Knight, The

by Steven James

  The fire climbed the wall to my left, toward the hayloft.

  I scanned the barn but couldn’t see any way for me to get out. I knew the horse could gallop through the burning hay, but I’d be lucky to make it as far as the cage.

  I reached for the latch and studied the chains holding up the cage.

  The opening from the sliding doors is nearly three meters high . . .

  The horse stamped and circled. “Open the gate!” Cheyenne yelled.

  You can’t make the shot, Pat. Not from here.

  No, but Cheyenne can.

  I pointed to the length of chain attached to the corner of the cage closest to me. “Shoot the base of the chain!”

  “What?”

  “The chain. The closest one. Shoot it at the base!” Holding on wouldn’t be easy, but it’d be a lot easier than crawling upside down across the ceiling of my garage.

  She gave me a puzzled look, then I pointed to the fire snaking up the wall toward the hayloft, and at last it registered. She drew her gun. “Open the latch!”

  “But—”

  “Do it!”

  I threw open the gate, but instead of taking aim she kicked the horse into a flat-out gallop.

  No!

  Now I’ll never get—

  As the Appaloosa raced through the blaze, Cheyenne swung her gun to the right and fired four shots at the chain as they passed the cage.

  A clang.

  The cage’s corner dropped to the ground, and the chain nearest me swung free.

  This woman could shoot a gun.

  The chain would be too hot to touch and probably too short to reach the ladder’s base, so I grabbed one of the horse blankets and dashed toward the cage.

  51

  I reached the cage and whipped the end of the horse blanket around the chain. Cinched it tight and ran back to the hayloft pulling the chain with me.

  Holding the blanket, I climbed the ladder. The flames that were snaking up the wall raced me to the hayloft.

  I scrambled onto the landing and stood. Stared across the barn.

  I had a straight shot from the loft to the sliding doors, and the opening was high enough, but I’d need to avoid hitting the other chains and keep my feet above the flames raging across the floor.

  But I could do it.

  Maybe.

  Flames began to finger their way over the edge of the hayloft and lick at the hay around my feet.

  You need to go. Now.

  I moved the blanket up the chain. Squeezed it.

  Took a deep breath.

  And jumped.

  52

  I swung through the barn.

  Gauged my timing. Waited.

  Flung my body toward the opening.

  And let go.

  I landed hard on my left side just beyond the edge of the flames, and rolled out the door, through the dirt, rolled, rolled away from the blaze until at last, I pushed myself to my feet and scrambled into the field.

  The heat chased me, but with every stride it grew less fierce, less intense.

  A quick breath.

  Another.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the barn erupt into a ball of flame that mushroomed into the deep blue Colorado sky. A gust of heat swooped over me, and I had to cover my face with my arm and turn my back to the fire.

  When I looked up I saw Cheyenne about five meters away, hurrying toward me, leading the Appaloosa. She’d managed to get Thomas off the horse, and he was leaning against a fence post nearby. “Pat!” she called. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m all right.” Looking toward the barn, I saw that the gray Infiniti was gone. “You?”

  She nodded and let go of the halter. The horse left and joined its partner, who was already more interested in nibbling grass than watching the burning barn. Although they each had some singed hair, thankfully neither animal looked seriously injured.

  Police sirens wailed through the neighboring canyons.

  If John was in the Infiniti, we might be able to catch him leaving the property.

  I pulled out my cell but discovered it was cracked and dead. I must have smashed it when I landed and rolled away from the fire. Cheyenne noticed and handed me hers.

  “Thanks.” I tapped in Kurt’s number and stepped away from Bennett so I could talk in private.

  Kurt answered before I could say a word. “Cheyenne, we’re on our way.”

  “It’s Pat,” I explained. “Cheyenne’s here with me. Listen, we’re looking for a male Caucasian, medium build, dressed in blue jeans and a gray shirt.” I gave him the plate numbers for the Infiniti.

  “Gotcha. I’ll pass it on.”

  Then, a thought. “Wait. He changed clothes once. He might have changed again. And it’s possible there are two men.”

  “OK.”

  I oriented myself to the steep, thickly forested terrain surrounding the ranch and considered the most recent research on the rational choice patterns of fleeing suspects. “If he’s on foot,” I told Kurt, “he’ll tend to bear right and favor southern slopes. He’ll head downhill. If he’s still in the car, tell your officers to look for him to take a left on Piney Oaks Road, then two rights. He’ll avoid the first on ramp to the highway—”

  “Pat,” he said. He sounded a little annoyed. “We’re on it.”

  “Have Colonel Freeman circle the area. What about road blocks, other air support?”

  “Done.”

  I looked at the barn. “And send a fire truck. He burned down the barn. No known casualties.” But even as I said the words I realized that by the time a fire suppression unit arrived, it’d be too late to do any good. Still, it seemed best to have a fire truck on site just in case. “And have the Arapaho forest station send a firefighter unit in case this fire decides to spread.”

  “I’ll call it in,” Kurt said. “See you in a minute.” We ended the call, and I handed Cheyenne her phone.

  “I was coming back for you,” she said softly. She was close enough now for me to see the intense concern on her face. “I thought maybe you . . .”

  “He tried to kill me,” Thomas called to us.

  We went to him, and as I walked, I realized that landing on my side hadn’t helped my bruised ribs feel better, but I reassured myself that it hurt a lot less than being burned alive.

  Kneeling beside him, I noticed that he’d suffered first- and second-degree burns on the right side of his face, neck, and arm, but he didn’t appear to have any third-degree burns or life-threatening injuries. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He nodded stiffly.

  “You’re safe now. Help will be here soon.”

  He stared at me somewhat suspiciously. “You a cop?”

  “FBI. I’m Special Agent Bowers. Did you get a look at the man who attacked you?”

  The swirling lights of squad cars and several ambulances appeared on the potholed road leading to the ranch.

  Thomas shook his head. “Wore a mask.” His voice was strained. “Was he in there? Is he dead?”

  No, the car is gone.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Listen to me, Thomas, was it possible there were two men?”

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.” His hand was quivering. He turned to Cheyenne. “My wife. You’re sure she’s safe?”

  “The police are on their way to your house. She’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said to him. “We’ll get the man who did this.”

  Cheyenne stepped away to signal to the patrol units where we were.

  “He was gonna kill me,” Thomas muttered. “He drugged me. Knocked me out.”

  He seemed to be speaking to me from another place. “Thomas, did he say anything about the drugs he used on you? Do you know what they were?”

  Thomas shook his head and repeated himself. “He was gonna kill me.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. The paramedics will be here in a minute.”

  He took a choppy breath and
nodded and watched the emergency vehicles rumble toward us.

  Cheyenne returned and I motioned toward a nearby pine. “Hey, can we talk for a second?” I assured Thomas we’d be right back and he nodded to me, but his attention was already on the approaching ambulances.

  “Was the car gone when you got out here?”

  “Yes. But we’ll get him, Pat. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  Sweat and dark soot streaked Cheyenne’s face. “You sure you’re all right?” I asked her softly.

  “I’m fine.” She took my wrists in her hands and gently turned them so that my hands were palms up. “Are you?”

  Only then did I notice the burns on my forearms—not serious. Mostly first degree. They looked like bad sunburns. “I’ll be OK.”

  She was still holding my wrists. I didn’t mind.

  “You need to soak,” she said. “A good, cool bath. And lots of aloe vera.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Finally, she let go, and I felt my hands drop to my sides.

  “That was an amazing shot,” I said. “The chain. Thanks for that.”

  I wanted to ask her about that shot—something was bothering me about it, but I decided that could wait until things had settled down a little.

  She shook her head, obviously frustrated with herself. “It took me four shots.” She brushed some scorched, matted hay off my shoulder.

  Her voice felt as gentle as her touch, and my troubled relationship with Lien-hua seemed like something that had ended a very long time ago.

  Cheyenne let her hand pause on the side of my neck. “I’m glad you made it out of there, Agent Bowers.”

  “I’m glad you made it out as well.” I looked into her eyes and saw the fire from the barn reflecting in them, dancing across them.

  “You sent me out first,” she whispered. “You were willing to stay behind, to—”

  “Shh,” I said.

  At last she let her hand glide from my neck.

  And then we were both quiet for a few moments, but our eyes kept carrying on a conversation of their own.

  The first ambulance rolled to a stop beside Thomas. Two EMTs jumped out and hurried to him. On the other side of the field, three men wearing CSU jackets were heading toward the house.

  I would’ve liked to keep standing there staring into the rich depths of Cheyenne’s eyes, but I knew I needed to get back to work.

  “I’m going to take a quick look up there before things get crazy.”

  “Right,” she said, her voice losing its softness, returning to normal. We were working a case again. We were professionals. “John likes snakes,” she added, and I remembered that she’d searched the house briefly when we first arrived at the ranch.

  “He likes snakes?”

  “He has half a dozen aquariums filled with them. And one of the rooms in the house is locked, I didn’t get in there. I heard the barking and came to help you at the barn.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “I’ll see if I can get a more detailed description of the suspect from Bennett.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “All right.”

  An awkward pause. I found it hard to look away from her. “So, I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I said.

  “OK.”

  Then, simultaneously I stepped to the right and she stepped to the left so that we were standing face to face again.

  “Hmm,” she said. “Great minds.” She grasped my arms, held me gently in place, and stepped past me to the right.

  It wasn’t easy redirecting my thoughts onto the case, but I closed my eyes, took a couple breaths, then opened them and started for the house.

  Soot and ash roiled through the air all around me.

  I thought of the heart laying on Heather’s chest . . . the wide streak of blood on the floor of Taylor’s garage . . . Kelsey Nash huddled on the floor, left to die in the freezer . . . Thomas Bennett bound to the wheelchair beside the cage . . .

  Considering the appalling nature of the crimes John had already committed, I wondered what kind of evidence we might discover inside the ranch house.

  53

  As I neared the house, I reminded myself that, even though we hadn’t caught John yet, we were right on his heels and closing in fast.

  Helicopters.

  Roadblocks.

  The net was tightening.

  I’ll get you, John, I thought. You’re mine.

  But even as the thought crossed my mind, so did another: Don’t be so sure.

  I glanced again at the smoldering remains of the barn and thought of how John had been ready for us, how he’d set a trap that had almost burned Cheyenne, Thomas, and me alive. I thought of how he’d managed to enter and leave the morgue without appearing on any surveillance cameras . . . of how he’d been able to find Sebastian Taylor, one of the most elusive men ever to land on the FBI’s most wanted list . . .

  And then, as I considered the recorded message in the mine and the handwritten note he’d left for me in Sebastian Taylor’s garage, all of the facts, everything, I had a disturbing thought that I wanted to discount, but that I couldn’t shake. Maybe you’re not the one closing in on him, Pat; maybe he’s the one closing in on you.

  But then I arrived at the house, and my thoughts were interrupted by the shouts that came from one of the CSU members inside.

  An officer standing beside the front door rushed inside, and I ran up the steps behind him, close on his heels.

  The first thing that struck me was the heat—mid-eighties, maybe higher. Someone had cranked the thermostat. All the lights were off, and when I flicked the switch by the door, nothing happened.

  The hallway was nearly black.

  Turning on my Maglite, I shouldered past the confused-looking officer now blocking my path.

  Two CSU technicians stood at the end of the hall staring into the kitchen. “Easy, Reggie. Easy,” one of them said. Then, “Where’s Harwood with that shovel?”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Rattlesnake,” the man said in a hushed tone, as if saying the word softly would somehow make the snake less dangerous. The grimy kitchen window let only a dim haze of light into the room, and as I eased past him, my flashlight beam found the snake: a healthy-sized Western Diamondback, coiled in the middle of the kitchen, rattling its tail.

  Beyond the snake, Reggie Greer stood cornered by the sink.

  “Forget the shovel,” the guy beside me said. “Just shoot it.”

  “Not with Reggie behind it,” I said. “We miss the snake, the bullet could ricochet and hit him.”

  “Yeah, let’s not shoot it,” Reggie said.

  “There are better ways.” It’d been almost two decades since I’d worked as a wilderness guide and had been trained to deal with venomous snakes, but I figured I could at least remember enough to get the snake safely out of the house.

  “Got another one in the bathroom!” someone yelled.

  I heard the officers around me edging backward. But one set of footsteps was approaching me. A cautious-looking woman with dark hair appeared beside me. I recognized her. Officer Linda Har-wood. She carried a shovel and a spade.

  “Let me,” I said.

  I accepted the spade and ventured into the kitchen as she stepped back with the shovel.

  The snake wavered its head toward Reggie, then wound its body into a tight circle.

  Rattled.

  “It’s gonna strike,” Linda whispered.

  “Shh.” I lowered the blade end of the spade in front of the snake’s head, and the rattlesnake turned its attention to the spade and tracked its movement. Reggie took a nervous step toward the refrigerator.

  “Stay still,” I said. “They’re attracted to movement.”

  He stood still.

  The rattler was now focused on the spade. Slowly, I moved the blade toward its head and then twisted the handle, hooking the snake’s neck in the crook of the spade like you might do with a real snake pole or snake stick. I
slowly rotated the spade, relying on the rattlesnake’s natural inclination to coil and hold on.

  Lifted it up.

  “Back up,” I told the people in the hall. “Let me through.”

  They seemed agreeable enough.

  By the time I’d turned around, the hallway was clear.

  Carrying the snake, I exited the house and walked to a nearby fence row. Even though I knew that lots of people don’t like snakes and would just as soon kill it, I deal with enough death in my life and I don’t believe in killing things that don’t deserve to die. So I carefully lowered the rattler to the ground, shook it free from the end of the spade, and stepped back. The snake went for cover beneath a scrub pine, where it coiled again and eyed me.

  “Where did you learn to do all that?” one of the police officers asked.

  “I watch Animal Planet,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you just kill it?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t that snake’s time to die.”

  “There’s a bunch of smashed aquariums in one of the bedrooms,” an officer yelled from the front steps of the house. “There’s snakes all over in there!”

  Then it was clear to me why the suspect had killed the lights and turned up the thermostat: he knew we’d sweep the house and he’d entrusted it to his pets to slow us down. The heat would liven up the snakes.

  This guy was something else.

  I noticed Kurt striding toward me. “Is everybody out?” he yelled.

  I deferred with a glance to Officer Harwood. She took a quick count. “Yes.”

  “All right, that’s it,” Kurt yelled. “Nobody goes back in. We’ll get Animal Control out here. Let’s start by processing the exterior doors and the porch.”

  As people began to disperse and get to work, I walked to Kurt. “Anything on John?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t even found the car yet. We’re checking every possible route out of here.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I’m going back in the house. There might be something in there that’ll lead us to him.”

  “No, Pat. We can’t have anyone getting bitten. Don’t worry, I’ll have the CSU work with Animal Control, make sure they don’t contaminate the scene.”