by Steven James
Cheyenne returned with plastic tweezers and an evidence bag. “CSU was thrilled to pass these along.”
“I’m sure they were.”
She handed me the tweezers, and I slid them carefully into Heather’s mouth. Squeezed the object to remove it.
And heard a voice.
“I’ll see you . . .”
I toppled backward.
“. . . in Chicago . . .”
A recording.
“. . . Agent Bowers.”
I caught my breath.
Felt my heart race.
I stared at the tweezers, at the small recordable device. It looked like the kind you find in some types of greeting cards. Depressing the sides had activated it.
“OK.” Cheyenne let out a long narrow breath. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
My heart was still hammering. “Me either.”
The message repeated. “I’ll see you in Chicago, Agent Bowers.”
I waited to see if there was more to it, but those seven words just repeated every six seconds. Carefully, I placed the recording device into the evidence bag.
“He knows about Chicago,” Cheyenne said, taking the bag from me. “About Basque’s trial.”
Tomorrow morning I was flying to Chicago to testify at the retrial of a serial killer named Richard Devin Basque, a man whom I’d caught thirteen years ago in my early days as an investigator. He’d been found guilty and had been imprisoned since then, but recently new evidence had emerged and now it was possible he might be set free.
I didn’t want to think about that now.
The recording continued playing: “I’ll see you in Chicago, Agent Bowers.”
The faint sound of dripping water.
For a moment I listened to the tunnel. To my thoughts.
Whoever left the recording not only knew I’d be in Chicago tomorrow, he knew I’d be here, at this crime scene today.
But how?
And how is this murder connected to Basque’s trial?
Another candle blew out. Stale darkness crept toward us from deeper in the mine, and the heart Heather was clutching no longer looked red at all, but completely black.
Voices behind me. Kurt and the CSU.
“All right,” Cheyenne said. “Here they come.”
The recording continued repeating the message. I wished I knew how to shut it off.
As the team approached, I let my light drift from Heather’s body and wander along the wall of the tunnel, where I studied the glimmer of light glancing off the minerals embedded in the mountain. Occasional fissures and clefts only a few centimeters wide ran through the rock.
An ancient, rough-hewn ladder disappeared down a shaft four meters past the body. I walked to it and aimed my light down. The shaft was barely wide enough to allow a person to descend. About ten meters further down, it terminated at another tunnel.
“Any idea how big this mine is?” I asked Cheyenne.
“Not yet, but some of these old gold mines run for miles.”
Then the crime scene unit arrived, we left the recording device with them, and Cheyenne and I headed for the mine’s entrance.
As I passed the men on my way out, I greeted them softly, but Kurt was the only one to reply.
3
Cheyenne walked beside me. “You think it’s Taylor who left the message?” she asked.
Sebastian Taylor was an ex-assassin on the FBI’s Most Wanted List who’d taken a special interest in me a few months ago and had started sending me taunting letters and cameo photographs of people in my family. He signed all the notes “Shade,” the code name a pair of killers had used in San Diego on a case I’d worked in February. Trace DNA left on one of the envelopes told us Taylor was the one sending the messages and that he was actually the father of one of those killers.
Two weeks ago an officer had found tire impressions in the mud next to a rural mailbox that Taylor had used to mail an envelope. We didn’t know yet if the tire prints were from his vehicle, but it looked like a good lead. Kurt’s team was looking into it.
“This doesn’t seem like Taylor’s type of crime,” I told Cheyenne. “And all of his previous messages to me have been handwritten, not recorded.”
“Any other killers in the habit of sending you personal messages?”
“Not at the moment.”
If Taylor was the killer and really was planning to see me in Chicago, I wanted to be ready for him. So, when Cheyenne and I reached the entrance, I pulled out my cell. “I’ll call a buddy of mine at the Bureau. Put some things into play.”
“Be careful, Pat.” Her voice held deep concern. Deeper than that of just a co-worker. “This one’s different. I don’t like this. Any of this.”
“I hear you.” A slightly awkward moment passed between us, then she returned to the mine and I speed-dialed Ralph’s number.
Special Agent Ralph Hawkins wasn’t just the acting director for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or NCAVC, but was also one of my closest friends. Even though he was based in DC at FBI headquarters, I knew that if anyone could get a team in place at the Chicago courthouse by tomorrow, he could.
As I waited for him to answer, I noticed that the sun had dipped almost to the mountains, and the day was beginning to fade. Just past the flat strip of land where the helicopter sat, untamed spruce forests bristled down the slopes. Beyond them, ragged snow-covered peaks jutted to the sky.
My cell reception died, and I headed toward the chopper. Tried again.
Nearby, a car rolled to a stop on the potholed road leading to the mine, and Dr. Eric Bender, Denver’s chief medical examiner, stepped out. Thick glasses. Serene face. Eric was nearly six foot five and slim and had a sloping, sauntering walk that made him look like he was always slightly off balance. He must have noticed that I was on the phone, because instead of calling out a greeting, he just nodded to me.
I nodded back. I’d first met Eric last year, a month after I moved to Denver with my stepdaughter. Tessa didn’t make friends easily, so I was thankful when I found out that his daughter Dora was also a junior in high school, and I was even more thankful when the two girls hit it off.
Eric disappeared into the mine just as Ralph picked up. I brought him up to speed on the recorded message and the possibility that it might be Taylor. “All right,” he said. “I’ll make some calls. Fly to Chicago myself. When do you testify?”
“One o’clock. Calvin’s picking me up at the airport.”
“Werjonic?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you in the courthouse.” Ralph rarely spoke more words than he needed to. “If it’s Taylor, we’ll get him.” And he ended the call.
We could have extra screeners at the airports in the region, but I had a feeling that if Taylor wanted to get to Chicago he’d find a way. Still, I phoned my supervisor at the FBI field office in Denver and asked him to send out an FAA alert to all airports in the West and Midwest.
The task force helicopter pilot who’d flown me here from police headquarters stood leaning against the cockpit. He looked up from a copy of the Wall Street Journal. “Ready?”
“A few more minutes.”
Lieutenant Colonel Cliff Freeman had retired from the air force last year at forty-four and now flew choppers part-time for the federal government. A family man with twin eleven-year-old boys, he had short-cropped hair, was still in good shape, and had a knack for choosing up-and-coming high tech stocks.
I returned to the tunnel to take one last look at Heather’s body, and finally, when I was satisfied, I joined Cliff in the cockpit.
As we lifted off, I took note of the scarce trails and dirt roads that switchbacked down the mountains and through the nearby Arapaho National Forest. The exit route the killer had taken shouldn’t be too tough to narrow down. I studied the topography of the area. Memorized it.
Then the sun slid behind the mountains and night began to crawl across the Rockies.
The recorded m
essage echoed in my head: “I’ll see you in Chicago, Agent Bowers.”
“I’ll see you too,” I said to myself.
And we skimmed over the foothills toward Denver so I could pack for my flight.
4
17 miles southeast of Bearcroft Mine
8:12 p.m.
Over the years Sebastian Taylor had learned to be careful.
Careful while he’d worked for the CIA finding permanent ways to deal with problematic people; then careful for the next decade to keep his previous line of work a secret as he launched his political career; then even more careful during his four years as the governor of North Carolina, laying the groundwork for a future run at the presidency. Careful, careful. Always careful.
He stepped from the shower and toweled off, then picked up his Glock from the countertop beside the sink and eased open the door to his bedroom.
Always careful.
But most of all he’d been careful during the last seven months after his fall from grace, after murdering an ex-associate and landing on the FBI’s Most Wanted List.
For decades Sebastian had done only what was best for America. But since his country had turned on him last October and started hunting him as a wanted man, he’d found room in his conscience for a different kind of loyalty and had discovered that money could be at least as satisfying a motive as patriotism.
Sebastian thought of these things as he finished dressing, armed himself, and then slipped on his handmade Taryn Rose Chester oxfords. Italian shoes were the best-made dress shoes in the world, and even though he was aware that he needed to keep a low profile with his purchases, he’d still allowed himself a few luxuries. A touch of the finer things in life.
Over the last few months he’d constructed a new identity, chosen a secluded home in the mountains thirty miles west of Denver, and then carefully covered his tracks as he planned his next move against a certain troublesome FBI agent who seemed to keep popping up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Special Agent Patrick Bowers.
Sebastian finished tying his shoes, stood, and straightened his hand-sewn Anderson & Sheppard suit coat to cover his shoulder holster. Yes. The finer things.
Which was why he was going to see Brigitte Marcello again tonight.
Even though he was just over fifty, Sebastian kept himself in impeccable shape, which was helpful for someone who preferred his women younger. And at twenty-seven, Brigitte hadn’t begun to sag and wrinkle and weather. She was still supple. Still beautiful. Still worth his attention.
After making love one night last month, she’d said to him softly, lovingly, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. You’re old enough to be my dad.”
“And you’re old enough,” he’d said as he drew her close, “to be my true love,” and then she’d melted into his arms and they’d had sex again. Yes, to get what you want from people, you simply have to tell them what they want to hear.
He picked up the manila envelope containing the photos of Bowers’s stepdaughter Tessa. Slipped it into his briefcase.
A quick glance at his watch: 8:22 p.m.
Just enough time to mail the pictures before picking up Brigitte at 9:00. After eight envelopes, the FBI had almost certainly installed face recognition video surveillance at the post offices in the Denver area. Much better to let the feds track his letters to random homes around the city—just find a mailbox flag flipped up from someone foolish enough to put his mail in the box at night rather than in the morning, and then slide the envelope inside.
Careful.
Alert.
Sebastian Taylor was not a man to be trifled with.
He entered the garage, flicked on the lights, and walked to his Lexus RX, rightly called a luxury utility vehicle rather than a sport utility vehicle. Opened the driver’s door.
And felt the blade, cool and quick, bite into his right Achilles tendon—
Felt the strength in his leg give way as the intruder slit the tendon in his left leg as well, cutting even deeper than before.
And even though Sebastian had been trained to deal with pain, he involuntarily gasped as he crumpled to the ground.
But by the time he landed, he’d already drawn his Glock.
He rolled to his stomach and aimed but realized too late that the man had rounded the back of the Lexus, and before he could turn and fire, the intruder was on him, slamming a knee against his back, pinning his chest to the concrete and grabbing his right wrist and forearm.
No.
Sebastian recognized the position of the man’s hands and knew what was about to happen.
No.
But because of the awkward angle, he was helpless to stop it.
No!
With swift, precise force, the man bent forward while simultaneously twisting both hands.
There was a moist, thick snap as the bones in Sebastian’s right wrist shattered.
The man removed the Glock from his limp hand and tossed it out of reach, toward the door to the kitchen.
And for a moment, Sebastian was aware only of the pain arcing through his arm, shooting up his legs. He lay still, trying to control it.
Failed.
Standing then, the man retrieved the straight razor that he must have dropped after slitting both of Sebastian’s Achilles tendons. “I’m sorry about that wrist, Governor. You pulled your gun faster than I thought you would. You really are good at what you do.”
Sebastian rolled to his back to see his attacker.
Black ski mask. Black sweatshirt. Jeans. Brown leather gloves. The blade that he held dripped bright, fresh blood onto the concrete. But who? Who was he?
Someone from his past?
A mark he hadn’t hit?
Control the pain. Control the pain.
No, he’d always carried out his assignments to the letter. Never left any loose ends. “Who are you?” Sebastian asked, keeping all hint of his suffering from his voice.
For a moment, the man watched him as if he were a specimen in a jar and not a human being. “You can call me Giovanni. We’ll go with that for tonight, how does that sound, Shade?”
How does he know who you are?
Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Why the ski mask? Only cowards hide behind masks.”
“You’re a smart man. I located and disabled three of your video surveillance cameras, but it’s possible you have more. I couldn’t take any chances that the police would be able to identify me after you’re dead.”
Sebastian let the death threat slide off him. He wasn’t going to die tonight.
The man who preferred to be called Giovanni studied the growing pool of blood at Sebastian’s feet, then pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the straight razor clean. “That wrist must really hurt. Those Achilles tendons too. I’ve heard only childbirth and broken femurs are more painful than having those tendons cut.”
Sebastian knew that cursing, begging, crying, would not help in a situation like this. So, despite the dizzying pain, he kept quiet. Only listened, planned. Prepared to respond.
The man finished cleaning the blade, folded up the razor. Slid it into his jeans pocket.
Sebastian could feel his legs twitching. He tried to control them, to stop their involuntary shivers, but couldn’t, and Giovanni must have noticed. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” Sebastian heard a touch of admiration in the man’s voice. “Really. You’re handling the pain remarkably well.”
Slowly, Sebastian pressed his left hand against the cool concrete floor. He needed only a moment to slide his hand down to get to his backup gun.
Careful. Yes, now was a time he was thankful he’d been careful.
The Smith and Wesson M&P 340 scandium framed .357 snub in his ankle holster was one of the most powerful snubs S &W made.
The finer things.
Not a man to be trifled with.
Giovanni picked up the briefcase that Sebastian had dropped when he collapsed, and set it on the workbench running along the side of
the garage. “Governor, haven’t you heard the stories? About the psycho who waits beneath people’s cars in their garages and at mall parking lots, and then as they’re about to step inside, slices those tendons to disable them? You should have checked beneath your car.”
Sebastian saw him open the briefcase and remove the envelope containing the pictures of Tessa Bernice Ellis. He pulled a black magic marker out of his pocket and wrote something that Sebastian couldn’t read on the envelope.
Get to the gun. Just get to your gun.
Giovanni retrieved a black duffel bag from beneath the Lexus where he’d apparently hidden it earlier. “You know the story of how the Achilles tendon got its name, don’t you?” He set the duffel on the floor just out of Sebastian’s reach. “Achilles. The greatest warrior in Greece, but he had one weakness.”
Patience. Patience.
“There was only one place he was vulnerable—that tendon in the back of the leg, just above the heel. His one small weakness. And do you know what yours was? Pride. Hubris. You covered your tracks, but you never really thought you could be found.”
With his broken wrist, Sebastian could only use his left hand. But he knew he could still fire a gun.
Slowly, he began to drag his leg across the concrete toward his hand.
“You were wary, but not attentive. Don’t feel bad about it, though. Everyone has it. That one place the arrow will pierce.”
Giovanni unzipped the duffel bag, then looked at his watch. “I wish I could say our time together is going to be pleasant, but unfortunately, things are going to get a bit messy.”
Sebastian pulled his leg a few more inches toward his hand.
Just a little farther and you got it.
A little farther.
Giovanni took out a carpet cutter. Flicked out the blade. Set it on the workbench.
As Sebastian moved his leg, his heel scraped on the ground, prying open the gash in his Achilles tendon. He took a gulp of air to quiet the pain. Rested his leg. Steadied himself. Somehow managed not to cry out.
Giovanni pulled two lengths of rope out of the duffel and laid them neatly in front of him on the workbench.
Then a pliers.
