Dead of Knight (2 page)

Tyro paid the cab driver and then walked the half block to his car. He hated to remove the outfit, however the mission was over. He did a quick change and then drove his old Nova from the street into the parking lot of the Thirsty Gull. He wasn’t a drinker; Tyro visited the pub only to play the old quarter-gobbling arcade games. They were dinosaurs by twenty-first century standards, but they were still his favorites.

Back in civilian gear, his confidence waned, and he felt ordinary. He sat on a stool in front of a
Pacman
machine, allowing the game to consume his focus. After two hours, he pushed his glasses to his forehead and rubbed at his strained eyes.

He had a code name here, too, but he hadn’t chosen it; the waitresses had. They called him Retro for his love of the outdated video games.

The Corona beer clock on the wall showed the time was 1:18 AM when he looked up next. Retro shook his head and stretched his back, peering through the dim light at the bar. This place would make him nervous if it wasn’t for the owner’s hulking presence. The pub was empty except for three men talking loudly near the pool tables, and a woman dancing alone to the music from a juke-box that was as outdated as the arcade box over which Retro leaned. He recognized the tune. The Doors;
Light My Fire
. His stomach tightened as he recognized one of the men, as well. The blue haze of cigarette smoke made it difficult to see, but if he wasn’t mistaken, it was his high school nemesis, Sean Moore.

A wash of ice water ran through his veins, and the years slipped away. He could still feel the humiliation; still hear the taunts. 

“Loser. Loser!”

Sean tripped him in the schoolyard after the dismissal bell rang. His friends joined in, howling with laughter.

“
Loser. Loser. Loser!”    

He got to his feet, but Sean pushed him to the ground again. The circle closed in on him and one of the bigger kids yanked him to his feet, holding his arms behind his back while Sean punched him in the stomach.

“
LOSER. LOSER!”

“Hey, Retro—you all right?” Sheila asked him. “Can I get you another root beer or something?”

Her smiling face brought him back. “No, thanks. I think I’ll get going,” he said shakily. 

As he stood up, Sean looked straight at him from his table across the pub. Surely Moore couldn’t remember him; Kim hadn’t, after all. He’d gained thirty pounds since he graduated at a scrawny 122 pounds, and he’d cut short his long, greasy hair. Hell, he was going bald. These changes had to be throwing Sean off.

Nope
.

Sean walked toward him with a beaming smile. Retro felt a trickle of sweat run down his back.

“You’re Kelly—right? Kelly Morgan…Myers. Kelly Myers. Am I right?”

Not even close. “Yeah. That’s right.”

“Shit, it is you. How the hell are you, buddy?” Sean asked.

Sean was six-three, but his athletic build had given way to a beer belly and a double chin. He still had the inch-long scar on his right cheek from a fight with Tommy Hawking in junior year. His light brown hair had blond highlights and a goatee covered his square jaw line.

“Hi, Sean. I’m good.”

“Jesus, Myers. What's it been twelve, thirteen years? Me, Randy, and Byron are having us a little class reunion and we thought you might want to join us.”

“No, thanks. I’m...I’m just leaving.” He tried to edge past Sean, but Moore kept up with him as he hurried toward the front door.

“You’re not still sore about all that shit from school are you? Come on back, Myers, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Retro nodded to Jed Wilkinson the owner and bartender. Jed was taller even than Sean, with thinning hair and a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard. Ten years earlier, he had lost his left eye in a mill accident and the resulting workman’s compensation settlement made a healthy down payment on the Thirsty Gull. Now the eye patch added to his ominous look.

“More quarters, man?” Wilkinson asked him.

“Nah, gotta go,” Retro called over his shoulder.

He paused in the gravel parking lot for a second, trying to remember where he left his Nova. It was in the back of the lot, he remembered, blocked now by an eighteen-wheeler.

“Christ, Sean, he’s still a loser—just like he was in high school.”

Retro recognized that voice and he knew without turning around that Randy and Byron had joined Sean at the door. They must be watching him. Laughing at him.

“Yeah, Moore. Look at him. Running like a baby,” Byron said.

“Grow up you guys. He probably has kids and a wife,” Sean said.

Retro jogged across the Gull’s parking lot toward his car behind the semi. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Moore and the others were following him. He wasn’t buying Sean’s offer of friendship for a minute, so he quickened his pace, vaulting the connection between the trailer and tractor and hurrying to the passenger side door. He opened a small compartment he knew would be located on the side of the rig, reached inside, and pulled out a fire extinguisher, then moved to the front of the truck and knelt down next to the right front wheel. He didn’t have the outfit on but he could still be strong. He had to be.

“Myers! What’s wrong with you man?” Sean called after him.

He didn’t answer.

When Sean rounded the front of the rig, Retro was waiting for him and he brought the cylinder down on Sean’s head with a resounding CRACK! Moore dropped to the ground.  

Startled by the success of his maneuver, Retro was still standing there when Byron and Randy turned the corner and found their friend lying on his back, out cold. Retro dropped the extinguisher and dashed for the Nova, fishing desperately in his pocket for his car keys. With a horrible lurch of his stomach, he realized he’d left them on the Pacman game back in the Thirsty Gull.

Randy Oake had been a star on the high school track team and he hadn’t lost much of his speed over the years. “Come here, you little shit!” he yelled. He caught up to Retro six feet from the door of the Gull, jumped on top of him and rained punches into his face. Byron Becker jogged up and kicked him in the stomach. Retro rolled up into the fetal position, but still the punches and kicks pummeled his body.

“Stop it!” a female voice yelled. Retro recognized Sheila and pulled himself into a tighter ball.

A few seconds later, Jed emerged from the Gull and tossed Becker aside easily. He peeled Oake off of Retro and bellowed at both of them to get the hell of his property. The two of them grabbed Sean Moore, and together they limped away to their vehicle.

Jed helped Retro to his feet. “How do ya feel, man?”

Blood trickled from his nose and his eyes were swelling shut. “I’m okay,” he mumbled, although his ribs ached and his head throbbed.

“I’ll help him to his car,” Sheila said.

“Maybe we should put some ice on that?” Wilkinson asked.

At the bar, Sheila wrapped a handful of ice in a bar-rag and held it to his face. Jed poured him a root beer. “You’ll be fine, kid. Just rest awhile.”

Retro pulled away from them and shot an uneasy glance at the front door.

“It’s okay; they’re gone,” Sheila reassured him.

“Why were those dudes after you, man?” Wilkinson asked.

“I knew them in high school.” Retro shrugged. “They were jerks back then. I guess they still are.” He rose from his chair. “I need to get going.”

Sheila led him to the front door. She unlocked it for him, and before he could help himself Retro put his hand out and gripped hers tightly. Sheila looked back at Jed, shrugged her shoulders, and walked out into the cool night air with him. They were silent until he opened the door to his Chevy and swung himself inside.

“Um, thanks.” He felt his face heat, so he kept it turned aside as he turned the ignition on and drove slowly through the lot, but as he reached the street he saw Sheila waving. He smiled, before a vision of Sean Moore flashed through his mind. His hands trembled on the steering wheel and his right foot slammed to the floor. 

Jack Staal lay in his bed, propped against the headboard. He held a half finished Scotch neat in his left hand. He didn’t normally take a drink to bed, but lately he’d had trouble sleeping. In his lap were numerous photos and 3x5 index cards with notes and bits of information about what he was beginning to think might turn out to be the most important case in his twenty years on the job. 

Two women violently raped and murdered on their birthdays. The media, mayor’s office, Chief Constable and the public were all buzzing about a serial killer in Hanson and the department’s lack of progress. He glanced at the cards.

Stephanie MacKay, 32, found in Discovery Park, ambushed while jogging, brutally assaulted and left for dead on March twenty-third. Gabriella Haywood, 31, a realtor, found dead nine days later in the basement of a townhouse she was supposed to be showing. Research had turned up no link connecting the two women. Clues, tips, trace evidence, and leads went nowhere.

Staal tossed the file folder aside and shook his head when he realized how much time he had spent on the cards. The case was not officially his. Just minutes after he responded to the first victim, Max Barnes—the Staff Sergeant in charge of the Criminal Investigations Branch of the Hanson Police Service had called in the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team.

The IHIT combined the skills of homicide specialists from the RCMP’s “E” Division with those of the experienced detectives from local law enforcements agencies. They were in charge of working homicides, attempted murders and all unexplained deaths across Metropolitan Vancouver.

Staal’s former partner, Lesley Degarmo, had been assigned to one of the seven IHIT teams only five months earlier. She was the one who had kept him up to date with the case, going so far as to e-mail him copies of the case files.

Analysis done on footprints at the park scene revealed that the killer probably stood around five foot eight, weighed 150 pounds, and was perhaps a teenager. In the house where Haywood died toys had been scattered around the children’s bedrooms, presumably played with by the suspect. When that bit of information had leaked out, the press had instantly dubbed the murderer “Birthday Boy.” Now it was June 29. Almost three months had passed since the last victim’s death. Experience and his gut told him the killer would strike again, and the waiting made him uneasy.

Lying next to Staal was Gina Hayes She had fallen asleep shortly after their lovemaking, and neither his restlessness nor the rustle of his paperwork seemed to disturb her. He’d worked with Hayes for almost two years, but her muscular, athletic body still excited him. He could get lost in her deep brown eyes, and he marveled at how beautiful she was, even when asleep. She was a cop, not Staal’s partner; however they were both assigned to the Major Crimes Section and worked closely.

Gina held a black belt in Karate, and when she expressed an interest in boxing professionally, Staal had volunteered to train her. She accepted. Long hours in the gym had moved their relationship quickly from colleagues to good friends, and now Gina spent most nights at his place.

Gilbert, an aging black tabby, lay at the foot of the bed. The feline had kept him company on many late nights as he mulled over difficult cases. Staal set his drink on the side table, slid the cards into the drawer, and slid further under the covers.

“Go to sleep, old man,” he whispered to Gilbert. He closed his eyes and drifted off thinking of the way Gina had smiled down at him as they’d made love.

Staal struggled against the dream, thrashing as if he could prevent the vision from stirring in his brain. He saw a children’s playground surrounded by dense bushes and evergreen trees. A man lay dead near the swings.

Staal fought the unfolding images.

Three injured children.

Blood.

Screams.

A young woman begged him to save her daughter as the child died. A man cradled a limp arm and screamed as he ran.

Staal looked beyond him to see dozens, then hundreds of tiny faceless forms. Some of the injured struggled in agony, while others were as motionless as mannequins.

“Jesus Christ!” He bolted upright and took a deep breath. He sat hugging his knees. The wall clock thumped steadily and Gilbert’s purr sounded like a diesel engine.

Gina put her hand on his shoulder. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

“Just a damn dream.” He reached for the cocktail glass on the night table and swallowed the last sip.

He glanced at Gina. She smiled and sat up in bed beside him.

“Dream? About the shooting?” She ran her fingers up and down his leg.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s been a while since the last one?” Gina asked.

“Yeah, a couple months,” he lied.

Staal often wondered what Gina saw in him. He wasn’t the best looking guy around. At forty-two; he was still in good shape despite the recent adding of over twenty pounds to his normal 200. The job and over a hundred amateur and twenty-six professional boxing matches had left him with his share of scars and blemishes, and a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. She didn’t seem to mind.