The Knight pbf-3, Page 3

  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 was 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, Colorado6:32 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.”

  “Gotcha. 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 CourthouseThe corner of West 26th and South California Avenue Chicago, Illinois11:52 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.

  Despite the storm, snipers were in place all around the courthouse.

  Because of the possibility that Sebastian Taylor might show up, Ralph had coordinated efforts with the Chicago Police Department and the U.S. Marshals Service to provide coverage. But even with their help, I wasn’t sure we’d be able to locate Taylor. He was one of the most elusive and dangerous men I’d ever met, and I didn’t know too many people who were good enough to stop him.

  The recorded message in the mine hadn’t contained any specific threats against me, but if Taylor were here, I wanted to flush him out, so, even though there was a secure parking garage underneath the courthouse, I’d insisted that we not use it.

  I wanted to be in the open, where he could find me.

  Now, while I shuffled through my pockets for some change, Calvin, who was in his mid-seventies and looked like he was about to get blown away by the wind, tugged his London Fog trench coat tighter around himself. “I’ll meet you inside, my boy.” His light English accent flavored every word.

  “All right.”

  As he disappeared into the dark rain, lightning slithered across the sky, leaving a drumbeat of thunder in its wake. I slipped quarters into the parking meter.

  Calvin Werjonic, PhD, JD, had been my advisor nine years ago when I started my doctoral program in environmental criminology. That was also the year I made the transition from being a detective with the Milwaukee Police Department to becoming an FBI agent.

  For the next four years I’d buried myself in my postgraduate studies, while still working full-time for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Tough years. Very little personal life. Only a few friends, but when I finally finished my degree, Calvin shifted from being my professor to becoming one of them.

  Parking meter fed, I splashed across the street toward the courthouse, my eyes on the protestors. I’d thought the thunderstorm would have kept them away, but despite the weather it looked like three or four hundred people had shown up.

  I wondered which of them might be FBI agents or undercover officers.

  As I made my way to the building, I entertained the possibility that Taylor wasn’t the one who’d left the recording device in Heather’s mouth. In truth, it might have been almost anyone in the crowd.

  I looked for any familiar faces, for anyone who was making unnecessary eye contact with me, or purposely avoiding it, but I saw nothing unusual.

  There were at least 150 death-penalty supporters, some carrying signs with enlarged photos of the victims, others holding signs that read “An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

  The people gathered on the other side of the street waved “Death Does Not Equal Justice” and “Rehabilitate, Don’t Slaughter” signs. The two groups were trying to outshout each other.

  Two visions of justice.

  Two sides of the equation.

  Thankfully, the police had cleared a path and blockaded it with wooden sawhorses, so I was able to make it to the courthouse steps. I jogged up them as the wind whipped through the channel between the neighboring administration building and the courthouse, sending rain pelting into my face.

  7

  Calvin was shaking the rain off his trench coat when I found him in the entryway. “Quite a scene out there,” he said.

  “No surprise.” I brushed the water out of my hair. “Considering who’s on trial.” Even though we were inside, the temperature hadn’t changed. The central air must not have been working properly. I guessed it was somewhere around sixty-two degrees. Maybe cooler.

  Calvin was silent for a moment, then said, “I am a bit surprised they didn’t recognize you, my boy.”

  “It’s been thirteen years.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose it has.”

  I was scrutinizing the faces of the news reporters and bystanders in the lobby,
trying not to look like I was staring. Some of the victims’ family members wore black armbands. “Besides, killers are a lot more memorable than the guys who catch them. Nobody makes FBI agent or police officer trading cards, but three different companies make them for serial killers.”

  “That is a little troubling.”

  “More than a little.”

  A pack of reporters glanced in our direction and apparently recognized Calvin, because they began to flock toward us, eyes locked on him. He was used to media attention, being one of CNN’s most frequently called upon criminology experts, so it didn’t surprise me, but I like media interviews about as much as I like truck-stop coffee, and I think Calvin knew that because he walked past me to intercept them. “I’ll see you in the courtroom,” he said.

  I thanked him and headed for the security checkpoint where six officers stood sentry beside the three metal detectors. One of the officers, a squat man with an uneven dome of sheared-off hair, motioned for me to step forward. It took me a moment to empty my pockets and send my keys with my lock pick blades, along with my Mini Maglite flashlight and some change, through the X-ray machine.

  Before the officer could even ask for it, I handed him my ID and said, “FBI.”

  Then I removed my. 357 SIG P229 and the knife Ralph had given to me-a Randall King black automatic TSAVO-Wraith-and handed them over as well.

  The Wraith wasn’t the kind of knife I would’ve chosen on my own, but Ralph had told me I needed a good one and had given it to me last month. Tessa called the Wraith “wicked.”

  Which was actually a pretty good description.

  The officer, whose badge read Jamel Fohay, set my gun and knife on a table beside him, then stared at my ID while I laid my computer bag on the conveyor belt. “Fed, huh?” he said. “Big guy came through here a few minutes ago.”

  That would be Ralph.

  “Agent Hawkins.”