Opening Moves (45 page)

Joshua looked toward Basque, but his attention was immediately drawn to the television on the wall. There was a news report about the woman who’d been killed at the slaughterhouse.

A name flashed across the screen and the announcer said, “We’re getting unconfirmed reports that the victim’s name is Sylvia Padilla.”

Joshua froze.

He locked eyes with Basque and knew it was true.

Parker looked at Joshua oddly. “Didn’t Lyrie just say your last name is—”

But then her words were cut off as he jammed the needle fiercely into her neck and depressed the plunger. The tranquilizer kicked in almost immediately. He held one hand over her mouth and with the other he stopped her from reaching for her gun.

She faded and he lowered her to the floor.

He quickly checked—there was no lock on the door. He slid her body against it to slow anyone down who might try to interrupt him. After wedging her legs solidly in the nearby bathroom doorway, he turned a cart on its side and jammed it in to lock them in place. Nobody was going to get the hospital room’s door open without torquing Agent Parker’s spine.

Then Joshua turned to Basque, whose wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed.

The man’s jaw was broken so he couldn’t cry out for help.

His hands were restrained so he couldn’t hit the call button.

“You took Sylvia.” Joshua’s voice was trembling. “You killed my wife.” He produced the necrotome from its sheath.

Voices shouted in his head:
You are beyond redemption, Joshua!

No! It’s not evil to pursue justice!

Basque just watched him. Didn’t struggle to get free. Didn’t look away.

You took care of your father, Joshua. You did what needed to be done. You’re good at doing what needs to be done.

He pulled up a chair beside the bed.

Ralph shouted down the hall for Lyrie to open Basque’s door, but when he tried, he was able to open it only far enough to get a hand inside.

Ralph beat me to the room. “I got it,” he told Lyrie.

But then he looked into the room. “It’s Ellen! She’s down!”

And that’s when I arrived.

Joshua heard Detective Bowers shout, “Padilla, stop! Get away from the bed!” Through the crack in the doorway he could see movement. He wasn’t sure how many people.

So this was it.

Endgame.

He tightened his grip on the handle of the necrotome, the “cutting instrument of the dead.”

Yes, he would do this for Sylvia.

Your father taught you what to do. This is your chance, just like you did in the cellar under the barn.

Bowers called again for him to stop, even as Joshua saw a massive arm squeeze through the crack in the door, clutch Agent Parker’s armpit, and begin to lift her from the floor.

Ralph gritted his teeth, shoved his other hand through the crack as well so he could get a better grip on Ellen’s limp body.

He managed to get her high enough to free her legs, then he leaned heavily against the door.

Joshua had the necrotome raised when the door swung open. Lyrie stepped forward to support Parker, and the enormous guy who’d lifted her whipped out a Glock, aimed it at Joshua. “Move away from the bed!”

“Listen to him!” It was Bowers again. He stood in the doorway beside the big guy. “Back away.”

The evil which I would not.

That I do.

In an instant, the rest of the passage came to him, the conclusion St. Paul had reached, the one Reverend Tate had mentioned in his prayer at the funeral: “Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord,” and Joshua thought of his wife dying at the hand of this man now lying in front of him, and he thought of redemption and sin and hope and eternity. He had, all of his life, wanted to find God’s forgiveness, and now he was sure he never would.

“Step back!” Ralph bellowed, moving into the room.

“Get back, Joshua!” I yelled. “Now!”

“No murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.”
Those words raced through Joshua’s mind, chased by the ones from Reverend Tate’s homily,
“Let us take responsibility for our sins…Let us trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, the one whose blood cleanseth us from all sin.”

The blood.

Always the blood.

And that cleansing was what Joshua yearned for, even as he said to Basque, “A shedder of blood shall die,” and then he thrust the necrotome deep into the man’s abdomen.

But that was the last thing he ever did. Because Special Agent Ralph Hawkins fired three shots in quick succession and Joshua Padilla dropped dead to the floor and entered eternity.

For the reckoning.

Ralph lowered his gun.

The knife handle jutted from Basque’s abdomen.

“We need a doctor in here!” I yelled. “Now!”

TWO DAYS LATER

Friday, November 21

The Coffeehouse

100

8:31 a.m.

They were able to save Richard Basque.

They stitched up his abdomen, wired his jaw shut, and the prognosis was positive.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

We’d stopped Griffin, Basque, and Joshua Padilla. Radar was safe, Lionel, Colleen, Tod, Adele and Mallory had all been through traumatizing experiences, but all were recovering. Agent Parker was fine.

But we’d lost Sylvia Padilla.

All too often endings in real life are bittersweet. We all die, but we don’t all find peace before we do. However, when I remembered the look on Sylvia’s face as she passed away, I knew there was forgiveness there. And I trusted that God had seen what was in her heart and judged her accordingly.

Inevitably, there were going to be charges filed against Carl, Vincent, and Radar for the crimes they’d committed to fulfill Joshua’s demands, but I was hopeful that, considering the circumstances, the judge would be lenient—especially with Radar. Initial indications were that things were leaning in that direction.

Browning had, as it turned out, known that Griffin had killed Mindy Wells and it looked as though he would be spending a long time on the other side of some prison bars. So, the wheels of justice were already turning, working their way through the complex, multilayered case.

My shoulder and leg ached, but they would heal soon enough. People say that what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. I wasn’t so sure about that, but the things that don’t kill us do shape who we become. And I knew the events of the last week would shape me forever. Whether in a good way or a bad one, only time would tell.

Agent Parker had flown back to DC yesterday, but I’d offered to take Ralph out for coffee before his ten o’clock flight today. When I’d said that, he’d eyed me suspiciously. “You don’t even drink coffee.”

“Yeah, well, you were bragging on it so much the other day, I figured I’d give it a shot.”

He’d looked pleased, and now we were at a neo-hippie coffeehouse not far from the airport. A sign on the wall announced
COFFEE THAT’S BETTER THAN ALTERRA’S!