Steven James - The Knight

And fly to the mine.

Tessa knew she was in deep trouble.

A little while ago as she and Dora were waiting for the reply from the cybercrime people, Dora had paged through the rest of the diary, and just about the time she was finishing, the two dopey cops who’d supposedly been protecting the house for the last couple days had come in, taken Patrick’s computer from the bedroom, made Dora and her join them downstairs in the living room, and now, they weren’t letting either of the girls leave the room or make any calls.

Patrick must have found out about the message she’d sent.

Which meant it was too late to erase it before he saw it.

Which meant she was dead meat.

Especially since she’d read the reply from FBI headquarters just before the cops arrived.

We were close.

Two minutes, maybe less.

Cheyenne lowered her phone and cursed. “HQ says they’ll have the work schedules posted ‘within the hour.’”

“Within the hour? We don’t have-”

“I know,” she said between gritted teeth. “I know.”

What else? What else?

The timing of Thomas Bennett’s death… the flight schedules. .. the time Brigitte Marcello bought the Chinese food… the candles in the mine had been burning for two hours…

I was deep in thought when the phone rang, jarring me. Kurt’s caller ID came up and I answered it, heard static, then my name. “Pat, the -aptain called.” His voice cut out. “I -eard what’s going on.”

“Take a left here,” Cheyenne shouted.

I bounced over the curb, then pounded the gas.

“Listen, Kurt.” I knew there was spotty reception in Brecken-ridge, but I hoped he’d be able to catch what I was saying. “The tire impressions we found two weeks ago from Sebastian Taylor’s car. Who processed them?”

“What?”

“The tire tracks. Who did you send to investigate them?”

“-eggie.”

Reggie Greer.

“There!” Cheyenne called. “Turn right. Four houses down.”

No sirens.

No flashing lights.

The patrol cars should be here by now!

Kurt said something I couldn’t make out.

“Did the Denver News do a story on Hannah’s death?” I said.

“Did they do an article?”

“Ye-”

“Who interviewed you?”

He lowered his voice. “I’m here wi- Cheryl, I can’t… I’m -osing you.”

“Was it Amy Lynn Greer?”

“-es.”

“You and Cheryl are in danger, Kurt-”

“I’ll -all you back.”

“Kurt!”

Then nothing. I slammed the phone against the dash.

We arrived at the Greer house.

I jumped out of the car, drew my SIG, and ran toward the porch.

Brown.

Stucco.

Two story.

Around us, twilight in the city.

Cheyenne flared to the right. “I’ll get the back.”

No cars in the driveway. The house was dark.

“Watch for snakes,” I yelled.

“Got it!”

Onto the porch. I tried the doorknob.

Unlocked.

I pressed open the door, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.

“Reggie? Amy Lynn?”

Silence.

I swept the beam of light across the living room. Scanned for rattlers. Saw none.

Steady, Pat. Steady.

Assess and respond.

Then I heard the squeak of another door and Cheyenne’s voice calling for Amy Lynn. A flashlight beam cut through the dining room. I shouted out my location; Cheyenne acknowledged, and I edged into the kitchen.

No one. A few baking pans beside the stove. The oven light was on.

It’d been preset to 450 degrees.

The temperature gauge flipped to 440 as I approached.

Story number nine: he kills the woman’s lover, cuts out his heart, and then feeds it to her for dinner.

A deep tremor. Primal dread.

I didn’t want to look in the oven, but I knew I had to. I surveyed the room one more time.

Reached for the oven door. Prepared myself.

Opened it.

Empty.

Thank God.

A quick glance at the countertops, the sink. No dirty dishes. No blood. No meat.

It looked like John had turned on the oven but hadn’t had a chance to finish his tale.

“He might still be here!” I called to Cheyenne.

I closed the oven. Shut off the heat.

Cheyenne yelled from the end of the hall. “Pat. In here.”

She sounded concerned but not in danger, so I took a few seconds to make sure each room was clear as I moved down the hallway to join her.

No people; no snakes.

I found her in the master bedroom where she was on the phone, leaning over the bed, and checking someone’s pulse. I couldn’t see who it was, only that his shirt had been removed. Then I realized she was talking with 911 and I stepped around her. And saw who was on the bed.

“Calvin!” I rushed to his side.

“He’s unconscious,” Cheyenne said, “but his pulse is steady.” She had the phone to her ear but was talking to me. “They’re sending an ambulance.”

Why aren’t those squads here yet?

Eight Chantel candles flickered on the dresser. Two had winked out.

Gently, I touched Calvin’s forehead, and as I did wondered if the killer might have left him alive as some kind of trap, a way of toying with the mouse-of toying with me.

The closet door was slightly ajar.

Cheyenne saw me glancing at it. “I checked inside. It’s clear.”

I took a look. Six dresses on the carpet. A metal hanger with a straightened hook.

I headed for the hall.

“What is it?” Cheyenne asked.

“I’m going to have one more look around.” I spoke softly. “I’ll be right back.”

And as she monitored Calvin, I left the room to make sure no one was waiting for us anywhere else in the house. Or in the garage.

Dora and Tessa were in the living room with the cops. Martha had stepped into the kitchen, and Tessa saw her discreetly pick up the phone.

Tessa was still distracted, thinking of how furious Patrick was going to be when he arrived, and she didn’t realize that she was nervously toying with her necklace until she felt Dora’s hand on her arm.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

But she didn’t let go of the necklace’s black stone.

“I need to tell you something,” Dora said. “I was gonna tell you upstairs, but then the cops came in.”

“What is it?”

“Your mom tells why at the end of the diary, why she bought you that jewelry box when you were a kid.”

Tessa stopped fiddling with the necklace. “Tell me.”

“To remind her of the day she changed her mind.”

And then Dora told Tessa about the last three entries in her mother’s diary.

I finished a careful inspection of the house and found no one. Amy Lynn’s purse was in the kitchen. I took a quick inventory of its contents and saw that the last text message had been sent to her husband’s cell.

I returned to the master bedroom, where I saw that Calvin was still unconscious. Taking slow, shallow breaths.

Cheyenne was laying a blanket across his chest.

I knelt beside the bed. “How is he?”

“He seems stable. His breathing is steady. Paramedics should be here any minute.”

“When they get here they need to do blood work right away and a complete tox screen.”

“It’s all in play,” she said. “They’re bringing a doctor with them.”

I glanced at the candles.

Based on the negligible amount of wax flow, I could see they hadn’t been burning long at all.

The oven had heated up to 440 degrees…

I heard a car stop outside the house, then a car door slammed. I unholstered my SIG and called to Cheyenne, “Stay with Calvin.”

I hadn’t quite made it to the front door when it flew open.

“FBI!” I yelled.