Knight, The

by Steven James

  Giovanni pulled two lengths of rope out of the duffel and laid them neatly in front of him on the workbench.

  Then a pliers.

  Then a hunting knife.

  Sebastian knew he didn’t have much time.

  He grabbed his leg, yanked it up, and the wound widened. His leg spasmed, and a dark, sweeping dizziness rolled through him, but he didn’t scream. Just went for the gun.

  All in an instant, Sebastian instinctively unsnapped the holster, retrieved the snub, and swung it toward Giovanni.

  “I have a .357 aimed at your back.” He was surprised how calm he sounded considering the amount of pain he was in.

  Giovanni froze.

  The tables had turned.

  “Try anything and I will shoot.” But before Sebastian killed him, he wanted to know who this man was. “Now, hands to your side, or I’ll make sure you die very, very slowly. After all, like you said earlier, I’m good at what I do.”

  The man who preferred to be called Giovanni did not move.

  Sebastian didn’t want to kill him until he had some answers, but if the man didn’t obey, he would squeeze the trigger and not let it trouble him for a moment. “I’m telling you, you don’t want to press your luck. Hands to your side and face me.”

  Giovanni slowly lifted his hands and began to turn.

  “Who sent you?”

  No reply.

  “I said who sent you? How did you find me?”

  As Giovanni finally faced him, Sebastian could see a tight, barely visible tremble work its way down the man’s throat. Still no reply.

  “This stalling is going to cost you,” Sebastian said. “Now, take off the mask.”

  Giovanni let his eyes flick toward Sebastian’s Glock lying on the floor near the kitchen door. But that one look telegraphed everything.

  As he lunged for the gun, Sebastian squeezed the trigger of his .357.

  Click.

  Nothing more.

  Giovanni scrambled across the garage. Sebastian fired again.

  Click.

  Nothing. Again.

  How could the snub be empty? You always keep it loaded. Always!

  Giovanni rose, holding the Glock. Faced Sebastian. “How did I do there, a moment ago?” he asked. “Did I seem scared? I practiced, you know, in front of a mirror. I’m not that great of an actor, and I didn’t think it’d be as believable if I improvised. But I had you going, didn’t I? It looked like I did.”

  He aimed the Glock at Sebastian’s face.

  No!

  Sebastian took a sharp breath.

  Giovanni fired.

  Nothing.

  The man stared coolly at Sebastian and shook his head, disappointed. “Governor, please. Do you really think I would have let you enter the garage with either of your guns loaded? You’re a very dangerous man. That wouldn’t have been too bright of me. You shouldn’t leave your snub on your bed. Or for that matter, set your Glock on your bathroom countertop. Someone might sneak into your home and empty them while you’re taking a shower.”

  “Who are you?” Sebastian heard his voice slipping from confidence to fear.

  Giovanni’s only reply was to snatch up one of the ropes from the workbench and, with cat-like quickness, rush toward Sebastian. Before he could roll out of the way, Giovanni looped the rope around his uninjured wrist and yanked Sebastian’s arm toward the workbench. A moment later, he’d secured the wrist to one of the bench’s legs.

  Now he was standing, retrieving the other rope.

  Sebastian knew he couldn’t let Giovanni tie his other hand. If he did, he’d be completely helpless. It’d all be over. He rolled toward his bound wrist and tried to grip the rope, tried to untie it, but because his wrist was broken, he had no strength to do it.

  Then Giovanni came toward him again. Sebastian tried to fight him off, but his attacker gave his arm a fierce twist, and one of the bones in his forearm shattered. This time Sebastian couldn’t help but let out a sharp, strangled cry of pain. The awkward bend in his suit coat sleeve showed where the bone of his arm was protruding through the skin.

  “It’s OK.” Giovanni was pulling his arm toward the car. “Most men would have been weeping by now. I have great respect for you.” He sounded genuinely impressed. “You’re doing an admirable job.”

  Sebastian yanked at his bound wrist, but the knot Giovanni had used just grew tighter. With one last surge of strength, he tried to throw Giovanni off, but failed.

  Within seconds, Giovanni had tied Sebastian’s broken wrist to the seven-spoke, eighteen-inch aluminum alloy wheels of his hundred thousand dollar Lexus RX luxury utility vehicle, and Sebastian Taylor lay helpless, his arms stretched to each side, each wrist bound.

  Giovanni examined the bindings to make sure they were secure. “There.” Then he stood, stepped toward the duffel bag, and pulled out a crosscut saw.

  “It’s OK if you scream, just so you know, I won’t think any less of you.” He reached into his duffel again and brought out a thick strip of cloth. “Now, I can gag you until we’re finished if you want. It might make things easier. Based on what I’ve seen, biting against a gag seems to help people deal with the pain. Either way is fine with me, though. I’ll leave the choice up to you.”

  Sebastian was done playing it cool. He let out a string of curses and finished by saying, “You’re a dead man. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  Giovanni put the gag back in the duffel bag. “All right, then. Let’s get started.”

  Carrying the saw, he knelt and positioned its blade against Sebastian’s left knee, just below the kneecap. Then he held the leg firmly against the concrete with his other hand.

  “We have a long night ahead of us. I don’t want to go too deep on this first cut, so I suggest not wiggling too much. It’ll only make things messier and force me to take my time. I’m not sure you’d want that. But once again, the choice is yours.”

  Sebastian felt fear, deep and raw, shoot through him. He clenched his teeth, tried to brace himself for what was about to happen, felt a scream coming on, but then, before the man could draw back the blade, he heard the crunch of gravel outside the garage.

  A car.

  And a slight glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could still get out of this alive.

  Giovanni hurried to the light switch and flicked it off. Only the faint glow of the headlights and moonlight outside the window remained.

  He grabbed the gag. “It looks like this is no longer optional, I’m afraid.”

  Sebastian started to call for help, but his cry was quickly cut off as Giovanni worked the thick cloth into his mouth and secured it behind his head.

  Outside the window, the headlights blinked off and a car door squeaked open, then slammed shut.

  Giovanni rose to his feet. “That would be Brigitte. Good timing. Very prompt. After receiving that text message I sent her earlier on your behalf, she must have decided to hurry over.” Giovanni retrieved another length of rope from his duffel bag. “I believe you told her that there was a change of plans. That you had an unforgettable evening planned and could she please bring some Chinese takeout. I thought it’d be easier this way, having both of you at the same location, and besides, I like Chinese and I’m sure that by the end of the night I’ll be famished. So this way it’s convenient for everyone.”

  Sebastian tried to yell, tried to force the gag out of his mouth, but it wasn’t possible.

  In the dim light of the garage he saw Giovanni flick out his straight razor.

  “You know, according to the story, I need to kill her first, let you watch, so we’ll stick with that.” He paused and looked down at Sebastian sympathetically. “Well, OK, then. I’ll be right back.” And then he disappeared through the door leading to the house.

  Sebastian Taylor, the ex-assassin who called himself Shade, did not believe in the Almighty. If he had, he would have prayed, would have begged for divine mercy for all that he’d done in his secret past, but instead, he wa
s left to only curse his captor and the world and his own carelessness. And he thrashed hopelessly against his bonds while his slashed tendons seeped blood onto the floor of the garage, permanently staining the heels of his $495 Italian leather shoes.

  He heard the front door click open.

  Brigitte had arrived.

  The long and final night had begun.

  5

  Friday, May 16

  Denver, Colorado

  6:32 a.m.

  I woke.

  Showered.

  Dressed.

  Found my cell and saw that Cheyenne had left a voicemail: Forensics had matched Chris Arlington’s DNA to that of the heart. “So, to put it bluntly”—she didn’t sound insensitive, just forth-right—“he’s no longer a suspect.” Yesterday it had seemed like a good possibility that Chris was the second victim, so her message didn’t surprise me.

  So now, the challenge: find a way to focus my thoughts on the upcoming trial rather than let my attention get diverted by the deaths here in Colorado. I often work multiple cases simultaneously, but putting one out of my mind while I work another is a constant struggle.

  I took a moment to review my notes on Basque’s case, then finished packing and brewed some coffee so I could survive the morning. I was halfway through a cup of Sana’ani—a robust, full-bodied Yemeni bean—when my stepdaughter Tessa appeared in the kitchen doorway, putting in her eyebrow ring for school.

  “Hey,” she said. She wore washed-out jeans, canvas sneakers, and a T-shirt that read “Live Green or Die.” The row of short, narrow scars she’d given herself in the months after her mother’s death was visible on her right arm, and the edge of her raven tattoo peeked out from beneath her left sleeve. Her eye shadow, lipstick, and fingernail polish all matched her jet-black hair, and gave an edge to her gentle features, making her look cute but also slightly threatening. The way she liked it.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “I know you’re not going to tell me where this trial is, but I’m gonna ask anyway.” She grabbed a sweatshirt from the wall hook and flipped the silk scarf I’d bought her on my last trip to India around her neck. “Where’s the trial, Patrick?”

  Because of her sable hair and free spirit, I’d taken to calling her Raven at times—part of the reason she’d chosen that image for her tattoo—and now I said, “I can’t tell you about the trial, Raven. You know that my work life and my family life have to stay—”

  “Separate. I know. Just thought I’d ask.”

  She stepped around some of the moving boxes and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  Neither of us knew who her biological father was and she didn’t have any close relatives, so after her mother died, the two of us had grieved together, struggled together, and finally grown to love each other in a way that made me feel like her real dad.

  I looked at my watch. With my FBI clearance I could go directly to the gate at the airport, so security wouldn’t be a problem, but traffic might be. “Listen, I need to—”

  “This one’s different, though, isn’t it?” She was staring at her coffee and twirling a spoon through it, though I didn’t recall her adding anything to the mug.

  I thought I might know where she was going with her question but hoped I was wrong. “What do you mean?”

  “Like when you were preparing for it and stuff.” She didn’t look up from the coffee cup. “I watched you. I could tell. It’s . . .”

  She might have paused to search for the right word, but as brilliant as she was, I doubted it. I suspected she was waiting to let me fill in the blank—probably with the word personal—but instead I simply said, “Yes. This one is different.”

  A slight pause. She picked up the cup and walked past me toward her room. “C’mon. Help me with my necklace. I can never get that stupid clasp to work.”

  Getting to the airport would be tight, but I could tell that something more important than just the necklace was on her mind. I decided to give myself a couple more minutes.

  By the time I’d reached her room she’d already set her coffee on the dresser and was digging through her jewelry box. “Who is it? This guy, this trial? At least tell me his name.”

  “Tessa, you know I can’t talk about my—”

  “Just his name.”

  “He’s a killer, Tessa, that’s all you need to know. I was the one who caught him, a long time ago. Before I ever met your mother.”

  “So what did he do to his victims?”

  “He killed them.”

  “He did more than that or it wouldn’t bother you this much.”

  “Tessa—”

  “C’mon. You’re always doing this, you bring something up and then you won’t finish talking about it.”

  I blinked. “I didn’t bring it up, you did.”

  She pulled out the black tourmaline necklace I’d given to her last October for her birthday. “Stop being argumentative.” She handed me the necklace, took a seat on the bed, and watched me in the bedroom mirror.

  “I’m not being argumentative.” I draped the necklace around her neck. Tried to snap the clasp shut.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I say you are being argumentative.”

  “Well, I say I’m—”

  She smiled and gave me a slight eyebrow raise.

  “Look.” Teenagers shouldn’t be allowed to do that. There should be a rule. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Now you’re avoiding my question.”

  I was still working on the clasp. She was right, it was tricky.

  “Tessa, you hate hearing about dead bodies. Blood, any of that stuff. Which, by the way”—I pointed to the posters of her favorite band, Death Nail 13, and the framed picture of Edgar Allan Poe, his dark, troubled eyes staring at me from across the room—“what’s the deal with these bands and Poe, anyhow? I mean, all he writes about is death and the macabre.”

  “Just one of my winsome incongruities, part of what makes me so adorable.”

  Winsome incongruities.

  Great.

  “You listen to death metal and sleep with a teddy bear.”

  “You’re trying to change the subject, and it won’t work. Just summarize for me. Broad strokes.”

  I finished with the necklace. Tried to think of an appropriate way to describe to a seventeen-year-old girl what Basque had done, and finally just ended up saying, “This man, he did a lot of bad things.”

  “Oh, really? A killer who did bad things? What an anomaly.” She was still watching me in her mirror. “I never would have guessed that.” Then after a moment, when I didn’t respond, her voice became thinner, more serious. An edge of apprehension. “How bad?”

  A pause.

  “Silence of the Lambs bad,” I said at last.

  She looked at me through her mirror. “Are you scared of him?”

  “Look, could we just drop it? I need to get to the airport—”

  “Well, are you?” She turned from the mirror and looked me directly in the eye.

  Admitting that I was scared of anyone didn’t seem like the valiant- FBI-agent-thing to do, but I figured she’d be able to tell if I wasn’t being straight with her. I took a small breath. “What he did to those women . . . He made me question things—about how much evil we’re capable of, what each of us is . . .”

  She gazed at me steadily for a moment, and I could see her in satiable curiosity wrestling with her squeamishness about death.

  “So,” she said at last. “You are scared of him.”

  I gave her the truth. “Yes.”

  She was quiet for a long time. “Good,” she said finally. “I’m glad.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  A shadowy moment settled around us, and even though I really needed to get going, I didn’t want to leave her alone with thoughts of murderers and death.

  “Good luck on your exams.”

  “They don’t start till Monday.”

  “G
otcha. And you’re sleeping over at Dora’s tonight, right?” When she nodded, I added, “Don’t keep Dr. Bender up all night.”

  “Right.”

  When I travel, Tessa often stays with my parents, who live about fifteen minutes away on the outskirts of Denver. This week my father was on a fishing trip in Wisconsin with my brother Sean, but my mother was still here. “Call Martha if there are any problems.”

  “I will.” She grabbed a gray canvas floppy hat from her bedpost and slapped it on her head. The hat looked like it’d been run over half a dozen times by a pickup.

  “When you get back home in the morning, do a little packing, OK?”

  She groaned with her eyeballs. “I don’t get why we have to take so much stuff. We’re only leaving for the summer, it’s not like—”

  “Just do some packing, OK?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Which is really your way of saying, ‘I love you and I’d be glad to do that for you, Patrick.’ Right?”

  A tiny smile. “Possibly.”

  We left her bedroom and on my way through the house, I grabbed my suitcase and computer bag from my room and then met her by the front door. “All right. I should be back by noon tomorrow.

  We can grab lunch together.” I set down my bags, gave her a small hug. “I have to go.”

  “Wait.” She held me at arm’s length. “Is there a chance he’ll be released?”

  “There’s always a chance.”

  She gave me a solemn, unsettling look. “If he scares you . . . I mean . . . there’s . . . Just do a good job, OK?”

  All I can do is tell the truth.

  “OK,” I said.

  Then I kissed her on the forehead, picked up my bags, and left for Chicago.

  6

  The Cook County Criminal Courthouse

  The corner of West 26th and South California

  Avenue

  Chicago, Illinois

  11:52 a.m. Central Time

  With the number of death penalty protestors and counter-protestors surrounding the courthouse, South California Avenue had been closed off, so Dr. Calvin Werjonic and I parked a block away. We stepped out of his car, and I shielded my eyes from the pelting rain.