The Knight

by Steven James

  And turtle drawings.

  Eight turtle pictures.

  She’d always liked to draw turtles when she was a kid, probably because they were easy—just make a big circle, then add four feet and a smaller circle on top for the head. Bam. A turtle. When she was a kid, they’d seemed like masterpieces.

  But now she could see how dorky they were.

  Still, when she was a little girl, her mom had always found room for them on the fridge. Always.

  And when Tessa saw the turtle pictures, she knew what kind of collection this was—the one special collection everyone has of the stuff no one else would ever understand. Stupid little things that wouldn’t even bring you a dime at a garage sale, but that you’d go back into a burning building to save.

  Tessa had a box like this too, under her bed.

  But as she flipped through her mother’s memory box, which she named it on the spot, her heart seemed to snag on something inside of her chest.

  Why didn’t Patrick ever give this to you? He knows how much Mom meant to you. Why would he keep this from you?

  Maybe he’d forgotten about it, pushed it way back there one day and it just slipped his mind.

  But maybe not.

  Feeling somewhat betrayed, Tessa filed through the box’s contents more carefully, taking the items out one at a time and placing them on the bed.

  She found a tangled-up kite string and wondered why her mom had kept it. Then she pulled out a shell that she remembered finding during a trip to Lake Superior when she was ten. As she set the shell on the bed, she noticed what lay on the bottom of her mom’s memory box.

  Her fingers trembled.

  A pregnancy test.

  And the little plus sign was still visible, even after seventeen years.

  She picked it up.

  When your mom first looked at this, you were already growing inside her.

  It was an obvious truth, totally obvious, but in that moment, to Tessa, it seemed profound.

  She was holding the first proof her mother ever had that she was going to have a child, a daughter that she would name Tessa Bernice Ellis—Tessa, derived from St. Teresa of Avila, a mystic who was one of her favorite writers, and Bernice, the name of her mom’s grandmother.

  As Tessa stared at the plus sign, she thought of what it would have been like for her mom to look at this—still in college, not married, the guy she’d been seeing a total loser. A man who never became a part of his daughter’s life, never even visited her.

  Not even once.

  Tessa felt the old anger, the old hatred, the old loneliness rising again.

  Even when she was a kid, she’d realized that nearly all of her friends had a dad around somewhere. Even in families where their parents were separated or divorced, the dad would show up occasionally—in the summer maybe for a couple weeks, or on Tuesday nights, or for a couple weekends each month. Sure, not always, but unless he was dead, he was usually a part of their life.

  So when she was about six or seven, she’d asked her mother if her dad was dead.

  At first her mom wouldn’t tell her, but Tessa wore her down until finally she’d said, “I don’t know, Tess. I haven’t seen him since the day I told him I was going to have a baby.” Then she’d held Tessa close—she still remembered that—and her mother had added, “But just because your daddy isn’t here doesn’t mean you aren’t loved. I get to love you double, from both of us.”

  But Tessa had pulled away. “But why did he go away, Mommy? How come he doesn’t come back?”

  Her mom had hesitated at first, then said, “What matters is that I love you and I’m never going to go away. I promise.”

  But then her mom did go away, not on purpose, but even when she was dying, she hadn’t told Tessa any more about her dad.

  Tessa figured that her mom had probably kept the truth about her biological father’s identity hidden because she didn’t want her to grow up hating him.

  Well, if that was the plan, it hadn’t worked.

  Enough with that.

  She put the pregnancy test down and looked into the shoe box again, and found a neatly folded-up magazine ad for some kind of real estate company. It’d been ripped out of whatever magazine it was from and half of it was missing, but the part that was there had a picture of a blonde-haired girl, maybe four or five years old, trying on what were probably supposed to be her mom’s high heel shoes and necklace. Part of the text of the ad was gone, but the words “homes are not just” were still there. That was it, “homes are not just” . . . something.

  But what caught Tessa’s attention wasn’t so much the text but the jewelry box that lay on a dresser behind the girl in the photo.

  Wait a minute.

  She looked more carefully at the jewelry box and felt her heart begin to hammer. Then she jumped up and, carrying the picture, hurried to her room.

  To her dresser. To her jewelry box.

  Yes, yes.

  It was nearly identical to the one in the picture. Her mom had given it to her when she was a girl, somewhere around the age of the girl in the magazine ad.

  Is that you? Is it possible? Is that you in the picture?

  No, the hair was different, the girl didn’t really look like her at all, and there was no little mole on the side of the girl’s neck like the one on hers.

  Then why? Why would she give this to you? It can’t just be a coincidence.

  She returned to Patrick’s room and scanned the remaining contents of the shoe box looking for an answer; didn’t find one.

  However, she did find one final thing that made her inordinately curious: a key attached to a key ring with a plastic tag with the number “18” written on one side and the words “For Tess” on the other.

  In her whole life she’d only let one person call her Tess: her mom.

  The key was too small to fit in a normal lock, and even though it was about the same size as the one to her jewelry box, it wasn’t the right shape.

  She tried it just to make sure, but no, it didn’t fit.

  Then she heard the front door swing open.

  Patrick had arrived to pick her up for lunch.

  31

  As soon as Tessa heard the door open, she realized she needed more time to read the letters in the box and she didn’t really want Patrick to know that she’d found them, so she jammed everything back inside, except for the key, which she put in her pocket, and quickly snuck the box to her room, then hid it under her bed next to her own memory box.

  “Tessa, are you ready to go?” he called.

  “I’ll be right there!” she shouted through her bedroom door. “Gimme one minute.”

  So, ask him about it, or not?

  She thought about the picture of the little girl, the items in the box, all the enveloped letters that she still hadn’t read.

  He kept this from you. He should have given it to you.

  But maybe he just forgot?

  Either way she needed to know the truth.

  But he’s having a hard day, remember? The breakup? A carnage of hearts? Don’t accuse him of keeping it from you. It wouldn’t be right.

  So then, ask him about it, but be tactful.

  Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.

  When I stepped into the house I heard Tessa yell from her room that she’d be ready in a minute—which probably meant I had at least ten—and that was good because it gave me a chance to get dried off and change clothes.

  Partly I wished I were back at the morgue, looking for evidence, but my job wasn’t to process individual crime scenes but rather to help focus the direction of the investigation.

  And that was proving harder than I imagined.

  In my bedroom, I noticed that one of the packing boxes was open but nothing more had been packed, which irritated me a little since Tessa’d had all morning and she knew we were leaving for DC on Wednesday.

  Deal with that later.

  I changed clothes, and as I was putting on my SIG’s holster I t
hought of Grant Sikora and the gun he’d aimed at my head less than twenty-four hours ago. He’d somehow loaded it before it was brought into the courtroom . . .

  Or found someone to load it for him.

  I speed-dialed Ralph.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Are you still in Chicago?”

  “Yeah. Helping the field office here deal with the shooting, get some tighter security measures in place for next week . . .” His voice seemed muffled, his words jumbled. It sounded like he had something in his mouth.

  “What’s that sound? You’re not eating more of those yogurt raisins, are you?”

  A moment of silence. The faint sound of swallowing.

  “Nope.”

  “Listen, Ralph, about the shooting; that’s one of the reasons I called. You’re thinking the evidence room, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The gun was in a sealed evidence bag when it was brought into the courtroom. All someone would have needed to do was get in the evidence room, load the gun, and then wait for it to be brought into the courtroom. After all, why would anyone check to see if a gun that’s stored in a sealed evidence bag from a case thirteen years ago was loaded?”

  “Exactly. Have a talk with Officer Fohay. He was working the security checkpoint at the courthouse yesterday.”

  “You got something on him?”

  “No. But he had strong views about Basque’s guilt, and he mentioned that he works in the evidence room. He would have had access to the gun. If there’s any kind of personal connection between Sikora and him—”

  “Gotcha. Anything else?”

  “I’m concerned about Calvin.”

  “What? Werjonic?”

  “Yes.”

  I took a few minutes to summarize the previous night’s conversation with Calvin. When I was done, Ralph asked what I wanted him to do.

  “His office is there in Chicago. I’m wondering if you can keep an eye on him. I’m worried that he might make a move on Basque over the weekend.”

  “A move? You’re kidding me.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  A pause. “Basque is secure. After that attempt on his life, they’re not letting anyone near him.”

  “Remember who I’m talking about here. Calvin is one of the smartest criminal scientists to ever live. If he wants to get in there—”

  “Yeah, all right,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t pay Mr. Basque a visit. Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks.” We ended the call, and when I emerged from the bedroom I found Tessa waiting for me in the hallway.

  “Ready?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Let’s go to Fruition.”

  32

  Tessa took a seat beside Patrick in a booth at the back of the restaurant.

  She’d ordered a California alfalfa salad and Patrick had gotten a falafel burger, probably because it reminded him of meat more than anything else on the menu.

  She ate her salad for a few minutes while he smothered his falafel patty with ketchup. In between bites he told her he’d managed to arrive in time to save a woman’s life earlier in the morning.

  “Are you serious? What happened? Wait. Let me guess; you can’t tell me.”

  “No, not all the details. But I can tell you it felt good to get there in time for once. It felt . . . right.”

  She watched him eat for a few minutes, and she realized she was proud of him, of what he did for a living, that he made a difference.

  “Well, that’s cool,” she said. It was a little lame, but it looked like he could tell she meant it. Finally, when the time felt right, she asked him about the box. “Hey, um, while I was packing, I was wondering if there’s, like, any of my mom’s stuff still around?” She downed some of her root beer. “You know, that you haven’t already given to me?”

  Patrick was eating his falafel burger way too fast to really enjoy it. “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  He swallowed, wiped a napkin across his chin. “Pretty sure.”

  “Huh, well, that’s weird then, ’cause I found the shoe box.”

  “The shoe box?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What shoe box?”

  “The one with my mom’s stuff in it, and I want to know why you never gave it to me.”

  I stopped eating.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I forgot I even had that.”

  “How could you forget? It’s her special stuff!” The whole atmosphere of the meal had shifted almost instantaneously, and I needed a few seconds to regain my footing.

  I tried to explain that when we moved to Denver I’d just stuck the box in the closet and piled some camping equipment in front of it; tried to help her understand that it had been a hard time for me and I hadn’t thought any more about it, but she didn’t seem to buy it.

  When I’d finished, she held up a key. “I found this too. What does it open?”

  I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure I knew which key that was.

  I went for my Coke and used the time it took me to drink it to stall and collect my thoughts.

  “Well?” Tessa demanded. “I’m waiting.”

  You don’t have to tell her about it. You could say it was lost or damaged or destroyed. You don’t have to let her read it.

  I set down my drink. “I’m not positive, but I think that’s probably the key to your mom’s diary.” Rather than elaborate, I waited for her to respond. I finished my falafel burger. It tasted like toasted sand. Even the ketchup didn’t help.

  “Her diary?”

  I nodded. “She gave it to me before she died, but she told me—” “Mom kept a diary?”

  “Yes, before I met her. I think when she was in college. And she said I wasn’t supposed to give it to you until—”

  “Well, where is it? I want to read it.”

  “Tessa, stop cutting me off. Your mom told me not to give it to you until you turned eighteen.”

  A short, awkward silence. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The point is, if I gave it to you now I’d be breaking the promise that I—”

  My ringing cell phone interrupted me mid-sentence. I looked at the screen. Kurt. “Just a second,” I told her.

  She set the key in front of her and drummed her fingers on the table while I answered my cell. “What’s up?”

  “We might have something. Someone sent flowers to a reporter at the Denver News. He left a note: ‘Must needs we tell of others’ tears?’”

  I was missing something here. “And?”

  “The reporter’s husband is one of the CSU techs—Reggie Greer. You met him this morning.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “His wife is a reporter?”

  “Don’t worry. He knows not to share anything about his cases with her. But here’s the thing, she called him wondering if he sent the flowers. She emailed him a photo of the flowers and the note, and he realized right away that the handwriting matched the handwriting on the note the killer left for you in Taylor’s garage.”

  Now he had my attention. “Go on.”

  “Reggie is still finishing up at Taylor’s house. Two officers are giving Cheyenne a lift from the hospital, so she’s on her way to the newspaper office right now. Can you get over there? I don’t want anyone else touching those flowers until we’ve had a chance to look at them. Something came up with Cheryl, I’m at home right now, but I’ll get downtown as soon as I can.”

  The Denver News building was less than two miles away.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “All right. The reporter’s name is Amy Lynn Greer.”

  We ended the call, and before I could say a word to Tessa, she blurted, “You have to give me the diary.”

  “Don’t push things right now, Tessa. And don’t demand things from me.” I stood to go.

  “I’m old enough to read it. I’ll be eighteen this fall.”

  “We can talk about the diary later. I need some time to thi
nk about this. Your mother was very insistent—”

  “Does it tell who my dad is?”

  The question took me off guard.

  “I never read the diary. I wanted to respect your mother’s wishes—”

  “Does it tell who my dad is?” Her voice had turned into something solid and cold.

  “Tessa, do not interrupt me.” I understood that she was upset, but I wasn’t in the mood to be cut off every time I started a sentence. “I promised her I’d wait until you were eighteen, and right now you’re not giving me any reason to break that promise.”

  She opened her mouth as if she were going to respond but must have thought better of it because she closed it again without making a sound. The look of anger she gave me was mixed with something more profound—a deep sense of sadness or disappointment—and I felt bad she was hurting.

  “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I need to go.” I was still standing beside the table; she hadn’t moved. “Come on.”

  Finally, she stood. “Is it a case? Are you taking me along to a crime scene?”

  “It’s just something I need to look into. Maybe you can call Dora, have her pick you up when we get there.”

  All during the drive to the Denver News building, Tessa stared out the window, but she wasn’t really watching anything. Mostly she was just thinking.

  Her mom kept a diary.

  A diary.

  And she wanted you to have it, but not until you’re eighteen.

  But why not?

  And why was Patrick making such a big deal about it? It wasn’t fair to make her wait, especially now that she knew about it. What would it hurt to read it a few months early?

  She glanced at her watch.

  Dora had agreed to pick her up at one o’clock—still twenty minutes away.

  If Dora took her back home, they could maybe look for the diary, but that would mean unpacking everything—and besides, Patrick might have it in his office at the federal building just to make sure she wouldn’t have accidentally found it.

  That’s what she would have done if she had a teenager in the house.