Текст книги "Thr3e"

Автор книги: Тед Деккер

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Interesting way to put it.

“In fact, it’s one of the aspects of the human condition Kevin and I have discussed before.”

“Oh?”

“It’s one of the first things an intelligent man like Kevin, who comes to the church later in life, notices. There is a pervasive incongruity between the church’s theology and the way most of us in the church live.”

“Hypocrisy.”

“One of its faces, yes. Hypocrisy. Saying one thing but doing another. Studying to be a priest while hiding a small cocaine addiction, for example. The world flushes this out and cries scandal. But the more ominous face isn’t nearly so obvious. This is what interested Kevin the most. He was quite astute, really.”

“I’m not sure I follow. What’s not so obvious?”

“The evil that lies in all of us,” the professor said. “Not blatant hypocrisy, but deception. Not even realizing that the sin we regularly commit is sin at all. Going about life honestly believing that we are pure when all along we are riddled with sin.”

She looked at his gentle smile, taken by the simplicity of his words.

“A preacher stands against the immorality of adultery, but all the while he harbors anger toward the third parishioner from the left because the parishioner challenged one of his teachings three months ago. Is anger not as evil as adultery? Or a woman who scorns the man across the aisle for alcoholic indiscretions, while she routinely gossips about him after services. Is gossip not as evil as any vice? What’s especially damaging in both cases is that neither the man who harbors anger nor the woman who gossips seriously considers the evil of their own actions. Their sins remain hidden. This is the true cancer in the church.”

“Sounds like the same cancer that eats away at the rest of society.”

“Exactly. Although in the church it makes every attempt to remain hidden, where it is left alone to grow in the dark. You ever wonder why incidences of divorce and gluttony and virtually all of evil’s fruits are as high in the church as in society at large?”

“Actually, I didn’t know that.”

“Though being freed from sin, most remain slaves, blinded and gagged by their own deception. ‘The good that I would, that I do not do and that which I would not, that I do.’ Welcome to the church in America.”

“And you’re saying you’ve discussed this with Kevin?”

“I discuss this with every class I teach on the subject. Kevin, more than most students, understood it.”

“Based on what you’re saying, what Slater’s doing isn’t so different from what every old lady in the church does when she gossips?” And killing Roy was no different either,she almost said.

“Assuming that old ladies have a proclivity for gossip, a false assumption, actually. On the other hand, Saint Paul drew a distinction between some sins and others. Although he did place gossip in the most vile category.”

Jennifer set down her cup on a cherry wood end table. “So you’re suggesting that the Riddle Killer is interested in Kevin confessing his true nature, not necessarily some particular sin. Seems like a stretch. To what end? Why would Slater single out Kevin, unless Kevin somehow wronged him?”

“Now you’re out of my league, I’m afraid.”

“You’re pushing theory way beyond what feels reasonable, Doctor. My brother was murdered. I hardly see any similarities between his killer and an old lady in a church.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” His compassion appeared thoroughly genuine.

“Even naysayers accept the brilliance of the teachings of Jesus,” he said. “You do know what he said on the matter?”

“Tell me.”

“That to hate a man is the same as killing him. Perhaps the gossipers are murderers after all.”

The notion struck her as absurd. Jennifer sighed. “So Slater, who was once wronged by Kevin, studies him today and sees this great inconsistency—that Kevin lives a life of minor sins—anger, resentment, gossip. But Slater believes, as you seem to, that minor sins are no less evil than the greater sins. Kevin decides to become a priest. This upsets Slater and he decides to teach Kevin a lesson. That the gist of it?”

“Who’s to say how a demented mind works?” The professor smiled. “Really, it’s beyond me how anyone could do this to another man, especially a man like Kevin. Regardless of his past sins, Kevin is a walking testimony of God’s grace. You’d think he’s been through his share of difficulties. To have become the man he is today is nothing short of amazing.”

She studied Dr. Francis. “He is quite unusual, isn’t he? I didn’t know his type still lived on the West Coast.”

“His type?” the professor asked. “You mean his innocence?”

“Innocent, genuine. Maybe even naive, in a nonoffensive way.”

“You’re aware of his past?”

“Sketchy. I haven’t exactly had the time to dig past his file these last two days.”

The doctor’s brow went up. “Perhaps you would do well to pay a visit to the home of his childhood. I don’t know the entire story, but from what Father Strong told me, Kevin’s childhood was anything but normal. Not necessarily terrible, mind you, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find more there than Father Strong or any of the rest of us suspects, particularly in light of these recent events.”

“So you don’t know the details of his past. Still, you say he’s been through his share of difficulties.”

“His parents died when he was one. He was raised by an aunt who despises his pursuit of higher education. As you say, he acts like a man who has recently walked off an island to discover that there is a rest-of-the-world. Naive. I think there’s something in Kevin’s past that haunts him. It may shed some light on this man you call Slater.”

“The boy,” she said.

“I’m afraid I don’t know about any boy.”

She would take a trip to Baker Street as soon as she left. “Nothing else comes to mind? No other students or faculty might have any motive to hurt Kevin?”

“Heavens, no. Not unless all of our gossiping students are becoming murderers to flush out the truth.” He grinned.

“You sound like a wonderful teacher, Dr. Francis. Do you mind if I call on you again?”

“Please.” He tapped his chest. “There’s a special place in here for Kevin. I can’t place it or explain why I am so taken by the boy, but I think we all have something to learn from his story.”

She stood. “I pray you’re right.”

“I didn’t know you were a religious woman.”

“I’m not.”

15

THE YOUNG MEN WITH THE CHAINS didn’t look like they were carrying any weapons. Not that criminals made a habit of hanging guns around their necks from shoestrings for all to see. Either way, Kevin gave them a pass and pulled back onto Western.

Maybe looking in less obvious spots would fare better. Side streets. Any beer-drinking slug wearing a wife-beater would be packing one, right? Or at least have a piece tucked under the mattress nearby. The fact was, Kevin had no clue what he was doing and the growing realization pushed his nerves into overdrive.

He drove several neighborhoods before working up the courage to park in one particularly seedy-looking lane and take to foot. Wouldn’t it be ironic if he were held up at gunpoint minding his own business? Why play games with a serial killer when you could take a stroll down misery lane and get offed any day of the week? Just like in the movies. Or was the other more like a movie?

He walked down the street, past houses with prying eyes. Maybe now would be a good time to pray. On the other hand, considering his intentions, praying felt inappropriate. A ball rolled out on the sidewalk three feet in front of him. He glanced at the house to his right and saw a boy, maybe three feet tall, staring at him with wide brown eyes. A large, shirtless man covered in tattoos, bald except for a black goatee, stood in the doorway behind the boy, watching him from under bushy eyebrows. Kevin picked up the ball and tossed it awkwardly back into the brown lawn.

“You lost?” the man asked.

That obvious? “No,” he said and turned away.

“You look lost to me, boy.”

Kevin was suddenly too terrified to respond. He walked on, not daring to look back. The man humphed, but made no other comment. Half a block later he glanced back. The man had retreated into his house.

Now, that wasn’t so bad. You go, boy. Kevin the player.

Kevin the fool. Here he was, wandering a strange neighborhood, pretending to have a clue, scheming nondescript plans, while the real game awaited its star player twenty miles south. What if Slater had called in the last couple hours? What if he’d called Jennifer or the police with the next threat? Or what if Sam had awakened, found him gone, turned on the phone, and received a call?

Kevin stopped walking. What on earth did he think he was doing? Sam. Sam had a gun. She’d never shown it to him, but he knew she carried it in her purse. Why not just take her gun? What was she going to do, throw him in jail for—

“Excuse me.”

Kevin spun around. The man from the doorway stood five feet away. He’d pulled on a white T-shirt that barely managed to contain his bulging shoulders.

“I asked you a question.”

Kevin’s heart pounded. “I’m . . . I’m not lost.”

“I don’t believe you. I see a Wall Street punk walking down the sidewalk at ten in the morning and I know he’s lost. You trying to score?”

“Score? No. Gosh, no.”

“Gosh?” The man grinned and savored the word. “Gosh, no. Then what are you doing so far from home?”

“I’m . . . just walking.”

“This look like Central Park to you? Not even the right state, boy. I can hook you up.”

A cool sweat ran down Kevin’s back. Ask him. Just ask him.

He glanced around. “Actually, I’m looking for a weapon.”

The man’s eyebrows went up. “And you think this is where weapons grow on trees, is that it?”

“No.”

The man studied him. “You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?”

“You look like a fool. Is there a difference? What kind of idiot walks around a strange neighborhood looking for a piece?”

“I’m sorry. I should probably leave.”

“I guess so.”

The man was blocking the sidewalk, so Kevin sidestepped to the street. He took three steps before the man spoke again.

“How much you got?”

He stopped and faced the man. “Four hundred dollars.”

“Let me see it.”

What if the man robbed him? Too late now. He pulled out his wallet and spread it open.

“Follow me.” The man turned and walked back toward his house without checking to see if Kevin followed.

He did. Like a puppy. How many prying eyes watched the sucker from Wall Street slinking along behind Biff?

He followed the man up to his porch. “Wait here.” He left Kevin with his hands in his pockets.

Thirty seconds later he was back with something wrapped in an old white T-shirt. “Give me the money.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a thirty-eight. Cleaned and loaded.” Biff glanced up the street. “Worth six, but it’s your lucky day. I need the cash.”

Kevin fished out his wallet with a trembling hand and handed the contents to the man. He took the bundle. Where was he going to put it? He couldn’t just walk down the street with a bundle that had gunwritten all over it. He started to shove it down his pants– too bulky.

The man finished flipping through the bills and saw Kevin’s dilemma. He grinned. “Boy, you are a case, aren’t you? What’re you gonna do, hold up your dog? Give me the shirt.”

Kevin unwrapped a shiny silver pistol with a black handle. He gripped the butt with his fingertips and handed the shirt to the man.

The man looked at the gun and smirked. “What do you think you have there? A pastry? Hold it like a man.”

Kevin snugged the gun in his palm.

“In your belt. Pull your shirt over it.”

Kevin shoved the cold steel barrel past his bellybutton and covered it with his shirt. Still looked pretty obvious to him.

“Suck your gut in. For another hundred I’ll show you how to pull the trigger.” Grin.

“No thanks.”

He turned and walked back out to the sidewalk. He had a gun. What on earth he was going to do with it, he still had no idea. But he had the piece. It was okay to pray now, maybe.

God, help me.

Baker Street. It was the third time in two days Jennifer had driven down the narrow lane under the elms. The warehouse where they’d found the blood couldn’t be seen from the street itself—it was in the second row of buildings. She imagined a young boy racing across the street toward the clustered warehouses with a bully at his heels. Kevin and the boy.

“What is here that you want to hide, Kevin?” she murmured. “Hmm?” The white house loomed to her left, immaculate, with the shiny beige Plymouth in its driveway. “What did Aunt Balinda do to you?”

Jennifer parked her car on the street and walked up to the porch. A slight breeze rustled through the leaves. The green lawn appeared freshly mowed and trimmed around the edges. She didn’t notice until she stepped up on the porch that the red roses in the flower beds were imitation. For that matter, so were all the flowers. It seemed Aunt Balinda was too tidy a person to mess with the natural flaws of nature. Everything about the house was perfectly finished.

She rang the bell and stepped back. A curtain to her left parted; a middle-aged man with a crew cut looked out. Bob. Kevin’s retarded older cousin. The face stared, smiled, and disappeared. Then nothing.

Jennifer rang the bell again. What were they doing in there? Bob had seen her . . .

The door cracked and filled with an old, heavily painted, saggy face. “What do you want?”

Jennifer flipped open her badge. “Agent Peters, FBI. Just wondered if I could come in and ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly not.”

“Just a few—”

“Do you have a search warrant?”

“No. I didn’t think I would need one.”

“We all make mistakes, dear. Come back with a search warrant.” The woman started to close the door.

“Balinda, I presume?”

She turned back. “Yeah? So what?”

“I will be back, Balinda, and I’ll bring the police with me. We’ll turn the place inside out. Is that what you want?”

Balinda hesitated. Her eyelashes flapped several times. Ruby red lipstick glistened on her lips, like glossy putty. She smelled of too much talcum powder.

“What do you want?” Balinda asked again.

“I told you. Just a few questions.”

“Then ask them.” She made no move from the door.

The woman was begging to be properly engaged. “I don’t think you understand me. When I come back in an hour, I’ll have a half-dozen blue suits with me. We’ll have guns and microphones. We’ll strip-search you if we have to.”

Balinda just stared.

“Or you can let me in now, just me. Are you aware that your son Kevin is in trouble?”

“Doesn’t surprise me. I told him he’d end up in trouble if he went off.”

“Well, it seems that your warning had some merit.”

The woman made no move.

Jennifer nodded and stepped back. “Okay. I’ll be back.”

“You won’t touch anything?”

“Not a thing.” She lifted both hands.

“Fine. But I don’t like people invading our privacy, you understand?”

“I understand.”

Balinda walked inside and Jennifer pushed the door open. A single glance into the dimly lit house washed away her understanding.

She entered a hallway of sorts, formed by stacks of newspapers that ran nearly to the ceiling, leaving a passage just wide enough for a slight man to walk through without getting newsprint on his shoulders. Two faces peered at her from the end of the makeshift hallway– Bob’s and another man’s—both craning for a view.

Jennifer stepped in and closed the door behind her. Balinda whispered urgently to the two men and they retreated like mice. Grayed carpet had been worn to the wood subfloor. The edge of a newspaper to Jennifer’s right stuck out far enough for her to read the headline. London Herald. June 24, 1972. Over thirty years old.

“Ask your questions,” Balinda snapped from the end of the hall.

Jennifer walked toward her, mind swimming. Why had they stacked all these papers in tall neat stacks like this? The display gave eccentricity a whole new meaning. What kind of woman would do this?

Aunt Balinda wore a white dress, high heels, and enough costume jewelry to sink a battleship. Behind her, backlit by a window that overlooked a dirt yard, Eugene stood in riding boots and what appeared to be a jockey’s outfit. Bob wore plaid knickers that revealed the tops of knee-high socks. A polo shirt hugged his thin frame.

The hall directed her into what appeared to be the living room, but again, its dimensions had been altered by floor-to-ceiling stacks of paper. Newspapers alternated with books and magazines and the occasional box. A foot-wide crack between two of the stacks allowed light in from what had once been a window. For all of its mess, the room had an order to it, like a bird’s nest. The stacks stood several rows deep, allowing just enough room for old Victorian furniture placed just so between smaller mounds of paper in the middle of the floor. These appeared to be in the process of being sorted.

To Jennifer’s right, a small kitchen table was piled high with dishes, some clean, most dirty. A collection of empty TV dinner packages sat on one of the chairs. The boxes had been cut with a pair of blue-handled scissors, which rested on the top box.

“Are you going to ask your questions?”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, I just didn’t expect this. What are you doing here?”

“We live here. What do you think we’re doing here?”

“You like newspapers.” They weren’t complete papers, but sections and clippings from newspapers, she saw, categorized according to subject by placards set into the stacks. People. World. Food. Play. Religion.

Bob stepped away from where he’d cornered himself in the kitchen. “Do you like to play?” He held out an old Game Boy in his hand, a monochrome model that looked like it might play Pong with enough persuasion. “This is my computer.”

“Hush, Bobby, honey,” Balinda said. “Go to your room and read your books.”

“It’s a real computer.”

“I’m sure the lady isn’t interested. She’s not from our world. Go to your room.”

“She’s pretty, Mom.”

“She’s a dog! Do you like dog hair, Bobby? If you play with her, you’ll get dog hair all over you. Is that what you want?”

Bob’s eyes widened. “The dog is gone.”

“Yes, she will be. Now go to your room and sleep.”

The boy started to walk away.

“What do you say?” Eugene said.

Bob turned back and dipped his head at Balinda. “Thank you, Princess.” He flashed a grin, hurried off through the kitchen, and shuffled down another hall, this one stacked with books.

“I’m sorry, but you know children,” Balinda said. “Minds full of mush. They only understand certain things.”

“Do you mind if we sit?”

“Eugene, get our guest a chair.”

“Yes, Princess.” He grabbed two chairs from the table, set one beside Jennifer, and held the other for Balinda to sit. When she did, he lowered his head with the respect of an eighteenth-century butler. Jennifer stared. They had created a world out of their newspapers and all of this paraphernalia—shaped to fit their lives.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, madam,” Eugene said, dipping his head again.

It wasn’t unheard of for adults to create their own realities and then protect them—most people clung to some form of illusion, whether it be found in an extension of entertainment or in religion or simply in a self-propagated lifestyle. The lines between reality and fantasy blurred for every human at some level, but this—this was a case study to be sure.

Jennifer decided to slip into their world. When in Rome . . .

“You’ve created your own world here, haven’t you? Ingenious.” She looked around, awed. Beyond the living room stood another doorway, maybe leading to the master bedroom. A stair banister ran along one wall. The same Sunday TimesJennifer had read earlier was spread out on the coffee table. The cover story, an article on George W. Bush, had been neatly cut out. The picture of Bush was at the bottom of a discard box. A stack two feet deep sat untouched next to the Times,topped by the Miami Herald. How many papers did they receive each day?

“You cut away what you don’t like and keep the rest,” Jennifer said. “What do you do with the clippings?” She turned to Balinda.

The old woman wasn’t sure what to think of her sudden change. “What clippings?”

“The ones you don’t like.”

She knew with one look at Eugene that she’d guessed right. The man glanced nervously at his princess.

“What a brilliant idea!” Jennifer said. “You create your own world by clipping out only those stories that fit your idyllic world and then you discard the rest.”

Balinda was speechless.

“Who’s the president, Eugene?”

“Eisenhower,” the man said without hesitation.

“Of course. Eisenhower. None of the others are worthy to be president. Any news of Reagan or the Bushes or Clinton just gets cut out.”

“Don’t be silly,” Balinda said. “Everyone knows that Eisenhower is our president. We don’t go along with the pretenders.”

“And who won the World Series this year, Eugene?”

“Baseball isn’t played anymore.”

“No, of course not. Trick question. What do you do with all the baseball stories?”

“Baseball isn’t played—”

“Shut up, Eugene!” Balinda snapped. “Don’t repeat yourself like a fool in a lady’s presence! Go cut something up.”

He saluted and stood at attention. “Yes, sir!”

“Sir? What has gotten into you? You’re losing your mind just because we have a visitor? Do I look like a general to you?”

He lowered his hand. “Forgive me, my princess. Perhaps I should save us some coin by cutting some coupons. I should love to take the carriage to the shop for stores as soon as I do.”

She glared at him. He did an about-face and walked for the stack of fresh newspapers.

“Don’t mind him,” Balinda said. “He gets a bit strange when he’s excited.”

Jennifer glanced out the window. A thin ribbon of smoke drifted skyward from a barrel. The yard was black . . .

They burned them! Whatever didn’t fit neatly into the world Balinda wanted went up in smoke. Newspaper stories, books, even pictures on TV dinner boxes. She looked around for a television. An old black and white sat dusty in the living room.

Jennifer stood and walked toward it. “I have to hand it to you, Balinda; you take the cake.”

“We do what we are entitled to in the privacy of our home,” she said.

“Of course. You have every right. Frankly, it would take tremendous strength and resolve to sustain the world you’ve managed to build around yourself.”

“Thank you. We’ve given our lives to it. One has to find a way in this chaotic world.”

“I can see that.” She eased through the living room and peered over the banister. The staircase was filled in with reams of old papers. “Where does this lead?”

“The basement. We don’t use it anymore. Not for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Thirty years. Maybe longer. It frightened Bob, so we nailed it shut.”

Jennifer faced the hall Bob had disappeared down. Kevin’s room was down there somewhere, hidden behind piles of books—probably butchered—and magazines. She walked down the hall.

Balinda stood and followed. “Now wait a minute. Where—”

“I just want to see, Balinda. I just want to see how you managed it.”

“Questions, you said. You’re walking, not talking.”

“I won’t touch a thing. That’s what I said. And I won’t.”

She passed a bathroom on her right, cluttered and filthy. The hall ended at the doorways of two rooms. The door on the right was shut—presumably Bob’s room. The door on the left was open a crack. She pushed it open. A small bed sat in one corner, strewn with loose clippings from children’s books. Hundreds of books stood against one wall—half with their covers torn off, altered, or trimmed to meet Balinda’s approval. A small window with a pull-down shade looked into the backyard.

“Kevin’s old room?” she asked.

“Until he abandoned us. I told him that if he left he’d end up in trouble. I tried to warn him.”

“Do you even want to know what kind of trouble he’s in?”

Balinda turned away. “What happens out of this house is not my concern. I told him he had no business running off with the serpent. Sss, sss, sss. It’s lies, lies, all lies out there. They say we came from monkeys. You’re all fools.”

“You’re right, the world is full of fools. But I can assure you, Kevin isn’t one of them.”

Balinda’s eyes flashed. “Oh, he’s not, is he? He was always too smart for us! Bob was the dumb one and Kevin was God himself, come to enlighten the rest of us poor idiots!” She took a breath through her nostrils.

She’d hit a button in the old hag. The adopted nephew wasn’t retarded like her own son and Balinda had taken exception to the fact.

Jennifer swallowed and walked to the window. It was fastened down with one screw. What kind of mother would raise a boy in an environment like this? The thought of Kevin crying as they passed by the house yesterday came with new understanding. Dear Kevin, what did she do to you? Who was the small boy who lived in this room?The screw was loose in its hole.

Balinda followed Jennifer’s stare.

“He used to crawl out of that window. He didn’t know that I knew, but I did. Nothing happens around here without my knowing.”

Jennifer turned back and brushed past Balinda. Nausea swept through her stomach. In a twisted way, Balinda had probably raised Kevin with noble intentions. She’d protected him from a terrible world full of evil and death. But at what price?

Slow down, Jennifer. You don’t know what happened here. You don’t even know that this wasn’t a wonderful environment for a child to be raised in.

She stepped into the living room and calmed herself.

“I knew he was sneaking out,” Balinda was saying. “But I just couldn’t stop him. Not without beating him raw. Never did believe in that kind of discipline. It may have been a mistake. Look at where it got him. Maybe I should have beaten him.”

Jennifer took a shallow breath. “What kind of discipline didyou use?”

“You don’t need discipline when your house is in order. Life is discipline enough. Anything more is an admission of weakness.” She said it all with her chest puffed, proud. “Isolate them with the truth and they will shine like the stars.”

The revelation came like a cool balm. She looked around. So Kevin’s rearing had been weird and distorted, but maybe not terrible.

“A man has been threatening Kevin,” she said. “We believe it’s someone your son—”

“He’s my nephew.”

“Sorry. Nephew. Someone Kevin might have known when he was ten or eleven. A boy who threatened Kevin. He had a fight with this boy. Maybe you remember something that might help us identify him.”

“It must have been the time he came home all bloody. I do remember that. Yes, we found him in bed in the morning and his nose was a mess. He refused to talk about it, but I knew he’d been out. I knew everything.”

“What kind of friends did Kevin have at that age?”

Balinda hesitated. “His family was his friend. Bob was his friend.”

“But he must have had other friends in the neighborhood. How about Samantha?”

“That fool girl? They sneaked around. Don’t think I didn’t know. He let it slip a few times. She was the one who may have ruined him in the first place! No, we tried to discourage him from keeping friends outside the house. This is an evil world. You don’t just let your children play with anyone!”

“You didn’t know anyof his friends?”

Balinda stared at her for a long time and then walked for the door. “You’re starting to repeat your questions. I don’t think we can help you more than we have.” She opened the door.

Jennifer took a last look around the house. She pitied the poor boy who grew up in this distorted world. He would enter the real world . . . naive.

Like Kevin.

But Balinda was probably right. There was nothing more to learn here.