The Knight pbf-3

by Steven James

“I have to go after John. We can’t leave Cody alone.”

  “I know, but I’m not… No. I can’t do it.”

  “Yes, you can. You just brought us out of the tailspin and landed with no problem.” I saw my knife on the floor. Retrieved it. “Trust your gut-”

  “We’ll get some paramedics up here.”

  Arguing about it was getting us nowhere. I carefully sliced Cody’s pants leg to take a closer look at the bite.

  The area surrounding the wound was already black and distended. We both stared at it.

  He was in bad shape, and she could tell. She laid a gentle hand on his knee and closed her eyes, took a long breath, then let it out slowly. “OK.” She opened her eyes. “But I’m coming back to help you.” A fiery intensity shot through her words.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  We moved Cody to another seat, then she situated herself in the cockpit.

  “You’ll do fine!” I yelled. I’d exited the helicopter and was standing just outside her door. I had to shout to be heard over the roar of the motor.

  “Find him,” she hollered. “Stop him!”

  “I will!”

  I reached for the door, but before I could close it, she grazed her hand against mine. She said nothing, but communicated everything.

  But in that moment I found myself wishing it was Lien-hua with me instead of her. I felt vaguely guilty and squeezed her hand gently, then let go and waved her off. “Go!”

  I closed the door and she repositioned her headphones and tapped at the controls in front of her. Then I ran from the churning whirlwind kicked up by the rotors, and after I’d made it about ten meters I turned and watched her lift off into the purple Colorado dusk.

  A little shaky, but not bad.

  As she flew away, I bolted up the road toward the mine.

  Tessa was having a hard time wrapping her mind around everything that Dora was telling her.

  Apparently, it wasn’t Paul’s letter that had changed her mom’s mind about the abortion. “You’re telling me it was a bunch of magazine ads?” she said. “Like that picture of the girl and the jewelry box?”

  Dora nodded. “That’s what she wrote in her diary.”

  The doorbell rang.

  The two officers stared at each other for a moment.

  Another ring. Martha stood. “I’ll get it.”

  “No,” the shorter of the two cops said. “We’re on it.” Both officers headed to the door.

  They unsnapped their holsters.

  The taller cop eased the door open, and Tessa saw Dora’s dad, Dr. Bender, standing on the front porch. “What’s going on in here?” He sounded upset. “Is it true you wouldn’t let my daughter call me?”

  Tessa glanced up and saw Martha smile at her with a sly, grand-motherly smile, and she remembered seeing her on the phone a few minutes earlier.

  Yeah, you go girl.

  “Dora,” Dr. Bender said. “Go get your things. I’m not leaving here without you.”

  I arrived at the other helicopter and found a pool of blood on the floor of the cockpit and thin streaks of it splayed across the control panels, the seats.

  He cut Cliff. Cut him bad.

  No sign of Cliff or the killer, but Amy Lynn’s body lay in the backseat.

  She wasn’t moving, and when I felt for a pulse I realized that her neck was grotesquely swollen. With no pulse, no breathing, and a blocked airway, I couldn’t administer CPR. There wasn’t anything I could do for her-then a thick ridge gliding beneath her shirt confirmed to me what the killer had done.

  I felt my teeth clench.

  As a small gesture of respect, I shook the snake out of the bottom of her shirt. Kicked it out of the chopper.

  I knew the killer would be ready for me, but Cliff was obviously bleeding profusely, and I wasn’t about to wait around for backup to arrive. I grabbed the chopper’s first aid kit, removed a roll of athletic tape, and jammed it into my pocket.

  A trail of blood led from the helicopter to the mine. I aimed my gun at the entrance. Pulled out my flashlight.

  And entered the tunnel.

  110

  Just inside the entrance.

  Cool air.

  Silence, except for the faint plink of water dripping somewhere out of sight.

  I swept my light around the tunnel. Saw the rough-hewn support beams, the minerals shimmering in the walls, the narrow-gauge tracks at my feet. The place where John had left Heather Fain’s body.

  For a moment I envisioned her corpse lying there, Chris Arlington’s disembodied heart resting on her chest, the ten candles surrounding her. I felt my anger grow into resolve. John’s gruesome story had started in this abandoned mine a week ago, and it was going to end here, tonight.

  No sign of anyone in the tunnel.

  The blood trail ended at my feet. At the far reach of my flashlight’s beam, an intersecting tunnel led to the east. I jogged to it, turned off my Maglite, and crouched low. After a breath to steady myself and my gun, I stepped around the corner, flicking on my light again. Its beam sliced through the black air.

  No one.

  I shut off the flashlight and peered into the darkness-first this tunnel, then the main one, but saw no other lights. Heard nothing.

  Which tunnel did they take?

  Maglite on once again, I inspected both branches of the mine.

  Nothing in the main passageway, but at last, about five meters into the adjoining tunnel, I found more blood.

  After only a few paces it disappeared.

  The drops of blood were oval, and based on their size, shape, and proximity, I decided the men must have been moving quickly. The trail was still damp but easy to miss on the dark soil.

  I took a moment to mark the tunnel so Cheyenne and the high angle rescue team could find it when they arrived, then I sprinted down the passageway toward the next intersection.

  Dora zipped her school backpack closed. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” Tessa said. “And hey, thanks for all your help today, you know, with the diary.”

  “No problem. I hope you find your dad.”

  “Me too.”

  Dora swung her backpack over her shoulder and as she turned toward the door, it bumped Tessa’s jewelry box off the dresser and all her necklaces and earrings spilled across the carpet.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s all right.” Tessa leaned over to pick them up. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Almost ready?” Dr. Bender called from downstairs.

  “I’ll be right there!” Dora shouted. She was kneeling beside Tessa, helping her pick up the jewelry. “Seriously, I should have been more careful. Making a mess of things. Pandora, right? Makes sense.”

  Tessa paused, her hand on the jewelry box. “Wait. What did you say my mom wrote? About this box?”

  “She wanted to remember the day she changed her mind.”

  “Right.” Tessa lifted the box, tipped everything out of it and handed it to Dora

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want you to have it.”

  Dora’s face was full of surprise. “No, your mom gave this to you.”

  “Remember the story, your story? The last thing out of the box?”

  “Dora!” Dr. Bender’s voice rolled up the stairs. “Everything all right?”

  “I’ll be right there!” she yelled.

  “This morning Martha told me I shouldn’t punish myself for something I had no control over.”

  “You mean your mom not wanting to have you.”

  “Right. But you’re doing the same thing. That baby’s death wasn’t your fault. I want you to remember that. Hope. A new start. The last thing out.”

  Dora finally accepted the box. “Thanks,” she said softly. “I get it.”

  As they were leaving the room, Tessa saw the diary lying on the bed.

  She picked it up and headed for the stairs.

  Nothing.

  I’d been
traveling through the tunnel as quickly as I could, but after ten minutes I still hadn’t found either Colonel Freeman or the killer.

  The trail of blood stopped and started intermittently but always appeared at intersections or at the top of the wooden ladders that led deeper into the mine. John was controlling Cliff’s bleeding, using the blood to guide me.

  Like a lamb to the slaughter.

  I would descend a ladder or series of ladders, come to another tunnel, head in the direction of the blood, then the trail would disappear until I arrived at another intersection or shaft marked with more blood, and then I would descend once again.

  All one elaborate game.

  But this time he wasn’t going to win.

  Earlier, when I’d started wondering if Grant Sikora had told me Ari’s name and I’d learned that Ari had been seen in public with Amy Lynn, I’d started to doubt that he was John.

  The real killer was too meticulous, too careful. Based on all that we knew about him, with his intellect, his aptitude, he never would have told Sikora his real name. Or for that matter, been seen publicly with Amy Lynn.

  Even the idea of calling in the tip from the dispatch room was too perfect. Too tidy. It left a giant arrow pointing directly at him.

  The circuitous route marked by blood led me deeper and deeper into the more primitive, less maintained sections of the mine. Here, more fissures and cracks ran through the walls. Fewer support beams braced the ceiling, and I could see evidence of more cave-ins.

  But if Ari wasn’t the killer, who was?

  I still didn’t know.

  I descended three more ladders, all marked faintly with blood, and I was about to start down a fourth when I heard movement below me. I clicked off my light. Listened.

  Nothing more.

  I stared through the darkness and saw a faint hint of light coming from somewhere in the tunnel where the ladder terminated about fifteen meters below me.

  Keeping my light off, I descended as quickly as I could, feeling for the rungs with my feet, my hands.

  I’d made it to the tenth rung when I heard a voice, definitely a voice. I froze. Listened.

  Yes, it was Cliff, that much I could tell. And though I couldn’t make out most of what he was yelling, I did hear the words “rigged” and “blow” before he was abruptly cut off.

  I began to descend again, watching carefully for any movement below me.

  Thoughts tumbled through my mind.

  The evidence room in Chicago… the dispatch center in Denver. .. the location of the hospital’s security cameras… who could have gained access to them all?

  He’s forensically aware. He knows poisons and toxins, arson, self-defense, how to mask GPS locations…

  I reached the tunnel.

  Strategically, I was in a terrible position. If John had a gun trained on the end of the ladder, as soon as I climbed down it would all be over.

  I needed to find out if there was anyone waiting for me, and it looked like there was just enough light to do it. I wedged my legs against the side of the shaft, clung to a rung with one hand like I did when I climbed across the ceiling of my garage, and held my gun in my other hand. Then, I dipped my head down into the tunnel for a fraction of a second. Saw no one.

  Quickly, I repositioned myself, and then, gun ready, dropped to the ground.

  Still no one.

  Just a thin smear of light easing toward me from around a bend about ten meters away. Flickering. Wavering. Probably from a lantern or a torch.

  I thought of the candles surrounding Heather Fain’s body.

  All ten were burning when we arrived.

  All ten.

  The wax flow told us they’d been burning for two hours.

  And there were candles at Reggie’s house too.

  The killer sent him a text message to hurry home.

  Reggie had tried to keep Amy Lynn out of protective custody… He was the one who took the sketch artist to visit Kelsey Nash, and Thomas Bennett…

  Three of the candles went out while we were investigating Heather’s body.

  Two were out in the Greers’ bedroom.

  Reggie was called in to process the mine, the ranch house, Taylor’s garage, the tire impressions… The pot of basil was sent to his wife…

  It was all so perfect. So clever.

  A lamb being led to the slaughter.

  The oven was still preheating.

  Yes.

  That was it. That was the key.

  The cube twisted. The final side clicked into place.

  The killer couldn’t have been Reggie.

  Only one person could have pulled off these crimes.

  Slowly, carefully, SIG steady, I moved through the tunnel toward the man who’d proven to be one of the most brilliant criminals I’d ever met.

  John.

  Giovanni.

  The Day Four Killer.

  My friend, Lieutenant Kurt Mason.

  111

  The tunnel’s bend and the lambent, flickering light lay just in front of me.

  “Kurt,” I called. The word echoed eerily through the dusty air.

  “Let Cliff go. It’s time to end this.”

  “Congratulations, Pat,” he replied from somewhere around the bend. “Welcome to the story.”

  I took a deep breath, leveled my SIG, and stepped around the corner.

  Cliff stood ten meters away, a strip of duct tape across his mouth.

  Kurt was behind him, a straight razor against his throat. He’d twisted Cliff’s arm behind his back to subdue him.

  I sighted down the barrel. “Hands to the side.”

  “You called my name just now. You knew I was the one. How?”

  Blood was dripping from Cliff’s right arm, forming a dark stain on the ground. Based on the amount of blood he’d already lost, I was surprised he was still conscious. He needed medical care and he needed it fast.

  “The oven. It was still preheating when we arrived.”

  Confusion. “The oven?”

  Kurt had carefully positioned himself behind Cliff so that only the edge of his face was visible. I aimed my gun at his eye. “I’m not kidding, Kurt. Put down the blade.” But even as I said the words I knew I couldn’t make the shot. Cheyenne was the only person I’d ever met who could have put a bullet into Kurt’s eyeball from this distance.

  “You’re not going to shoot me, Pat. Tell me about the oven.”

  A quick survey of the tunnel: a lantern hung from a support beam between us. On Kurt’s left-a platform that’d probably been used to lower ore carts hung about a meter down in an access shaft. Even from where I stood I could see C-4 explosives wired to the shaft walls. Considering Cliff’s words “rigged” and “blow” I had a pretty good idea of what Kurt had in mind. A ceiling beam above the platform held a double pulley and the release mechanism for the rope.

  “You should have bought better quality candles,” I said.

  He didn’t reply.

  “How long does it take for an oven to preheat to 450 degrees?”

  He took a moment to think. “So you knew the killer hadn’t been gone long.”

  “Yes. And two of the candles on the dresser had blown out, even though they’d only recently been lit. So that got me thinking about the mine. How could all ten candles have been burning when we arrived? All ten burning continuously for two hours? Three went out in the short time we were processing the scene.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Very nice.”

  “You were the first one in the mine, Kurt, you told me so. You didn’t light the candles when you left Heather’s body, you lit them after you responded to the 911 call, just before the rest of us arrived.”

  “You really are good, Pat, but that’s all circumstantial.”

  “Maybe I’m learning to trust my gut.” I pressed my finger against the trigger. “Now, I’m telling you, put your hands to the side.”

  “That’s not going to happen. Toss me your gun.”

  “Drop the razo
r blade, Kurt, or I swear, I will shoot you.”

  He looked at the blood tipping from Cliff’s right hand. “Do you really want to keep stalling? Don’t let him die like this, Pat. He has a family. I’ll let him live if you work with me here. Now, please, toss your gun to me.”

  A torrent of anger and desperation.

  Think, Pat. Think.

  Options: (1) fire, and chance killing Cliff; (2) stall, and watch him die; (3) comply, and buy some time.

  Kurt’s face was just barely visible. Just barely.

  Take the shot, Pat. Take it.

  I drew in a small breath.

  Aimed.

  Aimed.

  But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t chance hitting Cliff in the face.

  Comply, Pat. Buy some time.

  I let go of the SIG’s grip, let the gun hang from my trigger finger. Then, slowly, I lifted my hands. “There’s no way out of this, Kurt.” I couldn’t believe this man had been my friend. That I’d ever trusted him. “Backup will be here any minute.”

  He shook his head. “You were alone when you entered the mine. Cheyenne left in the chopper. We have plenty of time. Now, throw me your gun. Watching someone’s throat being slit is very disturbing. Once you see it happen, the image never goes away.”

  I saw Cliff quiver. Kurt gestured toward the shaft wired with the C-4. “Not something you’d want replaying in your mind for the next three months.”

  Three months?

  I stared at the shaft for a moment and realized what he was saying.

  He pressed the straight razor tighter against Cliff’s neck, and a thin line of blood appeared.

  “OK!” I yelled.

  “Next time it’s deeper.”

  “All right. I’m doing it.” I bent toward the ground.

  “Slowly.”

  I tossed the SIG halfway between us.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to Cliff. “I’m going to get you out of this.”

  He gave me a small nod.

  “Now, your knife and your phone,” Kurt said. “All the way to me this time.”

  “Let me stop his bleeding, Kurt. Then you can-”

  “Throw them to me.”

  I deliberated for a moment, then tossed my Wraith to him. It landed at his feet and he kicked it to the side, sending it clattering down the shaft. Then I threw him Tessa’s phone, which he smashed with his heel.