Steven James - The Knight

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.

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.

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.

I located one of the Chicago police detectives and gave him my statement, although, with more than a hundred witnesses in the courtroom, there wasn’t a whole lot of ambiguity about what had just happened.

Even though this wasn’t the time or the place to sort through all the issues we needed to discuss, after coming so close to being shot, I felt the need to talk to Lien-hua, to hear her voice. I punched in her number, but she didn’t pick up.

I decided not to leave a message.

I left my shirt, still soaked with Grant Sikora’s blood, with one of the crime scene investigators, and while Ralph went to find Calvin to get a change of clothes from my suitcase in his trunk, I asked one of the paramedics to take a look at the bruises on my side.

A quick examination was all it took.

“You’ll need X-rays to see if the ribs are broken,” he said.

I’d been in my share of scuffles, so I already knew that the treatment for a bruised rib and a broken rib is pretty much the same-keep it wrapped, avoid straining yourself, and take lots of Advil. I figured I’d wait and see how much it bothered me before going in for X-rays.