The book was putting him to sleep. It was a fascinating subject, but the writer gave new meaning to the word 'dry'. How could anyone make something so interesting completely boring like this? Blair had always tried to interject some life in between the necessary minutae of his papers, to convey in some way the excitement he felt when he'd discovered something extraordinary. Sighing, he closed the book and leaned his head against the back of the chair. The sun was already sinking. Only a day had passed since the incident in the park but it seemed far away now. Jim had come to the rescue as always, and he was probably zeroing in on the killer right now. Blair just hoped he didn't zone out without backup. Well, Simon had promised to keep an eye on him.
He felt a slight pain behind his right eye that was promising to become another headache. Probably ought to be resting, but he hated being in bed. He hated being in the hospital, too. The loft was far more inviting than the brick-like mattress he'd been sleeping on. Even the pillows seemed hard. How they managed that, he didn't know. Maybe he could ask the doc when he came in if there was a valid medical reason for all hospital beds to suck. The chair was pretty soft, though. He stood and pulled the chair closer to the bed, then lowered the bed as far as it would go. Snagging the thin blanket, he sat back down, propped his legs on the bed and covered up, settling in for a nice nap.
Jim pulled up to the address on the printout. It was a non-descript apartment building. Not in a bad neighborhood, not in a good one. Across the street he saw a sign for Dave's Gym. The apartment was on the second floor, and Jim knew before he even reached it that it was vacant. The furniture was still visible through the window, but it had an empty look, devoid of any personal effects. He and Simon began knocking on doors until they found someone who informed them that Gerald Stafford had loaded his car up a couple of hours ago and left. Simon put out an APB on Stafford's car, but their job had just become a whole lot harder. If the man left the state, they might never find him. He'd probably been spooked when he found out Sandburg was still alive.
They wouldn't be able to do anything more until they got a search warrant for the apartment. Technically, Stafford still lived there until he was evicted or gave notice. There was a possibility that he'd left something incriminating behind, but Jim thought it unlikely. There weren't even grounds to arrest him so far. A man with his name had called the hospital, and he owned an Impala that didn't exactly match the witnesses description. They'd run him through the computer to see if he had a record, but even that wouldn't help. On the plus side, the neighbor had given them an excellent physical description. Stafford was a big man, 6' 5", about 260 pounds. Sandy hair, cut short, and green eyes. He had a job on a road crew for the state and he worked out at the gym every other day. No girlfriends. No friends for that matter. He was quiet and kept to himself. At least that part fit with the standard serial killer description.
"If that operation in the park had worked, we'd have him cold. There's no way in hell we'll get another chance to catch him in the act. He's gonna go to some other town and kill some more young men, and it will be our failure that caused it."
"I know, Simon. There has to be something we've missed. Dammit, I wish we'd been on this from the start."
"It damn sure wouldn't have gone down the way it did if I'd been in charge."
"That's not fair, Simon. Jones made a mistake. He's a good cop."
"You're right, but I pushed Blair into this, just like you said, and he got hurt. I'm hating that."
"We all are."
Simon's phone chirped and he picked it up, listening quietly with a growing look of horror on his face. "Christ! We're on our way. You cover all the exits, you understand me? He's not getting out of there." He turned and started to run towards Jim's truck. "Stafford's at the hospital. Knocked out McKetrick and grabbed Sandburg. He's still in the building somewhere."
What was that ripping sound? Blair tried to focus, but it was difficult. His head felt fuzzy. There it was again. A long ripping sound, like someone was tearing fabric. Something was being wrapped around his wrists. Oh god oh no not again. He struggled to swim to consciousness. Sleeping. He'd been sleeping in the chair when he heard someone shout. The door had slammed open and the man was on him. Looming over him, yanking the IV from his hand. He'd tried to get away, tried to struggle, but the cloth was over his mouth and everything had instantly begun to dim. He'd been leaning back in the chair and he couldn't find any leverage to push the huge man off of him. The man hadn't wasted any time, still holding the cloth over his face as he dragged him to the door and out into the hallway. Blair had a vague memory of McKetrick lying on the floor. His face had looked funny, like something was out of place. Where were the other two? There were three men guarding him. Where were the others? The answer came just before he lost consciousness. Detective Brown was pointing a gun at him from far down the hall, shouting at the killer as the elevator doors slid to a close.
Now he was somewhere with the killer. His wrists and ankles were being bound and there was no sign of Detective Brown. They'd lost him again, only this time, Jim wasn't here to find him. This time, the killer was seconds away from beating him to death. Through sheer force of will he opened his eyes and looked at the man. Thick neck, square jaw, short hair. He wouldn't have looked out of place as a bouncer at Club Doom.
"What are you looking at?" The man lifted a meaty fist and brought it down squarely on Blair's jaw.
