This was ridiculous.
I mentally flipped through the faces of the family members of the victims. It’d been thirteen years, and the man I was watching was shielding his face, glancing at his watch.
If I could just get a clear look at his face…
“Dr. Bowers,” Priscilla said, once again interrupting my train of thought. “Is it possible you arrested the wrong man?”
“I’m confident we made the right-”
“But is it possible?”
“It’s possible,” I said impatiently. “Yes.”
The man with the armband finally looked my way.
Yes. I recognized him. He was the father of Celeste Sikora, the second-to-last known victim, one of the women I could have saved if only I’d pieced things together a little faster.
“But,” I said, elaborating on my answer, trying to quiet the growing frustration in my voice, “as I mentioned a few moments ago, all investigations deal in terms of probability rather than certainty. We don’t live in a perfect world. The jury isn’t asked to determine a person’s guilt with absolute certainty but rather beyond reasonable doubt-”
“I am well aware of the legal requirements of American jurisprudence, Dr. Bowers.”
Yes, Celeste’s father, Grant.
Ex-military. I remember because he’d reacted so violently when I notified him that his daughter’s wounds had been fatal that he’d needed to be sedated.
The trial, Pat. Focus on the trial.
“But as I was saying…” I continued speaking, but my attention was split. “The evidence strongly supports the conclusion that Richard Basque was-”
“Dr. Bowers.” Her voice had turned to ice. “Did you physically assault my client?”
The room spun around me. Dizzy. A swirl of colors. Then everything dialed into focus.
She closed the space between us. “Back in the slaughterhouse? After you handcuffed him?”
So, Basque told her. She knows.
Grant Sikora looked at the clock on the wall. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.
You swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Did you break Richard Basque’s jaw with your fist?” she asked. “Did you attack him after he was handcuffed?”
You can’t let Basque walk. You know that, Pat. You can’t admit that you hit him.
Time slowed.
Sweat? Why is Sikora sweating?
I looked from Grant Sikora to Priscilla. Beyond her I saw Basque smiling, as if the moment he’d been waiting for all these years had finally arrived. If I told the truth, he might walk, but if I lied I’d be committing perjury and going against everything I’d worked toward all these years.
Another bead of sweat formed on Sikora’s forehead.
It’s too cold in the courtroom to be sweating. Too cold.
Unless.
“Dr. Bowers!” Ms. Eldridge-Gorman had stepped in front of me and now planted her hands on her hips, her two elbows jutting out like bony wings. “Are you having trouble remembering that night at the slaughterhouse?”
Grant Sikora began to discreetly make his way toward the side aisle. It’s not unheard of for people to slip out of a courtroom while a trial is in session, so no one else seemed to take notice. Their eyes were riveted on me.
The evidence table.
The hatchet… the knife… the gun… a weapon… is he going for a weapon?
“I’ll ask you one last time.” Her words were cold stones dropping one by one into the still courtroom. “Did you or did you not physically assault Richard Devin Basque after he was in your custody in the slaughterhouse?”
Nothing but the truth.
Answer her, Pat. You have to answer the question.
My eyes flashed across the evidence table, scrutinizing, examining the positioning of the items. I noticed the Sigma’s witness hole, the small groove that allows the operator to observe the brass case of the bullets if there are any chambered rounds.
Ms. Eldridge-Gorman’s voice rang out, “Judge Craddock, please direct the witness to answer the question!”
Inside the witness hole I saw a brassy glint…
“Dr. Bowers, I advise you to answer the counselor’s question.”
That glint could only mean one thing.
Ms. Eldridge-Gorman threw her hands up.
That gun was loaded.
“Will you answer the counselor’s question?” the judge said.
Sikora’s going for the gun!
“No,” I whispered.
“No?” the judge shouted.
Grant Sikora reached the aisle and ran toward the evidence table.
You can’t let him get the gun.
Stop him, Pat. You have to stop him!
I grabbed the railing of the witness stand and launched myself over the edge.
12
My shoes slipped as I landed. I smacked onto the floor, and by the time I’d made it to my feet, Grant Sikora’s hand had found the gun.
The next three seconds seemed to take forever and happen all at once.
I sprinted toward him. Time collapsed, then expanded. A series of terrible thoughts raced through my mind. The gun’s loaded. He’s Celeste’s father. He’s going after Basque.
Sikora raised the gun, and the two officers stationed at the courtroom’s main doors drew their weapons.
I instinctively reached for my SIG. Found only an empty holster.
All around me, blurred sounds, elastic words that somehow slowed as they moved through the air, in between the creases of time. Screams
… shouts… the frantic scuffling movement of people diving for cover… I felt like I was in a scene from a movie where the bullet slides in slow motion through the air, only this time the bullet hadn’t been fired yet. And I had the chance to stop it.
The judge had disappeared behind the bench, and Richard Basque had risen from his seat and turned toward Sikora. Standing as still as death, he watched Grant sweep the gun in an arc toward the officers who were shouting at him to drop his weapon.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ralph on his way toward the gunman, plowing through the crowd of people seated in the gallery. But I was closer. A lot closer.
Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman’s shrill voice cut through the room calling for Basque to get down! Get down! She threw herself beneath the table, but he didn’t move. Just remained stoic and still.
I was almost to Sikora.
The two officers leveled their weapons. One of them fired and the bullet whirred past my face and shattered the wooden railing of the witness stand behind me.
I reached Sikora, but before I could grab him, he squeezed off a shot, and one of the officers wrenched backward with a sharp cry and crashed to the floor. The female officer who’d closed the courtroom doors earlier hesitated, glancing momentarily down at her partner.
Grant Sikora stared down the barrel, looking stunned that he’d actually pulled the trigger.
And then I was on him.
I snagged his arm and went for the gun, but he slithered free, whipped around, and leveled it at my face. “Out of the way.”
Time caught up with reality and froze. I’d had guns aimed at my face before, but it doesn’t matter how many times it happens, you never get used to it. I felt my heart slamming against my chest. Easy, Pat. Easy. I raised my hands to show I meant no harm.
“Put down your gun!” the uninjured officer yelled. Only then did I realize I was in her line of fire. She didn’t have a clear shot at Sikora, only at me.
Out of my peripheral vision I could see the other officer laying sprawled on the floor, blood from the gunshot wound soaking through his shirtsleeve, but it was only his arm. It didn’t look life-threatening. Good. That buys us some time.
“Drop your weapon!”
“Shut up,” Grant shrieked. “Everyone, shut up!” He took one step closer to me. The officer on the floor was slowly drawing his weapon. “Drop your guns,” Sikora yelled to the officers. “Or the FBI agent dies.”
Three meters to my left, Ralph silently slid into position beside the prosecution’s table. Everyone else except Basque either lay on the floor or knelt low to the ground. A few people peered over the edges of chairs and benches to watch things unfold. Neither officer dropped their guns. Basque still stood calmly watching everything unfold.