McKetrick had been taken down to the emergency room with a broken jaw and a possible skull fracture. Simon was on a rampage. Apparently the young cop had been the only one watching Blair's room when Stafford had abducted Blair. Another screw up and this time it was his men who were responsible. Brown had been down the hall helping a pretty nurse lift a patient into a wheel chair and Rafe had been downstairs feeding his face. Even the damned nurses station had been vacant! They had all been assisting one of the doctors with a cardiac arrest in another patient's room.
Jim pushed all of that conflict out of the way and focused on finding his friend. The green Impala was still out in the parking lot, and the doors were guarded. That meant he was somewhere in the building with Blair. It was a big hospital, but also a busy one. He'd have to take him someplace where he could kill unobserved. The most likely place was the basement. Jim took the stairs two at a time, opening up his senses as he went, not wanting to risk missing his friend if he were somewhere else in the hospital. Simon was right behind him, knowing that if anyone could find him, Jim would. There were already officers checking the basement, but it was a huge, cavernous place and it would take time they didn't have if Jim couldn't locate Blair using his senses.
When he reached the basement, Simon started to speak and Jim motioned him to stop. Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It would be harder this time. Blair hadn't planned on this kidnapping, and there was no cologne trail to follow. Nothing but hospital smells. He didn't have time to sort it out. Sounds would work better in this situation. "Simon, tell all the men down here to stop and be quiet for a minute."
Simon barked out the orders and Jim focused. Pipes rattling. He pushed them away. The low hum of the massive furnaces. Gone. A thousand other creaks and groans removed from his consciousness until he found a low voice. It was far away, talking to someone in a conversational tone, and yet somehow Jim knew it was Stafford. He couldn't make out the words, but he was probably talking to Blair. Explaining why he was about to kill him. Jim started off at a trot, trying to focus on distance and direction. Simon followed him wordlessly and without question.
"I'm only sorry that I can't kill more of you. Think of how much better off the world would be without puny little runts like yourself in it. You know what you do, don't you? You contaminate the human race. You weaken the gene pool. You certainly don't contribute anything to it." The man finished hoisting Blair to a standing position, tying his hands to the shelves. "You're small. You obviously can't defend yourself. You're weak. Even if you tried to pump up you'd still be weak. You must realize it, because you grow your hair long like a sissy-boy." He adjusted Blair's gag and made sure it was tight. He stood back and looked at his victim. "OK, I think we're ready. I want you to know that I'm only making you suffer because I enjoy it." He smiled wickedly and lifted his fist. At the same time, Blair lifted his legs and kicked forward, pulling the full weight of himself and the shelves onto his attacker.
"Argh!" Jim doubled over, reeling as the sound of screeching metal reached his ears. There wouldn't be any problem finding Blair now. Everyone had heard that one. Jim pulled himself together and ran toward the sound, coming at last to a storage closet with a heavy steel door. He didn't need to try it to know it was locked. He listened closely at the door. Blair was definitely in there with someone. His respiration and heartbeat were racing. The killer's heartbeat was slow and steady. It sounded as if he were either sleeping or unconscious. After that sound, he'd guess the latter. What had Blair done?
Jim motioned quietly at the men who had arrived almost instantly at the sound of the crash. They positioned themselves around the door. He'd have to move fast while the killer was still unconscious. Jim aimed his gun carefully at the lock and fired. Yanking the door open he was greeted with a chaotic sight. Stafford was lying on the floor, blood flowing freely from a wound on his head. Blair was on top of him, wrists tied with white strips of linen to the grey metal shelving that was resting on top of him. His arm was twisted in an awkward position and he appeared to be in pain. Both men were practically buried in the avalanche of sheets that had fallen from the shelves. Jim stowed his gun when he was sure that the other men had Stafford covered and began to untie his friend.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, cop." Stafford mumbled, his words slurring together. "I've got a knife at his ribs."
Blair looked at Jim and nodded his head, eyes glassy with fear and fever. "What do you want, Stafford?"
The man looked toward the door and saw Simon and the other men there with guns drawn. "I want them outta here. Now. You know I have nothing to lose."
Jim nodded at Simon and the men retreated out of Stafford's line of sight. "OK, now what?"
"Move the shelves." He blinked slowly.
The man had a concussion, he would probably lose consciousness soon. Jim needed to slow things down until that happened. "I'm going to need to untie him to do that."
"Just untie him from the shelves, don't untie his wrists. He's not getting any second chances here."
Jim gently removed the piece of sheet and released Blair. As his hands fell free, Jim heard an audible pop. Blair had a dislocated shoulder. Jim hesitated. He'd have to turn his back on Stafford to push the shelves back up, and with Simon out of sight he didn't want to do that.
"Get the shelves off of us now!" The man growled and Jim heard Blair let out a startled exclamation under the gag.
Jim turned and lifted the shelves, getting a grip on them and heaving them as quickly as he could into a standing position. He could hear movement behind him as he did it, and when he turned around, Stafford was holding Blair in front of him as he sat against the wall. The knife was now pressed firmly against Blair's throat. Jim saw a growing red spot on the front of Blair's hospital gown near the waistband of his sweats. The bastard had stabbed him.
"Looks like we've got a standoff here, Stafford. You're in no shape to go anywhere even if we'd let you, so why don't you hand over the knife and we'll get you some medical attention?"
"No way. They'll patch me up, I'll go to trial, I'll get the death sentence. It'll take me a few years to die, but I'll die."
"That's a few years you won't have if my partner dies." Jim kept his voice calm and stared the man straight in the eye.
"I'm doing the world a favor, getting rid of geeks like him."
"How's that?" Jim tried to focus on Stafford and not on the spread of crimson edging across Blair's hospital gown. His eyes had taken on a dull look, and he seemed to be focusing on something far away. He was dying, but Jim couldn't help him until Stafford was neutralized.
"Natural selection. The strong survive, the weak perish. That process has been eliminated in modern society. I decided to help bring it back."
Blair, weak? The man had no concept. Jim reigned in his growing fury. "Not going to make much of a dent, killing two people."
"Ah, but I'll be the inspiration for more like me. They're out there, frustrated by how the weak are taking over our society. They have all the money, all the jobs, all the power..."
"...all the brains?"
At that moment, a sigh escaped Blair's lips and he slumped forward against the knife. Stafford pulled it away before Blair was cut and grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back. The moment the knife was away from Blair's throat, Jim lunged, grabbing Stafford's wrist and slamming it against the wall. The big man cried out in surprise and dropped the knife, only to recover and heave himself forward onto Jim, fists flying. Jim felt his head snap back as a fist connected with his chin. He punched the man hard in the throat with all the energy provided by adrenaline and rage. Stafford went down, gasping for air. The room was suddenly full of men, who quickly cuffed Stafford and carted him away. Jim barely noticed as he knelt down next to Blair, who was crumpled on the floor, his complexion blending perfectly with the sheets around him. Gently, he lifted his friend and turned him over, then lifted the front of the hospital gown. There was a deep puncture wound in his stomach and the bleeding hadn't stopped.
Jim grabbed a pillow case and pressed it against the wound to stem the flow, then gathered Blair into his arms and carried him through the basement to the elevators at a dead run. Blair's breathing was shallow and his heartbeat was thready now. He'd lost a lot of blood. As soon as the elevator doors opened on the first floor, Jim began yelling for a doctor. One appeared instantly and Blair was whisked away from him into a room. Jim looked down at his shirt, it was soaked in the dark maroon of Blair's blood. He'd failed his guide again. Rage and frustration welled up in him and he turned, smashing his fist into the wall. The pain barely pierced his anger. Blair's blood was smeared on the wall inside the indentation his fist had caused.
Now there were hands pulling at him, guiding him to a chair. He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. Someone was talking to him, but all he could register was the utter helplessness he felt. Blair was at death's door again, and he shouldn't be. He cursed the senses that allowed him to hear the urgent voices of the doctors and nurses working on his best friend. When Blair went into cardiac arrest, Jim zoned out completely, so lost in anguish that he didn't realize a nurse had cleaned and wrapped his injured hand. Blair's heart beat was restored after several tense minutes and Jim became mesmerized by the strengthening beat.
This man was more connected to him than anyone had ever been. How that had happened was a mystery, but it didn't change the fact of it. Blair was a part of his soul, necessary to his survival, not in any carnal sense but in a deep way, one that was spiritual and emotional. Something that went right into the core of him. The sentinel and the guide. These two people had been bound together since the beginning of time. Entrusted with the protection of their tribes and each other. It had never been more clear. If the connection were broken, if the guide were gone, what would become of the sentinel? They could never operate independently with any degree of success. He saw that now. In allowing Blair to be intentionally imperilled, he had broken some ancient code of sentinel behavior. Now his punishment might well be the loss of his guide.
But he was breathing now. His heartbeat was gaining strength. The doctors were preparing him for surgery. Jim was in a waiting room. He couldn't remember how he got there. His focus had been so intense, he had lost all track of time, centering on the feeling that this was another trial, only this time he had no choice over which path to take. Blair would live or die at the whim of some shadowy spirit guide, some ancient god, whoever was in charge of pulling their strings.
Simon was telling him something about Stafford now. He had died. Jim had punched him in the throat hard enough to crush his larnyx. It was not a surprise, that had been his intent. Military training and survival instincts were hard to shake.
Hot coffee was shoved into his hand, but when he lifted it to his lips it was already cold. His senses were gone now, no taste, no sound, no touch, no smells. Only dim vision. Like when Danny had died only magnified a hundred times, and seemingly indefinite. Blair had tried to convince him that it was emotional stress and grief that had caused him to lose his senses that time, but he had rejected the idea. Something else he'd been wrong about, like so many things. Would Blair's death cause him to lose them permanently? He hoped so, he didn't think he'd want them if his guide were dead.