down, sipping now, and said, "Thanks for this."
"You're welcome. You didn't answer my question, though."
The question had been bothering Blair, actually. Where the hell was Jim? Sure, there was that false trail, and the note, but surely Jim couldn't believe Blair would just up and leave, could he? Not after everything they'd been through. "He thinks I'm in Texas," Blair said at last. //He'll figure things out soon, though, and come and get me. //
Brackett smiled sadly, shaking his head. "He bought that pretty quickly, didn't he? Kind of like he was glad for an excuse not to look for you. Why did you do it, Blair?"
"Do what?"
"The press conference. You renounced your work, your life's work, for that big mook. Why?"
For a long moment, Blair didn't answer. He couldn't answer. No reasons came to his tired mind. At last though, he said, "Friendship. Not a concept I expect you to understand, Brackett." He finished the water and handed the bottle back. "Now, get to the point or get out. I'm too tired for your games right now, man." He leaned back against the rough wall and wished for a blanket. The boarded up window had no glass in it and the last two nights had been damn cold.
Brackett just smiled, and then walked out, closing and bolting the door behind him.
At sunset, the goons came back. Three of them crowded into the tiny room and wordlessly hauled Blair off of the thin mattress. In the dim silence, they stripped him and forced him to kneel over his waste bucket. The acrid smell made his eyes tear and he almost threw up the water he had been given. Two goons held his arms up and back, nearly dislocating his shoulders, and stilling his panicked struggles.
Then, the third stepped up. In the surreal dimness, he gathered up the dirty, tangled mass of Blair's hair and, drawing a knife from his boot, sawed it off. He dropped it in the waste bucket. Then he produced a set of electric clippers. The buzz filled the quiet room, and hair drifted down before Blair's eyes, dark curls and wisps of hair filling the bucket and settling on the floor around it. He struggled, shocked and angered, but the goons were bigger and stronger and paid him no heed. Not even to laugh or comment on his efforts. Somehow, that made the whole thing worse.
Finally, the clippers were turned off. Cold, meaty hands ran over his bare scalp and face, making him shudder, then he was hauled to his feet once again. He glared at goon number three, a blonde giant with dead eyes, and said, "Can I have my clothes back, now?"
Then he was bent over, retching, as a fist buried itself in is abdomen. The other two held him up, wrists and elbows, as he threw up warm water and bile. With bleary satisfaction, he saw the blonde giant back away with a look of disgust. "Gotcha."
They rubbed his face in it, and then took turns with their boots. The sun was well down when they finally left, leaving him shaking and shivering on the floor. His whole body ached, and he was cold all the way through and so tired. The loft, Jim, seemed like they were part of another life, or someone else's' life. Not this cold, miserable, sore scrap lying naked on a filthy linoleum floor.
After a while, he crawled to his mattress, thankful that it was on the floor, and curled around his aching ribs and stomach. The cold air from the window actually helped a little, driving away the cobwebs from his mind even as it made him shudder. //Still alive, and where the hell is Jim? I'm still alive, where there's life there's hope and how long am I gonna wait around to be rescued, anyway.//
He dozed, despite the cold and the pain, woke, and dozed again. Staggered up to the waste bucket and relieved himself in the dark, stretching abused muscles, and forcing himself to walk. One hand on the wall, he walked the circuit of the room. Once around, keep moving, keep warm, door post to corner, corner to wall, past the window, wall, step around the mattress, wall, corner to door, and whatthehell! The door moved under his hand. Blair went still, listening, but all he heard was his own heartbeat. Carefully, tentatively, he pushed on the door again. It swung open.
//They must have forgotten to lock it. Thought I was too far gone. Sloppy.//
The hall was dimly lit, with a threadbare, rose-colored carpet and peeling wallpaper. It looked like an old farmhouse, which meshed with the fields and barn Blair had been able to see from his window. He padded down the hall, listening at the closed doors and hearing nothing. //Probably a guard downstairs, everyone else asleep. Time to go. Clothes first, though.//
He tried a doorknob and let himself into a darkened bedroom. The full moon shone into the room, bathing the dusty furniture with a silvery light. There was a big bed, some overstuffed chairs that were losing their stuffing, and a huge armoire. There was also a phone. All thought of clothes forgotten, Blair limped to the bedside table and picked up the handset. His heart leapt when he heard the dial tone and he quickly started dialing the loft. It was an old fashioned phone and his cold fingers fumbled a few times, manipulating the rotary dial, but he finally was able to get all the numbers dialed. He gripped the receiver with shaking hands as it rang and rang.
The answering machine clicked on, to his despair, and began its message, and then he heard, "Hello. I'm here."
Stunned for a moment, he swallowed and tried to form words. Finally, he was able to whisper, "Jim?" He could hardly believe it. That other world was still there, still whole and warm and waiting just on the other side of the phone.
"I'm here, Chief. Where are you?"
//If only I knew.// Blair wracked his tired brain, trying to remember anything he could offer Jim as a clue. A cough threatened to erupt, but he swallowed it down. "Cascade," he said finally. He was fairly sure they hadn't taken him far. "Don't know how far out." Clues. "K-Kincaid." //Kincaid is behind it, the rat bastard. Somehow, he got out of jail. We're in a farmhouse somewhere. Watch out for Kincaid.// Blair wasn't sure how much of that he had said, or thought. Tired, and cold, he slumped on the dusty coverlet on the bed and tried to organize his thoughts. The sound of footsteps coming down the hall froze him into silence until they passed. "They'll miss me soon, Jim. I'm tired."
Jim's voice was warm and kind, and Blair hung on his words like a lifeline. "I know you are, buddy. Give me some idea where you are and I'll come get you."
This startled a laugh out of Blair, though it hurt his ribs. "Kincaid knows everything, Jim. Brackett got out." Blair nearly dropped the phone when he heard shouts in the background, and the banging of doors. "Get out of Cascade, Jim," he said urgently. "Go far away. I think they took me so they could control you. Brackett got back yesterday and they're ready now." The shaving was an escalation, he realized now. Before, they had been taking it easy on him. Now, the gloves were off.
With a bang, the door flew open, shattering the frame and the lock. Thinking quickly, Blair said, "That's no anchovies, got it! Oh, hi guys. Did you want a pizza too? Hey!" The blonde goon stepped up and knocked the phone from his hand, then cuffed him away from the bed. Brackett looked down at him sadly and said, "Cute, Blair." Then he picked up the phone.
Blair lost track of the conversation as the room filled with people. The three goons were blocking his escape. They caught him easily as he tried to dodge for the door and knocked him to the floor. A foot between his shoulder blades insured he'd stay there.
"That you, Jim? What's taking you so long? Blair's not in great shape, here." Blair tried to push up against the weight on his back, but subsided with a groan as someone's boot knocked his hands out from under him.
Brackett listened, then laughed at whatever Jim was saying. That's when the goon on his back moved to his hand, stepping down with crushing force. Blair screamed in anger and pain and fear.
"Come find him, Detective. And hurry." Brackett hung up the phone, then motioned the goons away. The crushing pressure lifted and Blair drew in his arm, cradling his screaming hand. He didn't think the bones were broken, but he couldn't be sure. The fingers wouldn't move and it throbbed all the way to his shoulder.
Brackett crouched before Blair and smiled sadly, "Jim says hello, Blair. I don't think he'll be coming to your rescue, though. He told me he's pretty busy right now, what with the holidays and everything." He helped Blair to sit up, then pulled the quilt from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Back to your room, now. We'll talk in the morning." He motioned to the goons, who lifted him to his feet and guided him back down the hall. The door clicked shut behind him, and he heard the bolt shoot home.
He sat on the mattress and wrapped the quilt around himself, holding it awkwardly in one hand. It had been a trick, a trap, he realized. They let him make that call, to draw Jim out. But then, why the fake trail to Texas, why the note? He lay down on his side, fatigue overcoming fear, and drifted off.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Snow was drifting down, dusting the balcony with a fine layer of white. Light from the loft spilled onto it, lighting the individual crystals with bright glints. If he looked, Jim could see the individual flakes, their hexagonal geometries fascinating in their diversity. Last winter, he and Blair had spent an afternoon courting a zone-out while Jim watched the snow fall, letting his vision sharpen and focus in on their cold beauty. He could not afford to do that right now, but it was safer to watch the snow than to think about Blair. The rage came then, and then he couldn't see anything but visions of Blair hurting, screaming, and all rational thought fled.
He'd called Simon, of course. Listened for a moment as his Captain grumbled about the time, and this better be important, Ellison, before interrupting to tell him about the phone call. Then silence fell. "I'll be right there." The phone company would be called in the morning, and the number on the Caller ID identified. In the morning, Jim would go to Kincaid's cell and tear it apart for clues. In the morning, the hunt would begin. Now, though, the world slept under a growing veil of white, and Jim watched the snow fall and tried not to think too much.
Get out of Cascade, Blair had said. Go far away. But if they wanted Jim, they could have taken him. Not easily, to be sure, but it could be done. Had been done before. If they wanted Jim, why the note, making him think Blair had left? It had to be something else.
Kincaid was involved, and Brackett. Which meant, they were dealing with an enemy who knew about his abilities. An enemy with knowledge, cunning, and power. And they had Blair. Had had Blair for the past ten days. Hurting him.
Red. Red. A growl formed in Jim's chest, but he did not give it voice.
Snow. Cold. Wrap it around your soul. Smother the fire, the thirst. Think.
Could be for revenge. They had sent Brackett away after the Ebola scare. Could be a plan to unbalance him, throw him off his game so they could carry out some other plot. Could be.
Simon was here. Opening the front door on the first floor, the chill wind wafted the scent of his cigars up the stairwell, along with the cold smell of winter and the stink of the parking lot with its rubber, gasoline, and stale cigarette butts moldering in the gutters. Jim tracked his progress to the elevator, and up to the third floor. The doorknob was in his hand and the door open when Simon stepped into the hall.
"Jim. You ok? Normally you let me at least get to the door."
Words escaped Jim for the moment. He gestured Simon inside, then closed the door and bolted it. He made a quick circuit, patrolling the perimeter and checking the locks, then motioned for Simon to sit. He paced to the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee and carried it back to the living room. Simon stood, the snow melting slowly from his shoulders and steaming in the warmth of the loft. "Jim?"
Ellison pressed the cup into his hands, and then resumed his restless pacing before the night black windows. The growl was closer to the surface. It had been a mistake, letting Simon come. There was someone else Inside now. Someone not-Jim, not-Blair.
"Jim!" Simon sounded alarmed, Jim thought dimly. He winced, his hearing sensitive to the point of pain. "Sit down before you fall down, Detective." Simon put down his cup and took off the coat, hanging it before the fire to dry. "That's an order, Detective."
Now Jim growled. "My home, Simon. My loft. My choice. Get out if you don't like it."
Storm clouds gathered in Simon's eyes. "YOU called ME, Ellison. Let's not forget who is the Captain here. Now, SIT!" The two men stood, eyes locked for a few moments, and Jim suddenly remembered why he had called Simon Banks. Simon could handle Jim's temper in a way Blair couldn't, and was the only man Jim knew who could best the younger man in a battle of wills. Jim looked away first and sank to the sofa with a muttered apology.
"Sorry, Cap. I've been going nuts ever since the call came."
"Understandable. Now, what's the plan and how can I help?"
By midmorning, they had obtained the phone records and had a tentative address. By late morning, property records and the Cascade County tax assessor's office as belonging to a Leigh Templar, which made Simon laugh for the first time that day, had confirmed it. By midafternoon, they had a warrant.
By late afternoon, the gentle fall of snow had turned into a blizzard.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Cold. He was so cold. Why was his head so cold? Blair reached up to brush back his hair, but encountered only a fold of the quilt and a prickly scalp. "Oh, yeah." The memory of being held down, so damn effortlessly, and those clippers made him shudder. Blair knew he was not a weakling, but he hadn't even made his captors break a sweat, however hard he struggled. He had never felt so helpless in his life, which, he realized, had probably been the point of the exercise.
During the night, he had cocooned himself in the thin quilt, but it had done little to keep out the cold. It had seeped into his sore muscles and into every abused joint. He groaned, sitting up. Nothing wanted to move, and he actually thought he heard his shoulders creak when he pushed himself up.
The hand that had been trampled by the elephant in size twelve's was stiff and bruised, but he had an encouraging bit of mobility in his fingers. The rest of his muscles, however, did not want to work at all. He lifted the quilt a bit and grimaced at the patchwork of black and blue bruises. A colorful array of older bruises in yellow and a sickly green patterned his torso and legs. No life threatening injuries, as far as he could tell. Just painful ones.
The hunger was the worst, and the need for water. His stomach had given up growling two days ago, though it still cramped with empty nausea from time to time. The thirst was constant. He felt like he could drink gallons, oceans of water, given half a chance.
A gust of icy air made him wrap the quilt around himself more closely, for all the good it did. "Great. Now it's snowing." He stood, swaying, and limped over to the boarded up window to peer between the slats. The farmyard below was covered in white, and it was falling more heavily by the moment. A small drift had formed inside the room, where snow had fallen between the boards.
Though he knew it would chill him even more, Blair scooped up a handful of the dirty snow and shoved it into his mouth. He let it melt, the moisture trickling into his parched mouth sweeter than honey wine, before swallowing and grabbing up another handful. Long before Blair's thirst was eased, though, the drift was gone. He tried for the hundredth time to remove one of the boards from the window, but they were as immovable as ever. "Just have to wait. I can wait." He walked back to his mattress and sank down, drawing up his knees and tucking his feet and chilled hands into the quilt. He drew up one corner over his bare scalp and leaned back against the wall with a sigh.
The hours passed, cold and quiet. Twice, Blair visited the snowdrift and drank. Once, he heard footsteps pass his door and the sound of angry voices, suddenly heard and silent again, as though someone had opened and shut a window nearby. No one came for him.
He dozed off and on, the time marked only by the changing light until late afternoon. The wind was blowing harder than ever through the cracks and his breath smoked as he bent and scooped up another handful of snow from the dirty floor. The cold made his teeth ache and his shivering worse, but the snow melting in his mouth gave him some relief.
"I knew Jim had little use for you, Blair, but don't you think he might at least make a token effort?" The door swung open the rest of the way and Brackett lounged back against the frame. "Or maybe he's using this as an excuse to wash his hands of you. The press will catch on soon, if you don't move on yourself. A self-confessed fraud, living and working with the man he embarrassed so publicly? If they haven't figured out yet that Jim really is your Sentinel, you can bet they will." His casual tones did not match his eyes, which kept darting into the hall.
Blair didn't bother to answer. Brackett was saying nothing he hadn't already thought of, but he knew Jim wouldn't abandon him. He'd apologized for his behavior, and even offered to help Blair pay for a lawyer to sue Sid. Jim was his friend, and he wouldn't throw Blair to the wolves like that. He clutched the quilt more tightly around his gaunt body and glared, but said nothing.
Brackett waited for some response, and then started laughing quietly. "Such faith. Well, I hope you're right, for your sake. But I think Jim has moved on." He reached down and picked up a red duffel bag from the hallway. "At any rate, my plans have changed, thanks to that little madman downstairs." He tossed the bag to Blair, who caught it awkwardly. "Get dressed. We're leaving."
"Leaving? What." Blair fumbled the bag open and drew out sweats, socks, his own shoes, and a hooded fatigue jacket. "What the hell is your game, Brackett? I'm not going anywhere with you." He nevertheless scrambled into the warm clothes as fast as his aching body would allow. He felt Brackett's eyes on him, but didn't look up. There was even a stocking cap for his head. He slipped it on and, for the first time in days, he began to feel warm.
"About time. Come on, now. We don't have a lot of time to waste." The rogue motioned Blair forward, looking down the hall nervously.
The younger man did not move. "I already told you, man. I'm not going anywhere with you. I'd be out of a frying pan and into something a lot nastier. Whatever your game is, I'm not playing this time. Jim isn't playing this time."
With an expression of exasperation, Brackett said, "This has nothing to do with Jim. Jim Ellison is an idiot, a sadistic bully. I'm surprised you've put up with him for this long. This is about you, your abilities. That racist bantam downstairs hates everything about you and, make no mistake, he will kill you. If Jim Ellison has abandoned you, as I believe, Kincaid will kill you sooner. If Ellison shows, he'll kill you both. Don't be an idiot, Sandburg. If you come with me, you have a chance."
He hadn't pulled a weapon, Blair realized. He was asking, not threatening.
Still. "I'll take my chances, Brackett. Thanks for the clothes, though."
"Brackett!" Kincaid's voice was loud in the quiet house, and echoed up the stairwell, making Blair jump. "Get in here! I'm not done with you yet!"
He couldn't help it; Blair's mouth twisted into a bawdy grin. "You and Kincaid got a lil' thing going, Lee? I never pictured you as the suicidal type."
Quicker than thought, Brackett crossed the room and grabbed a handful of shirt and jacket, lifting Blair and pinning him to the wall. "Déjà vu." Blair said breathlessly.
Brackett's breath was hot in his face. "I'm trying to save your life, you idiot," he said urgently. "I'm the only one who gives a damn if you live or die. Ellison has thrown you away. Kincaid wants to gut you. Your own mother didn't stick around town for a week after outing you and your precious Sentinel. I'm all you've got. Now are you with me?"
//Frying pan or fire? At least Jim has some clue where I am right now. If I go with Brackett, Jim steps into a trap here. If he.no, *when * he comes.//
At last, Blair shook his head. "I'm staying, Brackett. Just do me a favor and leave the door unlocked."
The rogue's eyes burned into his for a long moment, then Brackett released him. Blair staggered, then regained his footing and rubbed his sore neck. "It's your ass, Sandburg. I figured you were smarter than this."
"Funny, Lee. I was thinking the same thing." The not quite drawl from the door drew their attention. Kincaid, standing at parade rest in the doorway, leered at them both. "I told you this wasn't going to work. Ellison will have traced that call by now. Now we do this my way." Blair's heart leapt; some small, tired part of him had been beginning to believe Brackett's line. He held his renewed faith close, drawing warmth from it.
"You idiot!" Brackett turned and advanced on the smaller man. "You're throwing away an incredible resource in exchange for a little revenge! You just had to let him make a call. One more week and he would have been mine, and through him, Ellison. Don't you know what an asset a man with his abilities would be, under our control? Moron!"
There was a dangerous glint in Kincaid's eyes. Blair held himself very still, very quiet, and wondered at Brackett's nerve. He'd seen snakes with warmer eyes than Kincaid's.
His voice was mild, though, when he spoke. "Yeah, well, I didn't believe all that about 'super senses.' Jim Ellison is just a lucky cop who makes some good guesses. All that superhero bullshit is for comic books and sci- fi cop shows, ain't that right, Jew-boy?"
Blair's skin crawled when Kincaid shifted his cold gaze away from Brackett to himself. "Um, right. Absolutely. Superhero bullshit. Never meant a word of.."
"Shut up. You always been this mouthy, kike?" Kincaid brought his arms from behind his back and Blair stiffened. He had a gun. "I like the new hair-do, by the way. It suits you. Maybe I'll have the boys rustle up a tattoo needle and some ink."
Ten days of fear and hunger, of pain and frustrated rage boiled up. Blair felt his fists clench and he lunged for the little madman. "Son of a bitch!"
With a snap, the gun was leveled. Blair froze, panting. "Go on," Kincaid said softly. "Come ahead on. I'd rather kill you in front of Ellison, but watching him find your body will be just as fun."
"We still need him, Kincaid," Brackett said. "You can kill him later, if you want to, but I'd advise against it for the present."
The gun held steady for an eternal moment, then Kincaid laughed and tucked it back in his shoulder rig. "I'll send you up some company, Serpico. Just so you don't get lonely." He turned and walked down the hall. Brackett followed behind, not looking back, and closed and bolted the door.
Blair's insides were shaking, as if the cold in the room had seeped into his heart. He wanted to scream, to beat that little bastard until the ache in his hands drowned out the ache in his soul. Mostly, though, he wanted to go home and shower until he felt clean again, inside and out.
Footsteps, coming up the stairs; his threatened 'company', so soon. Well, not again. Anger gave him strength, despite his aches and the gnawing light-headedness of too many missed meals. He'd give as good as he got, this time, or at least try. Blair looked around in a panic for a weapon, but it was as futile now as it had been ten days ago when he had first been brought to this room. Thin mattress on the floor, foul bucket in the corner, and the quilt in which he had been wrapped; these were his only choices. He tugged madly at the loosest board in the window, hitting it with desperate strength. Then, just as the booted feet stopped outside his door and the bolt turned, it came free in his chilled hands.
Ignoring the splinters in his fist, he dropped the quilt and scrambled to the door. He drew the board back, ready to knock one out of the ballpark, just as the door opened. The board swung and the blonde goon went down. Blair brought it down on the back of his head for good measure, and then peered around the corner. No one. He'd been alone.
Silently thanking the powers that be for this bit of good luck, Blair dragged the blonde into the room and closed the door. Working quickly, he stripped the man of his pants and sweater, slipping them on over his clothes and the fatigue jacket over all; thankfully all the clothes were several sizes too large. The pants threatened to slip off altogether until he tightened the belt down to its last hole. He found the knife the man had used to cut his hair and used it to cut strips from the quilt. The man was quickly secured, bound and gagged, and Blair took off down the hall toward the stairs.
The house was quiet, and Blair's feet made little sound on the threadbare carpet. He held the knife in his good hand, slipping silently down the stairs and into a cold front room. He heard voices near the back of the house, Kincaid and one other; where was the third. Where was Brackett? Had he left? The front door beckoned him, but its opening would surely alert the others and then what? Where would he go? Snow was falling more heavily than ever, and Blair had no coat and no transportation. He doubted he could run in his present condition anyway.
"Go see what's keeping Rufius." A chair scraped back and heavy footsteps approached. Blair looked around in desperation and ducked behind a dust- covered chair just as the goon who had stepped on his hand rounded the corner and started up the stairs. Time had run out. In a few moments, he'd find Rufius and then, shortly after that, they'd find Blair.
Bracing himself, he opened the front door and stepped into a world of whirling snow. A dark shape loomed off to the right. The barn. He could hide there; maybe find transportation, or a phone. A muffled yell from inside the house drove him off the porch and into the hip deep snow. His feet burned, and then went numb after just a few steps. He lurched through the blizzard toward the barn, the snow biting his face, his scalp as it blew around him. With floundering, lurching steps, he forced his way through the storm, head down and eyes squinted against the wind. When he looked up again, he could no longer see the barn, nor the house. Just white. //I'm going to die out here.//
Chance and luck brought him up against the side of the barn a few moments later. A few steps to the left and he would have missed it altogether. With numb hands he felt along the wall for a door. His tearing eyes were half frozen shut, and he couldn't feel his feet at all. After a short eternity, he found the door and fumbled it open, falling into the dim, dusty stillness at last.
Wood splintered high overhead, and the muffled crack of a gunshot sounded like a car backfiring in the howling wind. Blair scrambled deeper into the barn, looking for a place to hide. The floor was dirt, trampled by years of equine and human traffic, and covered with a thin layer of rotten straw. The wooden walls of the barn were silvered with age, but sturdy and kept out the worst of the wind. It was cold though, almost as cold as it had been outside, though the lack of wind made it seem warmer. As his eyes grew used to the dim light, Blair could see that there was a loft, reachable by a ladder, and stacks of square hay bales toward the back of the barn.
A memory from his childhood drew him to the bales. Playing hide and seek in the commune's barn, and making a hay fort out of the heavy blocks. There wasn't time for anything elaborate, but the stack was high and sturdy, and several bales deep. Scrambling up the pile, Blair shoved and tugged with his good hand, which was stinging with returning sensation, until he created a small hollow near the back of the stack of bales. He grabbed some dusty feedbags and wedged himself into the depression, curling up and wrapping himself in the burlap bags for warmth and then covering himself with loose straw. //Now all I have to do is keep from sneezing,// he thought giddily, //and stay awake.// He drew the knife again, holding it ready. "Now would be a really good time for a rescue, Jim," he whispered into the dark.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
"Slow down, Jim! I can't see a yard in front of us." Simon braced himself as the ancient Ford bucked through another hidden pothole. The truck's heater brought the cab's temperature to a bearable level, but his breath still puffed white. Outside, the wind howled, blowing snow in a white cloud and obscuring visibility almost totally.
"I can see just fine, Simon. Don't worry. We're almost there." Jim gripped the shuddering steering wheel with white knuckled fists, keeping the truck on the pocked dirt road by force of will. He was skirting the edge of a zone-out, focusing on the road so closely, but he refused to give in. Blair was just ahead. He could feel him, like an ache in his mind, and knew he was getting close. They had left their backup behind a mile ago; Megan and Rafe would catch up in time, but Jim was not in the mood to wait.
His gun was a comforting weight at the small of his back. Whatever, or whoever awaited them at the end of this road, they would deal with. Then they would bring Blair home. Simple plan.
The light was fading, turning the white swirls gray, when Jim spotted a dark shape in the swirling white. "There's the house. You ready?" He pulled in, out of the wind, and pulled his gun. Simon nodded, and they pushed the truck's doors open and stepped into the snow.
They stumbled up to the house together, keeping low and trusting that the sound of their arrival had been hidden by the howling storm. The front porch was a calm eye in the angry storm. Cautiously, Simon tried the front door knob and found it unlocked. "Hang on, Cap." Jim put his hand lightly on Simon's arm and opened his hearing, filtering through the wind's wail. Focusing inside the house, he heard voices. ".in the snow.what now?.find him before.can't be far." Two, no, three voices; Garrett Kincaid and two others. A door opened and closed. His nose twitched. Blood.
He nodded at Simon, who drew his weapon, and they entered the house, closing the door quietly behind them. Jim held up three fingers and motioned toward the back of the house, down a dingy hall. Simon nodded and they advanced together, silent and grim. Blair was here, somewhere. Jim could smell him. Only two heartbeats in the house, now, and the smell of blood almost overpowered the smell of Blair coming from the stairwell. It was all Jim could do not to race up those stairs.
First things first. Deal with the enemy.
The hall let out into a brightly lit kitchen that smelled strongly of rancid bacon grease, blood, and gun oil. A blonde man sat at the table, holding an ice pack to the back of his head and a tissue to his bleeding nose. He wasn't wearing any clothes, apart from a pair of boots, his BVD's, and a tattered quilt. Blair's scent was stronger now, and it was coming from the bleeding man. Jim put one and one together and came up with a beautiful mental image. "Little guy packs a wallop, doesn't he?" He said softly.
The man jumped and he dropped the icepack. The tissue, however, remained stuck in his nose and Jim had to fight back a laugh. Instead, he put his finger to his lips and motioned the man to turn around. The blonde looked from Jim to Simon, then turned with a sigh and presented his hands. "Perfect end to a perfect day," he muttered as Simon closed the handcuffs around his wrists.
In a low voice, Simon asked, "Where's your buddies?"
The man snorted, an odd wet sound through the bloody Kleenex, but said nothing.
"Figures. Ok, now what?"
Soft footsteps, coming down the hall. Soft breathing. Jim pulled Simon out of the doorway and covered it just as Lee Brackett stepped through, gun raised. "Should have known better than to try to sneak up on you, Jim," Brackett said ruefully. "You're too late, though. Kincaid moved him an hour ago. Let me go and I'll tell you where to find them."
Jim's aim never wavered. "I don't think so, Brackett. Drop the gun."
"Blair gave up on you, Jim. It was sad to see the hope fade from his eyes, day by day. He hates you, now. Pity, when friendships turn bitter like that. Trust is such a fragile thing, especially when the bonds have already been broken and the healing is still young and incomplete."
Brackett's words gnawed at Jim. He didn't want to believe them, but he knew how badly he had already hurt Blair. Small wonder if the kid found it hard to trust him anymore, especially under these circumstances.
"Sandburg's solid, Brackett," Simon said, bringing up his own weapon. "Let's end this. Drop your weapon and turn around with your hands on top of your head. You're under arrest for the kidnapping of Blair Sandburg, aggravated assault, and whatever else we can find to book you with, you piece of shit."
Brackett looked from Simon to Jim, a tiny smile bending his lips. "Do you believe Blair is 'solid,' Jim? That he'd never break? Every man has a breaking point, Jim. I'm just the hammer; you were my chisel."
Jim had had enough of this. "No more games, Brackett. Gun down. Turn around. Now!" The urge to find Blair was strong. He was *here *, damn it. Close by, and hurting. This was taking far too long.
With a sigh, Brackett placed his gun on the kitchen table and gave it a push. "I can't take you both out." Jim's eye was drawn momentarily to the gun and in that moment of distraction, Brackett threw something on the ground. A flash blanked Jim's vision and a cloud of noxious smoke billowed up, searing his lungs. He heard Simon shout a warning, and the sound of running feet. Coughing, gagging on the bitter smoke, Jim blinked and followed after.
The front door opened and closed, and Jim heard the clicking, sparking sounds of his truck being hot-wired. "Son of a bitch is stealing my truck!" His vision cleared as he reached the door and whipped it open, only to see the red coals of tail lights being swallowed up by the storm. "Shit!"
The bitter smoke cleared from his lungs as he drew in deep breaths of frigid air. Simon came up behind him, coughing and holding his side. Zeller's bullet wound had healed well, but it was still painful and Simon winced with every deep breath. "You ok, Simon?" Jim asked, worried.
"F-fine. Find Sandburg." Simon leaned on the doorpost, rubbing his aching eyes, and letting his lungs clear as well.
Jim had a good idea where to start. He took the stairs two at a time, following the traces of Blair that made it past his nearly numb nose. Large black blotches danced before his eyes, but he could see clearly enough. "Blair!" No heartbeats here. No answering call. He began opening doors, working his way down the hall. One cold empty room after another, filled with dusty furniture and signs of recent use. No Blair.
The end of the hall had a window that looked out over the back of the house. It was almost dark, but the storm seemed to be slacking a bit. Jim saw a dark, squarish shape, about a hundred feet from the house. He thought idly that it was probably a barn or a guesthouse.
Blair's scent was strong at this end of the hall, almost bitter, along with the smell of human waste. Jim looked at the last door more closely and saw that it had a lock on the outside. "Blair!" He turned the bolt and wrenched the door open.
It was a small room, empty and very cold. The smell was overpowering, here, and Jim knew he was looking at Blair's prison. A sodden, moldy mattress rested on the floor, as far as possible from the boarded up window. There were small spatters of blood on the dirty floor, and strands of something dark skittered across the floor in a tangle. The rage that had been smoldering, waiting, flared, and Jim shook with the force of it.
Fighting to keep his wits, Jim took two steps to the window and put his face into the wind. He let the cold scour his face, numbing it quickly, but he could not find the peace he had found in the loft, standing at the balcony. Now the rage burned cold and hot together.
Clattering up the stairs, Simon came in the room behind Jim. "Sweet Jesus," he breathed. He held his hand over his nose and mouth and looked sick. "Is this where they were keeping him?" Jim nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "So, where is he now?" Jim shook his head. He rested his forehead on the boards and looked out into the deepening twilight.
He saw movement in the snow. Two dark figures, moving slowly toward what he could now see as a barn. The storm was definitely easing, though the wind still howled in the attic above, carrying traces of voices. Jim stooped quickly and picked up the tangle of curls from the floor. He needed a focus, needed Sandburg to keep him from zoning on what he was about to do. Rubbing the familiar curls between his cold hands, he brought them to his nose and sniffed.
Blair filled his consciousness, anchored him as securely as if the man had his hand on Jim's arm. Focusing his sight, Jim zoomed in close on the figures in the snow. Two armed men, heading toward the barn at a snail's pace through the waist deep snow. He piggybacked his hearing, heard breathing, then "He's probably wandering in the woods somewhere, Reece. He's probably dead by now." "I'm not taking that chance, Eric. First we'll check the barn, then double back to the house and search it from attic to basement, got it?" A door opened and closed and they disappeared inside the structure.
Now for the dangerous part. Jim buried his face in Blair's hair and opened his hearing wide. His own heart beat sounded deafeningly loud in his ears; Simon's wasn't much better. Tune out, filter out, listen for others. Two hearts beat, two sets of lungs labored outside. Three in the kitchen, Jim, Simon, and the prisoner, accompanied by cursing and the jingle of handcuffs.
One more, muffled and fast. The scent of old hay made him sneeze and suddenly Jim was back in the little room, Simon at his side. "He's in the barn, Simon. Let's go."
^*^*^*^*^ It was dark and dusty inside his hiding place, but warm and growing warmer. Blair could feel his fingers and toes again, stinging with returning sensation, and his shivers had all but stopped. The thick bales cut the wind that seeped through the cracks in the walls; they also provided a layer of insulation around his huddled body, trapping the warmth that the frigid air had done nothing but steal away.
It was hard to mark time, though. The barn was unlit and only a little twilight shone in through the cracks in the walls. With the burlap and the hay covering him, very little of the light made its way to Blair. Plus, he kept dropping off. As he warmed up, his shivers eased, and lethargy stole over him. His eyes grew very heavy and he dozed on and off for an unaccountable amount of time. Each time, he would start awake, clutching his stolen knife with a shaking hand and telling himself firmly he would *not * drop off again. He was just so tired.
Startling awake for the umpteenth time, Blair blinked in the darkness, trying to decide what felt different. It was a little colder, and the wind was blowing louder, but that wasn't what woke him. The barn door rattled again, banging back on its hinges. //I closed that door. Shit.// Someone was in the barn with him. His breathing shallowed and he tried not to make a sound.
"Saaand-buuuurg.. Come out, come out, wherever you are." A mocking voice called from the barn floor. Blair gripped his knife tightly and tried not to sneeze. "I know you're in here, Jew-boy. Come on out and I won't kill you." The voice was closer, and Blair heard someone climbing the ladder to the loft. Bits of dust and straw pattered down.
Then he heard another sound, and his gut turned colder than ever. The metallic snick and rasp of a lighter being opened and lit. "If you're in here, you're probably cold, right, Jew-boy? Can't have that." Stale straw caught quickly, despite the damp, and Blair could hear the crackle of flames from the barn floor.
"Hey, Reece, you sure you want to do that?" Heavy feet ran across the loft overhead and down the ladder as the smell of smoke filtered into Blair's hiding place. The bales would burn slowly, he knew, but the loose straw on the floor and the ancient wood of the barn itself would go up quickly, especially with the wind to help fan the flames. Cursing silently, he uncoiled and pushed the burlap bags away, creeping out onto the bales. He was high enough that he would not be seen easily from the ground, he hoped, and he looked out over the edge.
Firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The dark-haired goon, Reece, and his buddy had backed away from the rapidly spreading flames and did not see him, but they were between him and the banging door. He was cut off, and the flames were licking up the side of the stack of hay bales already. "Fifteen birds in five fir trees." he muttered, and scooted back again, out of sight. There had to be another way out of the barn; Blair just had to find it.
Stifling a cough, he noticed some of the smoke was drifting past him, down through the bales. "Where there's a wind, there's a way." He crept back to the far bales, following the trail of smoke as silently as he could, and prayed his guess was right. The way the fire was spreading, he wouldn't have time for a second guess. *^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Jim and Simon crossed the yard at a run, weapons drawn and ready. The barn door slammed open and closed in the dying wind, kicking up snow flurries with each pass. Jim paused outside the door, propping it open, and gestured to Simon, indicating Jim would go in first and Simon would follow. Simon nodded and Jim slipped inside.
Smoke filled the barn and it was almost painfully warm after the chill outside. The two Patriots were dark shapes before the flickering flames, backing towards the door. "Hold it," Jim ordered. "Cascade P.D. Drop your weapons and put your hands up, now!"
Of course, they didn't do it. Spinning, the men drew and fired, but hit only barn. Jim, on the other hand, hit exactly what he was aiming for. The two men went down, their faces masks of pained surprise. Simon kept them covered as Jim knelt and checked for a pulse. "They're alive. Ambulance should be able to get up here, now, once the plows get busy." The fire was spreading quickly now and Jim coughed from the dusty, acrid smoke. "Sandburg! Where are you?!"
Jim could barely hear Simon over the roar of the flames, let alone another heartbeat, and the barn was going up like a tinderbox. The flames were dancing up the walls and along the rafters, sending sparks down like lightning bugs and setting more of the dry straw alight. "We have to get them out of here, Jim." Simon picked up the unconscious Patriot in a fireman's carry. Jim just stood there, blinking in the smoke, looking down at the other unconscious man. "Jim!" Simon put his hand on Ellison's shoulder and gave him a hard shake. "We have to get out of here." One of the ridge beams cracked and fell with a thunderous clamor, bringing down part of the roof.
"Damn it!" Jim hoisted the other man over his shoulder and ran for the door, dodging flaming debris. They floundered into the waist-deep snow, which was pleasantly cool at first after the fire's heat, then painfully cold. The wind had stopped altogether and the clouds were breaking up, Jim noted. The moon was full and cast silver light over the transformed landscape as they trudged back to the house. "Where the hell is he?"
"Where the hell is Kincaid? According to what you told me, he's in this as deeply as Brackett."
"I have no id." his voice trailed off. Movement, a shadow against the shadowed tree line, moving slowly. "Stop right there!" he bellowed, shrugging the injured man off of his shoulder. He drew his gun again and focused in his sight. The figure was wearing a fatigue jacket and cap identical to the ones worn by the other Patriots. Kincaid. Jim felt the growl tremble in his chest as the figure started running, limping toward the trees. Jim leapt in pursuit, glad of a purpose, a focus for his rage at last. Kincaid would know where Blair was. He'd damn well better know.
"Cascade P.D.! Stop or I'll open fire!"
The figure stopped, coughing and gasping for air. He bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath, and then broke into a run again, this time towards Jim and Simon. Against the firelight, in the moonlight, Jim couldn't see the man's smudged face. Just two blue eyes focused on him with feverish intensity. He brought up his gun and yelled, "Stop right there."
"J-Jim?" The man stumbled to a halt, floundering in the snow. "It's me. Blair. D-d-don't shoot."
The wind shifted, bringing the man's scent. Smoke, blood, straw, and Blair. Jim secured his gun with a grin on his face. "It's Blair, Simon!" He closed the remaining distance and gathered Blair into his arms, feeling too thin arms wrap around him in return. Jim could feel the shivers coursing through the younger man, and he drew back.
He didn't expect the angry expression he saw. "Where the hell have you been?!" Blair demanded. "Did you have a nice Christmas, Jim? How was the New Year's party?" Blair drew away and wrapped his arms around himself, glaring up at his dumbstruck friend.
Finding his voice at last, Jim said, "Chief, I, we thought.we didn't know. I'm so sorry, Blair." He knew the younger man was on the edge of his emotions right now, but his words had still hurt. "I got here as fast as I could." The dark bruises he could see under the soot covering Blair's face said, mutely, that it had not been nearly fast enough. The stubble he could see peeking out from the stocking cap screamed the same message. "I'm so sorry," he repeated softly.
Sandburg looked past him to Simon, then up at the sky. He took a deep breath and released it, steaming, into the air. Softly, he said, "I'm cold, man. Let's get inside." He gave Jim a tired half-smile and trudged by him, limping toward the house. Jim heard him say, half-heartedly, "Hey, Simon," as he walked passed and disappeared inside.
Following, Jim shouldered his man again. "He okay, Jim? Kid sounded a little rough on you."
"No more than I deserved, Simon. Ten days, I let him stay in this place. Ten days in that damned room." He nudged the back door open and dumped his man on the kitchen floor, near the stove. The bleeding was still controlled and both were still unconscious. The blonde in the chair just glared at them. "I'd be surprised if he wasn't mad at me. I failed him, Simon."
"We failed him, Jim. I should have known better, thinking that he'd cut and run like that." Simon checked the blonde's cuffs, and then reached for the phone. "Megan and Rafe should be here any minute now. I think Kincaid's long gone by now. Can you.um." he looked uncertainly at the prisoner, then made a little motion beside his ear.
Jim quirked a tired smile. Simon had never really become comfortable with the whole Sentinel thing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on listening.
Five people in the kitchen.the barn, still crackling and popping.one heartbeat upstairs.the dying wind, blowing the trees.the hiss of snow, blowing across the laden roof.a car, approaching, still a mile or more away.the tentative sounds of animals in the woods.the muffled, distant roar of a snowmobile, growing fainter by the moment.closer, overhead, the creak of hinges as a door opens..
"He's gone upstairs." Jim took off at a run.
Simon drew his gun. "Kincaid?"
"Sandburg." Jim paused long enough to report, "Kincaid's gone; Megan and Rafe are almost here. I'll be right back."
He took the steps two at a time, swinging around the banister at the top of the stairs at a run. The hall was empty, but a cold draft blew along the floor, carrying too familiar smells. The door at the end of the hall was open.
Part of Jim wanted to stay back, stay out of that room. Part of him told him that was exactly where he needed to be. His feet carried him down the hall, so he guessed which part of him won the argument. Still, Jim Ellison had never been so unsure of his welcome in his life.
The room was dark, lit only by a sliver of moon and the light from the hallway. Snow had drifted under the broken window; Jim shivered, imagining what it must have been like.
"They never spoke to me," Blair's shadow was a deeper darkness, standing in the corner farthest from the window. "Not even when they were beating me. Not when they cut my hair off." His voice was thick, but quiet, and Jim's eyes burned. "I tried to talk to them. You know me. Can't shut me up. But they did. Took my voice, my clothes, my strength, my hair, until I only had one thing left. One thing to hold on to."
Jim closed his eyes, "God, Blair."
"Then Brackett tried to take that away, too. Told me you had given up on me. You were glad to see me go."
"Never," Jim said fiercely.
Blair huddled closer in his corner, his arms wrapped around his body. Jim could hear him shivering, could smell the salt of Blair's tears. None of that was in that thick, quiet, tired voice. "I know. In my head, I know. You're here. But, Jim," he looked up at last, eyes glinting in the dim light, "what if you're *not *?"
It really was a very small room. Jim crossed it in three long steps and took the shivering man into his arms. "I'm here, Blair. I'm really here." He swept the knit cap off of Blair's head and rested his cheek against the stubble. The younger man tensed, pulling away, then slowly, so slowly, relaxed in Jim's tight embrace. His too thin arms crept around Jim's torso, holding him with surprising strength as the shivers eased and passed and turned into deep, silent sobs. It was the weeping of a strong man, driven to the edge of his endurance, and coming home at last.
They stood like that for a long time, each giving, each receiving comfort from the other. Peripherally, Jim registered the arrival of Megan and Rafe, the ambulance and the departure of the prisoners. None of that was as important as what he was doing, so he ignored it all. Simon could deal with it and did, from what Jim heard. Finally, when he was ready, Blair pulled away, wiping his eyes on a dirty sleeve. "Thanks, Jim."
"Anytime, Blair." He bent and scooped up the knit cap, handing it back to the younger man. "Megan is going to flip when she sees your head, Chief."
Laughing wetly, Blair rubbed a hand across the peach fuzz. "Yeah. I guess so." He led the way out of the room and down the hall, Jim following close behind. "Funny thing, though."
"What's that, Chief?"
Blair stopped and turned, looking thoughtfully up at Jim. "I still got more hair than you do, man."
A few minutes later, outside, Simon watched his two best friends hurl snowballs at each other, and shook his head, smiling. At least until a stray snowball put out his cigar and he was forced to join the fray.
The End
Ten days. Sandburg had been missing for ten days.
At first, Jim had held out hope that there would be a call, a ransom demand; some contact to prove Sandburg was still alive. He was certain it was a kidnapping. The loft had been immaculate when he came home that night, except for the faint smell of blood. He'd piggybacked his sight and found a few drops just inside Blair's bedroom, a few more at the door. He'd also found Blair's travel bag missing, his clothes gone, and a rather convincing goodbye note on the fridge.
Jim didn't buy it, not really. The blood gave him doubts. Simon and the rest of Major Crimes were convinced, though. Blair'd probably cut himself shaving, in a hurry, he's long gone, so sorry Jim. Things have been rough for him lately; maybe he just needs time to process. That last was from Megan, who was still furious with Ellison for the diss fiasco and Blair's subsequent self-immolation at that damned press conference.
Ten days later, Jim was beginning to be convinced as well. He'd set up a track on Blair's credit cards, following him via computer to the bus terminal, then to motels in Nevada, Arizona, and Texas. Along the way, there had been purchases of food, books, and the occasional toiletry. Calls to the motels verified that a man of Sandburg's description had indeed stayed there for a night, but had left that morning. No, he left no indication of his intentions; can we be of any further assistance, officer?
But, the blood. Sandburg's blood and the smell of fear, like bitter almonds. Someone had taken him.
Then, in the early morning of the eleventh day, the phone rang. Jim scrambled to pick it up, "Hello. I'm here."
Silence, then, very softly, "Jim?"
He sounded confused and scared, his cracked voice barely a whisper in the deep night. Jim wondered if he was dreaming. "I'm here, Chief. Where are you?" The plastic of the handset creaked, and Jim forced himself to loosen his grip.
More silence, and Jim strained his ears until he could hear Blair breathing. It sounded strained, hesitant, and just a little wet. Barely louder than his breath, Blair finally said, "Cascade. Don't know how far out. K-Kincaid." Footsteps echoed down the phone line and Blair went silent until they faded. "They'll miss me soon, Jim. I'm tired."
He sounded more than tired. His words were slurring just a bit, thick and hesitant, like it hurt to talk. "I know you are, buddy. Give me some idea where you are and I'll come get you."
There was a short, bitter laugh. "Kincaid knows, Jim. Brackett got out." Muffled shouts in the background, and the banging of doors. "Get out of Cascade, Jim," the tired voice was urgent now. "Go far away. I think they took me so they could control you. Brackett got back yesterday and they're ready now." Footsteps coming closer now. Then, quite near, the explosion of a door being kicked open. "That's no anchovies, got it! Oh, hi guys. Did you want a pizza too? Hey!" Thumps, the rattle of the phone being dropped, then an ominous silence.
"Cute, Blair." A muffled thump, a gasp, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. The phone creaked in Jim's hand and he longed to just crawl through it. "Who the hell did you think you were calling? Ellison?" Louder, a familiar voice spoke into Jim's ear. "That you, Jim? What's taking you so long? Blair's not in great shape, here." Another thump, a groan. Jim ground his teeth in anger and frustration.
"Stop hurting him, you bastard! If you want me, tell me where he is and you've got as much of me as you think you can handle."
Brackett just laughed, and then Blair screamed. Jim's heart stopped.
"Come find him, Detective. And hurry." The line went dead.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Ten days. It had been ten days since Garrett Kincaid had walked into the loft, to Blair's utter amazement, and then carried him away to this tiny, dingy room. Ten days of handcuffs, poor food, little sleep, and intermittent agony. They'd told him about the good-bye note, the false trail to Texas, and how Jim had bought it hook, line, and sinker. Then they'd beaten him unconscious.
He'd tried asking questions, and was slapped for his trouble. Tried to cooperate, and they neglected to feed him for days. The brutality was constant and unfocused. They asked nothing of him, no questions or demands for information of any kind. It was damned frustrating, and confusing as hell. And Kincaid just stood there, an enigmatic look on his face, and watched.
Then, yesterday, another familiar face had peeked in through his door. "Hello, Blair." Lee Brackett, rogue CIA op, knew what Jim was, what he could do. Blair pushed himself to a sitting position, holding his aching ribs and leaning against the wall.
"Brackett. When the hell did you get out of jail? Does this mean I'm finally going to find out what the hell is going on here?"
In answer, Brackett threw him a sealed bottle of water. "I'm surprised Jim hasn't come riding to your rescue, yet. Aren't you?"
The bottle was still cold, the 7-11 price tag just beginning to peel off. No holes in the bottle that he could see, where drugs might have been injected. Blair ignored the question for a moment and ripped the cap off, drinking thirstily. It had been a while since anyone had bothered to bring in food or water. The cold water sloshed in his empty stomach, filling it for the first time in over a week, and threatening to come back up. He slowed down, sipping now, and said, "Thanks for this."
"You're welcome. You didn't answer my question, though."
The question had been bothering Blair, actually. Where the hell was Jim? Sure, there was that false trail, and the note, but surely Jim couldn't believe Blair would just up and leave, could he? Not after everything they'd been through. "He thinks I'm in Texas," Blair said at last. //He'll figure things out soon, though, and come and get me. //
Brackett smiled sadly, shaking his head. "He bought that pretty quickly, didn't he? Kind of like he was glad for an excuse not to look for you. Why did you do it, Blair?"
"Do what?"
"The press conference. You renounced your work, your life's work, for that big mook. Why?"
For a long moment, Blair didn't answer. He couldn't answer. No reasons came to his tired mind. At last though, he said, "Friendship. Not a concept I expect you to understand, Brackett." He finished the water and handed the bottle back. "Now, get to the point or get out. I'm too tired for your games right now, man." He leaned back against the rough wall and wished for a blanket. The boarded up window had no glass in it and the last two nights had been damn cold.
Brackett just smiled, and then walked out, closing and bolting the door behind him.
At sunset, the goons came back. Three of them crowded into the tiny room and wordlessly hauled Blair off of the thin mattress. In the dim silence, they stripped him and forced him to kneel over his waste bucket. The acrid smell made his eyes tear and he almost threw up the water he had been given. Two goons held his arms up and back, nearly dislocating his shoulders, and stilling his panicked struggles.
Then, the third stepped up. In the surreal dimness, he gathered up the dirty, tangled mass of Blair's hair and, drawing a knife from his boot, sawed it off. He dropped it in the waste bucket. Then he produced a set of electric clippers. The buzz filled the quiet room, and hair drifted down before Blair's eyes, dark curls and wisps of hair filling the bucket and settling on the floor around it. He struggled, shocked and angered, but the goons were bigger and stronger and paid him no heed. Not even to laugh or comment on his efforts. Somehow, that made the whole thing worse.
Finally, the clippers were turned off. Cold, meaty hands ran over his bare scalp and face, making him shudder, then he was hauled to his feet once again. He glared at goon number three, a blonde giant with dead eyes, and said, "Can I have my clothes back, now?"
Then he was bent over, retching, as a fist buried itself in is abdomen. The other two held him up, wrists and elbows, as he threw up warm water and bile. With bleary satisfaction, he saw the blonde giant back away with a look of disgust. "Gotcha."
They rubbed his face in it, and then took turns with their boots. The sun was well down when they finally left, leaving him shaking and shivering on the floor. His whole body ached, and he was cold all the way through and so tired. The loft, Jim, seemed like they were part of another life, or someone else's' life. Not this cold, miserable, sore scrap lying naked on a filthy linoleum floor.
After a while, he crawled to his mattress, thankful that it was on the floor, and curled around his aching ribs and stomach. The cold air from the window actually helped a little, driving away the cobwebs from his mind even as it made him shudder. //Still alive, and where the hell is Jim? I'm still alive, where there's life there's hope and how long am I gonna wait around to be rescued, anyway.//
He dozed, despite the cold and the pain, woke, and dozed again. Staggered up to the waste bucket and relieved himself in the dark, stretching abused muscles, and forcing himself to walk. One hand on the wall, he walked the circuit of the room. Once around, keep moving, keep warm, door post to corner, corner to wall, past the window, wall, step around the mattress, wall, corner to door, and whatthehell! The door moved under his hand. Blair went still, listening, but all he heard was his own heartbeat. Carefully, tentatively, he pushed on the door again. It swung open.
//They must have forgotten to lock it. Thought I was too far gone. Sloppy.//
The hall was dimly lit, with a threadbare, rose-colored carpet and peeling wallpaper. It looked like an old farmhouse, which meshed with the fields and barn Blair had been able to see from his window. He padded down the hall, listening at the closed doors and hearing nothing. //Probably a guard downstairs, everyone else asleep. Time to go. Clothes first, though.//
He tried a doorknob and let himself into a darkened bedroom. The full moon shone into the room, bathing the dusty furniture with a silvery light. There was a big bed, some overstuffed chairs that were losing their stuffing, and a huge armoire. There was also a phone. All thought of clothes forgotten, Blair limped to the bedside table and picked up the handset. His heart leapt when he heard the dial tone and he quickly started dialing the loft. It was an old fashioned phone and his cold fingers fumbled a few times, manipulating the rotary dial, but he finally was able to get all the numbers dialed. He gripped the receiver with shaking hands as it rang and rang.
The answering machine clicked on, to his despair, and began its message, and then he heard, "Hello. I'm here."
Stunned for a moment, he swallowed and tried to form words. Finally, he was able to whisper, "Jim?" He could hardly believe it. That other world was still there, still whole and warm and waiting just on the other side of the phone.
"I'm here, Chief. Where are you?"
//If only I knew.// Blair wracked his tired brain, trying to remember anything he could offer Jim as a clue. A cough threatened to erupt, but he swallowed it down. "Cascade," he said finally. He was fairly sure they hadn't taken him far. "Don't know how far out." Clues. "K-Kincaid." //Kincaid is behind it, the rat bastard. Somehow, he got out of jail. We're in a farmhouse somewhere. Watch out for Kincaid.// Blair wasn't sure how much of that he had said, or thought. Tired, and cold, he slumped on the dusty coverlet on the bed and tried to organize his thoughts. The sound of footsteps coming down the hall froze him into silence until they passed. "They'll miss me soon, Jim. I'm tired."
Jim's voice was warm and kind, and Blair hung on his words like a lifeline. "I know you are, buddy. Give me some idea where you are and I'll come get you."
This startled a laugh out of Blair, though it hurt his ribs. "Kincaid knows everything, Jim. Brackett got out." Blair nearly dropped the phone when he heard shouts in the background, and the banging of doors. "Get out of Cascade, Jim," he said urgently. "Go far away. I think they took me so they could control you. Brackett got back yesterday and they're ready now." The shaving was an escalation, he realized now. Before, they had been taking it easy on him. Now, the gloves were off.
With a bang, the door flew open, shattering the frame and the lock. Thinking quickly, Blair said, "That's no anchovies, got it! Oh, hi guys. Did you want a pizza too? Hey!" The blonde goon stepped up and knocked the phone from his hand, then cuffed him away from the bed. Brackett looked down at him sadly and said, "Cute, Blair." Then he picked up the phone.
Blair lost track of the conversation as the room filled with people. The three goons were blocking his escape. They caught him easily as he tried to dodge for the door and knocked him to the floor. A foot between his shoulder blades insured he'd stay there.
"That you, Jim? What's taking you so long? Blair's not in great shape, here." Blair tried to push up against the weight on his back, but subsided with a groan as someone's boot knocked his hands out from under him.
Brackett listened, then laughed at whatever Jim was saying. That's when the goon on his back moved to his hand, stepping down with crushing force. Blair screamed in anger and pain and fear.
"Come find him, Detective. And hurry." Brackett hung up the phone, then motioned the goons away. The crushing pressure lifted and Blair drew in his arm, cradling his screaming hand. He didn't think the bones were broken, but he couldn't be sure. The fingers wouldn't move and it throbbed all the way to his shoulder.
Brackett crouched before Blair and smiled sadly, "Jim says hello, Blair. I don't think he'll be coming to your rescue, though. He told me he's pretty busy right now, what with the holidays and everything." He helped Blair to sit up, then pulled the quilt from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. "Back to your room, now. We'll talk in the morning." He motioned to the goons, who lifted him to his feet and guided him back down the hall. The door clicked shut behind him, and he heard the bolt shoot home.
He sat on the mattress and wrapped the quilt around himself, holding it awkwardly in one hand. It had been a trick, a trap, he realized. They let him make that call, to draw Jim out. But then, why the fake trail to Texas, why the note? He lay down on his side, fatigue overcoming fear, and drifted off.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Snow was drifting down, dusting the balcony with a fine layer of white. Light from the loft spilled onto it, lighting the individual crystals with bright glints. If he looked, Jim could see the individual flakes, their hexagonal geometries fascinating in their diversity. Last winter, he and Blair had spent an afternoon courting a zone-out while Jim watched the snow fall, letting his vision sharpen and focus in on their cold beauty. He could not afford to do that right now, but it was safer to watch the snow than to think about Blair. The rage came then, and then he couldn't see anything but visions of Blair hurting, screaming, and all rational thought fled.
He'd called Simon, of course. Listened for a moment as his Captain grumbled about the time, and this better be important, Ellison, before interrupting to tell him about the phone call. Then silence fell. "I'll be right there." The phone company would be called in the morning, and the number on the Caller ID identified. In the morning, Jim would go to Kincaid's cell and tear it apart for clues. In the morning, the hunt would begin. Now, though, the world slept under a growing veil of white, and Jim watched the snow fall and tried not to think too much.
Get out of Cascade, Blair had said. Go far away. But if they wanted Jim, they could have taken him. Not easily, to be sure, but it could be done. Had been done before. If they wanted Jim, why the note, making him think Blair had left? It had to be something else.
Kincaid was involved, and Brackett. Which meant, they were dealing with an enemy who knew about his abilities. An enemy with knowledge, cunning, and power. And they had Blair. Had had Blair for the past ten days. Hurting him.
Red. Red. A growl formed in Jim's chest, but he did not give it voice.
Snow. Cold. Wrap it around your soul. Smother the fire, the thirst. Think.
Could be for revenge. They had sent Brackett away after the Ebola scare. Could be a plan to unbalance him, throw him off his game so they could carry out some other plot. Could be.
Simon was here. Opening the front door on the first floor, the chill wind wafted the scent of his cigars up the stairwell, along with the cold smell of winter and the stink of the parking lot with its rubber, gasoline, and stale cigarette butts moldering in the gutters. Jim tracked his progress to the elevator, and up to the third floor. The doorknob was in his hand and the door open when Simon stepped into the hall.
"Jim. You ok? Normally you let me at least get to the door."
Words escaped Jim for the moment. He gestured Simon inside, then closed the door and bolted it. He made a quick circuit, patrolling the perimeter and checking the locks, then motioned for Simon to sit. He paced to the kitchen and poured a mug of coffee and carried it back to the living room. Simon stood, the snow melting slowly from his shoulders and steaming in the warmth of the loft. "Jim?"
Ellison pressed the cup into his hands, and then resumed his restless pacing before the night black windows. The growl was closer to the surface. It had been a mistake, letting Simon come. There was someone else Inside now. Someone not-Jim, not-Blair.
"Jim!" Simon sounded alarmed, Jim thought dimly. He winced, his hearing sensitive to the point of pain. "Sit down before you fall down, Detective." Simon put down his cup and took off the coat, hanging it before the fire to dry. "That's an order, Detective."
Now Jim growled. "My home, Simon. My loft. My choice. Get out if you don't like it."
Storm clouds gathered in Simon's eyes. "YOU called ME, Ellison. Let's not forget who is the Captain here. Now, SIT!" The two men stood, eyes locked for a few moments, and Jim suddenly remembered why he had called Simon Banks. Simon could handle Jim's temper in a way Blair couldn't, and was the only man Jim knew who could best the younger man in a battle of wills. Jim looked away first and sank to the sofa with a muttered apology.
"Sorry, Cap. I've been going nuts ever since the call came."
"Understandable. Now, what's the plan and how can I help?"
By midmorning, they had obtained the phone records and had a tentative address. By late morning, property records and the Cascade County tax assessor's office as belonging to a Leigh Templar, which made Simon laugh for the first time that day, had confirmed it. By midafternoon, they had a warrant.
By late afternoon, the gentle fall of snow had turned into a blizzard.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Cold. He was so cold. Why was his head so cold? Blair reached up to brush back his hair, but encountered only a fold of the quilt and a prickly scalp. "Oh, yeah." The memory of being held down, so damn effortlessly, and those clippers made him shudder. Blair knew he was not a weakling, but he hadn't even made his captors break a sweat, however hard he struggled. He had never felt so helpless in his life, which, he realized, had probably been the point of the exercise.
During the night, he had cocooned himself in the thin quilt, but it had done little to keep out the cold. It had seeped into his sore muscles and into every abused joint. He groaned, sitting up. Nothing wanted to move, and he actually thought he heard his shoulders creak when he pushed himself up.
The hand that had been trampled by the elephant in size twelve's was stiff and bruised, but he had an encouraging bit of mobility in his fingers. The rest of his muscles, however, did not want to work at all. He lifted the quilt a bit and grimaced at the patchwork of black and blue bruises. A colorful array of older bruises in yellow and a sickly green patterned his torso and legs. No life threatening injuries, as far as he could tell. Just painful ones.
The hunger was the worst, and the need for water. His stomach had given up growling two days ago, though it still cramped with empty nausea from time to time. The thirst was constant. He felt like he could drink gallons, oceans of water, given half a chance.
A gust of icy air made him wrap the quilt around himself more closely, for all the good it did. "Great. Now it's snowing." He stood, swaying, and limped over to the boarded up window to peer between the slats. The farmyard below was covered in white, and it was falling more heavily by the moment. A small drift had formed inside the room, where snow had fallen between the boards.
Though he knew it would chill him even more, Blair scooped up a handful of the dirty snow and shoved it into his mouth. He let it melt, the moisture trickling into his parched mouth sweeter than honey wine, before swallowing and grabbing up another handful. Long before Blair's thirst was eased, though, the drift was gone. He tried for the hundredth time to remove one of the boards from the window, but they were as immovable as ever. "Just have to wait. I can wait." He walked back to his mattress and sank down, drawing up his knees and tucking his feet and chilled hands into the quilt. He drew up one corner over his bare scalp and leaned back against the wall with a sigh.
The hours passed, cold and quiet. Twice, Blair visited the snowdrift and drank. Once, he heard footsteps pass his door and the sound of angry voices, suddenly heard and silent again, as though someone had opened and shut a window nearby. No one came for him.
He dozed off and on, the time marked only by the changing light until late afternoon. The wind was blowing harder than ever through the cracks and his breath smoked as he bent and scooped up another handful of snow from the dirty floor. The cold made his teeth ache and his shivering worse, but the snow melting in his mouth gave him some relief.
"I knew Jim had little use for you, Blair, but don't you think he might at least make a token effort?" The door swung open the rest of the way and Brackett lounged back against the frame. "Or maybe he's using this as an excuse to wash his hands of you. The press will catch on soon, if you don't move on yourself. A self-confessed fraud, living and working with the man he embarrassed so publicly? If they haven't figured out yet that Jim really is your Sentinel, you can bet they will." His casual tones did not match his eyes, which kept darting into the hall.
Blair didn't bother to answer. Brackett was saying nothing he hadn't already thought of, but he knew Jim wouldn't abandon him. He'd apologized for his behavior, and even offered to help Blair pay for a lawyer to sue Sid. Jim was his friend, and he wouldn't throw Blair to the wolves like that. He clutched the quilt more tightly around his gaunt body and glared, but said nothing.
Brackett waited for some response, and then started laughing quietly. "Such faith. Well, I hope you're right, for your sake. But I think Jim has moved on." He reached down and picked up a red duffel bag from the hallway. "At any rate, my plans have changed, thanks to that little madman downstairs." He tossed the bag to Blair, who caught it awkwardly. "Get dressed. We're leaving."
"Leaving? What." Blair fumbled the bag open and drew out sweats, socks, his own shoes, and a hooded fatigue jacket. "What the hell is your game, Brackett? I'm not going anywhere with you." He nevertheless scrambled into the warm clothes as fast as his aching body would allow. He felt Brackett's eyes on him, but didn't look up. There was even a stocking cap for his head. He slipped it on and, for the first time in days, he began to feel warm.
"About time. Come on, now. We don't have a lot of time to waste." The rogue motioned Blair forward, looking down the hall nervously.
The younger man did not move. "I already told you, man. I'm not going anywhere with you. I'd be out of a frying pan and into something a lot nastier. Whatever your game is, I'm not playing this time. Jim isn't playing this time."
With an expression of exasperation, Brackett said, "This has nothing to do with Jim. Jim Ellison is an idiot, a sadistic bully. I'm surprised you've put up with him for this long. This is about you, your abilities. That racist bantam downstairs hates everything about you and, make no mistake, he will kill you. If Jim Ellison has abandoned you, as I believe, Kincaid will kill you sooner. If Ellison shows, he'll kill you both. Don't be an idiot, Sandburg. If you come with me, you have a chance."
He hadn't pulled a weapon, Blair realized. He was asking, not threatening.
Still. "I'll take my chances, Brackett. Thanks for the clothes, though."
"Brackett!" Kincaid's voice was loud in the quiet house, and echoed up the stairwell, making Blair jump. "Get in here! I'm not done with you yet!"
He couldn't help it; Blair's mouth twisted into a bawdy grin. "You and Kincaid got a lil' thing going, Lee? I never pictured you as the suicidal type."
Quicker than thought, Brackett crossed the room and grabbed a handful of shirt and jacket, lifting Blair and pinning him to the wall. "Déjà vu." Blair said breathlessly.
Brackett's breath was hot in his face. "I'm trying to save your life, you idiot," he said urgently. "I'm the only one who gives a damn if you live or die. Ellison has thrown you away. Kincaid wants to gut you. Your own mother didn't stick around town for a week after outing you and your precious Sentinel. I'm all you've got. Now are you with me?"
//Frying pan or fire? At least Jim has some clue where I am right now. If I go with Brackett, Jim steps into a trap here. If he.no, *when * he comes.//
At last, Blair shook his head. "I'm staying, Brackett. Just do me a favor and leave the door unlocked."
The rogue's eyes burned into his for a long moment, then Brackett released him. Blair staggered, then regained his footing and rubbed his sore neck. "It's your ass, Sandburg. I figured you were smarter than this."
"Funny, Lee. I was thinking the same thing." The not quite drawl from the door drew their attention. Kincaid, standing at parade rest in the doorway, leered at them both. "I told you this wasn't going to work. Ellison will have traced that call by now. Now we do this my way." Blair's heart leapt; some small, tired part of him had been beginning to believe Brackett's line. He held his renewed faith close, drawing warmth from it.
"You idiot!" Brackett turned and advanced on the smaller man. "You're throwing away an incredible resource in exchange for a little revenge! You just had to let him make a call. One more week and he would have been mine, and through him, Ellison. Don't you know what an asset a man with his abilities would be, under our control? Moron!"
There was a dangerous glint in Kincaid's eyes. Blair held himself very still, very quiet, and wondered at Brackett's nerve. He'd seen snakes with warmer eyes than Kincaid's.
His voice was mild, though, when he spoke. "Yeah, well, I didn't believe all that about 'super senses.' Jim Ellison is just a lucky cop who makes some good guesses. All that superhero bullshit is for comic books and sci- fi cop shows, ain't that right, Jew-boy?"
Blair's skin crawled when Kincaid shifted his cold gaze away from Brackett to himself. "Um, right. Absolutely. Superhero bullshit. Never meant a word of.."
"Shut up. You always been this mouthy, kike?" Kincaid brought his arms from behind his back and Blair stiffened. He had a gun. "I like the new hair-do, by the way. It suits you. Maybe I'll have the boys rustle up a tattoo needle and some ink."
Ten days of fear and hunger, of pain and frustrated rage boiled up. Blair felt his fists clench and he lunged for the little madman. "Son of a bitch!"
With a snap, the gun was leveled. Blair froze, panting. "Go on," Kincaid said softly. "Come ahead on. I'd rather kill you in front of Ellison, but watching him find your body will be just as fun."
"We still need him, Kincaid," Brackett said. "You can kill him later, if you want to, but I'd advise against it for the present."
The gun held steady for an eternal moment, then Kincaid laughed and tucked it back in his shoulder rig. "I'll send you up some company, Serpico. Just so you don't get lonely." He turned and walked down the hall. Brackett followed behind, not looking back, and closed and bolted the door.
Blair's insides were shaking, as if the cold in the room had seeped into his heart. He wanted to scream, to beat that little bastard until the ache in his hands drowned out the ache in his soul. Mostly, though, he wanted to go home and shower until he felt clean again, inside and out.
Footsteps, coming up the stairs; his threatened 'company', so soon. Well, not again. Anger gave him strength, despite his aches and the gnawing light-headedness of too many missed meals. He'd give as good as he got, this time, or at least try. Blair looked around in a panic for a weapon, but it was as futile now as it had been ten days ago when he had first been brought to this room. Thin mattress on the floor, foul bucket in the corner, and the quilt in which he had been wrapped; these were his only choices. He tugged madly at the loosest board in the window, hitting it with desperate strength. Then, just as the booted feet stopped outside his door and the bolt turned, it came free in his chilled hands.
Ignoring the splinters in his fist, he dropped the quilt and scrambled to the door. He drew the board back, ready to knock one out of the ballpark, just as the door opened. The board swung and the blonde goon went down. Blair brought it down on the back of his head for good measure, and then peered around the corner. No one. He'd been alone.
Silently thanking the powers that be for this bit of good luck, Blair dragged the blonde into the room and closed the door. Working quickly, he stripped the man of his pants and sweater, slipping them on over his clothes and the fatigue jacket over all; thankfully all the clothes were several sizes too large. The pants threatened to slip off altogether until he tightened the belt down to its last hole. He found the knife the man had used to cut his hair and used it to cut strips from the quilt. The man was quickly secured, bound and gagged, and Blair took off down the hall toward the stairs.
The house was quiet, and Blair's feet made little sound on the threadbare carpet. He held the knife in his good hand, slipping silently down the stairs and into a cold front room. He heard voices near the back of the house, Kincaid and one other; where was the third. Where was Brackett? Had he left? The front door beckoned him, but its opening would surely alert the others and then what? Where would he go? Snow was falling more heavily than ever, and Blair had no coat and no transportation. He doubted he could run in his present condition anyway.
"Go see what's keeping Rufius." A chair scraped back and heavy footsteps approached. Blair looked around in desperation and ducked behind a dust- covered chair just as the goon who had stepped on his hand rounded the corner and started up the stairs. Time had run out. In a few moments, he'd find Rufius and then, shortly after that, they'd find Blair.
Bracing himself, he opened the front door and stepped into a world of whirling snow. A dark shape loomed off to the right. The barn. He could hide there; maybe find transportation, or a phone. A muffled yell from inside the house drove him off the porch and into the hip deep snow. His feet burned, and then went numb after just a few steps. He lurched through the blizzard toward the barn, the snow biting his face, his scalp as it blew around him. With floundering, lurching steps, he forced his way through the storm, head down and eyes squinted against the wind. When he looked up again, he could no longer see the barn, nor the house. Just white. //I'm going to die out here.//
Chance and luck brought him up against the side of the barn a few moments later. A few steps to the left and he would have missed it altogether. With numb hands he felt along the wall for a door. His tearing eyes were half frozen shut, and he couldn't feel his feet at all. After a short eternity, he found the door and fumbled it open, falling into the dim, dusty stillness at last.
Wood splintered high overhead, and the muffled crack of a gunshot sounded like a car backfiring in the howling wind. Blair scrambled deeper into the barn, looking for a place to hide. The floor was dirt, trampled by years of equine and human traffic, and covered with a thin layer of rotten straw. The wooden walls of the barn were silvered with age, but sturdy and kept out the worst of the wind. It was cold though, almost as cold as it had been outside, though the lack of wind made it seem warmer. As his eyes grew used to the dim light, Blair could see that there was a loft, reachable by a ladder, and stacks of square hay bales toward the back of the barn.
A memory from his childhood drew him to the bales. Playing hide and seek in the commune's barn, and making a hay fort out of the heavy blocks. There wasn't time for anything elaborate, but the stack was high and sturdy, and several bales deep. Scrambling up the pile, Blair shoved and tugged with his good hand, which was stinging with returning sensation, until he created a small hollow near the back of the stack of bales. He grabbed some dusty feedbags and wedged himself into the depression, curling up and wrapping himself in the burlap bags for warmth and then covering himself with loose straw. //Now all I have to do is keep from sneezing,// he thought giddily, //and stay awake.// He drew the knife again, holding it ready. "Now would be a really good time for a rescue, Jim," he whispered into the dark.
*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
"Slow down, Jim! I can't see a yard in front of us." Simon braced himself as the ancient Ford bucked through another hidden pothole. The truck's heater brought the cab's temperature to a bearable level, but his breath still puffed white. Outside, the wind howled, blowing snow in a white cloud and obscuring visibility almost totally.
"I can see just fine, Simon. Don't worry. We're almost there." Jim gripped the shuddering steering wheel with white knuckled fists, keeping the truck on the pocked dirt road by force of will. He was skirting the edge of a zone-out, focusing on the road so closely, but he refused to give in. Blair was just ahead. He could feel him, like an ache in his mind, and knew he was getting close. They had left their backup behind a mile ago; Megan and Rafe would catch up in time, but Jim was not in the mood to wait.
His gun was a comforting weight at the small of his back. Whatever, or whoever awaited them at the end of this road, they would deal with. Then they would bring Blair home. Simple plan.
The light was fading, turning the white swirls gray, when Jim spotted a dark shape in the swirling white. "There's the house. You ready?" He pulled in, out of the wind, and pulled his gun. Simon nodded, and they pushed the truck's doors open and stepped into the snow.
They stumbled up to the house together, keeping low and trusting that the sound of their arrival had been hidden by the howling storm. The front porch was a calm eye in the angry storm. Cautiously, Simon tried the front door knob and found it unlocked. "Hang on, Cap." Jim put his hand lightly on Simon's arm and opened his hearing, filtering through the wind's wail. Focusing inside the house, he heard voices. ".in the snow.what now?.find him before.can't be far." Two, no, three voices; Garrett Kincaid and two others. A door opened and closed. His nose twitched. Blood.
He nodded at Simon, who drew his weapon, and they entered the house, closing the door quietly behind them. Jim held up three fingers and motioned toward the back of the house, down a dingy hall. Simon nodded and they advanced together, silent and grim. Blair was here, somewhere. Jim could smell him. Only two heartbeats in the house, now, and the smell of blood almost overpowered the smell of Blair coming from the stairwell. It was all Jim could do not to race up those stairs.
First things first. Deal with the enemy.
The hall let out into a brightly lit kitchen that smelled strongly of rancid bacon grease, blood, and gun oil. A blonde man sat at the table, holding an ice pack to the back of his head and a tissue to his bleeding nose. He wasn't wearing any clothes, apart from a pair of boots, his BVD's, and a tattered quilt. Blair's scent was stronger now, and it was coming from the bleeding man. Jim put one and one together and came up with a beautiful mental image. "Little guy packs a wallop, doesn't he?" He said softly.
The man jumped and he dropped the icepack. The tissue, however, remained stuck in his nose and Jim had to fight back a laugh. Instead, he put his finger to his lips and motioned the man to turn around. The blonde looked from Jim to Simon, then turned with a sigh and presented his hands. "Perfect end to a perfect day," he muttered as Simon closed the handcuffs around his wrists.
In a low voice, Simon asked, "Where's your buddies?"
The man snorted, an odd wet sound through the bloody Kleenex, but said nothing.
"Figures. Ok, now what?"
Soft footsteps, coming down the hall. Soft breathing. Jim pulled Simon out of the doorway and covered it just as Lee Brackett stepped through, gun raised. "Should have known better than to try to sneak up on you, Jim," Brackett said ruefully. "You're too late, though. Kincaid moved him an hour ago. Let me go and I'll tell you where to find them."
Jim's aim never wavered. "I don't think so, Brackett. Drop the gun."
"Blair gave up on you, Jim. It was sad to see the hope fade from his eyes, day by day. He hates you, now. Pity, when friendships turn bitter like that. Trust is such a fragile thing, especially when the bonds have already been broken and the healing is still young and incomplete."
Brackett's words gnawed at Jim. He didn't want to believe them, but he knew how badly he had already hurt Blair. Small wonder if the kid found it hard to trust him anymore, especially under these circumstances.
"Sandburg's solid, Brackett," Simon said, bringing up his own weapon. "Let's end this. Drop your weapon and turn around with your hands on top of your head. You're under arrest for the kidnapping of Blair Sandburg, aggravated assault, and whatever else we can find to book you with, you piece of shit."
Brackett looked from Simon to Jim, a tiny smile bending his lips. "Do you believe Blair is 'solid,' Jim? That he'd never break? Every man has a breaking point, Jim. I'm just the hammer; you were my chisel."
Jim had had enough of this. "No more games, Brackett. Gun down. Turn around. Now!" The urge to find Blair was strong. He was *here *, damn it. Close by, and hurting. This was taking far too long.
With a sigh, Brackett placed his gun on the kitchen table and gave it a push. "I can't take you both out." Jim's eye was drawn momentarily to the gun and in that moment of distraction, Brackett threw something on the ground. A flash blanked Jim's vision and a cloud of noxious smoke billowed up, searing his lungs. He heard Simon shout a warning, and the sound of running feet. Coughing, gagging on the bitter smoke, Jim blinked and followed after.
The front door opened and closed, and Jim heard the clicking, sparking sounds of his truck being hot-wired. "Son of a bitch is stealing my truck!" His vision cleared as he reached the door and whipped it open, only to see the red coals of tail lights being swallowed up by the storm. "Shit!"
The bitter smoke cleared from his lungs as he drew in deep breaths of frigid air. Simon came up behind him, coughing and holding his side. Zeller's bullet wound had healed well, but it was still painful and Simon winced with every deep breath. "You ok, Simon?" Jim asked, worried.
"F-fine. Find Sandburg." Simon leaned on the doorpost, rubbing his aching eyes, and letting his lungs clear as well.
Jim had a good idea where to start. He took the stairs two at a time, following the traces of Blair that made it past his nearly numb nose. Large black blotches danced before his eyes, but he could see clearly enough. "Blair!" No heartbeats here. No answering call. He began opening doors, working his way down the hall. One cold empty room after another, filled with dusty furniture and signs of recent use. No Blair.
The end of the hall had a window that looked out over the back of the house. It was almost dark, but the storm seemed to be slacking a bit. Jim saw a dark, squarish shape, about a hundred feet from the house. He thought idly that it was probably a barn or a guesthouse.
Blair's scent was strong at this end of the hall, almost bitter, along with the smell of human waste. Jim looked at the last door more closely and saw that it had a lock on the outside. "Blair!" He turned the bolt and wrenched the door open.
It was a small room, empty and very cold. The smell was overpowering, here, and Jim knew he was looking at Blair's prison. A sodden, moldy mattress rested on the floor, as far as possible from the boarded up window. There were small spatters of blood on the dirty floor, and strands of something dark skittered across the floor in a tangle. The rage that had been smoldering, waiting, flared, and Jim shook with the force of it.
Fighting to keep his wits, Jim took two steps to the window and put his face into the wind. He let the cold scour his face, numbing it quickly, but he could not find the peace he had found in the loft, standing at the balcony. Now the rage burned cold and hot together.
Clattering up the stairs, Simon came in the room behind Jim. "Sweet Jesus," he breathed. He held his hand over his nose and mouth and looked sick. "Is this where they were keeping him?" Jim nodded, not trusting himself to speak. "So, where is he now?" Jim shook his head. He rested his forehead on the boards and looked out into the deepening twilight.
He saw movement in the snow. Two dark figures, moving slowly toward what he could now see as a barn. The storm was definitely easing, though the wind still howled in the attic above, carrying traces of voices. Jim stooped quickly and picked up the tangle of curls from the floor. He needed a focus, needed Sandburg to keep him from zoning on what he was about to do. Rubbing the familiar curls between his cold hands, he brought them to his nose and sniffed.
Blair filled his consciousness, anchored him as securely as if the man had his hand on Jim's arm. Focusing his sight, Jim zoomed in close on the figures in the snow. Two armed men, heading toward the barn at a snail's pace through the waist deep snow. He piggybacked his hearing, heard breathing, then "He's probably wandering in the woods somewhere, Reece. He's probably dead by now." "I'm not taking that chance, Eric. First we'll check the barn, then double back to the house and search it from attic to basement, got it?" A door opened and closed and they disappeared inside the structure.
Now for the dangerous part. Jim buried his face in Blair's hair and opened his hearing wide. His own heart beat sounded deafeningly loud in his ears; Simon's wasn't much better. Tune out, filter out, listen for others. Two hearts beat, two sets of lungs labored outside. Three in the kitchen, Jim, Simon, and the prisoner, accompanied by cursing and the jingle of handcuffs.
One more, muffled and fast. The scent of old hay made him sneeze and suddenly Jim was back in the little room, Simon at his side. "He's in the barn, Simon. Let's go."
^*^*^*^*^ It was dark and dusty inside his hiding place, but warm and growing warmer. Blair could feel his fingers and toes again, stinging with returning sensation, and his shivers had all but stopped. The thick bales cut the wind that seeped through the cracks in the walls; they also provided a layer of insulation around his huddled body, trapping the warmth that the frigid air had done nothing but steal away.
It was hard to mark time, though. The barn was unlit and only a little twilight shone in through the cracks in the walls. With the burlap and the hay covering him, very little of the light made its way to Blair. Plus, he kept dropping off. As he warmed up, his shivers eased, and lethargy stole over him. His eyes grew very heavy and he dozed on and off for an unaccountable amount of time. Each time, he would start awake, clutching his stolen knife with a shaking hand and telling himself firmly he would *not * drop off again. He was just so tired.
Startling awake for the umpteenth time, Blair blinked in the darkness, trying to decide what felt different. It was a little colder, and the wind was blowing louder, but that wasn't what woke him. The barn door rattled again, banging back on its hinges. //I closed that door. Shit.// Someone was in the barn with him. His breathing shallowed and he tried not to make a sound.
"Saaand-buuuurg.. Come out, come out, wherever you are." A mocking voice called from the barn floor. Blair gripped his knife tightly and tried not to sneeze. "I know you're in here, Jew-boy. Come on out and I won't kill you." The voice was closer, and Blair heard someone climbing the ladder to the loft. Bits of dust and straw pattered down.
Then he heard another sound, and his gut turned colder than ever. The metallic snick and rasp of a lighter being opened and lit. "If you're in here, you're probably cold, right, Jew-boy? Can't have that." Stale straw caught quickly, despite the damp, and Blair could hear the crackle of flames from the barn floor.
"Hey, Reece, you sure you want to do that?" Heavy feet ran across the loft overhead and down the ladder as the smell of smoke filtered into Blair's hiding place. The bales would burn slowly, he knew, but the loose straw on the floor and the ancient wood of the barn itself would go up quickly, especially with the wind to help fan the flames. Cursing silently, he uncoiled and pushed the burlap bags away, creeping out onto the bales. He was high enough that he would not be seen easily from the ground, he hoped, and he looked out over the edge.
Firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The dark-haired goon, Reece, and his buddy had backed away from the rapidly spreading flames and did not see him, but they were between him and the banging door. He was cut off, and the flames were licking up the side of the stack of hay bales already. "Fifteen birds in five fir trees." he muttered, and scooted back again, out of sight. There had to be another way out of the barn; Blair just had to find it.
Stifling a cough, he noticed some of the smoke was drifting past him, down through the bales. "Where there's a wind, there's a way." He crept back to the far bales, following the trail of smoke as silently as he could, and prayed his guess was right. The way the fire was spreading, he wouldn't have time for a second guess. *^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
Jim and Simon crossed the yard at a run, weapons drawn and ready. The barn door slammed open and closed in the dying wind, kicking up snow flurries with each pass. Jim paused outside the door, propping it open, and gestured to Simon, indicating Jim would go in first and Simon would follow. Simon nodded and Jim slipped inside.
Smoke filled the barn and it was almost painfully warm after the chill outside. The two Patriots were dark shapes before the flickering flames, backing towards the door. "Hold it," Jim ordered. "Cascade P.D. Drop your weapons and put your hands up, now!"
Of course, they didn't do it. Spinning, the men drew and fired, but hit only barn. Jim, on the other hand, hit exactly what he was aiming for. The two men went down, their faces masks of pained surprise. Simon kept them covered as Jim knelt and checked for a pulse. "They're alive. Ambulance should be able to get up here, now, once the plows get busy." The fire was spreading quickly now and Jim coughed from the dusty, acrid smoke. "Sandburg! Where are you?!"
Jim could barely hear Simon over the roar of the flames, let alone another heartbeat, and the barn was going up like a tinderbox. The flames were dancing up the walls and along the rafters, sending sparks down like lightning bugs and setting more of the dry straw alight. "We have to get them out of here, Jim." Simon picked up the unconscious Patriot in a fireman's carry. Jim just stood there, blinking in the smoke, looking down at the other unconscious man. "Jim!" Simon put his hand on Ellison's shoulder and gave him a hard shake. "We have to get out of here." One of the ridge beams cracked and fell with a thunderous clamor, bringing down part of the roof.
"Damn it!" Jim hoisted the other man over his shoulder and ran for the door, dodging flaming debris. They floundered into the waist-deep snow, which was pleasantly cool at first after the fire's heat, then painfully cold. The wind had stopped altogether and the clouds were breaking up, Jim noted. The moon was full and cast silver light over the transformed landscape as they trudged back to the house. "Where the hell is he?"
"Where the hell is Kincaid? According to what you told me, he's in this as deeply as Brackett."
"I have no id." his voice trailed off. Movement, a shadow against the shadowed tree line, moving slowly. "Stop right there!" he bellowed, shrugging the injured man off of his shoulder. He drew his gun again and focused in his sight. The figure was wearing a fatigue jacket and cap identical to the ones worn by the other Patriots. Kincaid. Jim felt the growl tremble in his chest as the figure started running, limping toward the trees. Jim leapt in pursuit, glad of a purpose, a focus for his rage at last. Kincaid would know where Blair was. He'd damn well better know.
"Cascade P.D.! Stop or I'll open fire!"
The figure stopped, coughing and gasping for air. He bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath, and then broke into a run again, this time towards Jim and Simon. Against the firelight, in the moonlight, Jim couldn't see the man's smudged face. Just two blue eyes focused on him with feverish intensity. He brought up his gun and yelled, "Stop right there."
"J-Jim?" The man stumbled to a halt, floundering in the snow. "It's me. Blair. D-d-don't shoot."
The wind shifted, bringing the man's scent. Smoke, blood, straw, and Blair. Jim secured his gun with a grin on his face. "It's Blair, Simon!" He closed the remaining distance and gathered Blair into his arms, feeling too thin arms wrap around him in return. Jim could feel the shivers coursing through the younger man, and he drew back.
He didn't expect the angry expression he saw. "Where the hell have you been?!" Blair demanded. "Did you have a nice Christmas, Jim? How was the New Year's party?" Blair drew away and wrapped his arms around himself, glaring up at his dumbstruck friend.
Finding his voice at last, Jim said, "Chief, I, we thought.we didn't know. I'm so sorry, Blair." He knew the younger man was on the edge of his emotions right now, but his words had still hurt. "I got here as fast as I could." The dark bruises he could see under the soot covering Blair's face said, mutely, that it had not been nearly fast enough. The stubble he could see peeking out from the stocking cap screamed the same message. "I'm so sorry," he repeated softly.
Sandburg looked past him to Simon, then up at the sky. He took a deep breath and released it, steaming, into the air. Softly, he said, "I'm cold, man. Let's get inside." He gave Jim a tired half-smile and trudged by him, limping toward the house. Jim heard him say, half-heartedly, "Hey, Simon," as he walked passed and disappeared inside.
Following, Jim shouldered his man again. "He okay, Jim? Kid sounded a little rough on you."
"No more than I deserved, Simon. Ten days, I let him stay in this place. Ten days in that damned room." He nudged the back door open and dumped his man on the kitchen floor, near the stove. The bleeding was still controlled and both were still unconscious. The blonde in the chair just glared at them. "I'd be surprised if he wasn't mad at me. I failed him, Simon."
"We failed him, Jim. I should have known better, thinking that he'd cut and run like that." Simon checked the blonde's cuffs, and then reached for the phone. "Megan and Rafe should be here any minute now. I think Kincaid's long gone by now. Can you.um." he looked uncertainly at the prisoner, then made a little motion beside his ear.
Jim quirked a tired smile. Simon had never really become comfortable with the whole Sentinel thing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on listening.
Five people in the kitchen.the barn, still crackling and popping.one heartbeat upstairs.the dying wind, blowing the trees.the hiss of snow, blowing across the laden roof.a car, approaching, still a mile or more away.the tentative sounds of animals in the woods.the muffled, distant roar of a snowmobile, growing fainter by the moment.closer, overhead, the creak of hinges as a door opens..
"He's gone upstairs." Jim took off at a run.
Simon drew his gun. "Kincaid?"
"Sandburg." Jim paused long enough to report, "Kincaid's gone; Megan and Rafe are almost here. I'll be right back."
He took the steps two at a time, swinging around the banister at the top of the stairs at a run. The hall was empty, but a cold draft blew along the floor, carrying too familiar smells. The door at the end of the hall was open.
Part of Jim wanted to stay back, stay out of that room. Part of him told him that was exactly where he needed to be. His feet carried him down the hall, so he guessed which part of him won the argument. Still, Jim Ellison had never been so unsure of his welcome in his life.
The room was dark, lit only by a sliver of moon and the light from the hallway. Snow had drifted under the broken window; Jim shivered, imagining what it must have been like.
"They never spoke to me," Blair's shadow was a deeper darkness, standing in the corner farthest from the window. "Not even when they were beating me. Not when they cut my hair off." His voice was thick, but quiet, and Jim's eyes burned. "I tried to talk to them. You know me. Can't shut me up. But they did. Took my voice, my clothes, my strength, my hair, until I only had one thing left. One thing to hold on to."
Jim closed his eyes, "God, Blair."
"Then Brackett tried to take that away, too. Told me you had given up on me. You were glad to see me go."
"Never," Jim said fiercely.
Blair huddled closer in his corner, his arms wrapped around his body. Jim could hear him shivering, could smell the salt of Blair's tears. None of that was in that thick, quiet, tired voice. "I know. In my head, I know. You're here. But, Jim," he looked up at last, eyes glinting in the dim light, "what if you're *not *?"
It really was a very small room. Jim crossed it in three long steps and took the shivering man into his arms. "I'm here, Blair. I'm really here." He swept the knit cap off of Blair's head and rested his cheek against the stubble. The younger man tensed, pulling away, then slowly, so slowly, relaxed in Jim's tight embrace. His too thin arms crept around Jim's torso, holding him with surprising strength as the shivers eased and passed and turned into deep, silent sobs. It was the weeping of a strong man, driven to the edge of his endurance, and coming home at last.
They stood like that for a long time, each giving, each receiving comfort from the other. Peripherally, Jim registered the arrival of Megan and Rafe, the ambulance and the departure of the prisoners. None of that was as important as what he was doing, so he ignored it all. Simon could deal with it and did, from what Jim heard. Finally, when he was ready, Blair pulled away, wiping his eyes on a dirty sleeve. "Thanks, Jim."
"Anytime, Blair." He bent and scooped up the knit cap, handing it back to the younger man. "Megan is going to flip when she sees your head, Chief."
Laughing wetly, Blair rubbed a hand across the peach fuzz. "Yeah. I guess so." He led the way out of the room and down the hall, Jim following close behind. "Funny thing, though."
"What's that, Chief?"
Blair stopped and turned, looking thoughtfully up at Jim. "I still got more hair than you do, man."
A few minutes later, outside, Simon watched his two best friends hurl snowballs at each other, and shook his head, smiling. At least until a stray snowball put out his cigar and he was forced to join the fray.
The End