Dead of Knight (39 page)

Perhaps the poem was too hard for the cops to decipher. He hoped that Staal wasn’t looking all over the island for him without a clue. He waited for the movie he ordered to be finished and then turned to CTV news once more for information. The talking head didn’t even mention that an art gallery owner had been murdered on the resort island.

Knight made a mental note to make his future letters more obvious. If Staal didn’t arrive soon, he’d have to come up with another clue letter. He pulled out the writing pad and held a pen, but nothing came to mind. Ten minutes later, he still had nothing. 

He stood and paced the suite, sat to write, and got up again. Still nothing.

“I’m here, Staal!” he bellowed. “What are you waiting for?”

Jack Staal had copied the poem from Campbell into his notebook and as Snow drove for the detachment, Staal read and studied it. The first section of the poem was nothing more than a jab at Staal. He whispered the line, ‘He goes down to the mouse,’ and then the line, ‘Perhaps a rematch.’

Staal smiled. He knew that Campbell had researched his past and discovered he was a former boxer. What advantage Campbell hoped to gain with this knowledge, Staal did not know.

Staal thought about the final line, ‘back at the house.’ He tried to get into the mind of Nathan Campbell, the psychopath. The man who believed he was a vigilante taking down society’s biggest criminals. Did ‘the house’ refer to the neighborhood where Campbell ran down Staal with the Pontiac? Was the rematch the final meeting of the outlaw and the law? Or was Campbell waiting somewhere on the Island, setting up an ambush? “Who the fuck knows?”

“What’s that, detective?” Snow asked.

“Nothing, Jeff, and call me Jack.”

Staal turned in his seat and spoke to Gooch in the rear of the Constable’s cruiser. “Change of plans, Rachael. Campbell is still here, hanging around until we find him. I think that you and I should be able to track him by calling every Inn and B&B and using the names he’s used in the past.”

“You think it will be that easy?” Gooch said.

“Yeah, and it will save time rather than driving by all these businesses and frightening the customers.”

“What do you want us to do, Jack?” Saunders asked.

“Campbell may run yet. I would like you to check every vehicle parked in the line-up for the 12:15 ferry,” Staal said. “We have several photos of Campbell.”

“All right,” Saunders said. “You can use my office to make your calls.”

“When we find Campbell, we’ll call you for back-up,” Gooch said.

Staal sat at a desk in the detachment office, opened the yellow pages for Salt Spring and Pender Islands, and turned to the section on accommodations. He crossed off any entree that wasn’t for Ganges or Salt Spring Island.

“I’ll take the Inns, you take the B&B’s,” Gooch said.

Staal called the Beaver Valley B&B, introduced himself as a Hanson homicide detective, and asked Lynn, who handled the bookings, if she had a Damian Knight, Nathan Campbell, Irene Campbell, Dickson Collins, or Angela Collins. Lynn assured Staal that no one by those names was staying at the Beaver.

Gooch was having the same conversation with someone else, so Staal looked over the ads in the phonebook. He noticed that several of the Inns had the word ‘house’ in their names, such as The Harbor House, or Argyle House B&B. He circled the Houses, counted the listings, and found that there were eight in total.

“Rachael? Have you called any that have ‘house’ in their names?” Staal asked.

“House?” She put down the phone.

“Yeah, like Tucker House B&B.”

“No, not yet.” She looked over the listings. “There are a lot of them.”

“The poem said, ‘Perhaps a rematch. Back at the house.’” 

“Shit!”

Without further discussion, the detectives concentrated only on the House listings. Staal had crossed off three of them, and so had Gooch when he dialed the Harris house.

“I understand, Detective Staal. What are the names you want me to check?” Carol Harris said, when Staal told her about the high probability that a murderer was staying at her Inn.

“Nathan, Denise, or Irene Campbell. Dickson or Angela Collins?”

“We have no Campbell’s or Collins staying with us.”

“Damian Knight?”

“Oh, my. Mr. Knight is staying in suite number four.”

“Do you know if Knight is still in his suite?”

“Yes, I’m sure he is. I just delivered him lunch from the kitchen at noon.”

Staal snapped his fingers to get Gooch’s attention and nodded when she looked at him. Staal got a basic layout of the Harris House, and directions from Carol Harris.

“Mrs. Harris. Knight is very dangerous. Tell your staff to keep clear of that suite and evacuate everyone staying there.”

Staal hung up the phone and said, “Let’s go.”

“I’ll call Saunders and Snow for back up,” Gooch said.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Rachael. Snow is eight years retired and Saunders’s doesn’t look like he’s handled much more than a few drunks and stoners.” 

“Yeah, you’re right, Jack. Campbell gave that automatic to his aunt to hold. He could have an AK-47 for all we know,” Gooch said.

Staal crossed the office and headed for the front door. “The last thing we need is for a local and a retired to get killed while helping us.”

“Break out the Kevlar, Jack. Let’s finish this,” Gooch said. She took the wheel of the Crown Vic and they pulled out of the parking lot.

* * *

Knight glance at his watch, dipped one more french-fry into ketchup and popped the wedge into his mouth. His lunch was satisfactory at best. He crossed the room and exited the door. From the south corner of the deck he could see the parking lot and main entrance to the Harris House property. No Staal. Knight walked out onto Rainbow Road, looked both ways, and could find no sign of the detective. Heat rose from the road and Knight wiped his sleeve over his brow.

Knight leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes, but could not fall asleep. He rolled off the bed and stretched. CTV broadcasted everything but what he had waited all morning to see; the Meneghello judgment. He stood in front of a floor to ceiling mirror on the inside of the bathroom door and admired himself. He was dressed in the color of darkness, and he felt like he could accomplish anything.

“Where, oh where has my little Jack gone? Where, oh where can he be?” He grinned and threw a series of shadow punches at his image in the mirror.

“I know you’re out there, Staal, with your sidekick, the Gooch.” He paced around the room, suddenly nervous and angry with himself for the weakness. A headache he had been fighting all morning increased its pressure in his cranium.

“Mr. Knight, how does it feel to be victorious over your nemesis, Jack Staal?”

Knight used a broadcaster’s inflection, pretending he was being interviewed on the evening news.

“It feels great, Joe. I regret that I had to take Staal out, but he just couldn’t seem to understand that he and I are on the same team.” He held a flashlight to his mouth for a microphone.

“Staal was a twenty year veteran of the Vancouver and Hanson police and a former professional boxer; still, you were able to pull out the victory. How can this be?” he said in his announcer voice.

“The same way I beat them all—I’m smarter. From Sean Moore to Meneghello to Staal. None were much of a challenge.”

“Come on, Campbell. Isn’t it true that you are a pathetic loser that was routinely beaten up by females in school?” He couldn’t seem to control the snide voice that came out of his mouth.

“I’m not Campbell. I’m Damian Knight! I am strong. I beat them all. I am strong.”

“Strong? You’re puny and pathetic,” the voice said. “You’re feeble and frail.” His heart pounded in his chest and his head throbbed.

“No! I’m strong!”

“Campbell-soup. Makes-you-poop.” He began to sing the song that the elementary kids tortured him with for years. “Down your leg and in your boot. On the floor and out the door. Now you’re ready for some more.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Staal was coming and he was no doubt good and pissed about the hit and run. “Oh, Jesus.” Knight zipped up his suitcase, flung open the front door, and headed for his rental car. He looked left when he heard a vehicle pull into the Harris House lot, and saw a RCMP cruiser stop at the main building. It wasn’t some local yokel, either; it was Staal and Rachael Gooch. He turned on his heel and bolted to his suite, locked the door and began to hyperventilate.

* * *

Jack Staal pulled on his Kevlar bulletproof vest, fastened the Velcro straps and checked Gooch’s vest to make sure it was secure as she did the same for him. He checked his weapon, the Glock, and fastened a Smith 38-Special into an ankle holster under his pant leg. The old 38 was a gift from Travis, his father’s first service revolver. Gooch opted for a Mossberg twelve-gage shotgun, courtesy of the Ganges RCMP.

When Carol Harris called his cell to inform him that she, her staff and two other customers were all clear of Harris House, he nodded to Rachael.

“We really should wait for back-up, Jack,” Gooch said.

“I’ve got a feeling that if we wait, he’ll off himself,” Staal said.

“Would that be so bad?”

“Not really. But I want this fuck to do time.”

“Okay, you ready?”

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

Staal and Gooch jogged forward and took up a defensive position at a large oak tree and a white rental Dodge about twenty feet from suite number four. He knelt at the front of the Dodge and had a good view of the suite’s front door, main window, and sundeck.

He rolled onto his back and under the car, looked up at the engine and found the oil filter. He opened his penknife, plunged the blade into the filter, and turned the knife so that he made a nickel-sized hole in the cartridge. About a pint of oil poured out through the puncture. Now, in the unlikely event that Campbell got past the detectives, he wouldn’t get far. The engine would start and the car would drive, but soon enough it would seize up and quit as the lubricant pumped out.

He looked over to Gooch at the tree and pointed two fingers to his eyes, signaling, ‘do you see him?’

Gooch shook her head. Staal jogged around to the west side of the building, where there were no windows. He dropped to a prostrate position and crawled toward the front of the house. It was then that his body reminded him that only six days earlier a car had run him down. His shoulder ached and his legs felt numb. Staal shook it off and crawled to just below the main window. He looked at Gooch and noticed that she had the shotgun pointed directly at the window.

Staal slowly stood and glanced in the window, knowing that Campbell could well be waiting to shoot him in the face. The curtain was sheer and he had a good view of the room. He took a moment to memorize the layout. Nathan Campbell was kneeling near the bed, his hands together as if he was praying. Staal crouched a little, turned to see Gooch, made eye contact, and waved her to move up. He quickly stood and met Rachael at the door to the house.  

“He’s at the bed, praying I think,” Staal whispered.

Gooch nodded and tried the doorknob. Locked. Staal signaled her that he would kick it down. She nodded. Staal took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled long and slow. He took three steps away from the entrance, then threw all of his weight forward and kicked the white wooden door with all his strength. The door disintegrated and he stumbled, then steadied his pistol. Gooch rushed past him, shotgun ready, and began yelling instructions at Campbell.

“NATHAN CAMPBELL! DOWN ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD!”

Campbell
was still kneeling at the bed when his door crashed down. He quickly stood and then knelt again when Gooch began yelling. Staal stood two steps behind Gooch with his Glock pointed straight at Campbell’s head. Campbell wore an entire outfit of black, with the exception of a green hunter’s vest. When Campbell raised his hands above his head Staal noticed something that looked like road flares strapped to his body under the vest. Gooch readied her handcuffs and reached for Campbell’s right arm. She was at the wrong angle to see Campbell’s hidden surprise.

“Don’t fucking move, Gooch!” Staal yelled with as much force as he could.

“What?”

“Under the vest,” Staal said. “He’s wired with TNT!”

Campbell
smiled, “That’s right Jack, thirty-three sticks.”

“Shit!” Gooch cried.

“Stay calm, Nathan,” Staal said.

“I am c-calm, J-Jack,” Campbell stammered. “I’ve already p-primed the detonator. If I remove my thumb from this bu-button,” He held the detonator in his right hand and swung the switch so the detectives could see clearly. “We go boom!”

“Okay, Nathan,” Staal said in a composed voice. “Let’s think about what we’re doing here.” He tried to examine the explosives to see if they were real.