The Knight

by Steven James

  “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.

  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?”

  “Why?”

  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?”

  The snake’s body writhed beside my feet.

  “It’s a rattlesnake,” Jake replied, as if that explained anything. He was watching the head, which was still hissing, fangs bared. “It’s dangerous.”

  Officer Harwood stared at the head. “It’s still alive.”

  “Reptilian reflexes,” Vanderveld said. “It can live up to ninety minutes. Careful. That head can still bite. Still release venom.”

  Maybe Tessa’s views on animal rights had worn off on me more than I’d realized because, when I saw that none of the CSU members seemed bothered that Vanderveld had just killed that snake for no reason, it irritated me almost as much as what he’d just done.

  “Step away, Jake.”

  He took one step backward. Stared at me coolly.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the head of the snake lift on its short stump and bite at the air, and as it did I pictured grabbing Jake and lowering him onto the head. The ambulance is still here. The EMTs could get the poison out. It wouldn’t kill him, just make it too painful to sit for a month or so.

  Bad thoughts.

  Bad thoughts.

  But kind of entertaining, nonetheless.

  Finally, Jake just said, in a hey-old-buddy-what’s-the-big-deal voice, “Take it easy, Pat. It’s just a snake. Let’s not lose focus and forget who the bad guy is.”

  “I haven’t lost focus.”

  He looked like he might reply but remained silent and finally strode toward the house. The snake’s body was still curling and coiling, leaving dark smears on the soil from the end of its severed, bleeding stump. The head, with its unblinking eyes, flicked its tongue out and tasted the air.

  I wondered how much snakes can feel pain. The head was obviously still alert. Maybe it was suffering, and if Jake was right about it living for ninety minutes, it might suffer for another hour and a half. I thought of Tessa again and her
love for animals, her progressive views about animal rights and the sanctity of all life, what she would say if she knew I’d left the snake here like that . . .

  And finally, even though I didn’t know if the dead snake was still in pain, I picked up the shovel and brought it down four times, ending all doubt.

  As I turned away from the snake’s remains, I saw Kurt approaching me. “We located the Infiniti on an old mining road about a mile from here. No sign of John.” His eyes found the bloody blade of the shovel. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” I tossed the shovel aside. “Any indication of which direction he might have fled?”

  “No.” Kurt was staring at the snake’s flattened remains. We were both quiet for a few seconds, then he said, “Pat, take a break. We’ll find John. We’re scouring this whole mountainside. Get out of here. We’ve got three other choppers up here. Freeman can take you back to Denver. It’s been a long enough day already.” And then he paused as a knot of tension worked its way through his voice. “For both of us.”

  I noticed him rubbing his wedding ring stiffly between his fingers. “You doing OK?”

  It didn’t look like he was going to answer me, but then he said quietly, “Do you know how many marriages survive the death of a child?”

  It was one of those questions you don’t answer with words. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shook his head and said, “Forget it.” Then he shrugged my hand off and took a moment to bury his emotions. “So, what’d you see in the house?”

  “Kurt, we can talk about—”

  “The house, Pat.” His voice had become edgy and hard, and I knew I needed to back off.

  “OK.” I took a minute to tell him about Taylor’s head and the newspaper articles.

  He heard me out and seemed to be more interested in the newspaper clippings than the governor’s severed head. “You mentioned you got the feeling John was a fan of Basque?” His voice still held a trace of the pain that’d accompanied his remarks about his marriage.

  I nodded.

  “But Grant Sikora tried to kill Basque,” he said. “So if John was involved in any way with coordinating that, he was trying to get rid of Basque, not honor him as his hero.” Kurt shook his head. “I don’t think those articles are a tribute to Basque.”

  “What do you think they are?”

  “Maybe a scouting report.”

  I had to let that settle in.

  He circled your picture, Pat. Maybe he’s scouting—

  “Hey.” It was Cheyenne. I hadn’t noticed her coming our way.

  “What do we know?”

  “John’s still at large,” I said.

  A hundred meters away I saw that the EMTs had placed Thomas Bennett on a gurney and were wheeling him toward the ambulance.

  “How’s Bennett?” Kurt asked.

  “Looks like he’s doing all right,” she said. “But he’s pretty shaken up. They want to keep him at the hospital overnight for observation. We still don’t know what he was drugged with.”

  “Did he give you anything else on his abductor?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. He said the guy talked in a low whisper, he didn’t think he’d be able to recognize his voice if he heard it again.”

  Kurt scribbled some reminders on his notepad. “I’ll make sure there’s an officer waiting at the hospital to guard him when he arrives.”

  “One more thing,” she said. “The killer told Thomas that he was going after his wife, Marianne. I called it in, and dispatch already sent a car to her place, but I’m wondering if we can assign a female undercover officer to the house and put Marianne in protective custody just in case John decides to go after her.”

  “Hmm . . . a UC might be good,” Kurt muttered. “As long as she doesn’t turn into bait.” He thought for a moment. “Let me make some calls.” He held out his hand to me.

  “What?”

  “My phone.”

  “Oh yeah.” I handed it to him. “There’s video of most of the house. Email it to me.”

  “I will.” Then he stepped away from me and Cheyenne but called over his shoulder, “Now, get out of here and get some rest. Both of you look like—” His final word was muffled as he walked away, but I figured I knew what it was.

  And then Cheyenne and I were alone.

  57

  The sun edged over the high mountains that folded back against the sky. The Rockies were stealing minutes from the day.

  “He let the snakes loose,” I told her. Then I filled her in about Taylor’s head and the newspaper clippings in the locked room.

  She let it all sink in. “We can’t release this information about Taylor’s head to the press,” she said. “If the media jumps on this, it’ll only cause more panic, more roadblocks for this investigation.”

  I didn’t have any arguments with that.

  We spent a few minutes reviewing all that had happened during the day, talking through the facts, clues, and connections, but I had the feeling both of us were hoping the conversation would turn in a slightly less work-related direction.

  As we spoke, I saw that Cliff had found just enough room to land in the field near the house. I didn’t remember hearing him fly in. He stood beside the cockpit, glanced at his watch. I wondered how long he’d been there.

  “I’m riding back with Bennett,” Cheyenne said. She gestured toward the ambulance still sitting near the barn. “I think he could use someone with him right now. Maybe once he calms down he’ll be able to give us something more specific.”

  “I guess I’ll keep Cliff company on the chopper.” A slight pause. “Good work today, Cheyenne.”

  “Thank you.” She brushed aside a stray tress of hair that had fallen in front of her eye.

  “So,” I said.

  “So.”

  Twilight tipped over the mountains. All around us the day was wearing thin. The ambulance began to slowly rumble toward us over the pot-holed road.

  “You doing anything else tonight?” she asked.

  “I’ll probably work a little on recalculating the geoprofile now that we know the killer used this location. Maybe follow your suggestion: take a good, cool bath. Break out the aloe vera. All that.”

  It seemed like maybe there was more to say, but I didn’t know what it might be. “Well, OK,” I said. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again for shooting the chain.”

  “My pleasure.”

  I headed for the chopper but had only made it a few steps before she called me back. “Wait.”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  A slight pause, then, “Have dinner with me.”

  I felt a sweep of both excitement and apprehension. “I’m not sure I can—”

  “Oh. You have plans already.”

  “No, I . . .” Tessa had told me she was hanging out with Dora for supper and a movie tonight so I’d be home alone and would probably just end up throwing in a pizza—not exactly what I imagined Cheyenne meant by the word plans, but still—

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Cheyenne’s voice flattened. “You’re seeing someone, I—”

  “No, no. It’s not that. I’m not seeing anyone, I just—”

  “The woman on the phone earlier today?”

  Man, she was good. “Lien-hua? No, that’s over.” The words tasted sour in my mouth.

  “So then, you’re not seeing anyone.” Cheyenne said it decisively, and I wondered if she were trying to convince me that it was true. “And neither am I, and we’re both hungry and we’re both free for dinner. So, all I’m saying is, eat it with me.”

  I noticed Reggie Greer walking toward the snake’s remains, not far from us. “I don’t know, Cheyenne . . .”

  “I’m not asking you to marry me, just to eat food in my general vicinity.”

  The ambulance cruised to a stop ten meters away.

  Reggie grabbed the shovel and used it to scoop up the snake’s remains. “Agent Bowers,” he called. “Thanks for helping me out back there in the kitchen.
” He tossed the dead snake further into the field, out of sight.

  “You’re welcome.” As I answered Reggie, I was still trying to think of what to say to Cheyenne.

  “Well?” she said.

  A different tack. I lowered my voice, hoping Reggie wouldn’t hear. “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I’ve always thought it was the guy’s job to ask the girl out.”

  And then, before I could say another word, she said, “Well, thank you, Dr. Bowers. I’d be honored to join you for dinner.”

  “I wasn’t exactly—”

  “Eight, then?”

  “Eight—”

  “Perfect. I know a great steak place near Union Station that you can take me to.” She put her hand on my arm and gave it a soft squeeze. “This time, you can pick me up.” Then she told me her address and left for the ambulance.

  I caught Reggie Greer grinning at me. “What?” I said.

  “That was smooth.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t help but overhear. Getting Detective Warren to ask you out and then switching everything around so she wouldn’t feel awkward about taking the first step—nice. Very nice.”

  “Oh yeah, wow,” I mumbled. “Thanks.”

  “And you’re a brave man to go on a date with her.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure how to take that. “It’s not a date.”

  Cheyenne disappeared into the ambulance. I really hoped she wasn’t hearing any of this.

  “Oh.” He winked at me. “I get it.” The ambulance doors closed.

  I folded my arms. “I’m just eating a meal in her general vicinity.”

  “Sure. Gotcha.”

  This was going nowhere. “I’m leaving now. Good-bye.”

  I headed toward the helicopter as the ambulance pulled away.

  And as I thought about the upcoming evening, I remembered how understandably upset Tessa had been about the pot of basil.

  I borrowed Cliff’s cell, and when Tessa didn’t pick up, I left a voicemail telling her to have fun at the movie and that I’d just grab supper later and see her when she got home. I explained that my cell was broken, and left Cheyenne’s number and told her to “just call Detective Warren if you need to get in touch with me.”