PART THREE

Jim sighed as he opened the folder and started reading. Between Blair's excitement and Frank's hangdog expression, he had folded like a house of cards. Franks had promptly walked with them back to the police department located a block south of their motel and set them up in his office with all the information they had gleaned so far.

Jim's afternoon of antique shopping was forgotten as he read the short report. Uniformed officers had canvassed the store-owners, but no one had seen Sanderson walking away from the restaurant the previous night. No witnesses had been found. Sanderson had a large lump on the back of his head, suggesting he was knocked unconscious before he was stabbed.

"Possible robbery..." Jim said out loud.

Blair had an extra copy of the report, a faster reader than Jim, he was almost finished. "It says a ring was missing. Did you notice a ring last night?"

"Not really."

Blair looked up from his report. "Let's try using meditation again. We've done it before with your hearing, only this time, we'll concentrate on your sight."

Jim tossed the file back on the table. He'd learned to trust Blair with these ideas. "Okay, what do I do?"

First Blair talked him into relaxing. Using his friend's voice as a fulcrum, Jim let his mind empty of all thoughts, depending on his guide to supply the needed direction. Blair led him through the events of the previous night, up until he pulled Sanderson out of the booth.

"Okay, I see it," Jim said, his eyes closed as he leaned back in Franks' chair. "It's old looking, gold with a capital `S' spelled out in small diamonds. He wore it on his right ring finger." Jim opened his eyes and looked at Blair. "I can understand why a thief would want to take it."

Blair nodded.

"Wait, though. He still had his wallet on him, with over three hundred in cash." Jim tapped the report where it listed the items found on Sanderson's body. "Not exactly chump change."

"Yeah, that's true, man. You'd think the killer would have taken the money," Blair commented as he pinched his lower lip in thought. "So maybe the ring had a special meaning to the killer...like a trophy?"

Jim shrugged. "Maybe. We need to interview the family. Franks called and they're expecting us this afternoon."

"Great, let's go."

"Chief, are you sure you're up for this investigation? You're supposed to be resting."

Blair rolled his eyes with a chuckle. "Jim, would you stop with the invalid treatment? I promise to stay in the wheelchair you borrowed for me. I know! I'll pretend to be Raymond Burr and you can be the guy that used to push him around. We'll need to find you an afro wig, though," Blair said, leaning sideways to avoid the swat heading for the back of his head.

"Smart ass."

The Sanderson home was on the list of historical Victorian houses that caused artists and photographers to flock to Port Townsend in droves. It was three stories high, on a hill with a one hundred and eighty degree view of the Puget Sound and Admiralty Inlet. Painted in cream color with blue trim, the one hundred and forty year old home appeared to be in perfect condition from the manicured lawn to the iron railing of the `widow walk' located on the roof. A two-story carriage house in the back yard was painted in matching colors.

Jim parked on the steeply angled street, carefully turning the wheels into the curb. Blair eyed the steep stairs to the porch and decided to forgo the chair and use the crutches for this visit, rationalizing that the walk to the front door was short and they'd probably be sitting in the living room during the interview anyway.

"I found some stuff on the Sanderson family today while you were at the conference," Blair said as they headed toward the house together. "Ben's great-grandfather was a captain of a clipper ship, that's how he made his fortune. He settled here, built this house and the family has stayed on ever since."

"Watch these steps, Chief."

"You know they call the roof a widow's walk, because the captain's wives waited up there to spot the sails of the ships when they're husbands returned to port, it gave them time to get to the docks and greet their men. Only some of the husbands never returned," Blair continued as he maneuvered the crutches up the wooden stairs, Jim's hand on the small of his back.

"You're a plethora of information today, Junior," Jim teased as he knocked on the door.

Blair shot a grin at his friend. "Didn't you know, man? Life is in the details."

The door was opened by a short priest, complete with the white collar around his throat and a somber look on his face. After they had introduced themselves, the priest led them through a front hallway. They passed a steep staircase with a carved wooden banister. A plush runner carpet traveled up the stairs to the second floor, held in place by a series of metal rods. Plants and vines grew in every available corner.

They passed through a set of opened double doors into a parlor. A thin, attractive woman sat in a comfortable upholstered rocker with crochet dollies on the arms. The room had the same high ceilings typical in Victorian style homes. The walls were adorned with paintings of stern looking men dressed in old fashioned clothing, hanging on long wires and tilted out at an angle from the wall. Standing with his back to the room, a tall man leaned a hand against the fireplace mantel, gazing intently into the empty firebox. Above his head, a large oil painting of a clipper ship at full sail hung in an ornate oak carved frame.

"Charles, Susan, these are the men that Police Chief Rickman sent," the priest announced gently and left the room.

Blair gave the woman his best sympathetic smile, careful to keep his crutches from getting near the many crystals and porcelain figures scattered about the room. Even the smallest piece of art looked pricey enough that, if accidentally broken, he'd have to sell everything he owned and still not have enough to replace it. Blair watched with just a hint of envy as Jim gracefully approached the woman to shake her hand briefly, giving his condolences and sitting on a delicate looking loveseat. Blair clumsily sat down next to him, his fingers smoothing down the short white threads fringing a small hole in the knee of his jeans. Why didn't he think to wear a better pair of pants?

"I know our timing is not the best, Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson. But we need to ask you both a few questions about your son's death," Jim said in a soothing voice.

The man turned away from the elaborately carved Carrara marble fireplace, pinning both men with a steely look. "Don't you mean murder?"

"Charles, please..." the woman interrupted quietly.

"Susan, someone has killed my only child. The Sanderson name just died in this town. I'm entitled to be `angry' about that, don't you think!"

Blair visibly recoiled from the hostility in the man's voice. His wife seemed to shrink in her chair, dropping her eyes to the floral carpet and remaining quiet. Above her head, on a tiered whatnot shelf, a porcelain figurine mimicked her posture. Apparently, none of this man's collection was allowed to speak back to him.

Jim turned his attention to the angry man. "Do you have any idea who would want your son dead?"

"No, Ben was well respected in this town, as he should be. He had many friends. I expect one of the lowlife hippies that moved into Port Townsend with all the other liberal scum killed him for the family ring." Sanderson's mouth seemed to bite out each hate drenched word with pleasure.

"Ben was named after his great-grandfather, Benjamin A Sanderson?" Blair asked.

Sanderson nodded, giving Blair a measuring glance. "You know about my family?"

Shifting a bit in the sofa, Blair cleared his throat. "I did some research..."

"What was the value of the ring?" Jim asked.

The man turned back towards the cold fireplace. "It's priceless. My grandfather had that ring made when he moved here. Ben was the fourth Sanderson to receive it on his twenty-first birthday." He slapped a large hand against the marble mantle, swinging around to point a finger at Jim. "You `will' find that ring, damn it! Even if I have to remarry, the Sanderson name will continue!"

With a sob, Susan Sanderson stood and ran from the room, leaving the three men alone to avoid each other's eyes.

"You'll have to excuse my wife, she's distraught," Sanderson muttered gruffly.

After another ten minutes of questions that provided no clues to their investigation, they left. Blair worked his crutches down the wooden steps, swinging his injured leg like a prisoner heading for an early parole. He waited until they were out of hearing range before exploding in outrage. "Holy cow, what a dysfunctional family! Can you believe that attitude of his? Unbelievable! What was he thinking?"

Jim started the engine, checking over his shoulder before carefully pulling away from the curb. "People handle their grief differently, Sandburg."

"That wasn't `just' grief, man. That was ..." Blair found himself too stunned to verbalize his disbelief. He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists before trying again. "That house, those antiques, I though at first it would be cool growing up with that stuff. But, I...I guess I've never met such a cold-hearted attitude, Jim. He didn't even think about his wife with that crack about remarrying."

Jim's eyes remained on the road, his face grim. "Yeah, I know. Trust me. Some families do not end up in a Norman Rockwell painting."

They returned to the station to type up a narrative and save it to disk. Jim checked his watch. It was time to call it a day, even though they'd gotten a late start, he was satisfied with what they had accomplished, although a return visit to the victim's family might be fruitful, if they got a chance to talk with the mother alone.

No new information had arrived. The obvious cause of death was still the stab wounds to the chest, although Jim was curious if Sanderson had been alive when he went into the water. The preliminary report from the Jefferson County Medical Examiner, a short, plump woman with a no-nonsense attitude indicated the wounds were enough to kill the man. They should know more after a complete autopsy being done that day.

"Let's grab a bite, Chief."

Blair sat in a comfortable looking chair in Frank's office, his head bowed over a book. "Not hungry."

Counting to a slow ten instead of launching into an argument about Blair's body needing nourishment, Jim turned off the computer and stretched. He knew his friend was still upset about the earlier interview. It was another unpleasant side of police work, like when they dealt with the results of one person's savagery on another, leaving a dead body behind. In this case, the brutal acts were attitudes and words, but the results were just as ugly.

"I'm going to try that Mexican place across the street. What if I bring you some take out?"

"Maybe some rice, I guess," Blair admitted as he gathered up his stuff and pulled himself up with his crutches.

After settling Blair in the motel for the evening, Jim headed towards dinner. The small restaurant was narrow and filled with tourists. Brick walls on each side were decorated with large Aztec sun dials and colorful blankets from south of the border. Jim took a small table in the back corner and studied the menu. His dinner arrived, smelling great. He ate with pleasure, enjoying a few hours to himself. By the time he arrived back at the motel, Blair was sitting at the table, his laptop plugged in. Judging by the telephone cable, Jim guessed he was on the Internet.

"Hey, Jim. I found a site that has some information on the original Benjamin Sanderson and his ship," Blair said, his blue eyes animated again as he pointed to the small screen. "He was a crook! A smuggler."

Jim set the take-out bag on the table. "What?"

"Yeah, no kidding! Look at this." Blair began to read from his screen. "In 1854, the U.S. government moved the location of the Customs headquarters from Olympia to Port Townsend to help combat the smuggling of liquor, opium, and illegal aliens. This brought the remote outpost of Port Townsend into immediate prominence. Because every vessel entering or departing Puget Sound had to stop and clear at the Port of Entry, Port Townsend became the leading shipping port north of San Francisco." With a flick of his finger, another screen popped up. "Now this is another passage I found from a customs' journal. This guy suspected at least four fellow customs agents were on the take. And right here, he names a few ships that he believes were doing the smuggling, but couldn't prove it. I guess whenever a captain though he was going to be boarded, he ordered the contraband to be thrown overboard. Now, look at this, see that name...the Edith Louise? That was Sanderson's ship."

Jim read the entries again. It looked like Blair was right. "Do me a favor, Sandburg. Don't bring this up with the family. We need to stay on their good side while we investigate their son's murder. Not piss them off so bad we get run out of town on a rail."

Blair laughed softly as he reached for the bag on the table. "I promise. I'm starving, what did you bring me?"

"Rice, like you asked...and maybe a few other things," Jim tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom.

Blair pulled out a full meal of enchiladas, beans and rice. "Thanks, Jim."

The next morning, they finished off the last of the bagels and checked in with Franks before heading out to interview the victim's coworkers at a large pulp mill owned by the family, located fifteen miles south of town. Driving past the convention center, the town began to look more like a standard business district and less like a picturesque seaport. They past by a large car dealership, tire store, a Safeway, even a small airport before finding the road that took them to the pulp mill. Jim took the wheelchair out and pushed Blair up the large concrete ramp that led into the mill. After checking with a manager on duty, they were led to a quieter office area where clerks typed at keyboards and answered phones.

A balding man sat behind a large desk. He rose as his secretary introduced them. "Gentlemen, I understand you're investigating Ben's death."

Jim rolled Blair into the room, taking a seat in the chair after shaking the man's hand. "We are, Mr. Peters. We were told that Ben worked for you?"

Peters returned to his seat, his eyes glancing at the closed door. "Yes, his father owns the mill, but he insisted that Ben learn the operations from the ground up. Not that Ben did much learning when he did decide to show for work."

"Do you know if anyone seemed angry enough with Ben to want to kill him?" Jim asked.

"Not really. He was a real jerk, but being the boss's son, he was just a pain you learned to endure," Peters admitted.

They asked a few more questions, getting frank and honest answers from the man. Finally, Jim asked to see Ben's office. They were led to a small office a few doors down and left alone to look around. Jim searched through some filing cabinets while Blair rolled over to the computer and powered it up. After over an hour of looking, Jim dropped into the desk chair to watch Blair on the keyboard.

"Well?"

"Nothing really, Jim. He had a lot of half finished reports and inventories on his hard drive. I don't think he did anything of real importance for the company. It's like he was just pigeon-holed here," Blair said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, he has an extensive collection of soft porn hidden in the bottom drawer," Jim added. "I can't find anything to justify a paycheck either."

They thanked Peters for his help and headed back to town. The day was cloudy, with each passing hour the sky grew darker. Jim parked in front of their motel. It was kind of nice being within walking distance from work and so many good places to eat. A guy could get used to this.

"Are we eating lunch now?" Blair asked while Jim got the wheelchair out again.

"You want to go to the place I found the quiche and bagels yesterday? They had a lot of other stuff you might like," Jim suggested. "We can swing by the station on the way and see if the M.E.'s report arrived and take it with us."

"Sure."

The secretary, a young woman with spiky red hair and a pierced eyebrow smiled as Jim rolled Blair into the lobby. "Hey, guys! What's shaking?"

"Hi, Rosy," Blair greeted the woman with a brilliant smile. "Sure I can't convince you to move to Cascade and work at the station downtown? You should see the grumpy old guys I have to work with there," he teased.

Jim left them to chat, heading for the fax machine in Franks' office. Jim knew the Assistant Chief was at the conference today, unable to get out of one of the meetings. He'd been briefly introduced to Chief Rickman before the man had left for a city budget meeting. Although they had seen a few of the uniforms over the last two days, the small police station was mostly empty except for Rosy and her radio. She was also the police dispatcher during the day shift. After snagging the report and making a few copies to take with him, he filed the original fax in Franks' desk and returned to the lobby to save Rosy from Blair's flirtations.

Blair fell in love with the small coffee shop at first sight. "Oh, wow. We should use this color on the walls at the loft, man," Blair said entering the narrow shop. "Our brick is about the same color of red, it would look fantastic."

"We'll talk about it, what do you want to eat?" Jim asked.

Blair carefully surveyed the prepared foods, choosing a croissant sandwich with cream cheese and salmon. He surprised Jim by filling half a small bag with chocolate covered malt balls and adding it to his purchase. After Jim bought his sandwich, they settled down to eat at a narrow counter built into the front window, allowing the customers to watch the sidewalk and street as they ate. The old brick building across the street had a yoga store that sold incense and candles.

"Remind me to get a birthday present for Naomi while I'm here," Blair said as he opened his sandwich and carefully spread the cream cheese to his liking with a plastic knife.

"Yeah, I saw a few stores that I want to check out for Simon and Carolyn," Jim said, passing a copy of the M.E. report to his friend.

The next few minutes were spent eating and reading the report. Part of Jim contemplated the effect the last year must have had on his guide. Who would have expected Blair to be able to munch happily on his lunch while reading the stark facts surrounding a murder victim?

"Looks like he was dead when he went into the water," Blair finally noted, keeping his voice low. The place had a few customers sitting at other tables.

"Yeah, I wondered about that," Jim said, finishing the last of his meal.

The bag of malt balls appeared between them on the counter. Jim waited until Blair had helped himself before reaching into the bag. "This is a side of you I never thought I'd see, Sandburg."

"Hey, we all have our weaknesses, big guy," Blair admitted. "Do we have time to go to the book store after lunch? I still have a few books to look at and I want to see if Sam is working today. He told me he's into Port Townsend history. I want to pick his brain a little, maybe learn more about the Sanderson family."

"Poor guy," Jim commented as he crunched on a malt ball, enjoying the flavor as it exploded on his tongue. "Tell you what, Frank set up an interview with the girl who was with Sanderson at the pub. You go to the bookstore and we'll meet up again at the motel."

"Perfect," Blair said, finishing his cup of hot tea.

"Just stay off the stools, Sandburg. Your leg is still healing."

"Got it."

Sam was working when Blair rolled up the short ramp into the store. The store was empty of customers.

"Hey, Blair," Sam greeted, looking up from shelving some books.

"Hi, Sam. You missed all the excitement yesterday," Blair said.

"I heard," Sam breathed as he stood and moved a box out of Blair's path with his foot. "Can't believe it, though. The one day I go to Silverdale, I miss the biggest thing to happen in Port Townsend since the arson fire in uptown two years ago. You looking for more books on that Burton fellow?"

"No, I'm kind of into the local history, you told me you belonged to a historical society or something, right?" Blair asked.

"Oh, watch out, Blair," Sam laughed. "You're going to get me started on my favorite subject. I hope you don't have anywhere to go for the next few hours."

Blair joined in with his own laughter. "Trust me! I know what it's like to find a fresh ear. But I really want to listen, man."

"Okay then, I'm going to consider this my lucky day. Tell you what. The store's been dead all day; let's grab some coffee in the back room. I'll hear the bell ring if someone comes in." Sam invited Blair back with an outstretched arm.

A small room off the back held a tiny desk and a coffee pot. A second door in the room was closed; Blair guessed it opened up to a set of stairs. The coffee was fresh and soon both men had a hot cup in their hands as Sam turned to the computer on the desk.

"I'm writing a book on Port Townsend, but nothing like the stuff you'll find on the shelves out there," Sam said. "I'm not sugar coating the past like others have done. Believe me, there are going to be some gnashing of teeth and tearing of sackcloth when this baby hits the stores."

"Really, what's in it?"

"Lots. At first I was just trying to research my family tree. Kind of like `Roots' , ya know? My mom raised me after my dad died when I was a baby. She didn't know a lot about him, except that he was born in Port Townsend. But the more I found out about my dad's family, the more I realized some of the respectable upstanding citizens in this town had a lot in their closets to hide." Sam clicked on a file. A large scanned picture of a very old looking Port Townsend appeared on the monitor.

Blair rolled his wheelchair closer to see the screen, taking his glasses out of his pocket and slipping them on his face.

"See, this is the building the bookstore is in now, but from 1925 to 1933 this building was called `the Palace of Sweets'. It operated as a brothel and hotel. Because this was during Prohibition, some patrons came for alcohol as well. Now, on the third floor there are four inside rooms lighted from the stairwell skylight, but closed to the outside that served as "cribs," or small rooms for the girls to use. I found out that my father's grandmother worked as one of the prostitutes." Sam gave a bitter laugh. "Not exactly the family history I was hoping for."

"Wow," Blair said. "My mom never told me who my dad was. This kind of makes me wonder..."

"Yeah, this was only the tip of the iceberg," Sam started, but stopped as they heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door. "Be right back."

"Go ahead," Blair said, still studying the old picture.

But Sam's customer must have needed more than just a quick hand, because he ended up being gone for a while. Blair started scrolling through the other pictures of the city, reading the notes. Finally, when it looked like Sam wasn't going to be returning anytime soon, Blair closed the file containing the scanned pictures and started to roll backwards out of the room, then a filename on the `C' drive caught is eye.

Edith Louise.

His curiosity piqued, Blair quickly opened the file with the mouse, revealing another scanned picture. But instead of a photo of a clipper ship as he expected, he saw the file was a scanned manifest of sorts, written by hand and looking very old. The date in the corner was eighteen-eighty-four. A long list of Chinese names scrolled down the page. Blair knew from his research that in eighteen-eighty-three, a law was passed that excluded any Chinese immigrants from entering the United States, which started the smuggling of immigrants into the United States.

So, if this was a list of smuggled immigrants, they were brought in on the original Benjamin Sanderson's clipper ship. He continued to scroll down. Half way down the list, a name was highlighted in red; Le Wah. Next to the name, some one had typed a short note: great-grandfather.

Sam's great-grandfather?

Blair read to the bottom of the list. Another note in red appeared.

`Passage ended for all immigrants when the captain ordered all contraband thrown into the sea, believing they were being boarded by custom ship. Several bodies washed to shore, one carrying this copy of the ships manifest in an oil wrapped cloth.'

Blair sat back in his wheelchair stunned. Sam's great-grandfather had been murdered by Ben's great-grandfather.

"What are you doing?"

Jerked out of his stunned musing, Blair gave Sam a guilty look. "Nothing, just waiting for you to come back..." Blair voice trailed off as Sam closed the door before crossing to the computer and shutting off the monitor. He turned and leaned against the desktop to study Blair.

Blair swallowed hard, not liking the look Sam was giving him. He willed his hands to still, fighting the urge to roll for the door, wishing he hadn't left his crutches in the motel room. "So, we were talking about your grandmother right?"

Sam tilted his head. "After the first customer was getting ready to leave, know who came in?" Not waiting for Blair to answer the question, Sam stood up and walked over to the other door, the one that Blair thought opened to a flight of stairs to the upper floors. "Rosy. She was looking for you, had a message from your friend, the big guy. What was his name, Ellison? I didn't know the city asked you two to investigate Ben's murder."

The door was open now. A cool salty breeze blew into the small room. Blair realized he was correct about the stairs, but they went down, not up.

"Really? I guess I'd better call him, then." Blair turned his torso to reach for his backpack hanging on one of the handles of the chair.

Sam was behind him in a flash. Blair's wheelchair was shoved towards the opening before he could move to get out, his injured leg making any chance for escape futile.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, Blair. Nothing personal," Sam muttered.

Blair didn't have time to scream as he was pushed into the dark room. The chair tilted at a sharp angle as it rolled over the first step, throwing him out and pitching him into the air. He landed hard, rolling down a long flight of wooden stairs and hitting the basement with enough speed to knock the wind from his lungs. His leg was on fire with pain, his shoulder felt broken. The wheelchair hit him hard in the back, adding to his multitudes of injuries, causing him to cry out again.

Jim parked the Explorer in front of a small modest home. Annie and her parents lived behind the Safeway store on a small street lined with single story homes looking about ten years old. The front yards were filled with kids' bikes and assorted toys, depending upon the age of the child living in each house. Franks reached the front door a step ahead of Jim and knocked on the door.

"So, you and Blair up for Mandarin tonight? You've got to try this cook's cashew chicken," Franks said as they waited for the door to open.

"Yeah, I tried to reach Sandburg, but his cell must be off. I asked Rosy to deliver a message, he's at the bookstore," Jim explained. "As long as you're treating, we'll be ready."

"Least I could do...Hi, I'm Assistant Chief Franks... this is Detective Ellison," Franks said as the door was opened by a rotund man wearing a white pair of coveralls covered with paint.

"Sure, come on in. I'll get Annie."

They settled down on a comfortable but worn sofa for the interview. Both the girl's parents sat nearby as Jim asked his questions.

"We're just talking with all of Ben's friends, Annie, normal routine for this type of investigation," Jim said, noting the girl's hands as she twisted a cheap looking ring on her right hand.

"I wasn't really...a friend of Ben's," Annie said, giving her parents a guilty glance. "I'm not even sure why he asked me out."

"We've just moved to Port Townsend six months ago, Detective," her father explained. "My wife and I met Ben briefly when he picked up Annie for dinner. He seemed nice at the time." His face darkened as he spoke.

"Thank you for helping Annie, officer," the wife added. "She told us what happened."

"It was my pleasure." Jim turned back to the scared looking girl. "So, do you know any of Ben's friends? Or anyone who might want to hurt him?"

"No, I work at a gallery on Waterfront Street. I met Ben when he came into the shop."

Jim asked her a few more questions, then thanked the family for their time. Back in the car, he shook his head. "We may have to start rousting the transients if we can't track down a lead here."

"Yeah, no luck with Ben's folks?" Franks asked as he snapped his seat belt in place.

"No, but I want to talk with his mother, alone. She didn't get a chance to say two words during the interview yesterday."

"Not unusual. Sanderson never gave the floor up without a fight, still doesn't. You know, he's with the chief at the budget meeting, she might be alone. Want to give it a try?"

"Sure. Sandburg is probably knee-deep in dusty books, having the time of his life. He'll keep."

When the pain finally diminished to a point that Blair felt his head was no longer missing the back of its skull, he opened his eyes. Sam had dragged him across the basement floor after pushing him down the stairs. He was tied hand and foot. Sam stuffed a gag into Blair's mouth and left, probably to return to the bookstore above. Blair lay on the hard, cold ground listening to the water lap at the foundation outside, unable to see much in the windowless, empty room under the shop, except for small pinholes of sunlight breaking through the cracked mortar between the bricks.

Memories of a warehouse haunted his thoughts. Lash.

Blair closed his eyes, refusing to return to that particular nightmare. He had enough on his plate already, without dredging up the past. He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think his shoulder was broken. It may have dislocated and then popped back into place when Sam moved him, but it was hard to think clearly through the pain. His bullet injury was throbbing, worse than before, after falling off the stool. Blair rolled onto his side, relieving some of the pressure from his bound hands.

How much time had passed? Jim should be picking him up soon. Sam had no idea who he was up against. Jim was not just an out of town cop. He was a sentinel. All Blair had to do was stay alive until he showed up. Jim would have no problem hearing him down here, no matter what lie Sam told him. How long could a single interview take, anyway?

Blair shivered, suddenly realizing his clothes were damp. The floor was wet? The tide was coming in. The foundation must have lost its ability to keep the high tide from entering. No wonder nothing was stored down here.

Blair closed his eyes; another shiver ran through his body. Okay, Jim, hurry...

Susan Sanderson was home alone when Jim and Franks arrived. She invited the men in, choosing the kitchen for the unexpected interview. The kitchen was small, furnished with expensive, stainless steel appliances next to a turn of the century kitchen queen and old oak drop-leaf table. Still, she looked at home in the room. Several bowls sat out with fragrant mounds of rising sourdough under clear plastic wrap.

"Have a seat. I hope you don't mind talking back here." Susan indicated a set of antique ladder-back kitchen chairs with cane seats.

"This is fine, Mrs. Sanderson. I'm sorry to bother you two days in a row, but we had a few more questions," Jim explained.

Franks sat at the end of the table, letting Jim take control of the interview. Susan returned to peeling a potato. "Go ahead."

"Do you know of anyone that would wish your son harm?" Jim asked gently.

Susan's eyes were red and swollen with grief, but her mouth was set in a firm line that seemed to say she was finished with crying for now. "I know he was receiving letters that upset him, but he never showed them to me."

"Did he show them to your husband?" Jim asked.

She seemed to lose her train of though for a moment, the peeler still as she gazed out the window. After a few seconds, she nodded. "I think he did. In fact, now that I think about it, my husband may have received one himself. He was burning a piece of paper once when I walked in the room. He looked angry and refused to talk about it."

Jim leaned forward, his face hopeful. "Do you think we could look at your son's room? We promise not to take anything without showing you first."

She set the potato back in the blue bowl. "Certainly."

She led them outside, towards the carriage house. The second floor was a roomy studio apartment, complete with a small kitchenette. The men were left to search the room in peace. It was a spacious room, with high ceilings. The circular window on the north wall gave a nice view of the water. A plush mattress, looking too soft for Jim's taste was decorated with designer linen in black and silver colors. The handsome desk and chair looked old. A fancy `state of the art' computer sat in the center of the desktop. A large screen T.V. was placed in the corner, easily viewed from a leather recliner. The room was clean, almost immaculate.

"You take the desk, Jim. I'll start with the books," Franks suggested, heading for a low bookshelf.

"Be prepared to find porn," Jim warned as he sat down in front of the desk.

They searched for more than two hours. Finally, when Jim was about to give up, he found a torn half sheet of paper between the mattress and box springs. Holding it carefully at the corner he set it down on the desktop and called Franks over to see it. Franks walked out of a large closet and they read the note together.

It was written by hand. `I know the truth about you, and your family. Your wealth came from the suffering of others. There is a higher law than our courts. You cannot hide from your sins. EX21:23.'

"Certainly reads like a threat," Franks muttered.

Jim removed a baggie from his pocket and slipped the note inside, sealing it tight before picking it up. "I recognize this handwriting, Martin."

"From what?"

"I'm not sure, but I've seen these `Y's and the capital `I' recently," Jim muttered, trying to remember as he handed the note over for Franks to view.

"Let's send this off to the State's lab. Maybe we'll be lucky and get a print. What is this last part about, ex twenty-one, twenty-three," Franks mused, returning the note to Jim.

"Easy, that's Exodus, chapter twenty-one, verse twenty-three," Jim explained as he headed for the door.

Franks followed, close on his heels. "The bible? Any idea which verse that is?"

"Yeah, actually I do. My dad's housekeeper used to read verses to my brother and me. I think this one is the part about `an eye for an eye'," Jim said as he descended the stairs to the main floor.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Blair."

Blair was too busy to answer, even if he didn't have a gag in his mouth. It took all his energy to stay face up in the cold water, his butt bumping the ground occasionally as the water rocked him with each filtered wave. A hand latched on to his collar and Blair found himself being towed again, moving him easily through the water.

"Another interesting fact about this building, Blair, is it was used for shanghaiing," Sam commented as he sloshed through the knee-deep, dirty salt water. "It has a hidden boat house that allowed the sailors to bring a small boat from the clippers ship's - called a gig - to enter town in the dark and take their `recruits' back to the ship."

They were in a smaller, equally flooded room now. Blair felt strong arms under his back and knees as he was lifted up and rolled onto a hard surface that rocked when he landed. A heavy tarp was thrown over his body.

"Nnnnuuuuughhhh," he shouted ineffectively through the gag. If Sam took him out of town, how would Jim find him? He shivered in his wet clothes. The metal floor of the boat was as cold as the water had been. So why did he feel colder now than when he was floating in the water?

"Easy, Blair," Sam's voice murmured from somewhere above.

The boat rocked hard, Sam was getting in. Strong light filtered through the tarp and Blair heard the sounds of oars splashing in the water. God, he was doing it. Sam was moving Blair out of the building, out of town, as if he was being shanghaied. The loud horn of a distant ferry reached his ears. Blair rolled, his shoulder on fire as he twisted. A heavy foot landed on his side, stilling his motions.

Blair tried rubbing the cloth off his cheek, trying to work the gag off. But the floor was smooth and Sam had tied the gag too tight. The floor suddenly vibrated as an outboard motor roared to life and he felt the small boat surge forward, the water hitting the bow as it leaped in the waves. Each small bounce jarred Blair's bruised body

"Jiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmm!"

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