by Steven James
I began to mumble, “Ari . . . hurry . . . Ari . . . hurry.”
A couple seconds later, Cheyenne ended the call to Terrell and stared at me. “Are you all right?”
“He didn’t say ‘hurry.’”
She shook her head. “Who didn’t say hurry?”
“On Friday when Grant Sikora was dying, I told him the paramedics were coming and I asked him who’d gotten him the gun. He answered, ‘Hurry . . . You have to get . . . hurry . . .’”
She connected the dots: “You’re thinking he said, ‘Ari. You have to get Ari.’”
“I can’t be certain, but yes. I think he was giving me a name, not asking for help.”
“Considering everything we know now, that would make sense,”
Cheyenne said.
Yes, it would.
In fact, too much sense.
If Grant had said Ari’s name, that changed everything.
“Cheyenne, I want to see the work schedules from last week. We’re looking for anyone who’s had anything to do with this case.
Police officers, detectives, CSU members, also hospital staff and medical examiner’s personnel. Call Baptist Memorial and police headquarters; have human resources upload them to the online case files—”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I have a theory. I’m hoping I can prove myself wrong.” I flashed past two cars that had to be going at least seventy-five.
We would be at the Greer house in less than four minutes.
On the way to police headquarters, Giovanni radioed dispatch to requisition a task force helicopter and a pilot for Special Agent Bowers.
Almost no one else could have convinced them as quickly and easily as he did to clear the chopper. “Colonel Freeman is on call here at the station,” they told him. “He’ll be waiting for you on the helipad.”
“Thank you.”
End call.
Though Giovanni hadn’t expected things to play out quite like this, he’d planned for a number of contingencies and he was pre-pared: he had a police department ID badge with him so that he could enter the staff parking garage underneath headquarters. From there, he would take Amy Lynn up the service elevator to the he-lipad on the roof.
And fly to the mine.
Tessa knew she was in deep trouble.
A little while ago as she and Dora were waiting for the reply from the cybercrime people, Dora had paged through the rest of the diary, and just about the time she was finishing, the two dopey cops who’d supposedly been protecting the house for the last couple days had come in, taken Patrick’s computer from the bedroom, made Dora and her join them downstairs in the living room, and now, they weren’t letting either of the girls leave the room or make any calls.
Patrick must have found out about the message she’d sent.
Which meant it was too late to erase it before he saw it.
Which meant she was dead meat.
Especially since she’d read the reply from FBI headquarters just before the cops arrived.
We were close.
Two minutes, maybe less.
Cheyenne lowered her phone and cursed. “HQ says they’ll have the work schedules posted ‘within the hour.’”
“Within the hour? We don’t have—”
“I know,” she said between gritted teeth. “I know.”
What else? What else?
The timing of Thomas Bennett’s death . . . the flight schedules . . . the time Brigitte Marcello bought the Chinese food . . . the candles in the mine had been burning for two hours . . .
I was deep in thought when the phone rang, jarring me. Kurt’s caller ID came up and I answered it, heard static, then my name. “Pat, the —aptain called.” His voice cut out. “I —eard what’s going on.”
“Take a left here,” Cheyenne shouted.
I bounced over the curb, then pounded the gas.
“Listen, Kurt.” I knew there was spotty reception in Brecken-ridge, but I hoped he’d be able to catch what I was saying. “The tire impressions we found two weeks ago from Sebastian Taylor’s car. Who processed them?”
“What?”
“The tire tracks. Who did you send to investigate them?”
“—eggie.”
Reggie Greer.
“There!” Cheyenne called. “Turn right. Four houses down.”
No sirens.
No flashing lights.
The patrol cars should be here by now!
Kurt said something I couldn’t make out.
“Did the Denver News do a story on Hannah’s death?” I said.
“Did they do an article?”
“Ye—”
“Who interviewed you?”
He lowered his voice. “I’m here wi— Cheryl, I can’t . . . I’m —osing you.”
“Was it Amy Lynn Greer?”
“—es.”
“You and Cheryl are in danger, Kurt—”
“I’ll —all you back.”
“Kurt!”
Then nothing. I slammed the phone against the dash.
We arrived at the Greer house.
I jumped out of the car, drew my SIG, and ran toward the porch.
105
Brown.
Stucco.
Two story.
Around us, twilight in the city.
Cheyenne flared to the right. “I’ll get the back.”
No cars in the driveway. The house was dark.
“Watch for snakes,” I yelled.
“Got it!”
Onto the porch. I tried the doorknob.
Unlocked.
I pressed open the door, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.
“Reggie? Amy Lynn?”
Silence.
I swept the beam of light across the living room. Scanned for rattlers. Saw none.
Steady, Pat. Steady.
Assess and respond.
Then I heard the squeak of another door and Cheyenne’s voice calling for Amy Lynn. A flashlight beam cut through the dining room. I shouted out my location; Cheyenne acknowledged, and I edged into the kitchen.
No one. A few baking pans beside the stove. The oven light was on.
It’d been preset to 450 degrees.
The temperature gauge flipped to 440 as I approached.
Story number nine: he kills the woman’s lover, cuts out his heart, and then feeds it to her for dinner.
A deep tremor. Primal dread.
I didn’t want to look in the oven, but I knew I had to. I surveyed the room one more time.
Reached for the oven door. Prepared myself.
Opened it.
Empty.
Thank God.
A quick glance at the countertops, the sink. No dirty dishes. No blood. No meat.
It looked like John had turned on the oven but hadn’t had a chance to finish his tale.
“He might still be here!” I called to Cheyenne.
I closed the oven. Shut off the heat.
Cheyenne yelled from the end of the hall. “Pat. In here.”
She sounded concerned but not in danger, so I took a few seconds to make sure each room was clear as I moved down the hallway to join her.
No people; no snakes.
I found her in the master bedroom where she was on the phone, leaning over the bed, and checking someone’s pulse. I couldn’t see who it was, only that his shirt had been removed. Then I realized she was talking with 911 and I stepped around her. And saw who was on the bed.
“Calvin!” I rushed to his side.
“He’s unconscious,” Cheyenne said, “but his pulse is steady.” She had the phone to her ear but was talking to me. “They’re sending an ambulance.”
Why aren’t those squads here yet?
Eight Chantel candles flickered on the dresser. Two had winked out.
Gently, I touched Calvin’s forehead, and as I did wondered if the killer might have left him alive as some kind of trap, a way of toy
ing with the mouse—of toying with me.
The closet door was slightly ajar.
Cheyenne saw me glancing at it. “I checked inside. It’s clear.”
I took a look. Six dresses on the carpet. A metal hanger with a straightened hook.
I headed for the hall.
“What is it?” Cheyenne asked.
“I’m going to have one more look around.” I spoke softly. “I’ll be right back.”
And as she monitored Calvin, I left the room to make sure no one was waiting for us anywhere else in the house. Or in the garage.
Dora and Tessa were in the living room with the cops. Martha had stepped into the kitchen, and Tessa saw her discreetly pick up the phone.
Tessa was still distracted, thinking of how furious Patrick was going to be when he arrived, and she didn’t realize that she was nervously toying with her necklace until she felt Dora’s hand on her arm.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
But she didn’t let go of the necklace’s black stone.
“I need to tell you something,” Dora said. “I was gonna tell you upstairs, but then the cops came in.”
“What is it?”
“Your mom tells why at the end of the diary, why she bought you that jewelry box when you were a kid.”
Tessa stopped fiddling with the necklace. “Tell me.”
“To remind her of the day she changed her mind.”
And then Dora told Tessa about the last three entries in her mother’s diary.
106
I finished a careful inspection of the house and found no one. Amy Lynn’s purse was in the kitchen. I took a quick inventory of its contents and saw that the last text message had been sent to her husband’s cell.
I returned to the master bedroom, where I saw that Calvin was still unconscious. Taking slow, shallow breaths.
Cheyenne was laying a blanket across his chest.
I knelt beside the bed. “How is he?”
“He seems stable. His breathing is steady. Paramedics should be here any minute.”
“When they get here they need to do blood work right away and a complete tox screen.”
“It’s all in play,” she said. “They’re bringing a doctor with them.”
I glanced at the candles.
Based on the negligible amount of wax flow, I could see they hadn’t been burning long at all.
The oven had heated up to 440 degrees . . .
I heard a car stop outside the house, then a car door slammed. I unholstered my SIG and called to Cheyenne, “Stay with Calvin.”
I hadn’t quite made it to the front door when it flew open.
“FBI!” I yelled.
“Don’t move!” the man hollered.
I knew that voice.
“Jake, it’s me. It’s Pat.”
Jake Vanderveld stepped into the room, and although I never thought I’d hear myself say it, I added, “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Pat. What do we know?”
We were in the bedroom and Cheyenne and I had just finished filling Jake in. “For now,” she concluded, “it looks like Calvin is doing OK.”
“Do we know if Amy Lynn was even here?” Jake asked.
“Her purse is here, but not her keys. And her car is gone,” I said, then pointed toward the closet door. “Drag marks from the bedroom door to the closet, but not away from it. John had her in there, but then he led or carried her away.”
“Any idea where?”
I shook my head. “Her car doesn’t have GPS, and her Blackberry is still in her purse.” Then a thought. “Cheyenne, let’s get an APB on her and send some patrol cars to Daniels’s ranch, just in case—”
I was interrupted when Jake’s phone came to life. He answered it and then stared at me in surprise. “He’s standing right here,” he said, then he offered me the cell. “For you.”
“Who is it?”
“Police headquarters.”
I took the phone. “Special Agent Bowers.”
“Agent Bowers?” A woman’s voice, and she sounded even more surprised than Jake had been. “We’ve been unable to reach your pilot or your cell number. We thought Agent Vanderveld might be able to—”
“My pilot? What are you talking about?”
A slight pause. “Sir, your helicopter took off three minutes ago without—”
Oh, not good. “I didn’t request a helicopter.”
“You didn’t—”
“Who boarded the chopper?”
Another pause.
“Who!”
“I’m not sure, sir. But we need a flight plan and—”
“Listen to me.” I realized I was yelling into the phone, but at that point I didn’t care. “The second chopper, is it there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A pilot, is there a pilot available?”
“Sir, I don’t understand; you’re telling me you’re not in the heli—”
“A pilot! Is Cliff there?”
“Colonel Freeman is in the helicopter that you—or that someone . . .” She couldn’t seem to collect her thoughts. “Cody Howard’s here.”
Cody was Cheyenne’s ex-husband, the pilot she refused to fly with, but I could deal with that in a minute. “Get him to the heli-pad and have him fire up the chopper. I’ll be there in five minutes. And tell air traffic control at Denver International Airport to get the transponder codes for the chopper that just took off. We need to know where it is. Do it.”
The longest pause yet. “Yes, sir.” End call.
I tossed the phone to Jake. “John’s got a chopper, but he’s only a few minutes out. We’ve got him. Cheyenne, you’re with me.”
Jake nodded toward Calvin. “I’ll stay here with him until the paramedics arrive.”
“Good.”
“Be careful,” Jake said.
That’s not exactly my specialty, but I decided not to bring that up. “I will.”
Cheyenne and I bolted to the car.
107
Through his headphones, Giovanni heard that Agent Bowers had requested the second chopper. Perfect. Things were going to work out after all.
Five minutes earlier, when Giovanni had appeared on the helipad with the razor blade against Amy Lynn’s throat, Cliff Freeman had just stared at him in shock, but he’d finally climbed into the cockpit when Giovanni removed the woman’s gag and she pleaded for her life.
Now, they were roaring over the Rockies, just a few minutes from Bearcroft Mine.
Giovanni sat in the backseat beside the woman. Her hands were still bound behind her back.
He snapped the straight razor open and held it close to her face to make sure that he had her undivided attention. “Do you remember at the house when I told you I wasn’t going to kill you, that you were going to kill yourself instead?”
She shrank back against the seat.
“Well, that time has come.”
“Leave her alone,” Cliff yelled from the cockpit, “you son of a—”
Giovanni swiped the blade against the man’s right forearm deep enough to make him cry out but not deep enough to disable him. “Please,” Giovanni said. “Do not interrupt us again.”
Then, he turned to Amy Lynn and began to unbutton the top of her shirt.
Amy Lynn tried to lean away from him, but there wasn’t any place to go. “Please, no,” she begged.
He unbuttoned the second, then the third buttons. “I told you before, I’m not going to touch you. Now, please, sit still.”
“No, don’t—” But she was too terrified to finish her sentence. He was picking up the cloth bag he’d brought with him, the one he’d taken briefly to the other helicopter on the helipad before making her get into this one.
The thick, coiled contents of the bag stirred.
“Officially,” Giovanni said, “you’re supposed to jump from a window, but I don’t think we’ll attempt that at this point. I can always toss your body out later, so—”
&nb
sp; Suddenly, the chopper pitched to the right as Colonel Freeman let go of the control stick. He reached back and tried to wrench the razor from Giovanni’s hand, but Giovanni sliced the man’s wrist. A deep cut. Blood spurt across the cockpit.
“Get the stick or I’ll slit her throat!” He noticed that the colonel had—thankfully—leaned his leg against the control stick to keep the helicopter from crashing.
Freeman shook his head. “No! Put down—”
Giovanni held the blade to Amy Lynn’s neck. “Do it or she dies.”
He hesitated for a moment, then finally faced forward, blood spurting from his wrist, leveled off the helicopter, cursed, and threatened Giovanni, but Giovanni didn’t mind.
“And press your knee against that cut or you’ll bleed out.”
Giovanni waited until Freeman obeyed, then he untied the string that was cinched around the bag’s opening. He would bandage the man’s wrist in a minute, but first he needed to take care of Amy Lynn.
He lifted the sack toward the top of her shirt.
“No!” she cried.
“Remember, I’m not going to kill you. In this story you have to kill yourself. Rattlesnakes are attracted to movement. So, if you don’t want to die, you’ll want to sit very still.”
He nudged the fabric of her shirt away from her skin so there’d be enough room, then he tipped the three-foot-long rattlesnake down the front of Amy Lynn’s shirt.
She screamed.
And as she felt the dry, muscular body of the rattlesnake flex against her bare stomach and glide across her abdomen, Amy Lynn Greer did not stay still.
Not at all.
108
Air traffic control told us the location of the other chopper, and when I heard the coordinates in my headphones I told Cody, “I think he’s going to Bearcroft Mine. I know where it is. Head toward the southern edge of Clear Creek County.”
“Roger that.”
He tilted the chopper to the southwest, and we flew into the dying sunlight.
Cheyenne and Cody still hadn’t spoken to each other. Even though I had no idea how messy their divorce had been, from the tense silence I got the impression it’d been tough on both of them.
For a moment, I was reminded of my own troubles with Lien-hua, but before I could give those much thought, I saw movement on the floor next to the first aid kit—