Part 6

(Please visit https://www.squidge.org/~candy_a/13-main.htm for warnings, disclaimers and author's notes)

* * *

 Blair shaved in front of a small mirror in his office and tidied himself up, changing into the clothes he'd brought along the previous night. He taught an eight o'clock class, after which he was canceling his office hours to go to the PD. Jim had left moments ago, the officer assigned to guard Blair at his post outside the office door. Other faculty members were arriving now, and the campus was coming to life for another day.

His morning grooming completed, Blair packed up his supplies and stashed the duffle bag under his desk. With only fifteen minutes to spare, he started skimming over his lecture notes. There was a tap at the door and Mark Miller, the officer on duty, poked his head inside the office.

"There's a Dr. Roswell here who wants to see you," he said.

"Let him in. Thanks, Mark." The officer nodded and smiled slightly, stepping aside for the older man to walk into the office. A tall man with a mop of white hair and silver framed glasses, Dr. Roswell was quite an imposing figure.

"Good morning, Bob," Blair said pleasantly, but his face fell into a more serious expression at Roswell's dour look.

"Blair, I'm afraid you're going to have to take a bit of time off."

"I beg your pardon?" Blair smiled uneasily. "I have a class--"

"It's been covered. The constant police presence, reporters skulking around the halls, detaining students and faculty alike, trying to get close to you for information on the case...it's proving very disruptive. Until all these precautions, and the press presence, are no longer factors, I'm relieving you of your teaching responsibilities, and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from visiting campus. I've spoken to your dissertation committee, and given the circumstances, they are prepared to wave the upcoming meeting. This is not a disciplinary action in any way, so your fellowship stipend will continue uninterrupted."

"I see." Blair sat against the edge of the desk. "Right now, my teaching is very important to me. I--"

"It's already been decided, Blair. This wasn't my call. Orders from the President's Office." He smiled slightly. "Don't look so tragic. This is only temporary, and we won't be stopping your pay. Think of it as a vacation."

"Vacation? The only escape I have right now is the hour or so I get up in front of a class. I..." Blair bit down on the rest of his response. "I'm sorry. You're right. It is a disruptive situation. I'll get my things together and be out of here in a few minutes."

"Thank you for understanding. When things settle down again, you can pick up where you left off."

"Right." Blair nodded and forced an expression that didn't quite make it to a smile. Dr. Roswell took his leave then, and Blair gathered up his things, stuffing them angrily into the duffle bag he'd brought with him. Sailing out the door with barely a backward glance, he left the young patrolman assigned to watch him scrambling to change gears and follow him.

"Anything wrong?" Mark asked, catching up.

"Everything's fan-fucking-tastic, thanks," Blair shot back as he stormed down the hall. "Who was the old guy?" he persisted.

"The VP for Academic Programs. Doing the President's hatchet work." Blair slammed his way through a crash bar door to the stairwell, followed by his determined guard.

Mark was in his early twenties, not much older than most of Blair's students. With his blond hair, blue eyes and smooth complexion, he looked a bit younger than that. Still, Mark Miller was the best shot in his class and had graduated the academy with honors, and had already earned himself a couple of citations from his superiors. Based on his record, he had been chosen as one of the guards for Blair.

"Look, I'm sorry I bit your head off. I'm just really pissed off right now."

"I never would've guessed," Mark quipped, smiling a little.

"You shithead," Blair responded, unable to resist chuckling.

"Are you this nice to all your guards?"

"Only the ones I like," Blair retorted, still grinning. "I just got put on involuntary vacation until this is over. It just really grinds me, and I'm taking it out on you."

"Hazard of the job. That's why I'm wearing my kevlar under here," Mark responded, knocking on his chest with his fist.

"You're safe. I don't carry a gun."

"That's probably for the best," he needled in return.

"Of all the cops on the force, they stick me with the smart ass today."

"Takes one to guard one."

"Ouch. Touché," Blair said, laughing.

"So, what do you teach?"

"Anthropology."

"Pretty broad topic, isn't it? I mean, I remember I had to take an anthropology class in college, and it covered a pretty wide range of subjects."

"I concentrate mostly on sociological issues--cultures, social structures, but some of my research has gotten pretty scientific. I like to dabble in all of it, to be honest."

"My major was Sociology. Probably pretty similar, at least in some ways."

"Oh, yeah, definitely. So, what made you pick being a cop?"

"My whole family is into law enforcement. My dad works in the D.A.'s office, my mom's a cop, my brother's a lawyer," he explained, shrugging. "It seemed like the thing to do."

"Your mom's a cop? That's really cool."

"Was interesting when I was in high school, but that's another story. She's a Narcotics detective."

"You were probably raised with a drug sniffing dog for a pet, huh?"

"Never would have surprised me, man," he retorted, laughing.

"Does it make you nervous? Doing this guard duty with me?"

"I wasn't thrilled with it when they called me, to be honest. But it's an important case, and getting involved with it in some way is good for the resume. Besides, the alternative was driving around in circles all morning." Mark paused. "So, he's, like, one victim short of coming after you?" he asked conversationally.

"Supposedly--hey, hang on a minute--"

"No, you hang on a minute." Mark drew his gun quickly and pressed it into Blair's ribs. "You see that van over there?" He nodded toward a dark blue van emblazoned with the name West Port Construction. "We're going to walk over there nice and quiet and you're going to get in the back of it."

"Like hell I am," Blair argued.

"I have no problem killing you right here. Same way I killed Mark Miller this morning. If I get arrested, big deal. Sometimes sacrifices are necessary in the Master's name."

"You're one of them."

"For a guy who doesn't have his Ph.D. yet, you sure are bright. Now, move."

 * * *

 "Jim, we've got a problem," Simon said, looking out his office door. He motioned to the detective to come in.

"What's up, sir?" Jim entered the office and Simon closed the door.

"Miller's girlfriend just found him dead in his apartment."

"Hold up a minute. Miller's guarding Sandburg."

"Someone is guarding Sandburg. It isn't Miller. He was positively ID'd. He died of multiple stab wounds. Dan's just getting started on him downstairs."

"I'm heading over to Rainier. Blair should be in class for about another ten minutes or so." Jim bolted out the door. "Send back up!" he called over his shoulder unnecessarily. Simon was already on the phone arranging for all available units to be called to the university. Then he grabbed his coat and ran out himself.

 * * *

 Jim beat the rest of the cops to the campus, dispersing startled crowds of students and other hapless pedestrians as he blazed a trail through the main street of the campus, sirens screaming, horn blaring. He brought the truck to a squealing halt in front of the Social Science Center building, running for the classroom where Blair was supposed to be teaching. Alarmed immediately at not seeing a guard outside the room, Jim approached the open classroom door. A young woman about Blair's age was teaching the class.

"Excuse me," Jim interrupted, approaching her and flashing his badge. "Was Blair Sandburg's class moved to another room?"

"No, this is his class. I'm filling in for him."

"Where is he?"

"I really don't know. Dr. Roswell asked me to cover Blair's classes for a few weeks until the publicity dies down," she said, keeping her voice low.

"Where is this...Roswell character?" Jim asked.

"His office is in Hargrove Hall--same floor as Blair's," she said.

"Thank you." Jim raced down the hall and arrived at the entrance of the building just as a group of four uniformed cops hurried up the front steps. "Hargrove Hall," Jim directed, running back for his truck, the cops dispersing back to their vehicles at his order. Everyone milling around the outdoor area of the campus slowed to a standstill to watch the police procession as it cut through a parking lot--and then, at Jim's leadership--over a grassy median--and came to a stop in front of Hargrove Hall.

"Detective Ellison!" a man shouted at Jim from the street. Will, the campus cop they had met the previous night, was running from his car. "Blair left with one of your guys about a half hour ago. In the decoy van."

"Whoa, wait a minute. What 'decoy van'?"

"The West Port Construction van--dark blue, probably a 1986 or '87 Chevy van." He frowned. "I thought it was a little weird, but when I saw the officer with him, I figured it was a way to move him safely from place to place."

"You didn't happen to get a license number on that van, did you?" Jim asked.

"No, I didn't figure it was important--I assumed it was one of yours. You're telling me it's not? Then who was the cop with him?"

"An imposter. The officer who was supposed to guard Blair was found murdered this morning," Jim informed him, then opened his truck door and picked up the radio. "This is Ellison. I need an APB on a dark blue '86 or '87 Chevy van with a logo from West Port Construction on the side of it. I don't care how many vans they've got on the road, I want them all stopped. Approach with caution. Suspect inside may be dressed as a cop, and is armed. The hostage is Blair Sandburg. His description is on file."

"I'm sorry about this, Detective. I thought it was--"

"I'm just glad you saw what you saw. Is there anything else you observed that could help us?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Blair got in the back of the van, and the officer went around front and got in the driver's side. The van pulled out, and that was that."

"Okay. I'm going up to have a look around Sandburg's office. Do you know where Dr. Roswell's office is?"

"It's 325 Hargrove. Same floor, but opposite wing as Blair's."

"Thanks." Jim gathered the other officers, a group which now included Simon, and informed them of the new development. While the uniformed officers headed back out to search the campus and to start out actively searching for the van, Jim and Simon made their way up to 325 Hargrove. Knocking on the partially open door, Jim pushed it open and flashed his badge at the man sitting behind the large oak desk, sifting through a mountain of papers. "Dr. Roswell?"

"Yes, can I help you? What is all the commotion with the sirens--"

"I'm Detective Ellison, this is Captain Banks from the Cascade PD. We have reason to believe that Blair Sandburg was abducted from campus about thirty minutes ago. I understand you arranged for someone to cover his classes?"

"Abducted? My God, how? He had police protection."

"It's under investigation, sir. That's why we need your help," Simon interjected.

"Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the two chairs opposite his desk. "As you can appreciate, the police presence on campus, as well as the constant harassment by the press, is very disruptive. I asked another teaching fellow to take over for Mr. Sandburg until the situation was resolved, beginning with his first class today."

"Let me get this straight. He's the victim of a crime, and the only living witness, and so you're punishing him by suspending him?" Jim probed, his face already set in an angry glare.

"Not at all. Mr. Sandburg has a fine academic record, even if his absenteeism is a little higher than desirable. His stipend will continue, and this is in no way a disciplinary action. It's merely our attempt to not disrupt the educational experience of the rest of our students. As soon as the publicity dies down a bit and the uniformed police presence is no longer necessary, Mr. Sandburg will be free to return to his classes and his regular schedule."

"You realize if he had been in his class this morning, he wouldn't have been abducted?" Jim shot back at the other man, who shook his head.

"I am sorry about this situation, but I fail to see how my asking Mr. Sandburg to take some time off is the cause of his abduction."

"It isn't the cause, Dr. Roswell. It simply made it much easier, and perhaps moved the timing up a bit. We learned this morning that the officer who was supposed to guard Sandburg was murdered, and the guard who was here with him was an imposter," Simon explained.

"I spoke to him before I was allowed to go into Blair's office. I can give you a full description."

"Thank you, and we'll make sure one of the officers takes your statement," Simon concluded. As they were leaving the office, Jim finally spoke again.

"Pompous prick."

"Look at this place, Jim. There are reporters everywhere, cops crawling all over it..." Simon looked around at the chaotic surroundings. "I don't know, Jim. If I were in Roswell's place, I might do the same thing."

"His description of the kidnapper is as good as nothing. I saw him myself. I should have known something was wrong."

"How?" Simon sighed tiredly. "None of us knew. I only met Miller once, last year, when he got a commendation. I was going by his stellar record in assigning him. I wouldn't have know the difference, either.

"What good are these damn abilities if they never come to the foreground when I need them? How many times have I picked up on someone lying? But when Sandburg's life is at stake, it goes right over my head." Jim opened the door to his truck and got inside, taking a deep breath. If he'd expected that to calm him, it didn't. All it did was fill his senses with the traces of Blair's scent as it lingered in the truck. On the floorboard of the passenger side was an old pair of gloves Blair had left there, and when Jim opened the glove box, he found a couple of Blair's favorite CD's stashed inside. He didn't need the visible and olfactory reminders to make him think of Blair. He could still feel that warm, eager body responding to his, moving against him in the confines of a sleeping bag on an office floor. He could taste Blair's lips, smell his shampoo, and his memory helpfully supplied the unique scent they created together when they made love.

It didn't matter that they'd had police protection. That morning, Jim had kissed Blair goodbye and left him there. Left him under the guard of a man who would orchestrate his abduction. It would probably be best for Blair if they were merely killing him to get rid of a witness. Otherwise, he would probably suffer a ritualistic death, and chances were good that it would not be a quick or easy one. Human sacrifices rarely left this world painlessly.

When Simon opened the truck door, Jim almost jumped at the sudden noise.

"I figured we should head over to West Port Construction," he said. "I left my car in the lot; thought I'd ride shotgun with you."

Jim tried to subdue his momentary flare of anger at Simon for disturbing the lingering traces of Blair in the truck by adding his own scents to the space, but it occurred to him he had a whole loft apartment full of Blair...and yet so achingly empty of him at the same time... He jerked his thoughts back to the moment.

"Something's bothering me about this," Jim said as Simon got in and closed the door. "Isn't it interesting that the most obvious Satanist in Cascade is a developer, and Blair was abducted in a construction van?" He pulled out into traffic, shaking his head. "Redding was cooperative, polite even... But there was something about that guy--beyond the obvious--that made me uneasy."

"Where to first? West Port or Redding's place?" Simon asked.

"West Port. The van was one of theirs. I also want a background check on that company--owner's name, history--anything that could link it to Redding." Jim radioed in his request to headquarters.

* * *

 Shortly after being pushed into the back of the van, Blair had found himself confronted with a second man, also armed. Knowing he had no hope of escaping, he'd cooperated, and ended up blindfolded, bound and gagged, lying on the floor of the van. A while ago, there had been commotion and a change of vehicles, from the van used to abduct him to this current vehicle, which thankfully had a carpeted floor. The ride seemed to drag on forever, but he soon realized he'd lost his perspective to evaluate just how long they'd been riding. Now the van was rolling to a stop, and Blair wasn't sure if he was relieved or more frightened by that development.

In a moment, he was hauled up on his feet and steered in what he figured was the direction of the back doors. He felt a blast of cold, damp air as they opened, and he was ordered to jump down, which he did, albeit awkwardly. A pair of hands grabbed him and steadied him upright as he landed. Wishing in one way he could ask questions, try to find a way to connect with these people, another part of him realized that there was precious little point in trying, even if it had been possible. After all, these people were serving Satan, if Miller's comments were anything to go on. They probably felt it was their mission, and no amount of pleading or finessing would change that.

The ropes at his ankles were cut, and his escorts grabbed him roughly by each arm and hustled him along what felt like a cement surface, either a parking lot or driveway. They came to a stop and knocked on a door. As soon as it opened, a man's voice barked, "Inside!" and Blair found himself propelled through the door.

"This is Sandburg," said the man Blair knew as Miller.

"Thank you for that news bulletin," the voice at the door replied. "The police are already looking for a West Port Construction van." There was the sound of pacing. "I pay you imbeciles too much to be that fucking stupid!"

"We switched vans--" the Miller imposter protested.

"I suppose I should be grateful that you didn't drive him here in a van from one of my own goddamn companies!" he shouted back. "Take him downstairs." At Blair's grunting and struggling with his gag, there was momentary silence. "Mr. Sandburg, if I remove this gag and you scream, I will kill you. Now, be very quiet."

Blair felt a cool hand move beneath the gag and free him from it. Licking his lips and swallowing to lubricate his throat, he paused a moment and then spoke.

"What do you people want with me?"

"You're a very special person," the voice from the door replied. "You're the Thirteenth Sacrifice."

"Why is that so special? I mean, I know 13 is a meaningful number in witchcraft and some devil worship, but why me? Why 13 lives?"

"I suppose you have a right to know. But I think we should continue this downstairs. Take him down to his quarters," he directed the other men flanking Blair on each side. "Mr. Sandburg, I will visit you later."

Blair recognized the voice, and finally put it with a name. Redding. He opted not to say it, on the outside chance keeping him blindfolded would somehow make it possible to let him go alive. He knew that was unlikely when he was slated to be a human sacrifice, but he didn't want to use up any of his options just yet.

 * * *

 "How did I know they would have reported a stolen van this morning," Jim said, the skepticism plain in his voice as he walked with Simon back toward the truck. The office manager at West Port Construction had been more than cooperative, even responded freely that Carl Redding was a partner in the firm's ownership. The middle-aged woman had reported the van missing herself earlier that morning, when the two men who normally used it made her aware it was gone.

"Might as well try Redding's place," Simon responded, getting into the truck, which Jim started up.

"Sandburg had better be there," Jim said ominously.

"You know it's unlikely he's keeping Blair at his place."

"I know." Jim began driving toward the Redding house. "I'm just hoping to catch a break here."

"You and me both, my friend." Simon leaned back in the seat. "This may be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on when we find Sandburg, but if his death is supposed to be significant to these freaks somehow, it's not likely they'll just...dispose of him. They'll want some ceremony, and probably not right away."

"Then we better find him fast. Because any ceremony those bastards come up with is nothing I want Blair going through."

"Neither do I, Jim."

"I thought after last year...I thought maybe we'd paid our dues, you know? Or at least Blair paid his. He doesn't deserve this."

"Neither did the other twelve people who were murdered."

"No, of course not," Jim added.

"You know, Sandburg's case wasn't highly publicized as part of the whole mess with Alex Barnes, but the information did make it into the papers. Maybe the very fact he was...that he was...revived after being dead an undetermined length of time--maybe they think that's something special. At least one paper got an interview with one of the paramedics--you remember that one where the guy said you 'imposed hands' on him and he came around?"

"I don't work miracles, Simon."

"No, but Sandburg coming back to life was one, and you know it. Now whatever source that miracle came from, maybe these headcases see it as something sacred, and so that makes Sandburg all the more attractive as a sacrifice."

"Interesting theory." Jim looked over at his boss. "I never pictured you as into all this... mumbo jumbo."

"I'm not, but I've been doing some reading since we determined there was a cult twist to all this. If they normally like to sacrifice babies or virgins--and we know that leaves Sandburg out--maybe the next best thing is someone who has something they perceive as sacred or special about them."

"Makes sense." Jim pulled onto the long drive leading back into Redding's property. Both men got out of the truck and approached the door. Their knock was answered by a short, stout, Hispanic woman in a maid's uniform. "Cascade Police," Jim greeted, showing his badge as Simon did the same. "We need to speak to Mr. Redding."

"Mr. Redding is not here," she said in a heavy accent.

"Do you know where he is, ma'am?" Simon asked.

"No, sir. Mr. Redding left last night, said he would not be back until tomorrow."

"Do you have any objections if we have a look around?" Simon asked with a smile. The woman at the door was not moved.

"I'm sorry, sir. You must have a search warrant, or Mr. Redding's permission."

"Thank you for your time," Jim said, nodding. As they walked back toward the truck, Jim confirmed, "He wasn't there, and neither was Sandburg."

"Terrific."

 * * *

 When his blindfold had been removed, and none of the men around him were worrying about covering their faces, Blair's hopes for his future pretty much dissipated into thin air. No one seemed to care if he saw who his captors were, and now that he was chained by one ankle to the cement floor of this weird, dingy, gray room that seemed subterranean, he was waiting for a face to face meeting with the man he'd identified by voice as Redding. He was dead. Toast. History. No one planned on him getting out alive, so no one cared what he knew.

Being told he was the Thirteenth Sacrifice should have cleared that up for him right from the start, but hope springs eternal, and he'd harbored a few weak wishes that maybe one of the men involved might get cold feet about murder. But these were men with a mission, and cold feet didn't seem likely. Besides, the wrath of the cops would most likely pale in comparison to the wrath of Redding...or the Devil himself.

The solid wood door of the small room opened, and Redding stood across from where Blair sat on the bare cot that had been provided for him.

"The accommodations aren't what you're used to, I'm sure, but I don't host guests here often...at least not for any prolonged period of time." Redding closed the door and crossed the floor until he stood within Blair's reach. "You have a lot of questions, and I think you deserve answers."

"You're going to kill me."

"Yes, in the sense that you will be dead to this life. But your death will serve a greater purpose. That should appeal to an anthropologist, I would think."

"What, being a human sacrifice?" Blair asked, the disgust plain on his face.

"Not exactly," Redding responded, chuckling and crossing his arms over his chest. "Dying for a greater cause, to serve others," he added, gesturing with one hand.

"Serving whom?" Blair asked.

"There is an ancient ritual to gain the direct power of Satan. To attain that power, you must take thirteen lives, and provided the final sacrifice is worthy, you may use the power it brings to further the goals of your cult. There's a great deal more to it than that, but since our time is limited, I'm giving you the…thumbnail sketch, I guess you'd say. The ritual was completed last almost fifty years ago when our leader, Warren Yates, was apprehended by the police, and then shot while trying to escape. He had killed twelve people including the fraternity murders in Seattle, and he performed the ritual of the Thirteenth Sacrifice shortly prior to his arrest. The power he gained from the ceremony enabled him to conquer his death at the hands of the police, and to rise again, and resume leadership of our cult."

"I thought you were the leader."

"You could consider me a second in command. My grandfather was a close friend of Yates, and my father was also a follower. Yates must obviously not be in the public eye at any time--"

"So, you're his Renfield. What's the criterion for being the Thirteenth Sacrifice?"

"The Thirteenth Sacrifice is determined by some special factor that sets that person apart from all others. Yates knew you were the one as soon as he saw you, and as soon as I met with you and your detective friend, I knew as well. And I knew why. You are a shaman, and a powerful one at that."

"How do you--"

"I'm psychic. It's the gift I bring to the cult, my extrasensory perception and clairvoyance. As soon as I met with you, I knew why Yates was so convinced you were the one. I'm not sure he was positive himself why it should be you, but as soon as I was with you, I knew."

"So, my being a shaman is going to help you...how, exactly?"

"Your power will become our power. In more primitive societies, you would be a holy man, something little less than a god. You certainly know that from your studies and travels. You know the importance and the power of shamans."

"But I don't... I've never--"

"You haven't honed your power. Well, not to worry. The raw power is there, and that's all we need."

"How come this-this Thirteenth Sacrifice ritual isn't written anywhere? I've never run across it, and even my friends who have done more research into the occult have never mentioned it."

"Now, Mr. Sandburg, surely you of all people know that the most powerful, significant ceremonies are never written down. They are secret, passed from generation to generation of a religion's high priests. They are not performed in front of eager students while notes are scribbled for graduate theses. They are conducted in private, for the inner circle of true believers."

"How can you just keep on killing like this? I mean, you talk about taking lives like it's collecting discount stamps to get a free toaster." Blair was stunned as Redding actually laughed.

"I've been oversimplifying for the sake of expedience, but the taking of a life is never something we do lightly. It is done for a purpose."

"So, worshiping Satan demands murder?"

"No more so than worshiping God. Should we discuss the Inquisition? The Crusades? The Salem witch hunts? No significant religion on this planet exists without bloodshed in the name of the entity it worships. If you can show me a single example, I will let you walk out this door right now."

Blair's mind raced, and sadly, he could think of nothing, and Redding was obviously an intelligent man who was not about to be snowed by a flowery, insubstantial speech.

"When is it going to happen?" Blair asked dismally.

"In about," Redding checked his watch, "five hours. We'll begin the ceremony then. You will be prepared prior to that, though."

"Prepared?"

"Yes. I really have to go now." He turned back toward the door.

"Ellison is going to figure this out, and even if you manage to kill me tonight, he isn't going to let this go."

"I'm sure he won't." Redding paused at the door with his back to Blair, then looked over his shoulder with a sinister smile. "But one thing you seem to forget--we'll be infused with your power. Your detective won't last long against that, no matter how many special powers he has." And with that, Redding left the room, as Blair stared, slack-jawed, after him.

 * * *

 "You want to dig up Yates' grave?" Simon asked, deadpan, staring at Jim as he stood across the desk in the captain's office.

"Yes, sir, I do. Sandburg was convinced he was involved in these murders, and I want to know the truth."

"He's been dead for fifty years, Jim. He was shot by cops. What would you like me to tell the Seattle PD is the reason that we want to dig up their potters' field?"

"He's not in Seattle, sir. He's buried here in Cascade. He was from Cascade originally, so they sent the remains back here."

"And how do you think this is going to help us find Sandburg?"

"It's probably not, but at least we'll know who...or what...we're up against."

"This is crazy. You know I want to find Blair as much as you do--" Simon looked into Jim's intent eyes a moment, then shook his head. "All right, so maybe not as much as you do, but as much as anyone else in this department, but this is insanity, and a waste of time."

"I don't think so, sir."

"We don't have time for an exhumation order," Simon said, shaking his head and leaning back in his desk chair. "Do what you have to do, but just don't tell me about it."

"Right, sir. I'll have the phone with me." Jim left the office, striding through the bullpen purposefully. He was joined by Taggert.

"Need some help?"

"With what?" he asked, knowing Joel couldn't possibly realize what he was volunteering for.

"Whatever it is you're doing. I want to help find Blair. I'm not opposed to doing something...unofficial, if necessary." The statement gave Jim pause as he was about to go for the stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator. The newly fit and trim Joel wouldn't have been dissuaded by that maneuver, anyway, so Jim continued to the stairs and the two men walked down together.

"I'm going to dig up a grave. You up to doing something that unofficial?"

"You got it, man. Let's stop by my place and pick up a couple of shovels and picks. I did some landscaping this spring, so I've got state of the art shovels now." Something in the comment made Jim chuckle, which was a huge accomplishment at the moment.

 * * *

 Blair leaned back against the cool gray wall, having spent most of his day looking for any possible point of weakness in the room, the door, the chain around his ankle...and having met with utter defeat. Now the door opened, and the man he knew as Miller walked in.

"Who are you, really?" he asked.

"Frank Monaghan. My father was a friend of Mr. Yates. Now that we've been properly introduced, take off all your clothes."

"Excuse me?" Blair stared at the other man.

"You heard me. Stand up and take off all your clothes. Don't worry, I'm not gay. This is no cheap thrill. You have to put this on before the ceremony, and everything else comes off first. It's the rules." Monaghan tossed Blair the soft white robe, which was a simple, floor-length garment that would pull over one's head and tie at the back of the neck.

"You know, the cops would cut a great deal for you if you helped me get out of here."

"They probably would. But I don't think any deal they cut me would be better than what I'll get in on by sticking around and doing my duty. Now, move it, before I get a couple of the guys to come in here and do it for you."

Blair stole one last glance at the other man before complying with the directive, piling his clothes on the cot and then pulling the white robe over his head and tying it into place at the back of his neck.

"Hey, Sid, come on in here," Monaghan yelled out the door, and a young, tall black man joined him. "Unlock his chain. We have to take him next door." Monaghan pinned Blair with an intent stare. "If you try anything funny, I don't have a problem with blowing your brains all over that wall."

"What about fucking up your boss's perfect sacrifice?"

"Better that than letting you escape. One's as bad as the other, man. Now just stay nice and still while Sid unlocks your chain." Monaghan cocked his gun for emphasis and pointed it more directly at Blair while the other man released the ankle chain, then rose quickly and grabbed Blair by the arm and turned him around.

"Cross your arms behind your back, at the wrists. Nice and slow."

Blair complied, and felt his hands secured with rope. Come on, Jim, I'm buying you time by cooperating with these freaks. You've gotta find me, man. I don't want to die this way. Oh, God, please, not like this...

 * * *

 As dusk began casting gray shadows on the hills of the old cemetery, Jim and Joel dug diligently into the hard ground of Warren Yates' grave.

"I don't think this is the first time someone's been in here," Jim opined, his voice a little strained with the exertion. "The grass looks different here than on those other graves."

"You think some of his freak friends dug him up?"

"That'll be the official stand on it if he's not in here," Jim responded, still digging furiously.

"You think this guy actually got up?"

"I can't explain the prints, and the smell in the loft last night, and the calling card he left on the window sill any other way."

"Cassie was pretty freaked out when that turned out to be human flesh."

"She shouldn't have been. She was there when we smelled that stench. Speaking of which," Jim paused, tapping on something hard.

Joel wiped his forehead on the back of his hand.

"Thank God for that Tae-Bo video Rafe bought you for your birthday, huh?" Jim quipped, and Joel chortled.

"Yeah, about eighty pounds ago, you'd have had to throw me in there once we got to the bottom," he replied, gasping for breath just a little.

"Well, I guess this is it." Jim straddled the lower half of the coffin and reached up to accept the crowbar Taggert handed him. He pried the lock open, and then lifted the lid. "Shit," he said, finding the interior of the casket empty. Empty but for some grayish matter not unlike what had been found on the window sill, and empty but for the overpowering stench of old decay.

"If they dug him up, it wasn't long ago."

"Probably just a couple of months ago."

"Before the murders?"

"Right." Jim slammed the lid and climbed out of the hole with a pull from Joel. Together, they began filling it in again. "Sandburg was right."

"You don't really believe this guy is up and around, do you?"

Before he could answer, Jim's cell phone rang. Sticking his shovel in the pile of newly replaced dirt, Jim pulled it out. "Ellison."

"Jim, it's Simon. We just got a printout back on Redding's property holdings. He has two other places. One up in the mountains--a fishing cabin, not too far from Pinecrest. The other is a rental house out on old Highway 27."

"We'll check out the rental first. Give me the exact address, and have backup standing by. Joel and I will head out there now."

 * * *

 Blair was back in his cell again, ankle chained to the floor. His hair was loose now, having been pulled out of the pony tail and shampooed and dried and coiffed as if he were going to a party instead of his own execution. The little hair-dressing ritual had followed a hot shower, which had been less than comfortable with two guys staring at him the whole time. He leaned against the wall again and closed his eyes, hoping that somewhere, somehow, Jim was on his trail.

He let the memory of their last lovemaking, hurried and awkward on the floor of his office, flood him with warmth. In this cold, austere room, his hands and feet clammy and looking almost whitish-blue from the lack of heat, he could feel Jim's warm hands on his body as if they were together. Tears leaked from his eyes as he remembered the kisses and the shared whispers, as his mind traveled back to their first time, to his first time making love with a man, to Jim gently but passionately taking his virginity, the two of them joined as one.

One heart, one soul, one body... Remember me when I'm gone, Jim. Remember the love, and the passion, and the closeness and the good times we had. Don't remember me all bloody and pale and with my head cut off or something horrible...the horrible thing you'll probably have to find. Remember me under you in bed, remember me in your arms, remember how much I loved you...how much I'll always love you from wherever I am. I'll die loving you more than my own life. Leaving this world would not be nearly this bitter if I weren't leaving you. I'd happily die to be with you, but to die and know that it will mean our separation is going to kill my soul long before Redding does whatever...horrible thing he does. Oh, Jim, I'd give the last few moments I have on earth just to hold you one last time, to hear you tell me you love me in that soft voice you only use with me, to see that smile that has always been just for me...

Hands still bound and ankle tethered to the floor, Blair tipped onto his side on the cot and sobbed into the bare mattress. He had no real idea of what time he had left, but it couldn't be much at the longest, and the manner of his death was bound to be...unspeakable. Worst of all, the chances of him ever laying eyes on Jim again in this world were growing dismally slim.

 * * *

 "You know, we're not going to be able to help Blair if you kill us both before we get there," Joel protested as Jim darted back into the proper lane, having passed a slow-moving car and barely missed running head-on into a Chevy Suburban.

"If I don't get there in time, I don't much fucking care," Jim said. Then, in the silence that followed, he added. "I'm sorry, Joel. I shouldn't be putting you at risk at the same time. If you want to bail on this mission, I understand."

"Going in alone would be suicide, Jim. Hell, just two of us going in would probably be suicide if what you think is going on there, is going on."

"What if they're at that fucking cabin?" Jim asked tightly, knuckles white as he gripped the Ford's steering wheel.

"It's a long drive out there."

"Too long. We have to check this out first. But, shit, Joel, if I'm wrong..."

"Another unit could check out that address."

"And possibly stumble in there and get Blair killed in the process."

"Then I guess if we're wrong about this, we'll drive like two crazy mothers at 90 miles an hour with the lights and sirens all the way to Pinecrest and pray to God we're not too late."

"At least we have Plan B," Jim said, trying to lighten his mood a little, though it was a lost cause. There was an ache in his soul, and somewhere in his heart, he felt as if he were feeling Blair's pain. That his lover was enduring some soul-deep anguish that reached out to him now, a plea for help, an agonizing fear and loneliness and despair.

"You know, Jim, a lot of us would understand if you and Blair were... you know... involved."

"Where did that come from?" Jim asked, wondering if Taggert had some strange psychic power he hadn't revealed to anyone.

"It's hard enough to handle something like this without having to...fake what your relationship is. If something does go wrong, you'll need some moral sup--"

"Nothing is going to go wrong. We're going to find Sandburg and get him the hell out of there, and then I'm going to fucking kill Redding with my bare hands, along with his rotted little cohort, Yates."

"Let's just hope we get to Blair before they do whatever weird things those people do after dark," Joel added, shaking his head.

 * * *

 The door to Blair's cell opened, and this time, two tall figures clad in black hooded robes entered the room. Blair rose to a sitting position, trying to formulate a plan to make a run for it. Even if his hands were tied, if his legs were free, maybe he could get out--just on a fluke they didn't guard the entrance too carefully, or that they became too complacent. Sniffling, he watched one crouch to unlock his chain. As he was gauging just how far, fast and hard he'd have to kick to make his target, three more hooded figures entered the room as reinforcements.

An eerie silence reigned among the group of captors and their captive. Blair could think of no clever logic to try on these solemn figures whose faces were mostly obscured by their hoods, and he could see no avenue of escape. Flanked by one on each side, one in front and two bringing up the rear, there was little hope of making a break for it in any direction.

They made their way down a long, shadowed cement corridor to another door, which the lead figure opened. Beyond it lay a large, square room, pitch dark except for the light of various candelabra, little flames dancing atop black candles. Hooded figures like the ones escorting Blair were standing in orderly rows on either side of a center aisle. Blair estimated there must be at least forty of them in attendance.

At the front of the room was a long altar, draped with a black cloth. Behind it stood Redding, his face visible inside the hood. This was the horrible moment of acceptance, the moment of no return...Jim wasn't coming, there was no way out, and Blair was going to die. Instinctively, he started struggling against the two men who each held one of his arms, but his fighting was simply patiently tolerated by his five escorts who easily kept him from making any real progress. Despite his attempts to writhe out of their grips, he was hauled up to the altar, finally picking up his feet to avoid scraping them on the cement floor.

"Lay him on the altar and secure his restraints," Redding said calmly, stepping back as his minions carried out the instructions. In an instant, Blair found himself lying on his back on the altar, his wrists clamped into some sort of metal cuffs which seemed to be anchored into the altar itself. Two on each side, the hooded figures held his legs in place with steady hands.

"Now, Mr. Sandburg, I'm going to need you to calm down. You can make this difficult, but in the end, you will die, anyway. You realize that, don't you?" he asked. Blair simply glared back at him, and Redding shook his head. "Donald, I'm going to need your assistance after all," he said, stepping aside as the other hooded man moved forward, a large syringe in his hand.

"Get that away from me!" Blair shouted, writhing ineffectually against his restraints, both metal and human. Despite his protests, the sleeve of his robe was pushed high up his arm, and the needle pierced him, sending something that felt warm in his veins coursing through his system. Maybe being drugged is a blessing...

Within moments, his limbs felt heavy and immobile, and he was horrified to see that no one was restraining his legs, and that he was not even straining the cuffs on his wrists. His limbs felt like lead, but he was fully conscious.

"Now, that's better," Redding said, smiling benevolently at his terrified captive. Behind him, another figure moved in closer, the shadows of the hood not concealing a grayed, rotting face beneath it. Warren Yates smiled an ungodly, yellow-toothed leer at Blair.

"Your death will restore our fallen leader to health. It's been too long since the last blood was spilled in the Master's name, and our leader's time on this earth grows shorter with each passing moment." With that, Redding moved his focus from Blair and stood facing his followers. "Let us begin."

Blair turned his head to watch the sea of black-robed disciples as they began to chant something low and monotonous. It sounded like Latin, and then, when nothing made sense, Blair realized he was hearing something recited backwards in Latin, most likely a prayer. Redding's arms were raised in the mockery of a priest's gesture over a sacred altar and, as the chanting subsided, Redding uttered an answering backward prayer of his own, and then produced a large knife. Blair's heart froze in his chest, and for a moment, he assumed this was to be his moment of death.

Instead of raising the knife high above him and plunging it into Blair's heart, as Blair had expected, Redding began using the knife to slice at the fabric of the white robe. Blair closed his eyes and wondered if prayers could possibly make it through all this evil and reach any good source. He'd foolishly expected them to simply plunge a knife into his heart and be done with it. As his garment was sliced away and he found himself nude on the altar, the cold air and his terror raising goosebumps all over his exposed body, he knew that death would not come that easily here.

As Redding produced a bottle of some strangely scented oil, Blair found himself unbelieving that he was clinging to the idea of death as a salvation, as the one thing that would liberate him from the torture that was coming. He tried ineffectually to move his arms or legs, but they only quivered slightly and fell to the surface of the altar again. He watched as Redding uncapped the oil and dribbled a line down the center of Blair's chest to his navel, and then crossed it with a horizontal line, forming an inverted cross. More prayers were chanted, and the disciples joined in, falling into a pattern of chanting that continued as Redding solemnly mounted two steps, bringing him on a level to easily kneel on the altar. Before he did so, he spread Blair's lethargic legs wide. Kneeling between them, he braced himself on his hands on either side of Blair's head.

"You are to be given to the Master, body and soul. The Master now claims your body as his own. You will now repeat after me. 'I give my body to the Master.'" Redding waited.

"No," Blair stated simply.

"This can become very unpleasant, Blair. Now repeat the vow."

"No."

"If you think remaining faithful to Ellison is going to help you now, you are most wrong. You can either assume a position of favor with Satan as his chosen gift from his followers, or you can rot in eternal torment. Now repeat the vow!" Redding bellowed, and Blair felt the temperature in the room drop sharply.

"Repeat your vow unto me!" a resounding, unholy voice commanded, coming from Redding but not his own voice. His eyes were rolled back in his head until only the whites showed now, and his breath had become foul and fetid-smelling. "You will pledge your body and soul to me," the voice growled as Redding's yellow-white eyeballs stared sightlessly at Blair.

"No. I already made a vow, and I take that to my death," Blair responded, staring into the face of Satan, resolute that the one thing he could have that could not be taken away was his pledge of himself to Jim. Nothing would break that. Not even the threat of eternal torment. There was nothing he could do to stop the violation of his body, but his soul was something he planned to keep.

 * * *

 "They came in fucking buses," Jim stated as he pulled the truck off the road and cut the lights, looking toward the house across the street. It was completely dark, not a sign of life anywhere. But parked by the side of the white frame house were two rented, private bus-style limos.

"If those were full--we're looking at forty people, easy," Taggert observed, and Jim nodded.

"We're going to need a lot of back up." Jim stared at the house a moment. "I'm going in."

"What?!" Joel gaped at Jim, stunned that even a known kamikaze cop like Ellison would go in there alone.

"I need to find out where Blair is, who's around him, what the set up is. I want you to give me five minutes, then call for all units, no lights or sirens. When everyone arrives, hold them off until you hear from me. I'll call you." Jim opened the door of the truck.

"What if you can't call?" Taggert asked, still certain that Jim was committing suicide.

"Then give me ten minutes and storm the place." Jim closed the truck door and headed toward the darkened house.

As he approached the back porch, he crouched low and slithered among the overgrowth there, pausing when he heard something low and rhythmic...chanting...and something else... His heart twisted as he identified Blair's voice, coming out in broken whimpers and shouts of pain, as if he were trying his best not to utter a sound at all, but was being forced to it by the agony of his ordeal.

His weapon drawn, Jim moved toward the rear entrance of the house. He couldn't detect the sounds of anyone guarding the door, and now that he tore his hearing away from Blair's cries, he could not detect anyone on the main floor of the house at all. Everything he was hearing seemed...subterranean. The back door was locked, but Jim forced himself to ignore the urge to monitor Blair and to instead focus on picking the lock. He had no sooner slipped inside the door when a horrible, ungodly cry boomed through the house, shaking it on its very foundations and torturing his sensitive hearing with its incredible volume.

Then everything fell eerily silent. Blair no longer cried in anguish, the chanting ceased, and all Jim could hear was the wind in the trees outdoors and some low level sounds of movement from the bowels of the house. Slipping quietly through what was a vacant kitchen, Jim paused at the basement door. Again, there was no lookout. These assholes are nothing if not arrogant, he thought to himself, making his way slowly down the steps. The basement itself was empty, and a cursory walk through the dark, musty area showed no signs of life, and no visible entry to another room or rooms.

Knowing the backup had to be close to arriving, and that Taggert would be getting itchy for a contact, Jim took a moment to call him.

"It's below the basement," he whispered into the cell phone. "I haven't found the entrance. But they're all down there."

"Why don't you wait for the backup, Jim?"

"No more time now. I've got to find the entrance. If anything happens and I can't make contact again, I don't care what it takes, if you have to blow up the fucking house, you get under it somehow, hear me?"

"I hear you. Watch your step."

"You know it." Jim broke the connection and resumed his search of the basement,

finally concentrating on the area around the old sink. On a fluke, he turned one of the rusty faucets on, and was amazed when a portion of the wall dislodged slightly, leaving a crack of dancing candlelight spilling across the dirty floor. Moving closer to the opening, he waited for any sound of movement to indicate that the breach of security had been detected. All he heard now was renewed chanting and noises he could only classify as...revelry of some sort--it sounded like a horrible mish-mash of people dancing, chanting and having sex all at the same time.

Assuming they were too heavily involved in their own pursuits to be watching the door, he carefully pushed the section of wall further into the corridor, and moved stealthily through the opening. There was an odd smell of incense and burning candles, sweaty bodies...all the less than charming odors of a mass orgy. There was no longer any sound from Blair, and Jim searched the symphony of noise for the precious heartbeat. Finally able to separate the sounds, he let out a sigh of relief when he picked up on Blair's heartbeat, rapid but steady. Whatever they'd done to him, at least he was still alive. God, Blair, I'm so sorry. I tried to find you sooner...before...

Jim followed the sounds and smells to the doorway of the large ceremony room. Peering around the edge of the doorway, he fought the urge to storm the room alone and race to Blair's rescue.

Blair lay nude on the altar, hands bound to the altar, above his head. His legs were spread wide, one hanging over the side of the altar that faced the debauching crowd. His head was turned to one side, only the curls visible from where Jim stood. All around the altar, black robed figures writhed in a variety of activities from dancing to sex to chanting disjointed prayers to Satan. With a clear view of the set-up in his mind, Jim raced back to the entrance that led into the basement. He could hear the backup moving closer, could pick up on Taggert's hushed orders as they surrounded the house.

"Master, we thank you for the gift of your power!" The bellowing voice caught Jim off-guard. The revelry downstairs had abated, and now the group seemed to be coming to some sort of order again. Torn between returning to the ceremony room and leading the backup where it was most needed, Jim focused on the backup and fled up the stairs to the main floor, even more careful now not to make a sound as the noise that had been his cover on arrival had all but ceased. He was more than a bit relieved to run into Taggert, Megan, Rafe and Brown in the kitchen.

"We've got about forty or so headcases in black robes down there. Sandburg's on an altar at the front of the room, farthest from the door. They've started up the ceremony again. Look, I don't see much choice here. I'm going to have to take out Redding. He's getting ready to finish what he started, and I don't want to risk him killing Blair before we can get through the rest of the group down there. Round everybody up and have them in here on standby to storm the place," he instructed Rafe, who nodded and hurried back out the door. "Joel, I need you to coordinate. Megan, H. and I are going down there. Wait at the entrance to the tunnel to direct the backup."

"You got it, Jim."

The group moved swiftly downstairs, and after Jim had explained to Taggert the directions for reaching the ceremony room, he led Megan and Henri down to the room itself. Redding's voice was audible once again, and he now stood with a large dagger pointed downward at Blair, whose legs had been neatly placed straight and together now, his head turned so he faced upward.

"I offer to you, mighty Satan, deliverance of your gift, of the Thirteenth Sacrifice to your glory, so that we might use your power to further our service to you on earth. You have claimed your prize, and I deliver him now to you."

The backup was coming down the stairs above, their arrival audible only to Jim as they were making the utmost effort to slip in noiselessly. But the stealth was costing them time, and three cops had no hope of taking on over forty people to save Blair's life. As the large dagger raised yet higher above Blair's prone form, Jim sprang into the doorway and unerringly emptied his clip into Redding as horrified followers looked on. The dagger clattered to the cement floor as the tall man crumpled into a black-robed heap behind the altar.

"Nobody move!" Jim shouted, moving into the room with Megan and Henri behind him, the backup cops flooding the room next, overwhelming the stunned Satanists. A few raised resistance, but it was easily quelled by the onslaught of armed police.

Jim cut through the chaos in the room, darting behind the altar, gun drawn. Redding lay there motionless, his sightless eyes gaping up at the ceiling. Satisfied the man was dead, Jim yanked off his coat and covered Blair, the only indication he was not already dead being the strong beating of his heart that Jim could detect. Trying to keep from panicking at Blair's unresponsive condition and the clamminess of his skin, Jim checked the metal cuff restraints, frustrated when he found they were locked.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered angrily, roughly searching the dead man for the key. When he found it, he released the cuffs and gently moved Blair's arms down until they rested at his sides. "Blair, come on, Chief, it's over. Look at me, sweetheart," Jim added, lowering his voice and moving his face close to Blair's. "Come on, baby, it's me. It's Jim." There was no response from the catatonic man on the altar.

"Ambulance is on its way, Jim," Megan said as she approached the altar.

"His pulse is a little rapid, but strong." Jim reached out and stroked the clammy forehead. "I'm going to get him out of here. We can wait for the ambulance upstairs."

"Jim!" Simon burst through the door of the room, weaving through the confusion of cops hauling robed offenders off in handcuffs.

"I need your coat, Simon." Jim didn't bother with any other greeting or explanation, and Simon removed the long raincoat without further question, handing it to Jim. "We're going to get you nice and warm, Chief. Everything's okay now," Jim said soothingly, pulling Blair up so Simon could help him get the raincoat around Blair's back.

"What happened?" Simon asked.

"I've got a pretty good idea, but I don't know anything for sure yet. I know he's bleeding."

Simon looked behind the altar. "Damn."

"There was no other way to assure Sandburg's safety, sir," Jim explained succinctly, gathering Blair, bundled sloppily in the two coats, into his arms. He began moving toward the door with his injured partner. "I'm riding with him to the hospital."

"I'll take care of things here. But you update us as soon as you know anything."

"I will," Jim responded, hurrying out of the room.