Steven James - The Knight

A short pause, and then, “‘Agent Bowers, I think we’ll do the last three stories tonight after you’re back in Denver. It’ll make for a great climax. See you soon.-John.’”

Anger. Rage. Building inside me.

“Any word on Calvin?” My tone had become iron.

“No,” she said. “Get back here, Pat. We-”

“I’m on my way.”

I was at the back door when Ralph caught up with me.

He didn’t look like he was bearing good news, although I wasn’t sure how things could get much worse. “Talk with me on the way,”

I said as he jogged toward me. “I need to catch my cab. What’s up?”

We stepped outside. “Assistant Director Wellington just called.”

“Wow. Word travels fast.”

“Yeah, well, she’s always had it in for you. And now…” He let his voice trail off, but I could fill in the words.

“Let me guess. Internal Affairs wants to speak with me?” We crossed West 26th Street toward South Francisco Avenue, where I’d requested for the cab driver to meet me.

“Well, that and you’re released from your current duties in Denver until further notice. And your interim teaching position at Quantico has been put on hold pending a full review.”

Even though his words weren’t a complete surprise, they struck me deeply. Margaret had told me yesterday that she could make my life miserable, but this time I’d helped her along by telling the truth on the stand.

“And,” Ralph added, “she didn’t think the report you submitted last night was ‘adequate in scope and depth.’”

“Of course she didn’t.”

We made it to Francisco. A cab pulled up to the curb about twenty meters away, and we headed toward it.

“So here’s the thing,” he said. “I was gonna tell you the news about the suspension, but unfortunately you’d already left for Chicago when I checked my messages. And since your cell is broken, it took me until ten o’clock tonight before I could reach you at home with the news.”

“Thanks, Ralph. I owe you one.”

“It’s a lot more than that by now.”

“Right.” The cabbie nodded toward me and I opened the door.

“I’ll deal with Margaret and Internal Affairs,” Ralph called to me. “Get things straightened out from this end. Just catch that psycho in Denver.”

“I intend to.”

I climbed into the cab.

So, two things to do: find Calvin and catch John. And I needed to do them both before ten o’clock tonight when I would officially be released from my duties with the FBI.

Denver, Colorado

11:56 a.m. Mountain Time

Amy Lynn Greer parked beside the abandoned warehouse.

The man who’d contacted her earlier in the morning had given her the address, but she didn’t see any other cars. Maybe he hadn’t arrived yet.

Even though she knew that coming here alone was taking a chance, in truth, she was more excited than frightened. This story was worth taking a few chances.

She stepped out of the car.

Since leaving Reggie and Jayson at the house after breakfast, she’d spent the morning driving to locations related to the murder spree: Cherry Creek Reservoir, police headquarters, the Bennett and Nash residences, and so on. At each location she’d taken photos and notes and dictated observations into her handheld voice recorder so she would be able to accurately describe the scenes in her book.

But through it all, her thoughts had been on this rendezvous.

In his email, her contact had told her about an opening in the southwest corner of the chain link fence that surrounded the warehouse, and an unlocked blue door that led into the shipping area. It took her less than a minute to find the broken section of fence.

She slipped through.

Saw the blue door to the building. Went inside.

Thick, dusty air. High windows letting in layered sheets of dirty light.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded thin and small in the room.

“I liked your article.” The words came from a shadowy corner on her left.

She didn’t recognize the voice, couldn’t see a face. “Thank you.”

“The profiling elements of it were strong, showed a lot of insight.”

She still couldn’t see who was talking to her, and now, for the first time, she began to question her decision to come here alone. “Step out so I can see you.”

She was surprised when he did.

A handsome man, slightly older than she was, approached her. He explained that he was a profiler, showed her his FBI credentials, and told her his offer.

As he spoke, she could see how much they had in common and how similar their goals were. They spent a few minutes discussing ways they could mutually benefit by collaborating, and then he explained that even though the police weren’t releasing any information to the public until they could contact the family members, the Day Four Killer had struck again that morning. “Two people you know,” he said.

“Who?”

“Benjamin Rhodes and Dr. Adrian Bryant.”

She felt a mixture of grief and surprise, but it was soon overwhelmed by a flush of excitement as she realized her unbelievably good luck: with her close personal connection with the victims-working for one and being the ex-student of the other-she was the perfect person to write the book; almost certainly the only writer who was both personally and professionally qualified.

It would veritably guarantee a contract.

Maybe the profiler knew that.

Maybe that’s why he’d contacted her.

She noticed that he was still waiting for her to respond to the news of the two deaths. “Oh,” she said. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes,” he replied simply. “Now listen, you can’t mention that you have a source at the FBI until the book comes out.”

“Of course not.”

“And don’t post any more articles until I tell you. The timing has to be just right.”

She wasn’t too excited about the stipulation, but at last she agreed.

“We both know this is the story of a lifetime,” he said.

The story of a lifetime.

Yes, yes, it is.

“I want to see any contracts before you sign them.”

She felt a thrill. It was happening. Things were finally coming together for her. “Yes. OK.”

Then, they nailed down the details: he would remain anonymous until the book launch, and then he would resign from the FBI and travel with her to promote the book. She liked the idea. He was cute. Who knows, maybe their friendship could blossom into something more mutually satisfying than just a working relationship?

She took a moment to dutifully remind herself that she was “a happily married woman.” And instead of fantasizing about the cute profiler, she allowed herself a brief reverie thinking about the money and almost certainly the subsequent movie rights for the book.

The franchise would be worth millions.

Yes, especially if the Day Four Killer were able to finish his crime spree and complete all ten stories “I get 55 percent,” her contact said. “And my name on the cover.”

“No.”

“Argue with me and I’ll make it 60.”

“I’m not going to-”

“All right.” He turned to go.

She needed him. Couldn’t lose him. “Wait. We’ll split it down the middle. Fifty each. Plus cover credit.”

He seemed to accept that. “I’ll be in touch.”

“They’re watching me. Someone might find out.”

“Leave that to me.”

“And we won’t be the only ones working on a manuscript.

Promise me you’ll pass along any information about subsequent crimes as soon as you have it so I can keep writing and stay ahead of the pack.”

“I promise. You’ll be the first to know about the next victim.”

He stepped into the shadows.

And then he was gone.