Sentinel - Progression Series 06 Day of Reckoning Page 5

  Blair's heartbeat!

  Jim's gaze darted left, his breath catching in his throat. Where is he? Where! The familiar sound throbbed against his temples, pulsed through his body, yet he couldn't see Blair. He jogged toward a thick stand of trees, following the well-known sound, his own heart pounding in his chest, his ears.

  Hope surged through him as he drew nearer the trees and the sound increased in volume. It couldn't be this simple. It couldn't-

  His thoughts were cut off abruptly as his gaze locked on the tape recorder resting against the base of a tree. He staggered to a halt. "No," he breathed. As the sound continued to pour from the small machine, he took two halting steps forward, scooped up the recorder and threw it against the side of the tree. He watched with detached satisfaction as it shattered into several pieces. The sound of the steady pounding cut off, and the sudden absence of that familiar beating sent a shiver through Jim. It was just a recording. Blair's alive. His heart is still beating... somewhere. He licked his lips, praying that was true.

  "You do have a temper."

  Jim spun toward the amused voice that came from behind him. Marcus Grant stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the trunk of a tree, the picture of relaxation in his tan pants and white cable knit sweater.

  "Beautiful morning, don't you think?"

  "You son of a bitch!" Jim lunged toward him. The detective had only taken a step or two when a high-pitched sound reverberated through his head, driving him to his knees. He cried out, covering his ears, trying desperately to block out the noise.

  And then--just as suddenly as it started--the ear-piercing sound stopped.

  "Something wrong, Detective?"

  Panting, Jim dropped his hands from his head and looked up. Grant stood before him, an arrogant grin pulling up one corner of his mouth. And as he stared up at him, Jim suddenly realized--those unexplained hearing spikes, the tape recording of Blair's heartbeat, and now this, could only mean one thing...

  "I know about your heightened sense of hearing," Grant confirmed Jim's thoughts aloud, his eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

  Jim managed to get to his feet, his hands fisted at his sides in barely controlled rage.

  "Where's my partner?" he demanded.

  Grant frowned. "Don't you even want to know how I found out about your unique ability?"

  "The only thing I want to know is where my partner is."

  "One track mind," Grant muttered, shaking his head. "No matter, I'll tell you about my little discovery anyway." He waved a hand, dismissing Jim's question about Blair's location. "While I was in Europe, I kept thinking about the day out in that field when you managed to somehow zero in on Sandburg's location. I couldn't get that image of you out of my mind-standing in the pouring rain, head cocked to one side, like you were listening. But for what? I had no idea for the longest time." He smiled again. "Then I visited a university library in Venice and downloaded copies of some of Dr. Sandburg's earlier research. He was testing people with heightened senses for some ridiculous theory he had. But when I read his work, it hit me-you have heightened hearing. You were standing out in that field listening for his heartbeat. I'm right, aren't I?"

  Jim stared at him, but said nothing.

  "I couldn't believe," Grant continued, unaffected by Jim's silence, "That you could not only distinguish, but also isolate that single sound from everything else around you-the other men, the pouring rain, the wind." He let out a long breath. "In a word, amazing."

  "What do you want, Grant?"

  "I want to see exactly how good you are, Detective." He tilted his head to one side as if studying Jim. "My guess is that you heard about Sandburg's study and went to him because you were having problems with your hearing. The two of you began working together, hoping to gain some control over it, knowing how much it could help you in your line of work. I'm sure Sandburg came along with you at first as--I don't know--a coach of sorts, showing you how to control your new ability as you worked cases. But then... then he realized that he could get his doctorate if he continued this relationship. So you struck up a bargain that turned into a rather unique friendship. Am I close?"

  Jim stared at the doctor's arrogant expression. The man thought he was so smart, smarter than Blair, certainly smarter than Jim. And that will be his downfall. As he stared at Grant, Jim was suddenly filled with a sense of confidence. In that moment, he knew that he and Blair could beat this man at his own game, because Marcus Grant knew nothing about Jim's sentinel abilities. The doctor had clearly underestimated not only Jim's unique skills, but Blair's tenacity as well.

  A slow, easy smile tugged at the sentinel's lips.

  "Did I say something funny, Ellison?" Grant bit out.

  "I'm just impressed by everything that you've been able to deduce," Jim said, playing into the man's inflated ego.

  The smug expression returned to Grant's face. "Yes, well, I had a lot of time to think about it. A lot of sleepless nights." He raised an eyebrow. "The kind of night I expect you had last night." He took a step closer to Jim, his eyes darkening with anger. "Last night was a bit of payback, Detective. Do you have any idea how many nights I spent lying awake, listening for sounds that would indicate that those men you had tracking me had found me again? I wanted you to feel that same kind of desperation, to know what it was like to spend hour after hour wondering and worrying." His gaze flicked over Jim. "And from the looks of you, I'd say I accomplished my little goal," he said with more than a little satisfaction. "As for myself? I slept better last night than I have in months."

  Anger washed through Jim. This arrogant prick had dragged Sandburg out of the loft, dumped him somewhere, and then simply gone to bed. But where could he have put his partner that would instill such confidence in his ability to keep him hidden? Enough confidence that Grant would just walk away from him? Leave him alone all night? Cold fingers of dread grasped Jim's heart as another idea occurred to him. "How do I know Blair is still alive?" he managed past the sudden lump in his throat.

  "You can you hear my heart beating," Grant said with confidence. "Is it racing? I'm telling you the truth, Detective Ellison. Sandburg is alive. He'll remain alive for the next"--he glanced down at his watch--"Nine hours, seven minutes. If you pass my tests, you should be able to locate him within that time period. If not? Well, there really would be no point in even trying after that."

  "So what now, Grant? What am I supposed to do?"

  "What I'm proposing today are a few tests to see just how good your hearing is. You pass them and Sandburg lives. You don't and he dies. Simple, really."

  Jim glared at the doctor, narrowing his eyes as he sized up his adversary. "When do we begin?"

  /

  /

  /

  I'm going to die in here. Grant's just going to leave me here. Not tell anyone where I am and I'm going to die.

  Blair bit at his trembling lower lip and closed his eyes as a sensation of hopelessness pressed in, threatening to overwhelm him.

  When Grant had first enclosed him in the tomb, he'd held out some hope that he could force the lid above him open by using his feet. But no matter how he'd braced himself, no matter how hard he'd pushed, the lid had not budged. It was either too heavy or Grant had somehow latched it shut from the outside.

  After that there wasn't much else he could do but lie still and wait. He'd tried to fill the passing hours by going over his class notes for the next week, reciting the speech he'd given in Pullman only two weeks earlier, repeating the names of every professor he'd had since arriving at Rainier. Anything that would take his mind off the fact that he was trapped. That he could do nothing but wait to be found. That he might never be found...

  And he'd managed to remain calm... until he'd realized that the first oxygen tank was nearly empty.

  With more than a little reluctance, Blair turned and looked at the timer beside him. Eight hours and fifteen minutes. He licked his lips. In fifteen minutes, the first tank would shut down and the second tan
k would click on.

  And if it doesn't?

  He exhaled a rattling breath and stared up at the dark lid of his "coffin," forcing the question from his mind. He couldn't think about that possibility. It will work. It has to. He shivered, his teeth chattering together. The inescapable cold was his only companion, brushing against his bare skin, clawing at his wet feet, winding through him until without warning, his body would tremble uncontrollably for several seconds before going slack again.

  But the cold wasn't his only problem. Hours earlier his hands, still trapped behind his back, had gone numb. When he'd first noticed the sensation, he'd tried to flex his fingers, but that had just brought pain, not relief. So he'd decided just to ignore the feeling. But now his arms were beginning to ache as well and he knew he had no choice. He needed to relieve the pressure off his bound wrists, move his stiffened arms, shift from his current position.

  Gritting his teeth, he lifted himself slightly upward.

  Razor-sharp pain sliced through his arms and shoulders. He fell back, crying out at the additional pain the simple movement had caused. He blinked back the tears that sprang to his eyes, tried to ignore the throbbing ache in his muscles.

  I can't do this! I can't--

  A clicking, whirring sound drew his attention, scattering all thoughts of the pain in his cramped muscles. He looked sideways... to the oxygen tanks beside his head. There was another click and then.... air stopped flowing to the mask positioned over his mouth and nose. His frightened gaze locked on the timer. It read eight hours and thirteen minutes. The tank had shut down early!

  Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

  Panic seized him as he began to gasp for oxygen that did not come. His heart slammed against his rib cage as he struggled against the bindings on his wrists, ignoring the pain that sliced through him with the sudden movements.

  The other tank. I have to get to the other tank! I...I...

  His thoughts fell away and his struggles slowed. The face of the dials blurred as his vision dimmed along the edges. A single tear slipped from his eyes, sliding slowly down the side of his face to fall soundlessly against the hard granite beneath his now still body.

  The silence within the tomb was deafening.

  Then there was another click, a second whirring sound and... cool air flowed to the mask. Blair spasmed, his body arching up and back as he sucked in the fresh oxygen. Gulping, desperate to fill his deprived lungs, he tried not to think about what would happen to him in another eight hours.

  /

  /

  /

  Marcus Grant glanced down at the clock in the dashboard of his car, wondering with an odd sense of excited elation if the second oxygen tank he'd left with Sandburg had clicked on as scheduled. If not... well, the man would surely be dead by now.

  He turned his attention back to the road before him, letting out a long breath. He hoped that wasn't the case. Not that he didn't intend for Sandburg to die in that crypt-he did. He just didn't want it happening too soon.

  "Because I want you to suffer," he mumbled. "Suffer just like I did."

  He'd thought about just putting Sandburg in that crypt and closing it. But the kid would have suffocated within the first hour. And that would have been too quick. Marcus wanted Sandburg to anticipate his death. To hope for rescue, only to have that hope wither away and then die with him.

  But as much as he delighted in the idea of Sandburg's pain, he absolutely relished the thought of Ellison's suffering. He smiled as he drove toward the latest "test site" for the detective. The tests were simple. The detective was given instructions to drive to a certain location. Once there, he had to locate a sound that didn't "fit in" with the surroundings. Once he located that sound he would find directions outlining the next location. Only each time, the location became noisier, the ability to find the desired sound increasingly difficult.

  Marcus planned to have the big detective spend the entire morning chasing his tail, running himself ragged in an attempt to find the kid... only to have him arrive at that crypt minutes too late.

  His gaze fell on the tape recorder he'd placed on the passenger seat of the car. The tape inside was a copy of the one he'd used at the park, the one Ellison had destroyed. On it was the sound of Sandburg's heartbeat. Marcus himself could not hear the slow beating when he pushed the button on the side of the small machine. But it was obvious that Ellison could.

  A self-satisfied smile curved his lips as he remembered the moment he'd taped the anthropologist's heartbeat. Getting into the loft had been simple. Finding Sandburg asleep had been perfect. He'd simply held the recorder close to the sleeping young man's heart, quickly and easily taping the sound.

  But even after getting what he needed, Marcus had not disturbed Sandburg's sleep. Not right away. Instead, he'd sat on the edge of the coffee table and watched the young man while he slept. There was something about Sandburg.... a sense of wisdom beyond his years, of a peace that most people never seemed to obtain. And it fascinated Marcus. Normally, those two characteristics were only found in someone much older than the anthropologist. So why did Sandburg seem to exude the qualities as if they were a natural part of him?

  Marcus shook his head, dismissing the thoughts. No matter. In another seven hours, Blair Sandburg would be dead, his uniqueness departing this world with him.

  He laughed out loud as he imagined Ellison in his mind, shoving back that heavy lid, finding Sandburg's lifeless body, knowing if he'd only been fifteen minutes sooner, he could have saved his young friend.

  Because Marcus had seen the level of devotion the two men held for each other. Sandburg was more than a researcher to Ellison. More than a cop's partner. The detective treated the anthropologist like a brother. A younger brother. That dynamic put Ellison in the position of protector. It was obvious, instinctual. Useful. Marcus knew that finding that kid's body-still warm-would destroy Ellison.

  He settled back in the seat, glanced out at the deep blue sky and inhaled the crisp air that filtered in through the open window. It truly was a magnificent day.

  /

  /

  /

  Naomi rubbed unconsciously at the tightly knotted muscles in the back of her neck. She sat at a table in the small waiting area located inside the Cascade PD's Records Department. Three large, empty Styrofoam coffee cups sat near her right elbow, one cup stacked inside another, mute testimony of the large quantity of coffee she had consumed in an attempt to stay alert.

  She frowned down at the page in front of her, the last report in the folder she was perusing. The folder was the same one that Hannah Merrick had delivered to Simon Banks earlier that morning. It was filled with documentation gathered on Marcus Grant during an investigation headed by Jim Ellison several months earlier... the case in which her son had been kidnapped, held captive for days, then recaptured and buried alive.

  She scanned down through the final document, then slammed the file shut. Impatiently, she pushed it away from her, then sat glaring at it as though the large stack of documents was to blame for the injuries and terror her son had sustained during the Marcus Grant investigation. She lifted her gaze and stared straight ahead, heedless of the posters and official Cascade PD memoranda that littered the bulletin board attached to the wall in front of her. The details of the Grant case had left her stunned, angry. And afraid.

  She took a deep, rattling breath as she thought again about her decision to come to Cascade and take Blair away with her. If the Grant file had done nothing else, it had served to renew her burning need to keep her son safe, had rekindled her fierce determination to keep him away from the Cascade Police Department... and Jim Ellison.

  If she was given the chance, that is. If she ever saw her son alive again.

  What if Jim doesn't find Blair in time? What if Grant changes the rules of the sick little game he's playing? Captain Banks seems to believe that they can rely on the man's need to play out his game with Jim, but what if they are all misjudging the doctor?

&nbs
p; She closed her eyes, squeezing hard against the stinging tiredness. Too many hours without sleep, too many tears... she was exhausted. Opening her eyes and pushing beyond her fatigue, she pulled the Grant file to her and stood. Moving across to the counter that separated the waiting area from the desks where the Records clerks worked, she slammed the file down against the stained Formica surface.

  Hannah, who had been instructed by Simon to give Naomi access to anything she requested, sat behind the counter typing at a computer. She turned at the sound of the file being slammed down. "Ms. Sandburg?" she asked quietly, standing and moving over to Naomi, "Are you all right?"

  "No," Naomi bit out, but offered nothing else in the way of an explanation for her behavior. "Are there other case files here that outline my son's involvement? Files in which any injuries he may have sustained during the case are documented?"

  "Well," Hannah offered thoughtfully, "I'm fairly new to the department, but I'm sure I could do a computer search of Jim's--that is, Detective Ellison's-cases. As the detective's partner, Blair's involvement is probably documented in most, if not all, of his cases."

  Naomi closed her eyes briefly and breathed past the reference to her son as Jim's partner. Opening her eyes, she stared at Hannah. "How long would that take?" she asked, her fingers drumming impatiently against the counter.

  Hannah grimaced, then gave Naomi an apologetic shrug. "Quite some time, I'm afraid." The young clerk frowned as an idea seemed to occur to her. "Wait a minute," she said after a few seconds. "I remember, right about the time I first came to work here, that Blair was recovering from some injuries he'd sustained during a case he was working with Detective Ellison. The injuries were rather severe, as I recall--"

  "Let me see that file," Naomi demanded, then realized her bad manners. After all, Blair's involvement with the police department certainly isn't this young woman's fault... Amending her previous command with a tired smile, she apologized to Hannah. "May I see that file, please," she asked.

  "Of course," Hannah returned her smile. "I don't recall the name of the perp--I mean, the person Detective Ellison and Blair were trying to apprehend -- but I can pull up all of Jim's files for that particular month. I won't recognize the case numbers, but I'm sure the case name will jump right out at me." Hannah excused herself, moved to her desk and positioned herself in front of her computer. She entered a few commands, her fingers moving deftly across the keyboard. She paused for a moment, then leaned forward to study the screen that came up--a complicated table of numbers and words that Naomi couldn't make out from where she stood.