The King

by Steven James

  “You’re alright?”

  A nod.

  I knelt beside her daughter. “You’re a very brave girl.”

  “My name is Noni.”

  “Hi, Noni.” I extended my hand. “I’m Pat.”

  She looked to her mother as if for permission to shake my hand, received it, and her grip was gentle but firm. “It’s my birthday.”

  I seriously hoped this was one birthday she’d be able to forget. “Happy birthday.”

  “I’m six.”

  “Well, you’re a big girl.”

  A small pause, then she gave me a smile. “I got a lot of presents at my party.”

  The girl had been through an incredibly traumatic experience and yet it didn’t seem to be on her mind at all. She might be in denial or possibly experiencing a child’s version of shock.

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  Through the kitchen door I saw Officer Kayne glance my way.

  I wished there was something I could say that would make this night disappear from Saundra and Noni’s minds, but there wasn’t. Time might help, but it was also possible that the nightmares might never go away.

  Standing again, I asked Saundra, “Is there anything at all I can do for you or your daughter?”

  She put an arm around Noni. “I think we’ll be okay.” Then she sighed. “It’s like we became characters from one of my books.”

  “Well, if you ever write about a crime victim again you’ll know firsthand what it’s like.”

  A thoughtful look. “Yes, I will.”

  The sound of raindrops splattering against the roof was growing more sporadic as the storm moved on.

  My gaze landed on a photograph on the fireplace mantel. From the case files I recognized the thirty-something woman as Basque’s sister, the only person I’d ever known him to care about. “Did he say anything to you about any other victims? Anyone else he might have hurt?”

  Saundra shook her head, then Officer Kayne came back in and the paramedics led Saundra and Noni to the second ambulance so they could transport them to the hospital for observation. Surreptitiously, I told the paramedics to make sure they took them to a different hospital from Basque.

  Then I had a look around.

  No sign of Lien-hua’s phone. Quite possibly destroyed by now.

  In Basque’s study, I found a copy of a 1912 collection of Aesop’s fables written by V. S. Vernon Jones. When I flipped to a dog-eared page in the middle of the book I found a fable that’d been circled with a neat red line:

  “Prometheus and the Making of Man”

  At the bidding of Jupiter, Prometheus set about the creation of Man and the other animals. Jupiter, seeing that Mankind, the only rational creatures, were far outnumbered by the irrational beasts, bade him redress the balance by turning some of the latter into men. Prometheus did as he was bidden, and this is the reason why some people have the forms of men but the souls of beasts.

  The forms of men but the souls of beasts.

  Basque’s essence summed up in one succinct phrase.

  Monsters.

  That look just like the rest of us.

  A fable that was all too true.

  Before heading outside I did a walk-through of the rest of the house.

  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There were no bodies or body parts, no instruments of death or bloody knives or photos of victims pinned to the walls. The fishing hat and vest with lures hanging from it stowed by the door only added to the impression that we were in the innocuous, normal house of a loner outdoorsman who liked to go fishing on the nearby river and wetlands.

  But looks can be so very deceiving.

  • • •

  Back outside, I met up with Ralph. With the rain dissipating, the night was damp and cool and the air tasted like early spring but was also soaked with the lingering mud-rich smell of the marsh stretching away from us into the night.

  Some type of bird let out a screech and the lonely marshlands swirled to life nearby—something heavy moving through the water. A few deep-throated frogs croaked hoarsely from the edge of the bank.

  The paramedic had bandaged Ralph’s arm, but even as tough as my buddy was, he couldn’t conceal a grimace when he moved it.

  I wondered how severe that dog bite really was.

  We were silent, and all the events of the night were cycling around inside my head as we walked through the drizzle toward the row of police cars: the grip of concern when I found out Saundra and her daughter were missing from the house in Chesapeake Beach, the adrenaline from the dark thrill of the chase, the desperation of trying to breathe while I was underwater, the lack of clarity about letting Basque stay dead or trying to bring him back, the sick feeling that gripped my stomach when I heard that two agents and a state patrol officer were down.

  Ralph and I came to the dead pit bull that had attacked him. It still looked fearsome and intimidating even though it was no longer alive.

  “I didn’t hear a shot,” I said.

  “I didn’t use my gun. Twisted the collar, choked it out.” He didn’t sound happy at all about what he’d had to do. He patted its head as if it was a way of saying he was sorry, then he stood again. “So, you brought him back.”

  “Basque.”

  “Yes.”

  “First, I drowned him.”

  Silence.

  “What did it feel like?”

  “Killing him or bringing him back?”

  “Both.”

  “The first felt good; the second, not so good.”

  “Why did you do it? Why’d you save him?”

  “Honestly, Ralph, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you.”

  “What, for killing him or for bringing him back?”

  “Both.”

  The Evidence Response Team arrived, and Cassidy, Farraday, and their crew started the arduous task of processing Basque’s house.

  I would have work myself: forms, paperwork, completing the case files—but right now there wasn’t anything else for Ralph or me to do here.

  “Let’s get you to a doctor to stitch up that dog bite,” I told him. “You really do need some antibiotics. A rabies shot too, probably.”

  “Naw, I’m okay.”

  “Buddy, having biceps as big as my thigh isn’t going to help you fight off an infection.”

  He scoffed.

  “Do you really want to face Brineesha with an untreated bite wound like that?”

  That made him think. “She can be a determined woman.”

  “Yes, she can. We’ll get your car, swing by St. Mary’s, I can say hi to Lien-hua, and you can have someone look at your arm.”

  He wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but when I reminded him how many nights he’d spent on the couch last year when he didn’t get the wound from a knife fight stitched up, he finally gave in.

  My car lay mired in the mud at the base of the embankment, but an officer nearby offered to give us a ride to pick up Ralph’s car.

  Only when I’d mentioned Lien-hua’s name a few moments ago did it hit me that I hadn’t called her yet to tell her the news about Basque.

  After I retrieved my laptop from my car and we were on our way to DC in the cruiser, I caught Lien-hua in her room saying good-bye to Dr. Frasier, who’d been checking her charts. “Still scheduled for release tomorrow.” She sounded satisfied and relieved.

  “Excellent. Listen, we caught Basque.”

  “He’s in custody?”

  “Yes.”

  I summarized the fight in the marsh.

  “And Miss Weathers and her daughter are okay?”

  “It looks like they are. Yes. Ralph got bitten by a dog—”

  “I’m fine,” he grumbled loud enough for her to hear on the other end of the phone.

 
“So he says,” I told her.

  Now for the news I hadn’t really wanted to share: I related what Basque did to the two agents and the Maryland State Police officer.

  There was a long stretch of silence and at last Lien-hua said, “At least it’s finally over.”

  “Yeah. It’s over.”

  Another moment passed. “I’m not sure this is the right time to bring this up, but Margaret assigned Agents Davenport and Perry to look into the possibility of other Calydrole-related suicides. A few minutes ago Davenport stumbled across a suicide in Montana that looks related.”

  “What did he find?”

  “A woman named Natalie Germaine took her life about two weeks ago. The mechanism of death was different from Corey Wellington’s—she overdosed rather than stabbing herself—but she was taking Calydrole, and here’s the clincher: she was the sister of Congressman Welker.”

  “Siblings of two important public figures—the FBI Director and a congressman—both commit suicide and both are taking the same medication for depression?”

  “It could have been a coincidence,” she said unconvincingly.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “In this case, I’d have to agree with you.”

  “Was any Calydrole found at the scene?”

  “No. But Natalie had been spending a few nights each week at her boyfriend’s house and left a blister pack of pills over there—and yes, it’s the same lot number as the empty pack found in Corey Wellington’s house. Perry just confirmed the lot number not five minutes before you called.”

  “So we have samples of the pills?”

  “There are ten left.”

  “Alright, tomorrow morning have them next-day-air the pills here to DC—some to the FDA and PTPharmaceuticals for testing, and let’s have a couple sent to the FBI Lab for analysis.”

  “Already packaged and ready to go. Davenport and Perry are going to broaden this thing, look more carefully into other government officials and members of Congress who’ve had family members commit suicide recently.”

  “Good. And have the police out in Montana look for Tyree’s prints at the scene. Especially on the medicine cabinet.”

  “I’ll have Davenport put the request through.” Then she added, “And, Pat. I’m glad you got Basque. And that you’re okay. Good work.”

  “I’m glad we got him too.”

  It seemed like there might be more to say, but neither of us came up with anything and we ended the call.

  We had Basque.

  Saundra and Noni were safe.

  Lien-hua was scheduled to be released tomorrow morning.

  We were moving in the right direction to decipher the Calydrole riddle.

  Despite all the tragedy that had happened tonight, starting tomorrow, maybe things would finally settle down and begin to get back to normal again.

  53

  Keith closed the hotel room door and set his suitcase beside the bed closest to the bathroom.

  “I may be up for a while,” Vanessa told him. “I have a brief I’m preparing.”

  “I understand.”

  “You did a fine job in India. With Eashan and Jagjeevan.”

  It wasn’t really something he wanted to talk about. “Thank you.”

  “We get paid this weekend. Maybe you can retire those pruning shears.” But she gave him a half grin that spoke for itself: Or not.

  Honestly, there was nothing Keith wanted more than to be done with those shears for good. However, fear of Valkyrie had kept him involved in this so far and, although he hated to admit it, would keep him involved as long as Valkyrie wanted.

  “Good night, Corporal,” Vanessa said. “I’ll try not to keep you up too late.”

  “Alright, good night.”

  When pharmaceutical products are shipped to the U.S. from overseas, as long as they’re part of the legitimate supply chain, they’re not inspected. They arrive at a dock or an airport, the paperwork is verified, the packaging is checked for tampering, and then, rather unceremoniously, they’re loaded onto semis and shipped to distribution centers.

  Tomorrow, he and Vanessa would be taking the steps necessary to ensure that this process went by without a hitch for the seventy thousand pills that were on their way to Logan International Airport.

  ++

  Valkyrie reviewed his plan.

  Keith and Vanessa had untangled the snags at the facility in Kadapa; the shipment would be ready for distribution Friday evening. The packets of medication would be sent out and the irreversible effects would ripple through the pharmaceutical industry.

  PTPharmaceuticals’ shares would plummet, he would cash-settle his options, and the transaction would be complete.

  It would provide him with enough funds to take revenge, not on the person who’d taken Tatiana’s life, but on the people who had trained her killer to do so.

  Valkyrie unlashed the tarp covering the deck of the thirty-five-foot cruising yacht he had acquired yesterday. The boat was still docked at Seaboard Marina on the Potomac River, but it was going to provide him a way to leave the city if circumstances called for it.

  Airports and roads would be out of the question.

  The river would work.

  Last winter, after dealing with a misunderstanding in Pakistan involving a terrorist sympathizer named Abdul Razzaq Muhammad, Valkyrie had been able to funnel a substantial amount of money into the hands of the Chechens to help fund an upcoming attack against Moscow. Now he would get the amount they would need to complete their mission.

  In September of 2004, they’d taken over a middle school in Beslan and 335 people were killed when Russian troops entered the building and failed to stop the rebels.

  That was one school.

  And although the Chechens hadn’t been nearly as proactive over the last few years in contending for their independence, a small group of determined freedom fighters had been putting some rather elaborate plans together to strike at the heart of Moscow, at twenty-two schools where the majority of the children and grandchildren of the ruling party attended.

  Valkyrie recalled something he’d read long ago: “Vengeance will never bring you peace, only a new kind of prison.”

  Well, over the years he had learned that it was true.

  After all, there is a beast that lives within each of us, a beast that screams out for its own kind of justice and will be restless and enraged and sometimes all-consuming until it gets what it wants.

  Even if it destroys you.

  Or seals you in your own personal prison.

  He’d taken the life of the person he loved the most. Now he would punish the people who had created the beast that he was.

  Not justice, perhaps, but at least fulfilling the role of the Valkyrie in deciding who will live and who will die on the battlefield of life.

  He finished rolling up the tarp.

  According to the message Alhazur Daudov, the Chechen paramilitary commander he was working with, had sent him, the meeting to iron out all the details was scheduled to happen on Friday night at 7:30 p.m. here on the yacht. From there, if necessary, they would travel together to the distribution center here in DC where the drugs would be waiting, to ascertain that everything was in place for the shipment to go out the following morning.

  54

  19 hours later Thursday, April 11 6:22 p.m.

  Graham Webb, president of Yorke & Webb Import Services, reminded his eight-year-old daughter, Abigail, not to go too close to the water.

  “I know, Daddy,” she grumped at him.

  “Okay.”

  Then, after offering him a smile, she ran out of the house to play on the narrow stretch of sand encircling his home on Lake Beulah.

  His living room window afforded him a clear view of the lake, although woods on each side of the property did restrict
the visibility to a stretch of beach a few hundred feet wide. Abigail knew better than to wander out of sight of the house. Graham had made that clear to her and kept reminding her whenever she came to stay with him.

  Now he watched her through the window to make sure she obeyed him, which she did. The early evening was too cool to swim, and apart from a woman walking her dog along the shore, the beach was empty.

  Satisfied that Abigail was playing safely, Graham grabbed a martini from his home bar and then scrolled through the latest earnings reports on his tablet computer.

  His company, an import and distribution service that worked with all the major players in the pharmaceutical industry, continued to fare well in the current rocky economic landscape.

  He glanced outside again. The day was calm, the lake still. He took a satisfying sip from his drink and then went into the sunroom, the place in the house that gave him the clearest view of the lake. He peered out the window one more time to make sure Abigail was safe.

  The woman with the dog had stopped beside his daughter, and Abigail was kneeling beside the terrier, gently petting him. The dog looked well enough behaved, sitting obediently at the woman’s feet, and Graham’s attention went back to his tablet.

  After checking the day’s stock market report, he started evaluating if he should sell some of the shares he had in the tech giant ChipEvolution. He was finishing up when his cell phone rang and he glanced at the screen.

  His ex-wife’s number.

  Oh, she’d better not be calling to try and take Abigail home early. They had joint custody, alternating weeks, but Erin had pulled this stunt before, demanding that she pick up Abigail early, trying to get an extra weekend with her.

  The phone rang again.

  As he tapped the cell’s screen to answer the call, he glanced out the window once more and saw that the beach was empty. No woman. No dog. No Abigail.

  As he brought the phone to his ear, he headed to the door to check on his daughter. “Erin, I told you not to—”

  “Stay in the house.” A man’s voice cut him off.

  “What? Who is this?”

  “Stay in the house, Graham. I want to talk to you and I want your undivided attention. Believe me when I tell you that you would not want to step outside right now.”