The Knight pbf-3

by Steven James

  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.”

  I could understand that he didn’t want to put anyone in harm’s way, but my mind was made up. “Kurt, if there’s even a chance we can find a clue to his whereabouts, or possible associates, we need to move on it now.” I pointed to the rattler I’d removed from the house.

  “I’m good with snakes. I’ll go in by myself. I’ll be careful.”

  He deliberated for a few seconds, and then at last said, “All right. Yeah. Do it.”

  “Let me use your phone.”

  He looked at me curiously.

  “Video,” I said. “Mine’s out of commission.”

  He handed me his cell. “Watch your step.”

  “I intend to.”

  And then, armed with the spade and the Maglite, I reentered the snake-infested house.

  54

  The agitated snakes slid through the shadows around me, the sound of their thin, dry rattles cautioning me to be careful where I stepped.

  I heeded the warning.

  With the house deserted, the snakes seemed to feel at ease exploring the hallway. As they slithered through my flashlight’s beam, the light shimmered off their scales, making their bodies look as if they were glistening and wet rather than dry and rough.

  And even though I knew how dangerous the rattlesnakes were, I couldn’t help but admire their elegant diamond designs as they moved with beautiful, deadly grace across the carpet. I reminded myself that they didn’t want any trouble from me any more than I wanted trouble from them, but that didn’t settle my pounding heart.

  I walked in a circuit through the kitchen, the living room, the dining room. Earlier, Cheyenne had told me that the ranch’s owner, Elwin Daniels, was in his early seventies, and now I saw that the dated furnishings, knickknacks, and pictures on the wall bore that out.

  By the time I arrived at the bedroom that had held the aquariums, I’d counted more than a dozen rattlesnakes and twice had to slide snakes out of my way with the spade.

  The aquariums lay smashed on the floor. Ten more snakes slithered between the shards of glass or huddled against the wall.

  Carefully, I took video of the room, getting the perspective from four different locations.

  Next, the bathroom.

  On the countertop beside the sink lay a toothbrush, razor, and four tubes of toothpaste. I opened the medicine cabinet and found it empty except for six sterilized hypodermic needles. I took video of everything, then went to the last room, the one at the end of the hall.

  The room that was still locked.

  I laid the spade against the wall and pulled out my SIG and lock pick set.

  It took me only a moment to pick the lock.

  I eased the door open. A quick glance around the room told me no one was there. Just a few more rattlers.

  But when my eyes found the bed, ice slid down my back.

  Resting on a pillow and staring unblinkingly at the east wall lay the severed head of Sebastian Taylor.

  Insects had gotten to it and were doing their work.

  But I could still identify whose head it had been.

  The smell turned my stomach.

  I tore my eyes off the head and looked at the wall its face was directed at.

  Dozens of newspaper clippings had been tacked up, and the orientation of the head brought to mind the illusion that its eyes were reading the articles.

  Killers love to fantasize, to relive their murders either by reading about them, watching news reports, or recording the crimes themselves and then watching the videos, so I wasn’t surprised to see the articles-the shock came when I directed my flashlight at them and realized that these were not articles about the crimes John had committed in Colorado.

  No.

  Every one of the clippings was about the grisly crimes committed by Richard Devin Basque thirteen years ago in the Midwest.

  Steven James

  The Knight

  55

  I checked beneath the bed, then inside the closet, confirmed that no one was lying in wait inside the room.

  Then, avoiding the two rattlesnakes near the bed, I approached the wall with the articles.

  I recognized each of the sixteen victims’ Associated Press photos.

  Their names floated through my head: Sylvia Padilla, Juanita Worthy, Celeste Sikora…

  “Why, Patrick?”

  “W
hy?”

  John had kept clippings from the Milwaukee Sentinel, the Chicago Sun-Times, the Wisconsin State Journal, and even some of Wisconsin’s smaller local papers like the Janesville Gazette, creating a journalistic memorial of the slayings of Richard Devin Basque.

  A shrine.

  From the time I’d heard the recorded message in the mine on Thursday evening, it’d seemed evident to me that the killer in Colorado had some kind of connection to Basque’s trial in Chicago. I hadn’t seen how the two cases might be related before, but I did now.

  Richard Devin Basque had a fan.

  Finally, I came to fourteen articles that covered my arrest of Basque. In each of them, the reporters had included the AP photograph of me. One of the articles, written by a journalist named Zak Logan who’d hounded me for three weeks for an exclusive, described me as “The brave detective who tracked down and single handedly apprehended the man suspected to be responsible for the brutal slayings of at least a dozen women.”

  I remembered him now, and how upset I’d been that he’d written that I’d single-handedly caught Basque, as if the other officers on my team didn’t even exist.

  And in all of the clippings containing my picture, my face had been circled with a red pen.

  So, maybe Basque wasn’t the only one who had a fan.

  Maybe I did too.

  56

  Getting the video took me longer than I expected, but at last I stepped out of the house and noticed three of the CSU members gathered around Jake Vanderveld, who stood beside the scrub pine where I’d released the snake. He’d corralled the rattler into the open and was holding the shovel vertically, handle up, blade down.

  I started toward him, but before I could stop him, he raised the shovel and brought it down decisively, driving the blade through the snake’s neck and into the dirt. The head, along with about eight centimeters of neck, flopped onto the ground near the rattler’s body, which twisted and curled in the dirt.

  “Hey!” I closed the space between us and snatched the shovel from his hand. “What are you doing?”