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SVS2-13: Six Weeks to Live by Bluewolf, Part 2
"Jim." Jim glanced up from the report he was attempting to study, trying in vain to read the expression on Simon's face, but instantly fearing the worst. "Yes, sir?" "My office." Jim crossed to join Simon, who closed the door and nodded Jim into a seat. "I just got word down from Chief Warren," he said, his voice expressionless as he took his own seat. "The search for Daryl and Blair is being downgraded starting today. He didn't come right out and say so, but I'm sure he thinks they're dead -- that, otherwise, we'd have heard something from someone." "I've been expecting that," Jim admitted. "There's been no word at all from the kidnappers, and... Dammit, Simon! How can Warren just give up on them?" His voice shook, and not even he knew if it was from anger or despair. "Warren said he'd given us extra time because it's our own that are missing," Simon said, his voice strained. "And of course it's still on the books but, officially, I have to tell you to concentrate on some other cases. Unofficially... everyone else is willing to take on as much extra work as necessary to let you keep concentrating on Daryl and Sandburg." "That's..." Jim swallowed, fighting unaccustomed tears, the kindness of his fellow detectives coming close to breaking his rigid self-control where a more impersonal approach would have failed. "That's good of them." "Warren knows -- unofficially -- and he hasn't ordered them not to. He had his time on the street; he knows what it's like to lose... " Simon's voice broke as he fought for self-control. After a moment, he looked closely at Jim. "How are you doing, anyway? I know your senses have done odd things in the past when you've been stressed." Jim shook his head. "They were okay to start with, but this last couple of days, they're sort of fading in and out -- sometimes they seem as sharp as ever, sometimes they seem to fade to almost nothing. I don't think I ever realized just how much Sandburg's presence anchors them. Of course, we haven't been apart for this long, with no contact at all, since we met. If we don't find him... I suspect they'll fade back to normal." He was silent for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. "I keep blaming myself, you know. That damned video.... Blair didn't want to bother taking it back that night, but I kept on and on about it, about wanting to watch something decent, until he gave in. If he hadn't gone out that night, he'd be here now." "We don't know that," Simon said, his voice hoarse. "If this is a revenge thing, if the kidnappers hadn't taken Blair that night, they'd have grabbed him some other time, probably the next day. What I don't understand is why we haven't had any word." He rubbed his forehead with the fingers of both hands, trying to ease the threatening headache. "Joan blames me, you know." "How can she? It wasn't as if he was staying with you." "If I'd insisted he go to Duke instead of Rainier, he wouldn't have been here to be abducted." There was a bitter note in his voice." Forget that she never wanted him to go to Duke, encouraged him to choose Rainier." "Simon, if you're right and they were both targets, would it have mattered where he was? He could have been taken from Duke just as easily." Simon nodded. After a moment, he went on. "Have you managed to contact Naomi yet?" Jim shook his head. "I tried all the numbers Blair has as emergency contacts for her, but none of the people had seen her for a while. I've left word with all of them for her to call me -- or you, if I'm not available -- if she gets in touch with them. There's nothing else I can do; I'm not sure if she's even in the states. For all I know, she could be anywhere from meditating with a guru in Nepal to... to... " He searched for the most unlikely thing he could think of. "...To being on an expedition headed for the South Pole to commemorate Amundsen's expedition there." "Not that -- it hasn't been a hundred years yet." Simon's comment sounded forced, then he added more thoughtfully, "Though Nepal sounds possible. She's spent time in that part of the world, hasn't she?" "Yeah. She wrote Sandburg a while back -- before the dissertation business -- saying she was learning how to levitate, that she was sure she had -- just for a second." Jim shook his head. "Who knows what Naomi's likely to do at any given time, where she's likely to go? I don't think Blair ever knew. She turned up from time to time, but he never knew when to expect her." He knew he sounded bitter. "She's never here when she's actually needed. Blair had those emergency numbers -- as if her friends saw more of her than he ever did -- but he admitted a while ago that he had no guarantee of ever finding her when he actually wanted her, so I don't think he ever used any of them. I like her, in spite of what she did, but she certainly doesn't seem to have accepted that Blair's an adult, not a child to be told what to do -- even if she does leave him to his own devices most of the time. I'm not looking forward to having to tell her that Blair's missing, and that it was my fault." "Jim, you said it yourself just a moment ago. He's a grown man, not a child. He didn't have to go out that night." "I kept nagging." "Since when did Sandburg do what you told him, unless he wanted to?" Simon asked quietly. "He gave up so much.... It's always been about what I wanted, what I needed. God, Simon... where is he? What's happening to him? To... to them. Oh God...." His self-control suddenly shattering, he found himself crying for the first time in longer than he could remember. Simon dropped a hand onto Jim's shoulder, but, caught up in his own worry, his own control suddenly fragile, he found himself unable to utter a word.
 The tour bus pulled in to a small parking area on the left-hand side of the road; the guide said, "We'll have fifteen minutes here. Be careful crossing the road, and on the other side -- it's a steep drop, and there isn't a real barrier." The passengers climbed out of the bus and, in ones and twos, made their careful way across the road; this was only a two lane road, but as a main route through the Wenatchee National Forest it was well travelled, even though the busiest part of the vacation season was still some time away. "Hey, just look at that view!" "How far down do you think the bottom is?" "Look at the snow up there! I wonder if the road is ever blocked?" The guide grinned to herself as she joined the tourists. After a couple of years in this job, she felt she could script the comments; not that they weren't deserved. Even after two years, she still admired this particular view, placed as it was on a bend in the road, catching an angle that none of the regular viewpoints gave. It wasn't one of the scheduled stops, but it was one she usually persuaded her driver to make. She kept a cautious eye on the young teenager who was getting just a little too close to the drop, wishing, as she often did, that there was a decent fence, at least, between the road and the steep slope below, rather than the few-inches-high curb that was there. The kid was staring down into the canyon, concentrating on something, and she moved over to him. "What do you see?" she asked, careful to speak softly in case she startled him. "I saw a coyote here once, but mostly the animals don't come so close to the road during the day. There's too much traffic noise." The boy looked at her. "I thought I saw a wolf moving in among the trees. Well, it could have been a coyote. Then while I was trying to see what it was, I saw something shiny. I think there's a car down there." Curious, she asked, "Where?" He pointed. Sure enough, now that he mentioned it, she could see that the weak sunlight hitting the ground below the road was shining on something among the trees three hundred feet or so down the slope -- and the conifers above it had some broken branches, as if something had fallen through them. And now that she was looking, she could see one or two bits that had probably been broken off a car as it fell. "Someone might have pushed an old car over the edge to get rid of it," she suggested, preferring that option to the more likely one that said 'accident'. "It wouldn't be easy to push a car over the curb," he said with the insight of youth that few adults expected, "but if one was going fast when it hit, it would somersault." The tour guide nodded; that had occurred to her as well. "There's nothing we can do from here, but I'll get the driver to radio for the police," she said. "It could be an old accident that's already been reported. If it is they'll know about it and tell us, but I'm sure they'd rather get a repeat call than have someone assume somebody else has contacted them." The other passengers, their photographs taken, were beginning to drift back across the road. She urged the boy to follow them, took one last look, and walked briskly back to the bus.
"It's a car all right," Dan Mathers called up when he was about a hundred feet down the slope. "And I think there's someone in the driver's seat." As he continued his descent to the car to check it out, a large bird flapped away, disturbed by his approach. Having torn its way through the branches of smaller trees for some distance, the car had finally been stopped by a tree that was much larger than most of the others nearby. The car's windows were shattered, and it was lying on its partly-crushed roof, the trunk crumpled against the tree. The driver was still held in place by his seat belt. It was impossible to tell if he had died immediately or later, trapped upside-down, perhaps injured, unable to release the restraint. The arm that projected from the window was little more than bone; remembering the bird, Mathers knew where the flesh had gone. The sickly smell of decay, not detectable from the road, hung over the scene. While his partner, Jeff Lewis, radioed back to Everett's P.D. recovery and forensics teams, Mathers hauled himself back up the slope and onto the road, leaving the ropes in place. They spoke briefly with the tour guide, and the boy and his parents, then let the much-delayed bus continue on its way. After a look around the road above the wreck, the two Patrolmen returned to their car to wait for the forensic examiner. The driver of the vehicle had clearly been dead for some days; another hour or two wasn't going to make any difference to him.
"What's that smell? I noticed it a while ago, and it's getting worse." Blair had noticed the smell, too, and didn't like the implications. "I think we can be grateful we can't see anything," he muttered. "There's a body in here with us. Maybe not right here, but somewhere in this cave. Even though it's pretty cold here, it's beginning to decompose." "Gross." Blair nodded automatically even though Daryl couldn't see him. "It's a smell you never forget," he said quietly. "And if you're going to be a cop, it's a smell you'll meet again." "It's not an animal?" Daryl asked. Again Blair chose not to give the younger man the easy answer. "No, it's not an animal. That's got a slightly different smell. It's definitely a human." "Someone else who was kidnapped, like us?" "It could be, but I don't think so. Whoever took us didn't try to kill us right away, after all." Suddenly afraid, Blair thought, Please, don't let it be Jim or Simon! "Who, then?" "I don't know. But I wonder if whoever kidnapped us hired some muscle to help him, then once we were in here, killed the muscle to dispose of a possible witness?" I hope! "Oh. That would make it harder for Dad to find us, wouldn't it? If only the one person knows where we are?" "Yeah." Where's Wolf when I need him? It was beginning to seem to Blair that only the intervention of his spirit animal was going to help -- but Wolf, who had been so helpful the last time Blair was stuck in a hole in the ground, was, this time, conspicuous by his absence. Was this being used by the spirit plane as some sort of test? Perhaps. But what could he realistically do? He had already tried meditating. He had tried imagining himself back at the loft, trying to communicate with Jim. Neither seemed to have accomplished any good at all.
Everett P.D. had inherited the case of the crashed car. "It's a rental car," Jake Reubens said. "Rented a couple of weeks ago in Spokane by a guy called Simon Banks, and paid up for a week. The company reported it stolen when Banks failed to return it. They sent someone to the address he gave, but couldn't get an answer. They weren't exactly happy to learn it had been totaled. Seemed more concerned about the car than about Banks." Mark McKenzie, busy with the details of a more straightforward accident, shrugged. "Has anyone tracked down Banks, found out anything about him?" "No. There are five families in Spokane called Banks, and none of them have reported any of their relatives missing; one of them has a cousin Simon who's a cop in Cascade, but it's unlikely to be him -- the family's black, and our Banks was white. The Spokane P.D. went to the address the guy gave, and got no answer, either, so they checked up with the neighbors. A guy named Sturges lives at the address, but nobody's seen him for two or three weeks. Nobody could give a definite time when they'd last seen him. Someone knew where he worked, but he hasn't been there, either, for close to a month, and he didn't call in sick. The cops broke in and checked the house -- nothing in it to say that when he went out, he hadn't just gone out for the day. Milk, cheese, eggs in the fridge, but he'd been away long enough that the cheese was moldy and the milk very sour, even in the fridge. The eggs were a week past their use-by date. What they did find, though, was paperwork from a foreign bank account containing four million dollars." McKenzie whistled. "Four million?" "One thing -- he wasn't Banks, either; the description was all wrong." "Guy can change his appearance easy enough." "Yeah, but he was smaller -- Sturges was described as about six feet tall; Banks was around six foot five. Man tries to disguise himself, he grows facial hair -- Sturges and Banks were both clean-shaven." McKenzie grunted. They fell into a routine they often used, with one arguing as devil's advocate and the other trying to find a logical answer. "It's always possible Banks was visiting Sturges for a few days and rented a car using the address where he was staying, rather than his home address." "Okay. It looks like a straightforward accident... right?" "Right." "So what about that case full of money Forensics found in the car? Nearly two hundred thousand dollars." "Well, we know it probably wasn't from a heist -- there haven't been any thefts involving that amount of money anywhere for hundreds of miles around. It could have been the guy's savings, not banked because he didn't trust banks." "Possible. So why was he driving so fast? Mountain road, maybe icy, possibly dark -- " "We don't know it was dark -- that was just the guess the kid on the bus made, though I'd agree it seems probable. As for the fast driving -- a lot of people drive too fast. Too many." The phone buzzed. McKenzie, nearer to it, answered. "Officer McKenzie." "Forensics here. Can you come down?" "On our way."
The two patrolmen walked into the room where the pathologist was checking the body. He gestured them to a table. "He had those envelopes in his pocket." Reubens looked down at the two envelopes. Both carried stamps, as if the dead man had been intending to mail them. One was addressed to Jim Ellison, Cascade P.D.; the other, to the same address, was for Captain Simon Banks.
"Jim." Jim Ellison looked up from the report from Steve Hutton at Rainier, that he was rereading for the fiftieth time in the hope -- which he knew was vain -- of finding something in the simple statement that might indicate where Daryl had gone. "Yeah?" There was a lifeless quality in Jim's voice that worried Simon, although he knew the reason for it; the same dull hopelessness was present in his own mind every waking minute. Daryl and Blair had been missing now for eight days, and Simon knew that with the official search called off a couple of days earlier, every day that passed reduced the chances of finding them alive. "Would you come in here a minute?" Phrased as a question, it was, as Jim knew, an order. He put Hutton's statement down and pushed himself to his feet. He was bone-weary with the exhaustion that comes with near despair, a good night's sleep a distant memory. And above all was the knowledge that he had failed the man whose very presence, some four years previously, had saved his sanity -- a knowledge, an awareness, that was slowly returning him to that same insanity. The two men waiting in Simon's office were cops Jim didn't recognize. He had seen them going into the office two or three minutes earlier, but hadn't been interested enough to wonder who they were or why they were there. "This is Detective Ellison," Simon was saying. "Jim, Lieutenants Reubens and McKenzie from Everett." Jim nodded automatically. "Gentlemen?" Simon nodded for the visitors to explain their presence. "Yesterday, a tourist saw where a car had gone off the road through the Wenatchee National Forest. When the Highway Patrol checked it, they found the driver was dead, so it landed in our laps. The forensic examination of the driver found these letters in his pocket." He nodded to the sheet of paper in Simon's hand and then handed an envelope to Jim. As he took the envelope, Jim noted that it had already been opened. He stared at the address on it for a moment before taking out the sheet of paper inside.
Detective. There was no signature. Jim read it twice, then looked up, holding it out to Simon, to find that Simon was offering him the sheet of paper he'd been holding. There was a set look on Simon's face, a look that Jim knew his own face mirrored; neither man dared relax the iron control he had on his facial muscles for fear of breaking down. Real men never cry. Why had Jim never realized until now how insidious his father's teaching had been? But at that moment he found himself grateful for that teaching. He couldn't break down; he had work to do. Numbly, he took the paper.
I always hated you, Banks -- and after what you did, I hate you even more. And while I sit enjoying the sun far from Cascade, I will, for a while, have the pleasure of knowing that your son is dying, and there's nothing you can do about it. He has at most six weeks to live. Jim looked up. "It's different handwriting," he said. Simon nodded. He looked at their two visitors. "My son and Ellison's partner have been missing for over a week. These letters... are from the kidnappers." He took back the letter addressed to him, and handed both to the men from Everett, since the letters were evidence in what was now clearly something more involved than the straightforward fatal accident they had originally thought they were investigating. Reubens looked up sharply as McKenzie took the letters and glanced over them. "Kidnappers? But there was only one guy in the car." "So they split up," Simon said. Jim suddenly came back to life. "What else can you tell us?" and it seemed to the two visitors that there was something predatory in his attitude. "Well, the dead guy had no ID, so we traced the vehicle registration. It had been rented in Spokane by someone calling himself Simon Banks... but the person living at the address he gave was called Sturges." "Sturges?" Jim repeated as he and Simon looked at each other. Three strides took Simon to the door. "Rhonda -- contact Starkville. Ask them about Dave Becker -- same questions we asked about Kincaid. Any letters, visitors..." "Yes, sir." As Simon closed the door, the two visitors looked from him to Jim, saw that Jim clearly understood what his captain was talking about, and turned their attention back to Simon again. "How do you get 'Dave Becker' from 'Sturges'?" Reubens asked. Simon's reply was succinct. "Sturges was a crooked businessman. Becker was a dirty cop who was helping him. Becker killed two people -- one of them one of his own men -- to try to cover what he was doing." He nodded towards the letters in McKenzie's hand. "'I always hated you'," he quoted. "That makes complete sense now. Becker and I went to school together, and we never really hit it off." "Simon," Jim said slowly. "None of our snitches has heard anything. For nobody to have heard anything on the street is more than unusual. Now, the car our friends here found was rented in Spokane, and Sturges was living in Spokane... " "You think... you think Sturges maybe hired someone and took Daryl and Sandburg to Spokane?" Simon was quick to follow Jim's line of thought. "Maybe not Spokane itself... maybe somewhere fairly near Spokane. What about Rossburg? His home town." There was a knock on the door, and Rhonda looked in. "Dave Becker escaped over a month ago," she said. "They didn't even apologize for not letting us know." "Make that their home town," Simon said grimly. "Thanks, Rhonda."
"They're not going to find us, are they." It was not a question. Daryl's voice held a hopeless note it had previously lacked. "I'm afraid not." We've already had this conversation, or something very like it, Blair thought. "Do you think they're still looking?" "I'm sure they are." He would have said it even if he hadn't believed it, but he was aware that time was running out for them. They were both getting steadily weaker -- and although he might be very reluctant to do so, Chief Warren was soon going to call off any search that was still in progress, if he hadn't already done so. They fell silent again. It was becoming more and more of an effort to think straight and hold any sort of conversation, though they were still exchanging the odd word from time to time. Blair ran his fingers through his beard, trying to assess from its length how long they had been here. Combining its length with his growing weakness... too long. He drifted into a meditative state, thinking about his sentinel friend -- his lover. As he had already done several times, he tried to reach out with his mind, sending his consciousness in search of the one person who would be able to hear him; but even as he did, he was aware of the uselessness of it. Even if he made contact, all he could do was let Jim know they were still alive; he had no idea where they were. And -- as he had thought before -- just where the hell was Wolf when he was needed?
Although he had turned a blind eye to their unofficial continuation of the search, Chief Warren was more sympathetic to Jim and Simon's request for time off to go to Rossburg than either might have expected. He even took the time to contact the sheriff's office there and arrange for them to see Sheriff Rogers on their arrival, telling the man the situation and sparing them the distress of having to explain it to him in detail. They drove to Rossburg overnight, trading off every hour to keep from getting too tired (though neither slept during his hours as a passenger), arriving a little after 7 a.m. Finding a small cafe, they went in for an unwanted coffee to pass the time till they could expect Rogers to be in his office. When they entered his office, they realized that Rogers seemed just a little nervous; after greeting them, he hesitated for a moment, before blurting, "Captain Banks, I'm sorry. We had no reason to doubt Dave Becker when he accused you of killing Peggy Anderson. I mean..." "It's all right, Sheriff," Simon said quietly. "It was totally personal. Becker and I -- we'd always been rivals. I just never realized how much he actually hated me." "And now he's suspected of kidnapping your son? And a civilian consultant to your department?" "Yes," Simon said. "I know Chief Warren gave you some of the details..." "Yes, but what he didn't explain was why you think they might be here." "It's a pretty long shot," Jim said quietly, "but it's the only one we've got. There's been no word at all in Cascade; we decided a while ago that Daryl and Sandburg must have been taken outside Cascade, but there was nothing to indicate where. Now we've discovered there's a link with Art Sturges, and the information that both Daryl and Sandburg had 'six weeks to live' and that Sandburg 'was already buried'. Sturges knows this area. Simon tells me there was silver mining around here back in the nineteenth century. We think 'already buried' could mean they've been put in an old mine, left there to die." His voice was grim. "That way, they'd already be in a hole in the ground and Sturges wouldn't need to go back to hide the bodies. They'd already be hidden." Rogers looked from one to the other. "I knew some of those old mines when I was a boy here," Simon said, "but I've forgotten where most of them are. I'm sure that today's teenagers know them, though, just as well as my generation did." "You want to check them out," Rogers said. "Yes," Jim agreed, "but we'll need someone who knows them to lead us to them." "They've mostly been sealed off," Rogers said. "They were getting to be too dangerous -- cave-ins, for example -- it was only going to be a matter of time before one of the kids was killed." He looked at Simon. "You grew up here... you know what it was like." Simon nodded. "Chicken," he said. "A sign saying 'Danger' was an invitation for us to dare someone to go in." "Yeah. And these worked-out mines are so old, nobody knows who should actually be responsible for them. They were so worried about it, some of the guys got together five or six years ago, and dynamited the entrances of a lot of them. We didn't close them all -- we left all the ones that seemed to be safe enough, as part of the town's history -- but we did close around... oh, around two-thirds of them." "I don't suppose that stops the kids from looking for more," Simon said. "We used to do that sometimes -- go looking for undiscovered mines." "I don't know about looking for lost mines," Rogers said, "but there's a history teacher at the school who's been compiling a list of the ones that are known. He might be able to help you." He glanced at his watch. "He'll be at the school by now." Rogers took them to the High School. Both Jim and Simon guessed that it was partly to make amends for his initial behavior the first time they met him, but also partly the response of a conscientious sheriff who took crimes committed inside his jurisdiction personally. They found Martin Young in his classroom, reading essays. He looked up as they entered. "Sheriff? What brings you here?" Rogers introduced Jim and Simon, explaining who they were and why they were there, adding, "You're the best source of local information on the old mines." "Well, I do have a list of them, and a map showing their positions," Young said. He turned to search in an overflowing cupboard. "I keep telling myself I should get a real filing system for all this, but I never seem to have the time... Ah, here we are." He retrieved a folder and straightened, opening it. From the papers in it he selected a single sheet folded in four; pausing to put the tests he'd been grading on his chair, he unfolded it and laid it out across his table. It was a large-scale map. "Covers about ten miles in each direction," Young said. "There are more mines further away, of course. What I have marked here are the ones inside the maximum distance anyone could travel from here and get back in a day -- the miners probably lived in small camps beside their mines, of course -- maybe came back to Rossburg on the weekends to sell what they'd mined. This is the limit of the ones today's youngsters might reach." "Yesterday's youngsters, too," Simon said. "We used to explore the area looking for old mines." "You lived here?" Simon nodded. "I left when I was eighteen. I used to know where a lot of the mines were, but I've forgotten most of them now." Young nodded. "I suppose the Sheriff will have told you a lot were dynamited shut." "Yes. As a responsible adult I agree that was the best thing to do. Nostalgia, though... nostalgia says it's a pity -- even though, in hindsight, I realize we were really lucky that none of us were killed in one of the mines." "Quite a few of the teenage boys didn't speak to their fathers for days afterwards -- the fathers who were involved, that is." Young chuckled. "My daughter told me, in confidence, that we'd destroyed the boys' 'rite of manhood' challenge. Knowing that the adults considered the mines they'd open left were safe -- it took away most of the fun of exploring them." "Yeah, I suppose you could call it a 'rite of manhood'," Simon agreed, forcing himself to make polite conversation when every instinct urged him to grab Young's map. "We thought of it just as a dare, but you're right, anyone who chickened out of a trip into one of the mines... we called him a baby." He leaned over the map, clearly signalling that he wanted to get down to business. "So -- which mines are still open?" "The ones marked in black," Young said, indicating several. "The ones circled in red are closed." "Right. Can we borrow this map? Or a copy of it?" Jim asked. "Yes, of course," Young said. "Just take this one. I have another copy of it at home." "Thank you." "Though -- I'm not convinced it's got all of the known ones," Young added. "From something I overheard one of the boys saying, I think his older brother knows one mine he's keeping quiet about for some reason. The kid seemed to think that it might not be completely worked out, and that the brother is hoping to reopen it one day." He shrugged. "I wouldn't say it's impossible, but the days of making any sort of money from one of those small mines are long past." Jim, Simon and Rogers took their leave, then spent the day visiting most of the mines marked as 'open', and found nothing to indicate that any of them had been visited in weeks. Eventually, with Jim and Simon close to exhaustion and the last couple of mines too far away to reach that night, they realized they had to abandon the search for the day. As they reached Rogers' office, the sheriff asked, "Where are you staying?" "We hadn't thought that far ahead, but I suppose the hotel's been rebuilt by now?" Simon asked. "Yes. It reopened about eighteen months ago. Billy Cates is still managing it, of course -- the day they get that guy to retire, there'll be purple snow." As Jim and Simon turned to leave, he added, "I'll see you first thing in the morning." "That means as soon as it's daylight," Jim warned, and closed the door without waiting for a reply. They retrieved Simon's car from the small parking lot at the sheriff's office and drove to the hotel. Billy welcomed them with a cheerfulness that was quickly muted when he heard why they were there, and shook his head when Simon asked him about old mines. "You always knew more about them than I did, Simon," he said. "I never cared about those old mines. It was always hotels and restaurants that fascinated me. When I was a boy, I was more interested in hanging around my daddy's restaurant, learning the business, than I was in wandering around the countryside. You want to know anything about hotels or restaurants -- I'm your man. Anything else..." He shook his head. "Well, Billy, we're looking for two single rooms with queen-size beds," Simon said. "I don't know how long we'll be staying." "Right. Rooms 446 and 448. Since it's you, Simon, and you're here on business, so to speak, I can let you have them for seventy five a night. Each," he added almost as an afterthought as he put the keys on the counter.
Although the beds were very comfortable, neither Jim nor Simon slept well, despite their lack of sleep the previous night. Next morning, without stopping to eat, they returned to Rogers' office, finding the sheriff already there although it was barely 7 a.m. They set off immediately in Rogers' car and checked the last two mines marked as 'open' on the map. As on the previous day, they found no sign of any recent visitors, although Jim suspected that several of them were used as dens by wild animals. They decided to investigate two or three of the closed mines nearby, and found, as they'd expected, that these were still properly sealed by fallen rock. As they returned to Rossburg in mid-afternoon, all three were tired and more than a little dispirited. "About the only chance left is to speak to the boy Young mentioned," Rogers said as they entered his office. "If his brother does know about another mine -- it has to be your last chance." "I'm not giving up," Jim said grimly. "Not while there's any chance at all." "How much time is left?" Rogers asked. "They've been missing for ten days. If they've been left in an old mine to starve to death, that gives them a good two weeks yet, at the very least, before their condition deteriorates to the point where full recovery is virtually impossible. We've got that long to find another mine, or maybe a cave, that isn't on Young's map; and if I have to walk over every inch of ground for ten miles around to look for one, I will." He was holding on to his self-control by sheer willpower. A young cop who was filing some papers swung round. "I know a mine that isn't on Mr. Young's map." All three stared at him. "You do?" Rogers asked. "Oh... Detective Ellison, Captain Banks -- this is Tom Matheson." "Matheson?" Banks said. The name sounded familiar. Rogers nodded. "Yeah -- the cop Becker killed was Tom's big brother. Okay, Tom... what about this mine?" "It was about nine, ten years ago. Ricky and Zack Sturges, Pete Brewster and me -- we found this old mine. It's got a really narrow entrance, so it's not easy to see. We had flashlights because we were looking for mines, so we went in...." He hesitated, as if wondering if he might get into trouble, even now, for something he had done ten years previously. Simon nodded. "We used to do that, too. Go on." "Anyway, while we were in the mine, Zack fell -- tripped over something and hurt his leg. We were scared he'd damage it more if he tried to walk, so Ricky stayed with him, and Pete and me, we went to get help. We thought we'd better tell Zack's dad, so we went to him first. We thought he'd get some of the men to help, but he didn't. He came with us back to the cave and, between us, we got Zack out. Then Mr. Sturges said something like, 'I know you boys like looking for these old mines, but this one's proved to be too dangerous -- I want you all to promise me you won't come back here, or tell anyone else where it is'. "We all promised -- well, we were still just kids, and we'd had a bad scare... even though it turned out Zack had only torn a ligament, not broken anything. It's the only old mine I know of that isn't on Mr. Young's map." Jim and Simon glanced at each other. "This... " Simon's voice faltered on the tightness in his throat and he had to start again. "Ricky and Zack Sturges... Any relation to Art Sturges?" "He's their father." "Paydirt," Jim said quietly. In a world that had suddenly become hopeful, he was afraid to hope too much. Ten days... a man wouldn't starve to death in ten days, but he could die of thirst. Or no -- the notes had said 'six weeks'. Which had to mean they had left water for the captives. He took a deep breath to steady himself before asking, "Tom, where is this mine? Can you find it again?" "I'm not sure... the area it was in, yes, but we only went there that one time, and it was years ago." "Even the area is better than nothing." Matheson looked from Jim to Simon to Rogers, and back to Jim. "It's only a couple of miles out, and it's near a road, but it's on the paper company's land. If Ricky and Zack hadn't been there, Pete and I wouldn't have been near the place." "So we could get there this afternoon?" "Easy, if I can find it again." Rogers took fresh batteries for their flashlights from a cupboard and handed them out. Jim went in Matheson's car, with Simon following in the sheriff's. The road Matheson took off the main highway was narrow, and clearly seldom used. About a mile and a half along it, he pulled off the road; Rogers pulled in beside him. They got out, and Matheson pointed to an outcrop of rocks on the other side of the road. "It's up there, but I don't remember just where." "The entrance should be obvious enough," Simon commented. "It was fairly narrow, and sort of around a corner," Matheson said as they started up the hillside towards the rocks. "Not obvious from the road at all. We wondered at first if it was a mine -- I can remember Pete saying it looked more like the entrance to a cave -- but once we got inside, we could see where it had been worked." "How far back does it go?" Simon asked. "We went far enough into it that we couldn't see any light at all from the entrance," Matheson replied. "We all had flashlights, of course. But we weren't at the end of the tunnel when Zack tripped, so we never knew just how deep it went." They reached the outcrop and stopped. Matheson looked around. "I really don't remember... " he began. "Split up," Rogers suggested. "We're looking for a fairly narrow slit," Matheson reminded them. He and Rogers turned one way, Simon and Jim turned the other. As soon as they were alone, Jim's face took on a faintly distant look that Simon recognized. "Just don't zone out," he growled. Jim nodded absently. They moved along the hillside for some yards, then Jim stopped. "I can smell something," he said, an uneasy note in his voice. Simon looked at him. "What is it?" "Decay." Jim swung his head from side to side. "This way." He scrambled up the side of a rock face and stopped in front of a dark slit. Following him, Simon saw the slit. He turned and yelled, "Rogers! We've found it!" Then he looked at Jim. "I don't smell anything." "Sshh." Jim concentrated, then shook his head. "All I can detect is the smell -- human waste, very faint... and decay. There's a body in there." "You're sure? I thought your senses were acting up." "It's amazing what hope does," Jim said quietly. "They're not working perfectly by any means, but they are working again." Panting, Rogers and Matheson clambered up the slope to join them. "Yes!" Matheson gasped as he fought to catch his breath. "That's it!" Switching on their flashlights, the four men squeezed through the narrow entrance and set off down the tunnel. Jim carefully cut back his sense of smell, dreading what they would find. Simon still couldn't smell anything, but he had no doubt now that Jim did. He, too, dreaded what they might find. It was Matheson who finally said, "What's that smell?" Jim swallowed. "There's a body somewhere up ahead." "You think... you think it might be your people?" "I don't know," Jim said, his voice hoarse. When they came to a fork in the tunnel, Matheson said, "I don't remember this. We didn't get this far." None of them doubted which fork they should take -- the smell they were all now able to detect was clearly coming from the right-hand tunnel. Fifty or sixty yards further on, the walls opened out to reveal a small cavern. Rogers' light fell on a body just inside it. He knelt over it, light playing on its face, and shook his head. As he opened his mouth to speak, a soft, hesitant voice said, "Jim?" "Blair!" Jim swung around, careful not to shine his flashlight too directly around the cave. He saw two shapes close to the far wall and he ran toward them. He had no doubt which of them was his partner. He dropped to his knees and gathered Blair into his arms, holding him tightly, desperately, pressing Blair's head against his shoulder. Blair hugged him back, but weakly, as Jim rubbed his cheek against his partner's hair. It was lank, greasy... and it felt wonderful. "It is you," Blair whispered, and fell silent. Jim said nothing. They didn't need words -- their hands said everything that was necessary.
Simon reached them. He, too, dropped to his knees and caught Daryl to him in a fierce hug. "Daryl, are you all right?" "Yes, Dad. I'm... all right." With surprising tact, Rogers denied his curiosity, the urge to watch the reunion that most people would have obeyed, and turned to Matheson. "Any idea who this might be?" He indicated the body. His attention drawn from the scene near the wall, Matheson looked down and frowned. The decay had been slowed by the low temperature in the cave, but the face was so mottled that it no longer looked totally human. There was, however, still something familiar about it. "I have a feeling I should," he said slowly. "Who all knew about this mine?" Rogers asked. Matheson gasped. "Mr. Sturges?" he whispered. "That's what I think," Rogers said quietly. "We'll get a proper identification, though, once we get the body out of here and into some decent light. Go and call an ambulance and the meat wagon." He glanced at the expression on the younger cop's face, and added with rough sympathy, "Wait out there until you can lead them in." "Right." Matheson was relieved to have an excuse to get away from the sight and smell of the decaying body. Rogers watched him go, then bent to look more closely at the body; dealing with it would be Forensics' headache, and he had no intention of touching it, but it gave him something to do that continued to keep his attention off the reunion taking place only a few yards behind him. He was well aware that to watch it would be an intrusion. Totally forgetting Rogers' existence, Simon continued to hug his son; and Daryl, completely forgetting that it wasn't cool for a teenager to hug his dad, clung to him with the desperation of a drowning man clutching a floating branch. Jim found Blair's mouth in a kiss that owed nothing at all to passion and everything to an overwhelming relief as Blair relaxed totally into his sentinel's protective arms. At last Jim raised his head. "Let's get you out of here, Chief. Simon, think you can carry Daryl?" "We can walk... if you help us," Blair said hoarsely. "After ten days of lying around?" Simon asked. "Ten..." Blair began. "Ten days?" "Close enough," Jim said. "We knew it had been a while," Daryl muttered, "but we didn't have any way to measure time." Simon put his flashlight into Daryl's hand and said quietly, "Shine that on the floor." Kneeling, he slipped one arm under Daryl's back and the other under his knees, then he stood with very little effort and headed towards Rogers. Jim held Blair tightly for a moment longer, then gave him the other flashlight, lifted him smoothly, and followed Simon. Rogers -- himself not sorry to get away from the smell of the decaying body -- led the way out. They paused some yards from the entrance, where the light was dim, to let the eyes of the rescued men adjust somewhat from the total darkness. When they finally arrived at the entrance they were forced to allow Blair and Daryl to walk -- it was too narrow to carry them out, and Jim speculated that they must have been dragged the first two or three feet inside, although no marks showed on the rocky floor. But both he and Simon hovered, ready to support their loved ones the moment it looked necessary. When they emerged into the open, Matheson greeted them with the news that an ambulance was on its way. Carrying the rescued men once more, Jim and Simon scrambled -- slowly and very carefully in the half light of early evening -- a little way from the mine entrance before they lowered their burdens to the ground, both sitting close to support the badly-weakened pair. Rogers joined them and crouched beside them. "What happened? Who put you in there?" he asked. Blair shook his head. "We don't know. I only caught a glimpse of the man who attacked me; Daryl had a blanket thrown over his head." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, which he knew were showing a tendency to wander. He had 'seen' Jim coming towards him at least four times recently, but the 'rescuer' had always faded from sight before he reached them. He had been desperately afraid, until he felt Jim's arms round him, that this, too, was a hallucination. "We think we were both drugged to keep us unconscious. We woke in the dark, and we've been stuck there since. In the dark, we didn't want to risk moving -- for all we knew, we could have crawled deeper into the cave or gone over the edge of a hole in the floor. Where are we, anyway?" "Rossburg," Simon said. "Rossburg... Man, how did you manage to find us?" "We got lucky," Jim said quietly.
While they waited for the ambulance to arrive -- both Jim and Simon firmly vetoing Blair's suggestion that they cancel it and simply all drive back in the cars -- Simon took out his cell phone, and dialed the number that he'd had to dial too many times over the past days. It was answered almost immediately. "Hello?" "Good news, Joan. I didn't tell you we had a lead in case it was a false one, but it paid off. We found them." "Found... Is Daryl all right?" Simon could clearly hear the relief mixed with her automatic worry for her son. "Yes -- hold on a second." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Daryl, feel up to having a word with your mother?" Daryl reached for the phone. "Hi, Mom," he said slowly. "I'm sorry, but it really wasn't my fault." "Daryl! Are you all right? Where are you?" "I'm fine, Mom, really." "Where are you?" she repeated. "Dad says... we're in Rossburg." "Ross... But how?" "Mom, we really don't know. Look, I'll... I'll tell you all about it -- or as much as I can -- when I get home, okay?" He looked helplessly at Simon, clearly unable to deal much longer with his mother. Simon took the phone again. "It's me again, Joan. We're never going to know the whole story, but the nearest we can figure is that a couple of guys Jim Ellison and I put away two or three years ago decided to get back at us by kidnaping Daryl and Blair -- Jim's partner. I'll give you the details when I see you." "What's the fastest way for me to get to Rossburg?" Joan demanded. "Joan, I know you want to see him, but will you trust me here? I'll get Daryl home as soon as possible -- it'll depend on what the hospital says. Look, he's my son and I love him. You'll have him to fuss over as long as necessary as soon as we get him home. I won't. Please, give me the chance to look after him for once?" There was a brief silence. "He really is all right?" "Yes. Blair looked after him for us. He just needs a routine medical check, some food, and a good rest in a comfortable bed." "Is this the cop speaking or the father?" Joan demanded. "Both. Seriously, Joan, the anxious father isn't anxious anymore. Now you relax, and I'll call you again after the doctor's seen him. I promise that if there's a problem -- and I'm sure there won't be -- I'll tell you." "All right,"Joan said quietly. "I do trust you, Simon. But I won't rest until I see him, see for myself that he's all right." He hung up and pushed the phone back into his pocket with a long sigh of relief, glad that he had persuaded his ex-wife to wait in Cascade. Daryl needed time to... what was Sandburg's phrase again?... process all of this before he had to deal with his mother. The last thing he needed right now was Joan fussing over him -- though he would probably appreciate it a couple of days down the line. Then, remembering some other people who needed to know as soon as possible, he took it out again and dialed. "Taggert." "Joel, you can let everyone know we've found Daryl and Sandburg -- alive and weak, but as well as can be expected." There was a moment of silence, then Joel said quietly, "Thank God. Okay, Simon, I'll let everyone know." "Thanks. I'll let you know when I have more news. I can see the ambulance coming now, so... well, I'll talk to you later." "Right. Look after them."
"Captain Banks? Mr. Ellison?" Simon and Jim had agreed -- reluctantly -- to remain in the waiting area while a doctor checked out Daryl and Blair, and now both stood quickly. "How are they?" Simon beat Jim with the question, but only just. "They're in remarkably good condition, considering everything. Apparently Mr. Sandburg insisted that they conserve as much energy as possible. He just said, 'I knew Jim and Simon would find us', and Mr. Banks agreed." He sighed. "You're lucky men; I wish someone had that much faith in me." "It's mutual," Jim said quietly. "If I'd been the one in there, Sandburg wouldn't have rested until he found me." Without knowing it, he was repeating exactly what Blair had told Bob Gemmell the previous year. Whatever the situation, whichever one was in danger, neither one of them could rest until he knew his partner was safe. "When can we take them home?" Simon asked. "We need to get some nutrients into them; ten days of total starvation can't be taken lightly, though they're not too dehydrated. I want to keep them in for at least thirty-six hours. We'll see how they are on Friday morning, but I wouldn't recommend traveling until Saturday at the earliest. We're getting them on TPN right away -- " "TPN?" Simon asked. "Total parenteral nutrition. You'd call it a drip. You'll be able to see them in about half an hour." "Thank you, Doctor," Jim said. Simon grunted. "And now I've got to tell Joan we won't be home before the weekend." He saw the doctor's inquiring look. "Daryl's mother. We're divorced. I managed to persuade her not to come -- mostly for Daryl's sake. It took enough out of him just speaking to her on the phone." "Ah -- a worrier?" Simon nodded. "You did the right thing. He needs to build up a little strength before he has to deal with an over-anxious mother."
As a nurse showed Jim and Simon into her patients' room, Jim said, "The doctor was saying something about keeping them in for thirty-six hours." "How long patients are left on TPN depends on how they respond," she explained cheerfully. "They'll be getting food by mouth, too, of course -- we have to get their digestive systems working again. I'll be back in half an hour or so with a meal. Now, don't tire them too much. They need to rest." As the door closed behind her, Simon moved to Daryl's bedside and Jim went to Blair's. Oblivious of Simon's interaction with his son, Jim took Blair's free hand and then lowered his head to rest it against the younger man's shoulder for a moment. Blair pressed Jim's hand weakly. "It's all right, tough guy," he murmured. "I knew you'd find us." "We nearly didn't," Jim said, and Blair could hear the slight catch in his sentinel's voice. "I tried to contact you, shaman to sentinel, but it didn't work. I guess telepathy isn't my strong suit." Jim lifted his head again. "It did work up to a point -- I knew you were still alive -- though when we smelled that body... " "I was afraid in case it was you or Simon," Blair admitted. He took a deep breath, and suddenly slipped into sleep. Unalarmed, knowing this was likely to happen for a while, Jim sat patiently waiting for Blair to waken. He couldn't help but hear Daryl saying, "Blair was fantastic, Dad. He never gave up hope -- he kept saying that you and Jim wouldn't give up. I don't know how I would've managed if he hadn't been there." Simon glanced over towards Jim. Jim said quietly, "Being together... probably kept both of you sane." Blair was wakened by loud rattling as the nurse returning with a trolley. She said cheerfully, "Here's your first meal, though you probably won't think much of it." She went first to Blair, whose bed was nearer to the door, and Jim took the cup of thick pink liquid from her and looked at it. "What is it?" he asked as she continued to Daryl's bed with the second cup; he could smell the milk in it. "Ensure," she said. "Strawberry flavor. Easy to digest, and the strawberry tastes better than the vanilla." She looked from Daryl to Blair. "If you don't have problems with that, you'll get a scrambled egg later tonight. We'll give you a diet sheet before you leave -- it'll give you an idea of what you can eat and what you should avoid for a while. It'll be two to three weeks before your systems are back to normal." "You'd better give me a note for Daryl's mother telling her to stick with that, and why," Simon said. "Otherwise, she'll try to give him too much too soon in an attempt to fatten him up again." Shortly thereafter, the nurse chased Jim and Simon away and told them to get a good night's sleep. "You both look exhausted," she said bluntly. "Yes, I know you'd like to stay and reassure yourselves that they're safe, but you'll do yourselves and them more good by getting a proper rest in bed, rather than sitting beside a hospital bed."
Back at the hotel, Billy called them over to the reception desk. "I heard you found your folks. Will they be okay?" Simon grinned. "Small town gossip -- you can't beat it for speed and efficiency. Yes. They have to stay in the hospital until Friday, so we'll be here two more nights at least." "Well, you go and wash up, then come down to the dining room. Dinner's on the house; I want to help you celebrate." "Thanks, Billy -- that's good of you," Jim said. As they waited for the elevator, he added, "Simon, do we have any idea where that tour bus will be tonight?" Simon shook his head. "No, but Reubens said they had the relevant information. Why?" "Well... I just thought it might be a good idea to let the kid who spotted the car wreckage know that he saved two lives." "Yes -- he did, didn't he?" Simon said as they moved into the elevator. "After I've let Joan know what the doctor said, I'll call Everett, see if I can get the info tonight. Come along when you're ready, and we'll let the kid and the tour guide know, then go down for dinner." It was the first meal that either man had tasted, let alone enjoyed, since the whole affair had begun.
They left Rossburg early on Saturday, but by the time Simon pulled up at the loft it was already dark. "Need any help?" he asked. Jim shook his head. "We'll manage," he said as he helped Blair out of the car. "You get Daryl home." Simon nodded. "Take a couple of days off -- I'll see you on Wednesday," he said, and drove away. "Come on, Chief; one more hurdle, then something to eat and bed." "I won't be sorry," Blair admitted. "Though... I'm beginning to feel hungry, but I think I'm too tired to eat." "You'll eat," Jim said firmly. "Doctor's orders, remember?" If necessary, Jim would have carried Blair up the stairs to 307; as it was, they took the elevator and Jim supported his partner from it to the loft, where he settled Blair on the couch, then headed towards the freezer. "Soup again," he said. "Sorry. But it goes down easy." Blair nodded; as he had said, he was too tired to care whether he ate or not, but knew he had to. Something fast and easily eaten would be perfect.
A little later, in bed, Blair murmured, "I kept wondering, though... Last time, when we were trapped by the mudslide, Wolf showed up to warn us and lead us to safety. This time, there was no sign of him."
"Last time might have had something to do with the kids with you. This time, it was up to Simon and me to find you. But I think Wolf helped." "How? I never saw him. Did you...?" "No. But the kid who spotted Becker's car said his attention was drawn to it because he saw a wolf going into the trees. It would be a huge coincidence if it was just an ordinary wolf down there at just the moment when someone was there to see it. Of course, that's something else we'll never know for certain." Blair nodded, and snuggled against his partner. Jim reached over, switched off the light, and wrapped his arms round Blair, holding his guide safe. He, too, was exhausted. Five minutes later, both men were asleep. And somewhere, not too far away, an exhausted wolf and a tired panther curled up together and also slept.
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