The Knight

by Steven James

  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, Tay- lor’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 razor 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.

  “My stepdaughter is not going to be happy about that.”

  “Empty your pockets, Pat. Easy. Don’t try anything.”

  All I had with me were my Mini Maglite, my car keys, and the roll of athletic tape from the chopper’s first aid kit. I began holding them up one at a time. “Cheryl’s not at her sister’s, is she, Kurt?”

  “She’s with Ari. Back pockets.”

  “Dead? Are they dead?”

  He didn’t answer. I pocketed the flashlight, keys, and tape.

  “Where are they, Kurt? You can at least tell me that.”

  “Turns out Ari rented a self-storage unit. I’ll be visiting the two of them when we’re done here. Now, let me see your back pockets.”

  If he’s going to visit them, they’re still alive.

  I showed him that my back pockets were empty
, then faced him again just in time to see him press a needle against Cliff’s neck and depress the plunger.

  “No!” I sprinted forward.

  “Stop!” Kurt wrenched Cliff’s head back, blade at his neck.

  I froze but watched for a chance to make a move. My gun lay just a few meters in front of me.

  Cliff’s eyes rolled back, he went limp, and Kurt eased him to the ground.

  “What did you give him?” I yelled.

  “It’s just to knock him out. To give us some time alone. Back away from the gun.”

  I held my ground.

  He pulled a Wilson Combat 1911, aimed it at me. “Step back.”

  I did.

  “Farther.”

  He waved me back until I was too far away to dive for the SIG, then he folded up his straight razor and slipped it into his pocket. Kept his gun out, kicked mine down the shaft.

  “Kelsey was supposed to die in the freezer, wasn’t she?” I said.

  “And she could identify you, so that’s why you sent Reggie in with the sketch artist, why you didn’t enter her room at the hospital. Are you going back for her? Calvin too? No loose ends?”

  He didn’t reply, and I took that as a yes.

  He pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Threw them to me. They landed at my feet. “Normally, I prefer ropes, but it’s too hard for a person to tie himself up.” He gestured toward the cuffs. “Put them on.”

  I didn’t move. “Besides London last year, were there other stories? How long have you been doing this?”

  He waved his gun at the handcuffs. “Cuff your hands behind your back, Pat. When you get to the bottom I’ll leave you the key.”

  I still didn’t move, and he fired the 1911, sending a cloud of dirt exploding at my feet.

  “Put on the cuffs or the next bullet goes into your leg.”

  I believed him. I picked up the cuffs. “I’ll find a way out.”

  “There is no way out. Not after the shaft is blown shut.”

  “You don’t know me. I’ll get out.”

  “I do know you, Pat. Remember? I’m the one who requested that you join the task force. I’ve been watching you. I know you very well. There’s no escape. I made sure. Now, put on—”

  “Good.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Good?”

  “That there’s no escape.” As I spoke, I surveyed the pulley system, the release lever, the ropes, above the shaft. “Because it might take us awhile to dig you out after I leave you down there, and I wouldn’t want you going anywhere.” I clicked the cuff around my left wrist.

  He watched me carefully, with a bit of caution. “Go on. The other wrist.”

  I thought of a plan and began to click the other cuff around my right wrist—

  “No. Behind your back—hang on. First, throw me your keys. You have a lock pick set on your key ring. I’ve seen it.”

  Oh, this was not good. Not at all.

  I pulled out my Maglite to get to my keys.

  “You can keep the flashlight. I want you to spend a couple days exploring your new home.”

  I tossed him my keys and slipped the flashlight into my back pocket. “Where’s Father Hughes? According to Boccaccio’s story, the priest is supposed to survive. Is he still alive?”

  “It’s hard to say. He’s chained to a pole, just like Father Alberto in Pampinea’s story. But now that he’s been up on Dover’s Ridge for a nearly week, and it snowed yesterday, I don’t think his chances are very good.”

  The smoldering anger inside of me flared up. I needed to relax or I’d make a mistake. A fatal one.

  “Now, the other cuff.”

  If I snapped it shut, I’d have no way to escape. It’d all be over. “Will you be the one to find him? The hero?” I put both arms behind my back.

  “There are several ways things might play out. That’s one of them.”

  “And Cheryl and Ari?”

  “I’m shifting Amy Lynn and Cliff to story eight—”

  “You said you were going to let Cliff live.”

  “I lied to you, Pat. And as far as Ari and Cheryl, I still need to tell story number nine, so it looks like I’ll be serving Mr. Ryman’s heart to my wife for dinner tonight.”

  Kurt had planned out every detail, every contingency, and al though I could think of a few loose ends, there weren’t many, and I had a feeling he’d already taken steps to wrap them up.

  Think, Pat. Think!

  I had my hands behind my back, but I hadn’t snapped the second cuff. “But why, Kurt? Why kill these people?”

  Kurt thought for a moment. “It’s interesting to watch people die.”

  He said no more, and his stark, simple answer sent a chill slicing through me.

  “But what about Hannah’s death?” I said. “You grieved when she died. I watched you.”

  “I don’t grieve. I act.” He aimed the gun at my face. “Now, finish with the cuff. I want to hear it snap shut.”

  I was no longer sure I could get away. “You’ve been planning this since her death, haven’t you? When Amy Lynn interviewed you, that’s when you chose her for the story.”

  I felt the bump of my Mini Maglite in my back pocket.

  Yes, that’s it.

  “Are you Galeotto? From Dante’s Inferno? Is that it? You see yourself as a knight who brings lovers together with death?”

  “Bryant gave you that.” Then he started toward me. He must have had enough of my stalling.

  I pressed the cuff against my back and clicked it shut.

  “Turn around.” He stopped walking, kept the gun on me. “Let me see.”

  I turned. Showed him my wrists, handcuffed together.

  “OK,” he said, “come here.”

  Then I faced him, and as I slowly approached him, I fished my flashlight out of my back pocket and began to unscrew the cylinder from the cap that houses the lightbulb.

  Respond accordingly.

  All right.

  I believe I will.

  112

  I was able to unscrew the cylinder, but that wasn’t the part I needed. I slipped the flashlight’s casing into my back pocket.

  More time. A little more time.

  I surveyed the tunnel again. The rock walls and ceiling reminded me of the climbing cave in my garage—how could I use that to my advantage? The lantern? Throw it at him? Find a way to his gun?

  Kurt kept his 1911 trained on me but used one finger to tap at a remote detonator that he held in his other hand. I saw the display screen flash thirty seconds, but he didn’t start the countdown. He slipped the device into his pocket.

  I stopped walking. “So thirteen years ago in the Midwest. Was it you or Basque?”

  “It wasn’t me. But the crimes drew my interest.” He came toward me.

  Just a little longer. “You were a fan.”

  “No. A competitor. For an audience. Like I told you on Saturday, the articles were my scouting report.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the platform that hung one meter below us in the shaft that was wired to blow. “Now, it’s time for story number ten.”

  I let him lead me. “And Basque’s trial—you loaded the gun?”

  “Last month in the evidence room.”

  When we got to the edge he took out the detonator. “Climb down,” he said.

  I didn’t move. “Before I do I have a small word of advice for you, Kurt.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Never leave a handcuffed man who knows how to pick locks alone with the wire spring of his Maglite.”

  And then, I was on him.

  113

  A look of shock flashed across his face as I knocked the gun from his hand and punched him in the jaw as hard as I could, just like I’d done with Basque.

  And it felt just as good.

  Kurt stumbled backward, then straightened up. “All right, let’s do this thing.” I was about to go for his gun when he flicked out his straight razor. He tapped the detonator’s screen, and the countdown began
. :29

  :28

  “Time to end the story, Pat.”

  He rushed me, sliced at me, but I leapt to the side. I grabbed his forearm, and as he drove the razor blade toward me, I pivoted backward and both of us tumbled onto the platform.

  We crashed onto the boards, and he managed to hang on to the straight razor, but the detonator spun from his hand.

  I saw the screen.

  :23

  He swiped the blade at my neck, but I pushed him off me and scrambled to my feet.

  I was on the wrong side of the platform, trapped in the corner farthest from the tunnel.

  He held the razor against one end of the rope that passed through the cam. Severed it. The platform teetered but held.

  It would drop if he cut the other end.

  :20

  He eased backward toward the ground so he could get off the platform before cutting the rope. “Good-bye, Pat.”

  “Bye, Kurt.”

  I leapt and grabbed the wooden beam holding the pulleys, then swung my legs up and kicked him with both feet, hard, in the chest.

  :17

  He slammed backward onto the platform, and before he could get up, I lifted my feet to the ceiling, just like when I’m rock climbing. I planted one foot against the cam holding the end of the rope and the other against the release lever. Kicked hard. Wedged it all the way open.

  And the platform dropped.

  :13

  “No!” Kurt’s scream slit through the air around me.

  I kept the countdown going in my head, flung my legs to the side. Landed on the ground beside the shaft.

  :10

  Heard the solid crunch of impact from the bottom of the shaft.

  “I’m coming for you!” he hollered. He didn’t sound seriously hurt.

  I ran to Cliff, dragged him toward the bend.

  :06

  Around the corner.

  :04

  The explosion would be deafening. I knelt beside him.

  :02

  Pressed my knees against his ears—

  :01

  —squeezed my hands over mine.

  Boom.