Steven James - The Knight

But if Ari wasn’t the killer, who was?

I still didn’t know.

I descended three more ladders, all marked faintly with blood, and I was about to start down a fourth when I heard movement below me. I clicked off my light. Listened.

Nothing more.

I stared through the darkness and saw a faint hint of light coming from somewhere in the tunnel where the ladder terminated about fifteen meters below me.

Keeping my light off, I descended as quickly as I could, feeling for the rungs with my feet, my hands.

I’d made it to the tenth rung when I heard a voice, definitely a voice. I froze. Listened.

Yes, it was Cliff, that much I could tell. And though I couldn’t make out most of what he was yelling, I did hear the words “rigged” and “blow” before he was abruptly cut off.

I began to descend again, watching carefully for any movement below me.

Thoughts tumbled through my mind.

The evidence room in Chicago… the dispatch center in Denver. .. the location of the hospital’s security cameras… who could have gained access to them all?

He’s forensically aware. He knows poisons and toxins, arson, self-defense, how to mask GPS locations…

I reached the tunnel.

Strategically, I was in a terrible position. If John had a gun trained on the end of the ladder, as soon as I climbed down it would all be over.

I needed to find out if there was anyone waiting for me, and it looked like there was just enough light to do it. I wedged my legs against the side of the shaft, clung to a rung with one hand like I did when I climbed across the ceiling of my garage, and held my gun in my other hand. Then, I dipped my head down into the tunnel for a fraction of a second. Saw no one.

Quickly, I repositioned myself, and then, gun ready, dropped to the ground.

Still no one.

Just a thin smear of light easing toward me from around a bend about ten meters away. Flickering. Wavering. Probably from a lantern or a torch.

I thought of the candles surrounding Heather Fain’s body.

All ten were burning when we arrived.

All ten.

The wax flow told us they’d been burning for two hours.

And there were candles at Reggie’s house too.

The killer sent him a text message to hurry home.

Reggie had tried to keep Amy Lynn out of protective custody… He was the one who took the sketch artist to visit Kelsey Nash, and Thomas Bennett…

Three of the candles went out while we were investigating Heather’s body.

Two were out in the Greers’ bedroom.

Reggie was called in to process the mine, the ranch house, Taylor’s garage, the tire impressions… The pot of basil was sent to his wife…

It was all so perfect. So clever.

A lamb being led to the slaughter.

The oven was still preheating.

Yes.

That was it. That was the key.

The cube twisted. The final side clicked into place.

The killer couldn’t have been Reggie.

Only one person could have pulled off these crimes.

Slowly, carefully, SIG steady, I moved through the tunnel toward the man who’d proven to be one of the most brilliant criminals I’d ever met.

John.

Giovanni.

The Day Four Killer.

My friend, Lieutenant Kurt Mason.

The tunnel’s bend and the lambent, flickering light lay just in front of me.

“Kurt,” I called. The word echoed eerily through the dusty air.

“Let Cliff go. It’s time to end this.”

“Congratulations, Pat,” he replied from somewhere around the bend. “Welcome to the story.”

I took a deep breath, leveled my SIG, and stepped around the corner.

Cliff stood ten meters away, a strip of duct tape across his mouth.

Kurt was behind him, a straight razor against his throat. He’d twisted Cliff’s arm behind his back to subdue him.

I sighted down the barrel. “Hands to the side.”

“You called my name just now. You knew I was the one. How?”

Blood was dripping from Cliff’s right arm, forming a dark stain on the ground. Based on the amount of blood he’d already lost, I was surprised he was still conscious. He needed medical care and he needed it fast.

“The oven. It was still preheating when we arrived.”

Confusion. “The oven?”

Kurt had carefully positioned himself behind Cliff so that only the edge of his face was visible. I aimed my gun at his eye. “I’m not kidding, Kurt. Put down the blade.” But even as I said the words I knew I couldn’t make the shot. Cheyenne was the only person I’d ever met who could have put a bullet into Kurt’s eyeball from this distance.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Pat. Tell me about the oven.”

A quick survey of the tunnel: a lantern hung from a support beam between us. On Kurt’s left-a platform that’d probably been used to lower ore carts hung about a meter down in an access shaft. Even from where I stood I could see C-4 explosives wired to the shaft walls. Considering Cliff’s words “rigged” and “blow” I had a pretty good idea of what Kurt had in mind. A ceiling beam above the platform held a double pulley and the release mechanism for the rope.

“You should have bought better quality candles,” I said.

He didn’t reply.

“How long does it take for an oven to preheat to 450 degrees?”

He took a moment to think. “So you knew the killer hadn’t been gone long.”

“Yes. And two of the candles on the dresser had blown out, even though they’d only recently been lit. So that got me thinking about the mine. How could all ten candles have been burning when we arrived? All ten burning continuously for two hours? Three went out in the short time we were processing the scene.”

“Ah,” he said. “Very nice.”

“You were the first one in the mine, Kurt, you told me so. You didn’t light the candles when you left Heather’s body, you lit them after you responded to the 911 call, just before the rest of us arrived.”

“You really are good, Pat, but that’s all circumstantial.”

“Maybe I’m learning to trust my gut.” I pressed my finger against the trigger. “Now, I’m telling you, put your hands to the side.”

“That’s not going to happen. Toss me your gun.”

“Drop the razor blade, Kurt, or I swear, I will shoot you.”

He looked at the blood tipping from Cliff’s right hand. “Do you really want to keep stalling? Don’t let him die like this, Pat. He has a family. I’ll let him live if you work with me here. Now, please, toss your gun to me.”

A torrent of anger and desperation.

Think, Pat. Think.

Options: (1) fire, and chance killing Cliff; (2) stall, and watch him die; (3) comply, and buy some time.

Kurt’s face was just barely visible. Just barely.

Take the shot, Pat. Take it.

I drew in a small breath.

Aimed.

Aimed.

But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t chance hitting Cliff in the face.

Comply, Pat. Buy some time.

I let go of the SIG’s grip, let the gun hang from my trigger finger. Then, slowly, I lifted my hands. “There’s no way out of this, Kurt.” I couldn’t believe this man had been my friend. That I’d ever trusted him. “Backup will be here any minute.”

He shook his head. “You were alone when you entered the mine. Cheyenne left in the chopper. We have plenty of time. Now, throw me your gun. Watching someone’s throat being slit is very disturbing. Once you see it happen, the image never goes away.”

I saw Cliff quiver. Kurt gestured toward the shaft wired with the C-4. “Not something you’d want replaying in your mind for the next three months.”

Three months?

I stared at the shaft for a moment and realized what he was saying.

He pressed the straight razor tighter against Cliff’s neck, and a thin line of blood appeared.