Progression Series 19 Last Call for Marcus Grant Read online

  He cried out as he fell, tumbling head over heels. Within seconds he came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the shallow ravine, his body sliding into a cluster of rocks and shrubs. Another cry escaped him as his shoulder smacked hard against a rock. Absently, he was aware of the fact that warm blood was wetting his shirt...and then there was nothing.

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  The wolf lay at the bottom of a deep gully, its breath coming in labored pants, a dark stain of blood soaking its thick fur. Raising its head, the wounded animal released a long plaintive cry-a cry filled with agony and desperation. Its eyes searched the surrounding area, looking for help. Then, with another mournful cry, the wolf's head dropped down against the hard ground and its pain-dulled eyes slipped shut...

  Jim jerked upright in bed, gasping. Help! Blair needs help! He threw back his blankets and was halfway across his room when he realized...Blair is still missing.

  Slowly, the sentinel moved to the railing that looked out over the rest of the apartment below his bedroom. His gaze traveled over all the things that were uniquely his guide's-the Kenyan mask leaning against the wall near the balcony windows, the pictures resting on the shelves and end tables, even the rug decorating the floor. Blair was the one who had turned this place into a home but he hadn't accomplished that just by placing a few items throughout the loft. No, it was his very presence that had made the loft into a warm and welcoming place. Blair was home to Jim.

  The detective scrubbed a hand across his face as the thoughts swept over him. He knew that that feeling was what Grant wanted from Sandburg-that same sense of home, of comfort, that Blair brought to him.

  Hands shaking now, Jim reached up and wiped away the fine sheen of sweat on his face. His dream, so vivid in its detail, rushed once again through his mind. He'd seen the wolf-Blair's spirit guide-and it had been hurt, bleeding.

  Jim closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. The one hope he'd held onto since Simon first arrived at his cell door late last night with the news about Grant was that the doctor wouldn't hurt Blair this time, that he truly did want to be Sandburg's friend.

  But now....

  Jim knew what the dream meant. His guide was hurt and in need of his sentinel. But his sentinel still had no idea how to find him.

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  Blair woke slowly, struggling to open his eyes, to move. What happened? He shifted slightly where he lay, then gasped as red-hot pain sliced through him, starting at his shoulder and running down his back.

  "Jim!" he called out. But even as the name echoed around him, he remembered that Jim was not here.

  Grant. I'm with Grant.

  He looked toward the French doors. Darkness pressed against the glass. How long have I been out? What happened? He shifted his feet and immediately felt the pull of the shackles. And with that came a memory.... We went for a walk and I fell. Reaching up, he touched at his face. He could feel the scrapes along his cheeks and forehead, could see the damage to his hands and arms. He'd fallen down the side of the ravine, hit his shoulder, and passed out.

  His gaze traveled around the room again, stopping on his torn and bloody shirt. It lay on a chair in the far corner. Grant must have brought him back here and cleaned him up. Blair touched tentatively at the new bandage covering his left shoulder. Pain once again shot through him and he bit his lip, holding back a groan.

  Slowly, each movement sending more pain through him, he sat up. The room spun for one dizzying moment then locked into place. He looked down. He was still wearing the jeans he'd had on when he arrived but his shirt, shoes and socks had been removed. He cringed at the thought of Grant touching him, putting him to bed.

  But at least he administered first aid, didn't just leave me at the bottom of that ravine.

  Pushing up from the bed, he shuffled to his backpack. But even before he opened it he knew it would be empty. He turned toward the dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, he found that the few things he had brought with him had been placed neatly inside.

  Grant had unpacked for him.

  Blair pulled out a dark blue shirt and put it on, trying to ignore the implication that went along with the unpacking. Trying to ignore the fact that Grant was planning for him to stay much longer than a week.

  As he was struggling to pull on a clean pair of socks, a knock sounded on his door. A moment later Grant opened it and looked inside, a wide smile on his face.

  "I thought I heard you moving around up here." He stepped inside carrying a tray of food. "You shouldn't be up. I was just bringing you something to eat."

  "I'm fine," Blair said. "Just a little sore."

  "Nonsense. You get right back into that bed."

  "Really, I'm fine. I can eat downstairs--"

  "I brought you food on a tray!" Grant shouted, his hands shaking, causing the silverware on the tray to clank together. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, composing himself. "Indulge me," he implored finally, opening his eyes again, the smile returning to his face.

  Blair moved back to the bed and sat on the edge, taking the proffered tray onto his lap. He stared down at a bowl of tomato soup, some crackers and a grilled cheese sandwich. Half the soup had spilled out on the tray when Grant shook it. "Looks great," he muttered.

  "Tastes even better," the doctor promised.

  Blair picked up the sandwich and took a bite. As he chewed he looked at Grant, who stood before him, watching him. "Aren't you eating?" he asked before taking a second bite.

  "I already did hours ago."

  Hours ago? Blair's heart pounded heavily in his chest. "How long was I out?"

  "It's late, Blair, the middle of the night really." He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at him, his expression concerned. "You slept a bit later than I thought you would but that's good. I think your body needed the rest. You took quite a nasty spill. You were lucky that fall didn't cause more damage than it did."

  "Thank you," Blair said, his gaze shifting away from Grant, the words hard to say. "For cleaning me up."

  "You don't have to thank me, Champ."

  Blair looked up again. Grant stood before him, a pleased grin pulling up the corners of his mouth.

  "You could have just left me out there," Blair continued, picking up the spoon, trying the soup next. "You didn't," he mumbled around a mouthful of tomato soup, "and I appreciate that."

  "That's what friends do for each other!" Grant enthused. "They take care of one another when one is hurt or sick." He paused briefly, his gaze shifting past Blair to a point behind him. A strange, far-off look came into his eyes. "That's what I'll always do." His gaze shifted back to Blair, fondness coloring his green eyes. "I'll always take care of you."

  "Great," Blair muttered, taking another large bite of the grilled cheese.

  Grant continued to stare at Sandburg, but a predatory look had replaced the previous fondness. "So how is your sandwich?" he asked. "You seem to be enjoying it."

  Blair nodded. "I didn't realize how hungry I was until I started eating. I--" But his words cut off as a sudden cramp gripped his stomach. He dropped the sandwich, bending slightly forward. The pain increased, stealing his breath, leaving him gasping.

  "Blair!" Grant was at his side in an instant. He took the tray from Sandburg seconds before it would have ended up on the floor. "What's wrong?" He stood beside Blair, hands on the younger man's shoulders, bracing him as another cramp doubled him over.

  Blair's breath came in short pants as the pain intensified. Perspiration stood out on his forehead and his hands were shaking. "I...I think I'm going to be sick," he muttered as his stomach roiled again.

  The hands on his shoulders moved to grip him under his arms then pulled him to his feet. Blair leaned heavily on the man at his side, letting Grant lead him to the bathroom. The doctor held him close, whispering encouragement along the way.

  They'd just made it inside the small room when Blair's stomach gave up its contents
. He was still leaning over the toilet bowl when a second wave of nausea hit him. Even as he threw up, he felt a cool cloth come to rest on the back of his neck. Seconds later, a hand began rubbing gently at his back.

  "I'm here, Champ, I'm right here," Grant soothed from behind him, his hand still moving in slow circles across his back. "And I'm going to take good care of you because that's what friends do. They take care of each other when they're sick or hurt."

  Cold dread slithered over Blair as the softly spoken words reached him. There was something in that tone of voice....

  He turned wide, frightened eyes to Grant. The man stared back at him, his expression one of pure satisfaction and suddenly Blair knew.... "You did this." He wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. "You put something in my food, something to make me sick."

  Grant smiled benignly at him.

  "My fall," Blair breathed. "You wanted that to happen, didn't you? That's why you called me up to that ridge. You wanted me to get hurt!" His heart pounded against his ribcage as the full extent of this man's madness washed over him.

  "Don't worry," Grant whispered. "No matter what happens to you, I'll always be here to take care of you." He leaned down, bringing his face close to Blair's. "Always."

  Blair shuddered. His stomach cramped again. And as he once more heaved into the toilet bowl, reality hit him and hit him hard. The situation was far worse than Grant simply wanting to keep him permanently. Blair wiped at the perspiration lining his brow as the entire situation clarified itself in his mind: If I don't escape, Marcus Grant's friendship is going to kill me.

  Part Two

  Jim stood before the closed balcony doors and watched the pattern the rain made as it slid down the glass. He wondered absently if it was also raining wherever Sandburg was.

  The detective swallowed hard. He felt himself succumbing to the dark despair that had been haunting him for days now, to the ever-increasing probability that Blair may be lost to him forever.

  It had been five days since Sandburg disappeared with Marcus Grant. Five days and the detective was no closer to finding his partner than he had been the first day. For all he knew, Blair was only miles away...or on the other side of the world. With Grant's money, anything was possible.

  Across the long week the only connection he'd had to his guide were the dreams that visited him nightly. Each night while he slept he saw his guide's animal spirit. And each night the animal appeared weaker, sicker.

  What's happening to you, Chief?

  Jim closed his eyes against the question, hating the feeling of uselessness that nagged at him. Despite his best efforts and the efforts of the other officers in Major Crimes, he had failed his partner. It was as if Blair had disappeared off the face of the earth. There were simply no leads to follow.

  The phone on the counter rang. Jim didn't turn, didn't make any move to answer it. He knew who was calling. Simon. The captain had been calling him every hour on the hour all day long.

  Jim hadn't bothered to go into work yesterday or today. There was no point. Without Blair, he couldn't do his job...nor did he want to. He'd spent the first few days after Blair's disappearance investigating even the slimmest leads, following up every possible sighting, checking the airport and bus station. He'd scoured the city, contacted every snitch he could find, all in the hopes that someone could give him even a small bit of information regarding Marcus Grant. But the snitches had never even heard of Grant and none of the sightings had panned out. The man had gotten away clean with his partner in tow.

  With each day that passed, Jim had found himself less and less interested in anything. There seemed no point in turning on the television, no reason to look through the paper, no rationale for going into work.

  Instead, he found himself sitting and staring, wracking his mind for an avenue of investigation he may have missed, a stone he may have left unturned. He had to work hard to keep those staring sessions from turning into zones. But he could, with a little concentration and determination. Because if I zone, I lose all hope of ever finding my guide again. And Jim knew he'd never be able to forgive himself if he let that happen.

  Behind him, the answering machine picked up. Seconds later Simon's voice poured out, asking again if he was okay, when he was coming to work, to please call him.

  A slight niggle of guilt pushed at Jim but he dismissed it quickly and turned his attention back to the moisture running down the glass. Just as the rain became heavier and began to pound against the large windows, a knock sounded on the loft's front door.

  An instant later, Jim smelled pipe tobacco. Eli, his mind supplied automatically. For a moment he thought about not answering the door. But he couldn't do that. Not to Eli. For if anyone understood the numbing fear of losing Blair, it was Eli Stoddard.

  Crossing the loft, Jim pulled the door open. The professor stood in the hallway, his clothes and hair soaked from the downpour outside. "I didn't want to go home," he murmured quietly, his gaze weary, troubled. "I had to get out of my house, go for a drive...but then I didn't want to go home again."

  Sympathy washed across the detective and he moved back, pulling the door wide. "Come in, Eli."

  The older man stepped past Jim, his clothes dripping on the floor, his shoes making a small squishing noise as he walked. Retrieving a towel from the linen closet, Jim handed it to the professor.

  "Why don't you leave your shoes and jacket by the door."

  Eli did as Jim asked, then used the towel to dry off his hair and face. "I'm sorry, Jim," he said as he handed the damp towel back to him. "I didn't plan on coming here. I was out driving and then...then I was just here."

  "It's okay. I understand." Jim dumped the towel in the dirty clothes bin in the bathroom. When he stepped back to the living area, he found Eli standing where he had been only moments before--in front of the large balcony windows, staring out at the pouring rain.

  "Do you want some coffee or tea?" Jim offered. "Something to get the chill out?"

  Eli turned toward Jim, his gaze haunted. "It's been five days," he said, not answering the questions, his mind clearly on one thing and one thing only. "Do you think that maybe Blair will come home in two days? I mean, that's what he told your captain, right? He said he'd only be gone one week."

  "Eli," Jim began, trying to think of the best way of telling the professor that he didn't believe for one second that Grant-once he had Blair in his possession--would ever let him leave. But before he could say anything more, Eli dropped his chin to his chest, his posture radiating clear defeat.

  "Yes, I thought as much," Stoddard said softly. "Rather naïve of me to think Marcus Grant would give up his 'prize' so easily." He looked up at Jim again. This time, the haunted, lost look was gone and in its place was anger, frustration. "That's what Blair is to him, you know-a prize in this ongoing game of his. He doesn't really care about that boy at all. He doesn't love him...." The professor's voice trailed off as he turned back to the windows.

  Jim crossed to the elderly professor and, stopping beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Eli, you can't give up hope. I know it's hard to keep believing we'll find Blair. But if we give up...."

  "No," Eli choked out. "No, I haven't given up. Blair would never forgive me if I did that." He looked up at Jim, even managing a small smile. "Blair is nothing if not the eternal optimist."

  Jim nodded, smiling himself a bit. "That's my partner, always giving everyone the benefit of the doubt."

  "Even Marcus Grant," Eli added softly.

  "Yeah," Jim breathed, "even Marcus Grant."

  The two men stood together, staring out the window, the rain the only sound within the loft.

  "I've been dreaming about the wolf," Jim said at last, breaking the silence.

  Eli turned sharply, staring up at the detective. "You have? What are the dreams like? Do they offer any clues as to Blair's whereabouts?"

  "No," Jim admitted with more than a little reluctance. "They're not like that."

  "Then...what?"
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  "They're not good," he answered softly.

  "Please, Jim, just tell me. I need to know."

  Jim exhaled a deep breath. "Each dream is basically the same," he explained. "I see the wolf and he's hurt, ill. But in each one, his condition is worse than it was in the dream before."

  "What do you think it means?" Eli asked. Jim could hear the fear behind the words, knew Eli already suspected the answer.

  "I think it means that Grant is slowly killing Blair," Jim admitted, his voice low, controlled. "And I think it means that if we don't find him soon, he won't live through this."

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  "Come on, sleepyhead, time to wake up!"

  The voice came to him as if from a great distance away. He tried to shut it out, to ignore it, but it persisted.

  "Come on now, Champ. You need your medication."

  Slowly, Blair opened his eyes. Above him, Marcus Grant loomed into view, his face split with a wide grin as he stared down at him. "Well, hello there!" He chuckled, shaking his head. "I thought you were going to sleep the entire day away, although with this weather it wouldn't matter much."

  Blair's gaze shifted to the French doors. Rain pelted the glass as thunder rumbled in the distance. He couldn't tell if it was day or night, wasn't sure how many days had passed since he'd first arrived at the house with Grant, since he'd taken the fall down the ravine.

  All he did know, all that filled his mind were memories of Grant. The images were jumbled and confusing but he remembered being ill, Grant bringing him tea. Remembered waking several times to find Grant at his bedside. He's always here. Always. Day or night, the man never seemed to leave his side. He sat with him, watching him, touching him, solicitous of his every need. But even as groggy as he was, Blair remembered the realization that had come to him when he'd first become sick-in his heart he knew that his captor, while keeping up a caring façade, was slowly killing him.