The King

by Steven James

  “Hmm, well, I’ve been considering something else, actually, ever since I lit Basque’s hair on fire.”

  “What’s that?” I said. “A career in arson?”

  “Criminal science.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I like solving stuff. There’s no rule you and Lien-hua get to be the only FBI agents in the family.”

  “It’s a long road to getting accepted at the Academy, Raven. It’s not just—”

  “I can be a determined girl, Dad.”

  Well, there was no arguing with that.

  “Look.” Tony pointed. “The sun’s gone.”

  He was right, and then that moment that we’d shared, we’d lived together, was gone as well.

  But as it passed, a new one arrived.

  87

  Six weeks later Saturday, May 25

  I stood at the front of the church and watched Tessa, Lien-hua’s maid of honor, walk up the aisle toward me. The prom dress hadn’t weathered the Potomac very well and she wore a new dress, red and Oriental, and she looked much older than eighteen.

  Her graduation speech last weekend had gone reasonably well. She threw up beforehand and that seemed to calm her nerves enough for her to get through it.

  The whole speech lasted less than five minutes, but she said all the stuff she’d told us she wanted to say and I was proud of her for sharing what she believed in most, for challenging people to seek the truth and follow it wherever it takes them, even if that’s away from where their own hearts want to go.

  If all we do is follow our hearts, we will live small lives indeed.

  Now, she ascended the steps, smiled, and then stood beside me as we waited for the bridal procession to begin.

  Apparently, one of Tessa’s teachers had given her a hard time about some assignment, but when the administration found out the circumstances and that she’d actually turned it in, the guy was put on leave for the last three weeks of the school year. Tessa tried to hide her satisfaction about it from me, but I could tell how she really felt.

  There hadn’t been any sightings of Basque since I shot him a month and a half ago, and there was no evidence of crimes that he might have committed in the meantime. Some people at the Bureau wanted to consider his case closed, but I wasn’t about to go there. If he was out there I would find him.

  The hound does not give up until he has the hare.

  I’d heard that Saundra Weathers had a contract to write a true crime book about what happened to her and her daughter. She was going to donate the proceeds to a foundation that helped prospective parents adopt children from Africa. To me, it was welcome news that brought a glint of redemption out of the harrowing experience she and her daughter had been through.

  One other bit of national news caught my attention last week.

  No one has ever escaped from the Supermax prison in Florence, Colorado, but we’d gotten word that Giovanni, a brutal killer I’d tracked down in Denver a year ago, was caught at the perimeter fence. He’d been moved to solitary confinement and would probably be there for at least five years for that escape attempt.

  Nice to hear.

  It seemed like there was more closure than I’d had in my career in a long time.

  Closure is good.

  But so is the chase.

  And after my honeymoon, I knew I’d be ready to look for more hares that might have wandered into my field.

  Lien-hua appeared at the back of the church and waited for the music to begin.

  My heart beat faster with the renewed realization of what was about to happen—my union with the woman I loved more than life itself. We had already burned the unity candle so much since mid-April that it was only a nub. When we used this one up, we would just get another. As many as we needed.

  Considering the rocky past I’d had with my brother, it wasn’t especially easy choosing between him and Ralph for my best man, but in the end I’d gone with Sean—and Ralph had agreed that was the right choice.

  Now I stared down the aisle at my friends and family: Lien-hua’s two brothers, Nianzu and Huang-fu, were there, as well my mom and Sean’s wife, Amber.

  Brineesha sat beside Ralph, beaming, and holding his hand. Tony tugged at the tie his mom had made him wear. He looked as uncomfortable in it as his father looked in his.

  Margaret had come; Doehring had brought his wife and two daughters; Agents Farraday and Cassidy were here, as well as Metro SWAT Commander Shaw, and any number of other officers and agents Lien-hua and I knew.

  Since her father was dead and my dad never had any daughters, she’d asked him to walk her down the aisle.

  Honored, he’d accepted.

  And now the procession began and they started toward us.

  Lien-hua tried to hide her limp, but it was still there, healing, as so many things do, with time.

  Traditionally, Chinese brides wear red, and in her crimson dress she looked absolutely resplendent.

  I thought back to the toast Tessa had given at the picnic on that traumatic night Lien-hua was abducted: “Dum vivimus vivamus.”

  While we live, let us live.

  Yes. This brief moment that we have, this vaporous gift reaching only the span of a heartbeat. Yes. While we live.

  Let us live.

  My daughter, the free-flying raven, had asked us what it would look like to live in awe of every moment.

  I’m not certain, but I’m going to try to find out.

  Epilogue

  United States Penitentiary Administrative Maximum Facility Florence, Colorado

  “So you were caught at the fence.”

  Giovanni looked across the table at his latest in a long string of lawyers. “Yes. I have a life sentence, what do I have to lose?”

  His lawyer was silent. “You were still cuffed and in leg shackles. How did you—”

  “We all have our secrets.”

  “Well, there are some things we’re going to have to talk about.”

  “No doubt.”

  The gentleman filed through a sheaf of papers but said nothing. Giovanni was as patient as prison teaches you to be if you’re going to remain sane, but when his lawyer didn’t speak, he finally said, “What is it you’d like to cover first?”

  The man pulled the paper clip off the stack of papers and set them aside, then held it up and smiled. “How to use this.”

  Watch for the final installment of the Bowers Files

  CHECKMATE

  Summer 2014

  SPECIAL THANKS TO

  Matt T., Liesl H., Pam J., Dr. Todd H., Dr. John-Paul A., Kurt C., Shawn S., Darren B., Brent H., Larry K., Lori M., Trinity H., Wayne S., Ariel H., Richard A., Dr. M. Zadapa, Aneesh D., Anthony F., Atiba A., John C., Austin C., Sandra B., Tiffany Y., and Andrew Y.

  Because of your insights and time this is a better book. The Bowers family will forever be indebted to you all.

  Read on for an excerpt from Steven James’s

  OPENING MOVES

  Available now from Signet Select

  1

  New Territories Pub 804 South Second Street Milwaukee, Wisconsin 11:07 p.m.

  Vincent Hayes stepped cautiously into the bar, trying unsuccessfully to still his heart, to quiet his apprehension.

  He’d never done this before, never tried to pick up a man.

  As he entered, two patrons who were seated at the bar—a Mexican in his mid-twenties and an older Caucasian who looked maybe a few years older than Vincent, around forty-five or so—turned to face him. The younger man had his hand resting gently on the middle-aged gentleman’s knee.

  Vincent gave the men a somewhat forced nod, they smiled a bit, then turned to gaze into each other’s eyes again and went back to their conversation—perhaps a joke that the Mexican was telling, because Vincent heard the other man chuckle as he pas
sed by and then took in the rest of the bar.

  Country music played. Nondescript. Some singer he didn’t recognize. The neon beer signs and dim overheads did little to illuminate the nook and crannied pub. Vincent scanned the tables looking for the right kind of man—young, athletic, but not too muscular. The drugs he was carrying were potent, but muscle mass might diminish their effect. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He’d never used the drugs before, but tonight he couldn’t risk taking the chance that the man would awaken before he was done with him.

  He was looking for a black man.

  All around him in the dim light, men stood talking. Most were gathered in groups of two or three. Very few single guys. Vincent was brawny and cut an impressive figure that turned a few heads, but none that looked promising.

  Even though he wanted to be alert so he wouldn’t make a mistake, he also needed something strong to take the edge off, to help anesthetize his inhibitions. Vincent took a seat at the bar and ordered a vodka.

  Yes, yes, of course he was nervous. But there was also adrenaline there. Anxiety churning around violently beneath the surge of apprehension.

  Keep your cool. This is not a time to make some kind of stupid mistake.

  So far he hadn’t seen anyone who fit the bill. Some were too old. A few younger couples were moving in time to the music on the dance floor on the far side of the bar. No single African-American like he was looking for.

  He felt the brush of movement against his arm. A slim white guy who didn’t look old enough to be here legally drew up a barstool. “Waiting for someone?” His voice was melodic and inviting. Charming might be a better word for it.

  Yes, he was the right age, but he was the wrong race. Vincent gave him only a momentary glance. He didn’t want to be rude or draw attention, but he didn’t want to lead him on either.

  “Um. Yes.”

  “Shame.”

  Vincent downed half of his vodka.

  “Lucky guy,” the man said under his breath, but, almost certainly on purpose, loud enough for Vincent to hear.

  Get out of here. Try another bar. Already too many people have seen you in here.

  Although it was supposed to happen at this bar, Vincent realized it was more important for it to happen than where it did.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. He laid some cash beside his unfinished drink, then stood to leave. He’d taken two steps toward the door when he saw the type of man he was looking for: an athletic African-American, sitting alone in the booth near the narrow hallway to the restrooms.

  Just like the young man who’d taken a seat beside Vincent a moment ago, this guy looked on the shy side of twenty-one, but Vincent guessed that carding people wasn’t exactly at the top of the management’s priority list.

  He had a beer bottle in front of him, a Lienenkugel’s. Almost empty. Vincent ordered two more from the bartender, excused himself from the guy who’d been coming on to him, and carried the two beers toward the booth.

  Just get him to the minivan. You’re bigger. You can easily overpower him in there.

  As Vincent crossed the room, he surreptitiously dropped the two pills into one of the bottles and gently swirled them to the bottom.

  When he was halfway to the booth, the young black man looked his way.

  Vincent smiled, then, nervous, dropped his gaze.

  You can do this; come on, you can do this.

  He’d already decided he would cuff him as soon as he got him into the van. Hopefully, he’d be too drugged to fight much or call for help, but Vincent had a gag and duct tape waiting just in case. If he wasn’t able to get him to take off his clothes before he cuffed him, he would strip the guy, cutting off his shirt and jeans with the fabric shears when he was done.

  And then move forward with things from there.

  Almost to the booth now, he waited for the man to say something, but when he didn’t, Vincent spoke, trying out the same line the guy had used on him a few moments earlier. “Waiting for someone?”

  The black man—kid, really—looked his way, wide-eyed. Wet his lips slightly. “I saw Mark with you. That what he asked you?”

  Vincent set down the drinks. “Busted.”

  “He needs to expand his repertoire.”

  “I guess I do too.”

  The young man eyed the beers, and said demurely, “One of those for me?”

  Vincent slid the drugged beer toward him, smiled again, and took a seat.

  The guy offered Vincent a soft nod, accepted the drink, and held out his hand palm down, a diminutive handshake. “I’m Lionel.”

  “Vincent.” He shook Lionel’s hand.

  “Mmm. Vincent.” It almost sounded like Lionel was purring. “Very European.” His eyes gleamed. “A shade mysterious.” He took a sip of his beer. “I haven’t seen you here before, Vincent.”

  “I’m . . .” Vincent couldn’t think of anything clever or witty to say. “Well, I . . . This is my first time.”

  “Your first time, what? Here?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Or your first time. Period?”

  “Yes. My first time. Period.”

  Lionel looked at him as if he’d just said something humorous. “You haven’t done this before. Ever?”

  “No.” Vincent took a drink as a way of hiding, but also of, hopefully, encouraging the young man to drink his beer as well.

  It worked.

  When Lionel had finished the swig, his eyes drifted toward Vincent’s left hand. Toward his wedding ring.

  “You’re married.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why tonight? Why did you come tonight? Is she out of town?”

  The last thing Vincent wanted to do right now was talk about Colleen. “Yes,” he said, lying. “Visiting her parents.”

  “And you decided to try something a little different? For a change?”

  “To step out on a limb. Yes.” His heart was beating. Thinking about Colleen made all of this harder.

  Vincent took another sip from his drink. So did Lionel.

  “I don’t live far from here,” Vincent offered, and then immediately realized that it was much too forward. On the other hand, if his suspicions were right, Lionel was working the place, looking for payment for his companionship, and wasting a lot of time on formalities wouldn’t serve either of their interests.

  “Really? Where?”

  “Not far.”

  A wink. “Staying mysterious, are we?”

  Vincent had no idea how to respond. “I really . . . I’m not sure how to say this. Um, are you, well, are you—”

  Lionel laid his hand gently on Vincent’s forearm. “I can be whatever you want me to be, Vincent.”

  It was a long moment before he removed his hand.

  “Okay.” Vincent said.

  Lionel smiled softly. “Okay.”

  Another swig.

  And another.

  And although Vincent was anxious to get going, he realized he needed a little time for the drugs to work, so he answered Lionel’s questions about where he’d gone to college, UW–La Crosse, and what he did for a living, managed a PR firm. In response, Lionel mentioned that he had a theater degree from DePaul and was an actor “between jobs.”

  As the minutes passed, the drugs and alcohol started to have the desired effect.

  “Lionel?”

  “Um-hmm.” His voice was wavering, unfocused.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “Your place is close?” he mumbled.

  “Yes. Let’s get you to the car.”

  No response, just a bleary nod.

  So Vincent helped Lionel to his feet and supported him on the way to the door.

  2

  Apparently, two men leaving this bar—with one of them evidently drunk—was not too out of the ordinary. No
body paid much attention to them as they left the building.

  Vincent could see his breath as he crossed the sidewalk, but the November night felt brisk rather than icy cold and that would be good for Lionel, for what Vincent had in mind for him.

  Earlier, Vincent had taken the backseats out of his minivan and it wasn’t difficult to help Lionel into the vehicle. Once they were inside, he closed the door and retrieved the handcuffs.

  He hoped Lionel wouldn’t struggle, but Vincent had been a linebacker in college, still worked out four or five days a week, and was willing to get physical, if that’s what it took.

  Vincent began to unzip Lionel’s jacket.

  “What are you . . . ?” Lionel’s words were blurred, confused.

  “We need to get you out of these clothes.”

  “I thought we . . . were going . . . to your place.”

  “Plans have changed.” He tugged off Lionel’s coat.

  Lionel eyed the handcuffs. A look that went past confusion and dipped into fear crossed his face and he tried to wrestle free. He was squirrelly and hard to hold on to, and Vincent was forced to do something he hadn’t intended to do—punch him in the face. Lionel crumpled to the floor. “What the—?”

  Vincent cuffed his left wrist and when Lionel tried to get up again, Vincent grabbed his head and smacked it hard against the floor of the van. “Don’t fight. It’ll make it worse.”

  “No—”

  This wasn’t going well, not well at all.

  Vincent bent over him. “Be quiet, Lionel, or I’ll have to do that again. I don’t want to, but if I—”

  “Help!” Lionel rolled to his side, tried to scramble toward the door, but Vincent snagged his left arm, twisted it behind his back, brought the right arm around as well and cuffed the wrists together. Once he was assured that Lionel wasn’t going anywhere, he stuffed a cloth into his mouth and wrapped a few rounds of duct tape around his head to hold it in place. Lionel tried to shake free, to cry out for help, but could hardly make any sound at all.