The Knight

by Steven James

  “On the horse it was all instinct,” she explained. “That’s the way I work best—gut instinct. A person can overthink things, you know.” In the amber light of the restaurant she looked more attractive than ever. “You trust your head, Pat, and I admire that. I trust my gut.”

  The ambient sounds in the restaurant seemed to fade away. “And what’s your gut telling you right now?”

  A gleam in her eye. “That it’s hungry for dessert.”

  Then she let her gaze drift past my shoulder as Tessa reappeared from behind me and plopped into her chair. “Did you say dessert?”

  “That’s right. As soon as you two are finished.”

  While Tessa and I worked at our meals, Cheyenne told her about some of the horses she’d owned over the years, and considering Tessa’s love for animals, I could see that Cheyenne was making a new friend.

  At last Tessa took one final bite, swished her fingers clean, and looked brightly at me. “I’m hungry for tiramisu. They don’t make Indian tiramisu, do they?”

  “Not usually,” I said.

  Cheyenne eased back from the table and stood. “Tiramisu sounds perfect. Let’s go.”

  61

  Even though she should have been expecting him, when Reggie showed up at the safe house after working a crime scene “in the mountains,” it annoyed Amy Lynn. She’d been hoping he would stay at their home, leave her some space to work. Typical for their marriage—she was always looking for more space, he was always looking for more of “an intimate connection.”

  “You doing all right?” he asked after the two federal agents stationed in the house had stepped into the other room.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  He picked up Jayson, lifted him playfully above his head. “You sure you want to be here?”

  “It’s been good.”

  And it had been. She’d been able to throw something together for her weekly column and fudge her way through the steroids piece in time for her four o’clock deadline. Then she’d spent the rest of the afternoon and evening researching the killer. And even though she hadn’t found any leads on John’s identity after looking through the entire Denver News staff and freelance contributors directory as well as the other local newspaper, TV, and radio station staff listings, she was confident she would, given a little more time.

  Jayson giggled as Reggie lifted and lowered him. “Maybe after I put this little rascal to bed we can, you know, spend some time together.”

  “I’m not a wascal!” Jayson said with a playful smile.

  “Mmm, that’d be nice,” Amy Lynn said, but her thoughts were somewhere else.

  A few minutes later while Reggie was in the bedroom tucking Jayson in, she went online and researched websites of true crime publishers. Ideally, she would have been writing a series of articles for the Denver News about the killer, but since Rhodes wouldn’t give her permission to work on the story and the execs were trying to play it safe, she decided on a slightly different approach.

  There were other ways to scoop a story than just through print media.

  In fact, posting it online would give her a bigger audience, more exposure, and she could update the information more quickly. Plus it would help her stay ahead of the other news outlets. Keep her out front.

  Of course, she would need to write it anonymously or under a pseudonym, but eventually, when the time was right she would reveal her true name.

  She was at her computer when she heard Reggie’s footsteps. The article was not something she wanted him to see, so she quickly minimized her Internet browser.

  “So,” he said. She felt his hands massaging the back of her neck. “When will you be ready for bed?”

  The massage felt nice. He had strong hands, and he kneaded her tense muscles deeply. “Why?” she said. “Are you sleepy?” She closed her eyes and enjoyed his touch.

  “Not so much.” His voice had become a whisper. He kept his hands on her neck, kept massaging.

  “I’ll be there in a little bit. Just a couple things I’d like to check on first.”

  Strong hands relieving the tension. “Don’t be long,” he said.

  “I won’t.” The massage stopped. She opened her eyes slowly and heard the door to the master bedroom close.

  Then she resumed her typing, and after a few minutes she’d completely forgotten about her husband waiting for her in the room at the end of the hall.

  62

  We stopped for dessert at Rachel’s Café, one of my favorite indie coffeehouses in downtown Denver.

  Built on the first floor of a remodeled warehouse, Rachel’s had hundred-year-old wooden plank floors, brick walls, and air ducts and pipes snaking across the ceiling. Copies of the Denver News lay strewn on the tables. A coffee roaster sat in the corner near the cramped stage.

  Just like most independent coffeehouses, Rachel’s Café didn’t have color-coordinated, matching furniture and didn’t sell “green” plush baby seal toys made by child-laborers in China, overpriced espresso makers, or trademarked mints. Instead, Rachel’s simply offered an eclectic bohemian atmosphere and exceptional coffee from around the world. My kind of place.

  I would have liked to hang out for a while, but since I didn’t know why Tessa had been so aggressively nice all night, I wanted to get her home as quickly as possible before she said something to Cheyenne that I would regret. So, I made sure our dessert stop was brief, then we headed for Cheyenne’s condo.

  Ten minutes after leaving Rachel’s, I parked at the curb, but before I could invite Cheyenne to join me outside so that I could say good night, Tessa spoke up: “Be a gentleman, Patrick. Walk her to the door.”

  “Tessa—”

  “Go on.”

  “That’s enough,” I said.

  “That sounds nice,” Cheyenne said. Then she stepped out of the car and waited for me to join her.

  I lowered my voice and said to Tessa, “We’re going to talk about this when we get home.”

  “OK.”

  I opened my door. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time.”

  As we headed along the path toward her porch, Cheyenne took my arm and managed to slow our walk to a stroll. “Well, Dr. Bowers,” she said. “Thank you for eating food in my general vicinity tonight.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ve been thinking, I’ll probably need to eat sometime in the next week or so. Maybe we can do it again?”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I’ll have to check my busy social calendar.”

  “That full, huh?”

  We arrived at the porch, but instead of stepping into the light as I expected her to, Cheyenne paused on the fringe of the night. “You have no idea how popular I am.”

  “And yet you chose to spend the evening with my stepdaughter and me.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m honored.”

  The night settled in, calm and sweet and cool around us. “I had fun,” she said. “And I really like Tessa.”

  “She has a way of growing on you.” Then I added, “She means the world to me.”

  “I can tell.” Even though I didn’t remember either of us edging closer, the space between us seemed to be shrinking. I gazed at her standing in the faint glow of the porch’s twilight.

  Cheyenne Warren really was a beautiful woman.

  Moments eased by.

  The sounds of traffic drifted toward me from far away, from some distant city that had nothing to do with the two of us.

  Finally I said, “Maybe I should be going. You know. Take Tessa home.” But after I’d said the words, I didn’t go anywhere. Neither did Cheyenne. It seemed like neither of us wanted the date-that-was- not-a-date to end.

  I had the urge to take her in my arms, to hold her, to kiss her and see where everything might lead, but then I remembered Lien-hua and how things had ended with her. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with Cheyenne. Didn’t want anything to go wrong.

  Take it slow, Pat. She’s worth it. Don’t
do anything stupid.

  The sound of a car honking on one of the neighboring streets broke the spell, and I eased back a step. “OK,” I said. “I guess—”

  Cheyenne let out a soft sigh. “That’s twice now.”

  I hesitated. “Twice?”

  “Yes. Once at the barn earlier today, and then, just now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes were still filled with their usual confidence and strength but also held a touch of disappointment. “That’s twice I thought you were going to kiss me and you decided to back away from me instead.”

  Oh man.

  My heart was racing. I felt like I was in junior high again, fumbling for the right words to say to the girl I’d finally worked up the nerve to talk to. “It isn’t that I don’t want—”

  She squinched her eyes shut and hit herself in the forehead with the heel of her hand. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m always doing that. I just say what I’m thinking. I don’t even—it’s a bad habit. I’m sorry.”

  I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a bad habit, that her blunt honesty was one of the things I liked about her, but just ended up saying, “Never apologize for telling the truth. It suits you.” And then, “Good night, Cheyenne.”

  “Good night,” she said, and then I gave her a light, friendly hug, but that was all.

  And as I turned and walked back to the car I heard the condo’s door swing open and then click softly shut behind me.

  63

  Back at home, I wanted to get to bed, but Tessa only left me alone long enough for me to get my toothbrush in my mouth before she knocked on my bedroom door, walked in, caught me in mid-brush in the adjoining bath. “Why didn’t you kiss her good night?”

  I spit out the toothpaste. “That’s none of your business.”

  “She’s nice. I like her. I think you should’ve—”

  “All right, that’s it.” I set down the toothbrush. “What are you trying to do?”

  “Just saying you should have kissed her.”

  “No, I mean all night.” I grabbed a cup of water. Rinsed out my mouth. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You made dinner for me. You’ve been playing matchmaker. You even complimented my book. Something must be seriously—”

  “Can’t I just be nice once in a while without you getting on my case for it?”

  “I’m not getting on your case. I just don’t understand.”

  She slung a hand to her hip. “What? Maybe you’d prefer I cop an attitude instead?”

  “Well . . .”

  “How about a little obstinacy? Would that be better? Or despondency, maybe? Is that what you’d like?”

  “Look, it’s just that you haven’t seemed like yourself tonight, that’s all. Usually, you’re more quiet and introverted and sort of just annoyed at life in general, and not so . . .”

  “Not so what?”

  “Aberrantly cheerful.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough to fix,” she said.

  “Tessa, please.” I tried to think of anything that might have happened earlier in the day to cause all this. “Is it leaving for the summer? Is it something to do with that?”

  She was silent.

  “The shoe box?”

  No reply.

  What else?

  Oh yes.

  “Your mom’s diary. Is that it? Is that what this is all about?”

  The look of pain that swept over her face came so swiftly and suddenly that the whole mood of the room changed in an instant.

  “I was just trying to . . .” she began, but didn’t finish.

  The diary must have been more important to her than I ever would have guessed.

  “I loved her, you know? More than anything else in the world.” Her voice had become something small and fragile. A little girl’s voice.

  “Come here.”

  I took her in my arms, and she leaned against me in a way that made my heart break. And as she did, I thought of Christie, the woman both Tessa and I had loved so much, and of the promise she’d asked me to make regarding the diary.

  But now, considering how troubled Tessa had become, I couldn’t imagine that Christie would want me to keep it from her for five more months.

  “Hey, listen.” I backed up and gently held her shoulders. I saw that she hadn’t actually started to cry, but she was a girl experienced at hiding her pain. “I’ll give it to you, OK? Tomorrow. I’ll give you the diary in the morning.”

  “What?” She looked at me with a mixture of hope and skepticism. “Really? No, you won’t.”

  “Yes. I think your mom would understand. I’m sure she never meant for this to be such a big deal, for it to upset you like this.”

  Tessa looked past me into my bedroom. “So where is it?”

  “It’s not here.” I let go of her hands. “I’ll have to get it tomorrow. It’s at my office at the federal building.”

  “Can’t you just—”

  “Tomorrow. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “You’re not just saying this as some kind of manipulative parenting thing to—”

  “No. I’ll give it to you.”

  She studied my face for a moment and then said softly, “Thank you, Patrick. I seriously mean it.”

  “I love you, Raven,” I said.

  She smiled at me then, a soft, unforced smile. “I love you too.”

  And for a moment, just a moment, the dead bodies in Colorado and the trial in Illinois faded from my mind, and life seemed in sync with the way things should be. Tessa and I were on the same page, and I felt like I was able to give her a pngt, a chance to connect with her mother in a way she’d never been able to before.

  But almost immediately, I realized that reading Christie’s diary would undoubtedly bring back Tessa’s feelings of grief and loss all over again, might open old wounds, possibly make her even lonelier than ever.

  I tried not to think of those things, and instead I just told myself that this was the right thing, the loving thing to do.

  Then Tessa left for her room, but I noticed that the feeling of peace I’d had only a moment earlier had evaporated even before she stepped out the door.

  64

  45 minutes later

  I couldn’t sleep.

  In addition to my questions about giving Tessa the diary, my thoughts had returned to the ranch where we’d found Thomas Bennett and almost caught the killer.

  Almost.

  But we hadn’t.

  I tried to put everything out of my mind, but I couldn’t seem to relax, and eventually I gave up and grabbed my laptop, propped some pillows behind my back, and surfed to the online case files.

  Read them for twenty minutes.

  Didn’t get sleepy.

  Didn’t notice anything new.

  I checked my email and found, amid fifty-nine junk mails and four internal FBI memos, three messages that caught my attention—one from Kurt, one from Ralph, and one from United Airlines telling me it was time to check in for my 4:04 p.m. flight to Chicago tomorrow.

  Oh yes. The trial.

  Another thing to think about.

  But not at the moment.

  I read Ralph’s email first.

  Hey,

  Why aren’t you answering your cell? I hate typing.

  Nothing much here. Officer Fohay’s clean, tho. Prints didn’t match and he had no prior association with Sikora.

  Calvin hasn’t left his house all day.

  Talk to you tomorrow.

  Don’t waste my time. Just answer your phone.

  —R

  So, nothing earth-shattering. It would have made things a lot easier if Fohay had been the one who’d loaded the gun; but things aren’t usually that simple.

  I replied to Ralph, explaining that my phone was dead and that if he needed to get in touch with me to just use my landline or call Tessa’s cell.

  It surprised me a little that Calvin hadn’t left his house. After all, he
didn’t believe in retirement, worked weekends, and only took Wednesdays off. He’d told me on Friday that he was going to wait and see what happened next. I wondered if maybe something had.

  So I emailed him as well, to see if he could pick me up at the airport tomorrow evening to give me a ride to my hotel.

  Then I scrolled to Kurt’s message:

  Pat,

  I’ve attached the video file of the footage you took inside the house. A couple other things:

  We found Elwin Daniels’s body in a shallow grave near the house. Preliminary time of death looks like eighteen to twenty-one days ago.

  No DNA or prints yet, but animal control verified that one of the aquariums contained toads, not snakes—Colorado River toads. Based on the size of the tank and the amount of droppings it looks like our guy had about ten or twelve of them. Problem is, their skin contains 5-MeO-DMT and bufotenin—psychedelic drugs, but when ingested in concentrated doses . . . you get the idea. Looks like John is getting ready for story number seven.

  Nothing yet on any missing priests, but Missing Persons is still looking into it. See you tomorrow. We’ll have a briefing at 1:00, sixth floor conference room. Get some rest.

  —Kurt

  P.S. Reggie told me you had a date with Cheyenne tonight. Don’t worry. I won’t spread the word.

  How thoughtful.

  Enough with this. I needed some sleep.

  I put my computer away, crawled beneath the covers, and closed my eyes.

  65

  Sunday, May 18

  6:13 a.m.

  Sunday did not start out well.

  My nightmare of the slaughterhouse and the whispering corpses had returned, and when I eased my eyes open, I saw that the day was going to be bleak.

  God had decided to send rain to Denver, and the flat gray sky reminded me more of a November morning in Milwaukee than a Denver day in spring.

  I opened the window to check the temperature, and a brush of crisp air with some leftover winter greeted me. The temp had dropped more than twenty degrees from the night before, and by the looks of the clouds and the plummeting temperature, I wondered if we might be in for a late-season snowstorm before the end of the day.