by Steven James
She closed the space between us. “Back in the slaughterhouse? After you handcuffed him?”
So, Basque told her. She knows.
Grant Sikora looked at the clock on the wall. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.
You swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Did you break Richard Basque’s jaw with your fist?” she asked. “Did you attack him after he was handcuffed?”
You can’t let Basque walk. You know that, Pat. You can’t admit that you hit him.
Time slowed.
Sweat? Why is Sikora sweating?
I looked from Grant Sikora to Priscilla. Beyond her I saw Basque smiling, as if the moment he’d been waiting for all these years had finally arrived. If I told the truth, he might walk, but if I lied I’d be committing perjury and going against everything I’d worked toward all these years.
Another bead of sweat formed on Sikora’s forehead.
It’s too cold in the courtroom to be sweating. Too cold.
Unless.
“Dr. Bowers!” Ms. Eldridge-Gorman had stepped in front of me and now planted her hands on her hips, her two elbows jutting out like bony wings. “Are you having trouble remembering that night at the slaughterhouse?”
Grant Sikora began to discreetly make his way toward the side aisle. It’s not unheard of for people to slip out of a courtroom while a trial is in session, so no one else seemed to take notice. Their eyes were riveted on me.
The evidence table.
The hatchet… the knife… the gun… a weapon… is he going for a weapon?
“I’ll ask you one last time.” Her words were cold stones dropping one by one into the still courtroom. “Did you or did you not physically assault Richard Devin Basque after he was in your custody in the slaughterhouse?”
Nothing but the truth.
Answer her, Pat. You have to answer the question.
My eyes flashed across the evidence table, scrutinizing, examining the positioning of the items. I noticed the Sigma’s witness hole, the small groove that allows the operator to observe the brass case of the bullets if there are any chambered rounds.
Ms. Eldridge-Gorman’s voice rang out, “Judge Craddock, please direct the witness to answer the question!”
Inside the witness hole I saw a brassy glint…
“Dr. Bowers, I advise you to answer the counselor’s question.”
That glint could only mean one thing.
Ms. Eldridge-Gorman threw her hands up.
That gun was loaded.
“Will you answer the counselor’s question?” the judge said.
Sikora’s going for the gun!
“No,” I whispered.
“No?” the judge shouted.
Grant Sikora reached the aisle and ran toward the evidence table.
You can’t let him get the gun.
Stop him, Pat. You have to stop him!
I grabbed the railing of the witness stand and launched myself over the edge.
12
My shoes slipped as I landed. I smacked onto the floor, and by the time I’d made it to my feet, Grant Sikora’s hand had found the gun.
The next three seconds seemed to take forever and happen all at once.
I sprinted toward him. Time collapsed, then expanded. A series of terrible thoughts raced through my mind. The gun’s loaded. He’s Celeste’s father. He’s going after Basque.
Sikora raised the gun, and the two officers stationed at the courtroom’s main doors drew their weapons.
I instinctively reached for my SIG. Found only an empty holster.
All around me, blurred sounds, elastic words that somehow slowed as they moved through the air, in between the creases of time. Screams
… shouts… the frantic scuffling movement of people diving for cover… I felt like I was in a scene from a movie where the bullet slides in slow motion through the air, only this time the bullet hadn’t been fired yet. And I had the chance to stop it.
The judge had disappeared behind the bench, and Richard Basque had risen from his seat and turned toward Sikora. Standing as still as death, he watched Grant sweep the gun in an arc toward the officers who were shouting at him to drop his weapon.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ralph on his way toward the gunman, plowing through the crowd of people seated in the gallery. But I was closer. A lot closer.
Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman’s shrill voice cut through the room calling for Basque to get down! Get down! She threw herself beneath the table, but he didn’t move. Just remained stoic and still.
I was almost to Sikora.
The two officers leveled their weapons. One of them fired and the bullet whirred past my face and shattered the wooden railing of the witness stand behind me.
I reached Sikora, but before I could grab him, he squeezed off a shot, and one of the officers wrenched backward with a sharp cry and crashed to the floor. The female officer who’d closed the courtroom doors earlier hesitated, glancing momentarily down at her partner.
Grant Sikora stared down the barrel, looking stunned that he’d actually pulled the trigger.
And then I was on him.
I snagged his arm and went for the gun, but he slithered free, whipped around, and leveled it at my face. “Out of the way.”
Time caught up with reality and froze. I’d had guns aimed at my face before, but it doesn’t matter how many times it happens, you never get used to it. I felt my heart slamming against my chest. Easy, Pat. Easy. I raised my hands to show I meant no harm.
“Put down your gun!” the uninjured officer yelled. Only then did I realize I was in her line of fire. She didn’t have a clear shot at Sikora, only at me.
Out of my peripheral vision I could see the other officer laying sprawled on the floor, blood from the gunshot wound soaking through his shirtsleeve, but it was only his arm. It didn’t look life-threatening. Good. That buys us some time.
“Drop your weapon!”
“Shut up,” Grant shrieked. “Everyone, shut up!” He took one step closer to me. The officer on the floor was slowly drawing his weapon. “Drop your guns,” Sikora yelled to the officers. “Or the FBI agent dies.”
Three meters to my left, Ralph silently slid into position beside the prosecution’s table. Everyone else except Basque either lay on the floor or knelt low to the ground. A few people peered over the edges of chairs and benches to watch things unfold. Neither officer dropped their guns. Basque still stood calmly watching everything unfold.
“Put them down!” Grant hollered. “Slide ’em here!”
I saw his finger on the trigger and felt my heart twitch. There was no way he would miss me from there. No way.
“Drop ’em!” Ralph bellowed. “Do it!”
Sikora didn’t seem to care that someone else had yelled the words, he just kept his eyes glued on me. Kept his gun steady.
The two officers gauged the situation for a moment, and finally both of them shoved their guns toward us.
“Nobody else move!” Sikora yelled, then glanced toward Ralph. “And you. Back off. Now!”
“Easy.” Ralph raised his hands and shuffled one step away from us toward the wall. “I’m backing up. OK?”
“Farther!”
“I am.” One more step.
“Go on.”
Two steps.
Sikora glanced at the officer standing beside her partner. “Get outside the door! No one comes in here. If anyone tries to, I mean anyone, if that door opens, Bowers is dead.” He tipped his head to the left. “The bailiff and the judge, you go with her. Go!”
After a moment, the judge appeared from behind his bench where he’d been hiding. His face was etched with anger, but he said nothing. He and the bailiff followed the officer out the door, and then she swung it shut behind them.
Ralph and I still had a chance at diffusing things if only we could get close enough to take Sikora down, but to do that I needed to focus the man’s attention on me. �
��It’s Grant, right?” I said. “Your name is Grant Sikora? I met with you after your daughter’s death?”
He eyed me, didn’t answer. Took in two choppy breaths.
I pointed. “The officer you shot, he’s going to be OK.” I spoke slowly, trying to calm him down. “End this now. I understand you’re angry-”
“No.”
“You have a right to be angry-”
“No!”
“But shooting people won’t help to-”
“Quiet!” Rage in his voice, but his jaw was quivering. A tear escaped the corner of his left eye.
He’s sorry, so sorry.
“No one else needs to get hurt.” I edged toward him. “You’re not a killer.”
He shook his head violently. “He killed her. He killed my Celeste.”
Are there other agents in here? Where are they?
Sikora shouted past me, into Richard Basque’s general direction, “You killed my daughter, you son of a-”
“Did she believe?” asked Basque, cutting Grant off.
“What?”
“The Lord said that those who live and believe in him shall never die. Did your daughter believe?”
“Shut up.” Grant was shaking, possessed by grief and rage. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
His eyes locked on Basque again. He’d made his decision.
He swung the gun away from me toward the man who’d tortured, killed, and eaten his daughter.
My chance. My only chance.
Now or never.
Now.
13
I lunged toward Sikora and grabbed for the gun, locking my fingers around his wrist and pivoting at the same time. I pulled the barrel away from the crowded courtroom and toward the empty northern wall. And this time I made sure Grant Sikora couldn’t jerk away.
He must have slipped his finger off the trigger because the Sigma didn’t discharge. With strength fueled by adrenaline, he tried to pull free again. I twisted his arm around his back, trying to control him, to disarm him, but with his other hand he snagged something from the evidence table and slammed it against my side; a crushing heat, a burst of pain cruised through me and I wondered if he’d broken my rib.
Whatever he’d grabbed, Grant pounded my side again, but I wouldn’t let go.
A flash of movement-Ralph on his way toward us, but it would be a couple seconds before he could help me.
Then I realized Grant was holding the hatchet Basque had used on three of his victims. Thankfully, he’d only been able to swing the handle at me and not the blade, but still, it hurt enough to make me gasp for breath.
As he swung the hatchet handle at me again, I sucked in a breath and chopped at his forearm, sending the hatchet clattering to the floor.
Now, for the gun.
We were facing each other with the Sigma between us. As we wrestled for it, Grant pivoted and we smashed into the witness stand.
“Drop the gun!” Ralph flipped the evidence table aside, scattering its contents. Rushed toward us.
Grant Sikora’s face was set with determination, and I realized that if Basque had slaughtered someone I loved, I would have been just as determined, just as enraged as he was. “He…” His teeth were clenched with the effort of fighting me off, but he managed to speak through them. “He… killed… her.”
“Please,” I said. My side was throbbing so much it was hard to breathe. “Don’t-”
“He ate her,” Grant said. “Ate my Celeste-”
I felt the barrel pressing into my bruised ribs. I tried to pull it away, but Sikora pitched to the side. The soles of his shoes slipped, and together we crashed into the wall.
And that’s when the gun went off.
14
Everything can change in an instant.
I felt the gun’s jarring repercussion ride up my arm and jolt into my shoulder.
So this is it.
Time clicked forward.
After all these years, it ends like this.
I waited for the ache of the bullet’s impact to sweep over me.
Felt nothing.
And then I saw Mr. Sikora’s face.
No.
His eyes losing focus, his grip on my arm loosening.
No, please, no!
Liquid warmth spread across my abdomen, but the wound wasn’t mine.
Ralph was beside me.
“Get an ambulance,” I said. He rummaged through his pockets for his phone as I eased Mr. Sikora to the floor and onto his back.
After pulling the gun from his hand and sliding it away from us, I cradled his head as gently as I could while applying pressure on the gunshot wound with my other hand.
But I couldn’t stop the bleeding.
“Don’t let him…” Grant coughed, struggled for breath.
I wanted to tell him that everything was going to be OK, that he didn’t need to worry, that the shot wasn’t serious, but I’m not a very good liar. “Relax,” I said softly. Nothing but the truth. “Help is coming.”
He drew in a gasping, strangled breath but said nothing.
The blood on Grant’s chest was frothy and bright, which meant the bullet had hit his lung, possibly nicked his heart. Even if the paramedics arrived within the next couple minutes, I didn’t think he’d make it.
“The paramedics are coming,” I said. Considering the recorded message in Colorado and the tight security here, I doubted that he’d loaded the gun himself. “Who loaded the gun for you, Grant?”
He struggled for a breath. “Hurry.”
“They’re on their way. Tell me a name. Who was it?”
He swallowed, took a coarse breath. “You have to get… hurry. ..”
Four officers came bursting through the door and swarmed around us. One of them retrieved the S amp; W from the floor, the other three aimed their weapons at Mr. Sikora’s face.
“Back off,” I said. “Give him some space.”
They hesitated.
“Back off!”
As they retreated, Grant Sikora pulled me close. “Please.” He coughed a fine spray of blood onto my cheek. I was sure I was the only one who could hear him.
“Promise me you won’t let him do it again.”
“Grant, you need to-”
“Promise me.” Urgency. Desperation. “For her. For Celeste.”
I had to say something. “I promise,” I said softly. “I promise I won’t let him do it again. Now, please. Tell me who loaded the gun. A name.”
But he never heard me finish my request. As I was speaking, he closed his eyes, his hand fell away from my arm, and Grant Sikora died.
No!
If we were ever going to bring him back I needed to keep his blood flowing. I started chest compressions, but after a few minutes when the paramedics still hadn’t arrived I felt Ralph’s presence beside me, his hand on my shoulder.
“He’s gone.” Ralph’s voice was as gentle as he could make it. “Pat.” He knelt beside me, put a hand on my shoulder. “He’s gone.”
I kept going. Maybe he was wrong.
Two more compressions, three more, four more, but it wasn’t enough, would never be enough. A crew of paramedics streamed into the courtroom, and as they took over trying to revive Grant, I leaned back, out of breath. My heart pounding.
I tried to relax, to calm my breathing, but couldn’t seem to do it.
Throughout the courtroom the spectators and jury members were emerging from their hiding places. Richard Basque stood nearby, watching me. His deep, thoughtful eyes touched me, swept over me, a psychopathic mixture of coolness and warmth. “Thank you, Dr. Bowers.” He spoke just loud enough for me to hear, then let a smile play across his lips. “I owe you my life.”
That’s it.
I rose and started for him.
This time it was Ralph’s turn to hold me back.
“Let it be, Pat.” I strained to get free, but he didn’t let go. “Like you said before, not like this.”
“I’m OK.”
I
tried to shake his hands off. Finally, he let go on his own and studied my face.
“I am. I’m all right.”
“That’s good,” he said softly. “Because right now you need to be.” He stayed within reach.
The body and the blood.
Still tense. Still angry.
The EMTs were using a defibrillator on Grant, but by the look on the face of the lead paramedic, I could tell that this was one patient he didn’t expect to bring back.
A grieving father was dead, a remorseless killer was alive, and I’d made a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
Everything can change in an instant.
6 minutes later
Giovanni watched the ambulance roll away from the courthouse.
From listening to the police scanner he knew that it carried the body of Grant Sikora rather than that of Richard Basque. And he’d used his credentials to find out from one of the marshals outside the building that Special Agent Patrick Bowers had been the one to stop him.
Well.
Giovanni had expected, of course, that Sikora would be wheeled out of the building with a sheet over his head, but he’d thought that with his background as a gunnery sergeant in the Marines, he would have been able to accomplish his mission first. Of all the family members of the victims, he’d been the best choice.
But he hadn’t been good enough to get past Bowers, which at least confirmed what Giovanni had already suspected-that Special Agent Bowers was the perfect choice for story number ten.
It looked like a slight change of plans was in order.
Time to get back to Denver.
To tell tale number five.
15
My side ached.
My heart ached.
And Grant Sikora didn’t make it.
He’d been pronounced dead upon arrival at St. Francis Medical Center thirty minutes ago. The officer he’d shot would need a little time and physical therapy to heal but would eventually regain full use of his arm, so it looked like even though there’d been one tragedy, one had been averted.
Two, if you counted Basque escaping with his life.
The courtroom we’d been in had become a crime scene, so the bailiff had taken the jurors to the jury room, and all the members of the media and relatives of the victims had been ushered downstairs to the lobby. The medical and law enforcement personnel and a few people such as myself who were involved in the trial had moved to a smaller courtroom across the hall.
