Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  Knight leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes, but could not fall asleep. He rolled off the bed and stretched. CTV broadcasted everything but what he had waited all morning to see; the Meneghello judgment. He stood in front of a floor to ceiling mirror on the inside of the bathroom door and admired himself. He was dressed in the color of darkness, and he felt like he could accomplish anything.

  “Where, oh where has my little Jack gone? Where, oh where can he be?” He grinned and threw a series of shadow punches at his image in the mirror.

  “I know you’re out there, Staal, with your sidekick, the Gooch.” He paced around the room, suddenly nervous and angry with himself for the weakness. A headache he had been fighting all morning increased its pressure in his cranium.

  “Mr. Knight, how does it feel to be victorious over your nemesis, Jack Staal?”

  Knight used a broadcaster’s inflection, pretending he was being interviewed on the evening news.

  “It feels great, Joe. I regret that I had to take Staal out, but he just couldn’t seem to understand that he and I are on the same team.” He held a flashlight to his mouth for a microphone.

  “Staal was a twenty year veteran of the Vancouver and Hanson police and a former professional boxer; still, you were able to pull out the victory. How can this be?” he said in his announcer voice.

  “The same way I beat them all—I’m smarter. From Sean Moore to Meneghello to Staal. None were much of a challenge.”

  “Come on, Campbell. Isn’t it true that you are a pathetic loser that was routinely beaten up by females in school?” He couldn’t seem to control the snide voice that came out of his mouth.

  “I’m not Campbell. I’m Damian Knight! I am strong. I beat them all. I am strong.”

  “Strong? You’re puny and pathetic,” the voice said. “You’re feeble and frail.” His heart pounded in his chest and his head throbbed.

  “No! I’m strong!”

  “Campbell-soup. Makes-you-poop.” He began to sing the song that the elementary kids tortured him with for years. “Down your leg and in your boot. On the floor and out the door. Now you’re ready for some more.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Staal was coming and he was no doubt good and pissed about the hit and run. “Oh, Jesus.” Knight zipped up his suitcase, flung open the front door, and headed for his rental car. He looked left when he heard a vehicle pull into the Harris House lot, and saw a RCMP cruiser stop at the main building. It wasn’t some local yokel, either; it was Staal and Rachael Gooch. He turned on his heel and bolted to his suite, locked the door and began to hyperventilate.

  * * *

  Jack Staal pulled on his Kevlar bulletproof vest, fastened the Velcro straps and checked Gooch’s vest to make sure it was secure as she did the same for him. He checked his weapon, the Glock, and fastened a Smith 38-Special into an ankle holster under his pant leg. The old 38 was a gift from Travis, his father’s first service revolver. Gooch opted for a Mossberg twelve-gage shotgun, courtesy of the Ganges RCMP.

  When Carol Harris called his cell to inform him that she, her staff and two other customers were all clear of Harris House, he nodded to Rachael.

  “We really should wait for back-up, Jack,” Gooch said.

  “I’ve got a feeling that if we wait, he’ll off himself,” Staal said.

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Not really. But I want this fuck to do time.”

  “Okay, you ready?”

  “Yeah, let’s do this.”

  Staal and Gooch jogged forward and took up a defensive position at a large oak tree and a white rental Dodge about twenty feet from suite number four. He knelt at the front of the Dodge and had a good view of the suite’s front door, main window, and sundeck.

  He rolled onto his back and under the car, looked up at the engine and found the oil filter. He opened his penknife, plunged the blade into the filter, and turned the knife so that he made a nickel-sized hole in the cartridge. About a pint of oil poured out through the puncture. Now, in the unlikely event that Campbell got past the detectives, he wouldn’t get far. The engine would start and the car would drive, but soon enough it would seize up and quit as the lubricant pumped out.

  He looked over to Gooch at the tree and pointed two fingers to his eyes, signaling, ‘do you see him?’

  Gooch shook her head. Staal jogged around to the west side of the building, where there were no windows. He dropped to a prostrate position and crawled toward the front of the house. It was then that his body reminded him that only six days earlier a car had run him down. His shoulder ached and his legs felt numb. Staal shook it off and crawled to just below the main window. He looked at Gooch and noticed that she had the shotgun pointed directly at the window.

  Staal slowly stood and glanced in the window, knowing that Campbell could well be waiting to shoot him in the face. The curtain was sheer and he had a good view of the room. He took a moment to memorize the layout. Nathan Campbell was kneeling near the bed, his hands together as if he was praying. Staal crouched a little, turned to see Gooch, made eye contact, and waved her to move up. He quickly stood and met Rachael at the door to the house.

  “He’s at the bed, praying I think,” Staal whispered.

  Gooch nodded and tried the doorknob. Locked. Staal signaled her that he would kick it down. She nodded. Staal took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled long and slow. He took three steps away from the entrance, then threw all of his weight forward and kicked the white wooden door with all his strength. The door disintegrated and he stumbled, then steadied his pistol. Gooch rushed past him, shotgun ready, and began yelling instructions at Campbell.

  “NATHAN CAMPBELL! DOWN ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD!”

  Campbell was still kneeling at the bed when his door crashed down. He quickly stood and then knelt again when Gooch began yelling. Staal stood two steps behind Gooch with his Glock pointed straight at Campbell’s head. Campbell wore an entire outfit of black, with the exception of a green hunter’s vest. When Campbell raised his hands above his head Staal noticed something that looked like road flares strapped to his body under the vest. Gooch readied her handcuffs and reached for Campbell’s right arm. She was at the wrong angle to see Campbell’s hidden surprise.

  “Don’t fucking move, Gooch!” Staal yelled with as much force as he could.

  “What?”

  “Under the vest,” Staal said. “He’s wired with TNT!”

  Campbell smiled, “That’s right Jack, thirty-three sticks.”

  “Shit!” Gooch cried.

  “Stay calm, Nathan,” Staal said.

  “I am c-calm, J-Jack,” Campbell stammered. “I’ve already p-primed the detonator. If I remove my thumb from this bu-button,” He held the detonator in his right hand and swung the switch so the detectives could see clearly. “We go boom!”

  “Okay, Nathan,” Staal said in a composed voice. “Let’s think about what we’re doing here.” He tried to examine the explosives to see if they were real.

  “They’re real, Jack.” Campbell smiled. “Amazing what you can pick-up on eBay, huh? The vender showed me how to rig this up, too.”

  Staal evaluated his options.

  “Don’t even think about it, Jack. If you as much as fart—these things will go off. You shoot me Staal—we go boom. So go ahead and stun me, pepper spray my ass. Let’s see what happens.”

  “Take it easy, Nathan.” Gooch said. “This is your show—you call the shots.”

  “Th-that’s right. The first thing you’re going to do is toss your weapons out the window in the kitchen. You first, Rachael; first the shotgun, then your Glock, out the window. No bullshit!” He waved the detonator at her.

  Gooch walked to the kitchen and pushed the shotgun through the opening, then pulled her pistol from the shoulder holster and tossed it out the window, as well.

  “That’s good. Now, your backup. I know you have a .22 or something on you.”

  Staal watched Rachael throw her weapons out of reach. H
e felt helpless; he could not think of a plan to get out of the situation. If he jumped Campbell, he would remove his thumb and they all would die. He thought of Brenda, of Gina and Travis. How would the old man handle a situation like this? His Dad would ride it to the end, playing it cool until a solution revealed itself.

  Staal considered Campbell’s mental state. He was sweating and nervous and the stutter was new. Staal thought about how he might talk or trick Campbell into disarming the bomb.

  “Staal, it’s your turn. Staal! You awake? It’s your fucking turn. Throw your guns out the window!”

  A minute later Staal was unarmed. Firepower and strength would be of no use in this situation. He would have to rely on his wits to survive.

  “Now take off your bullet-proof vests,” Campbell smiled. “Let’s all go in the living room and sit down.”

  Staal took the couch across from Gooch in the loveseat. Campbell sat in an easy chair and then quickly leapt to his feet. He didn’t take his eyes off his captives.

  “There are five adults and six children in suite one. An old couple are staying in two and at least six employees are in the main building,” Campbell said.

  Staal knew that the Inn was clear, but he worried about new customers or neighbors stumbling into this nightmare.

  “What are you hoping to accomplish by holding us, Campbell?” Gooch asked.

  “You can’t keep us here forever, Nathan.”

  “This,” he tapped the bomb, “should take out a good chunk of the town.”

  “Nathan, you win,” Staal said. “You beat me. You’re the better man.”

  “Damian Knight is the better m-man, Jack. I’m holding you here long enough for you to think about what it’s going to feel like when this bomb blows you to shit.”

  “Damian,” Staal said. “It’s over. You got Sean Moore and now the last of Vince’s Girls.” Campbell’s eyes lit in surprise. “And Duncan Quinn is dead. It’s all because of the great Damian Knight. Justice was swift.”

  “Quinn survived, Staal. I’m not stupid.” He shook his head.

  “You’re wrong, Damian. Duncan Quinn had a heart attack last night. He’s dead,” Staal lied. Quinn was out of hospital and mentioned a trip to Maui the last time Staal spoke to him.

  “Really?” Campbell looked to Gooch. She nodded.

  “Those judgments were good, Damian.” Staal used his knowledge of the DK novels in hope of getting Campbell to relax and to make a mistake. “The RCMP has Haywood, Walker, and Meneghello on their ten most wanted list. Same with the FBI.”

  “No way?” Campbell beamed.

  “That’s correct,” Gooch joined in. “Each of them had immunity through some technicality or another. We couldn’t touch them, but you, Damian, you operate above the law.”

  “Duncan Quinn is wanted nationwide for assault causing great bodily harm, child abuse and numerous other charges.” Staal hated to slander a good man, but the tactic appeared to be working. “We couldn’t find him, but you took care of that for us.” Staal saw that Campbell was buying the story; he was relaxing. He sat down in the chair once more. A cell phone rang.

  * * *

  Nathan Campbell bolted from his chair. His breath came in short gasps and his heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst.

  “Whose ph-phone is that?” Campbell’s eyes bulged. He watched Staal reach into his pocket and grab something. Campbell almost let go of the detonator at that moment.

  “It’s mine,” Staal said as he set the phone on the coffee table.

  Campbell looked at the Motorola cell and saw that no name or number came up on the display. The phone rang and rang. He had to take charge of this situation right away. He thumbed the talk button and lifted the phone in his left hand to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Constable Saunders here. Is that you, Jack?”

  “Yeah, Staal here,” Campbell said.

  “Any luck on your end?”

  “No, Campbell’s gone.”

  “You want us to stay at the ferry or rendezvous somewhere with you?”

  “No, just stay put. I’m interviewing the staff here to see if anyone knows where he went.” He closed the phone and smashed it against the nearest wall. “Oh-okay, on your feet,” Campbell yelled. “We’re leaving.”

  The detectives stood up.

  “Put your hands on your head. Gooch, you first, and then Staal, you’re next.” When their backs were turned to him, he flipped a switch that neutralized the device, released the detonator, let the cable hang and then dropped the bomb pack on the floor. He quickly reached for two Tasers, set beside the couch under a blanket. He said, “Open the door, Gooch.”

  Campbell raised the Tasers, one in each hand and fired simultaneously. The probes struck both detectives in the back and delivered 50,000 volts each. Staal howled and went down first, followed by his partner.

  Campbell stood over his fallen adversaries with an overwhelming sense of joy diminished only by the fact that neither had pissed themselves.

  Chapter 36

  Jack Staal felt an excruciating surge of pain in his lower back, his legs went out from under him, and crimson light flashed behind his eyes. He hadn’t heard the blast from Campbell’s pistol, but he was certain that he had taken a bullet. It reminded him of his last boxing fight when he had been knocked out in the first round by a right hook that had come out of nowhere and left him on his back looking up at the arena lighting.

  This time, however, he couldn’t see, breathe, or even move his arms. He was dying in a motel suite, miles away from his loved ones. He thought of Brenda, and the pain he felt when he realized he would never see his daughter grow up, fall in love, or get married. He saw Gina Hayes’ face smiling at him like she did in bed.

  He heard Campbell’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words. Then came the sound of tape being torn from a roll. Duct-tape. Shit! Before he could move, it covered his eyes, nose and mouth.

  Campbell must have seen Staal struggling because he touch-stunned him with the Taser. Staal’s body convulsed with the charge, his lungs burning, his head spinning from lack of oxygen. He couldn’t open his eyes. He had only a few seconds to live if he didn’t get a breath.

  Then Campbell was close to him. Staal could feel Nathan’s warm breath on his face.

  He said, “It’s a good day to die, Jack.”

  Staal was losing consciousness and he knew he had only one chance. He thrust his head forward with all his remaining strength and connected with Campbell’s face. Campbell cried out and staggered away from Staal.

  Staal realized that his hands were tie-strapped behind his back. He brought his knees to his chin, rolled back, and slipped his tied arms around and over his feet. He quickly peeled the tape from his mouth and eyes. The first thing he saw was Campbell, blood pouring from his nose, fumbling to put a fresh cartridge in the Taser.

  Staal pulled himself to his feet and took a feeble step toward Campbell. Campbell held out the Taser and charged at Staal. Staal was able to side-step away from him, and Campbell stumbled into a chair.

  Staal swung his tethered arms over his head and brought his fists down on Campbell like a club. Campbell dove from the chair, scrambled across the room, and picked up the brass and iron poker that stood next to the fireplace. The two combatants met in the middle of the room. Campbell swung the poker and it glanced off Staal’s left shoulder. Staal staggered, crashed against the kitchen table, and dodged Campbell’s next swing. Campbell fell forward with the force of his blow and Staal saw an opening to throw a quick body blow to Campbell’s kidney.

  When Campbell buckled under the kidney shot, Staal noticed that his hands were free of the tie-straps. He grabbed a fistful of Campbell’s hair, pulled Campbell’s head down, and drove his knee into his jaw.

  Campbell slumped to the ground, unconscious, and Staal bolted for his partner’s unmoving form. He quickly removed the duct-tape from her mouth, nose, and eyes and put his head to her mouth to feel for respiration.
Her chest did not rise, nor could he feel any breath on his cheek.

  Staal knew in an instant that Rachael’s only hope was his ability to perform CPR. He had trained for years on the procedure, but Gooch wasn’t a plastic training doll.

  He checked quickly inside Rachael’s mouth, placed his right hand on her forehead, tilted her head back, and lifted her chin to open the airway. He pinched her nostrils closed and breathed into her mouth. Nothing happened.

  “Come on Rachael,” He yelled. “Breathe—God damn it!”

  After several more tries, he switched to chest compressions. He locked his hands together and pressed down in a steady rhythm, making sure that the force of the thrust went straight down onto the sternum. He counted each thrust and gave fifteen compressions, and then two slow, full breaths. When she still didn’t start breathing, he grabbed her cell phone and called Saunders.

  “Call an ambulance. Send it to the Harris House,” he yelled, still hard at work. He tossed the phone aside and breathed into Rachael’s mouth again. Minutes passed, and then Saunders and Snow burst into the suite, followed closely by two EMTs.

  Both of the EMT’s were younger than thirty, but they moved and worked as if they had decades of experience. Staal explained what happened as best he could, then stepped back and leaned against the wall. The older of the two, with a brush-cut, asked how long Rachael had been down. Staal replied that Gooch had been unconscious for at least twenty or thirty minutes.

  The pair continued to work on Rachael Gooch trading duties between breathing for Rachael and performing chest compressions. The younger one gave Rachael an injection and continued to breathe for her. Staal had lost track of time, however it seemed as though it had gone on far too long. Why weren’t they transporting her?

  The older of the two was in contact with someone at the hospital on a cell phone. Staal noticed that the urgency of their efforts had lessoned somehow.

  “What—what the fuck are you doing?” Staal bellowed.