Текст книги "Thr3e"

Автор книги: Тед Деккер

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

16

Sunday

Afternoon

SAMANTHA PACED THE FLOOR of the hotel room for the hundredth time. She’d anticipated almost every eventuality, but not Kevin’s disappearance.

Roland had paged her and she’d called him from the room phone. He wasn’t thrilled about her having turned off her cell but agreed that her plan had some merit. Meanwhile they had set up a meeting with the Pakistani, Salman, in Houston. This evening. Removing Kevin from the game by pulling him out of Slater’s reach might have been the best way to stall the killer until her return tomorrow. But she hadn’t considered the possibility that Kevin would disappear. Now she was due to catch a flight in a few hours, and Kevin was gone. Jennifer Peters would be burning up the phone lines by now, trying to find them, but Sam couldn’t bring herself to tip her hand—not yet. Something about the whole investigation bothered her, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. Something wasn’t right.

She reviewed the facts as she knew them.

One. Someone, probably a white male, had terrorized Sacramento over the last twelve months by selecting seemingly random victims, giving them a riddle to solve, and then killing them when they failed. He’d been dubbed the Riddle Killer by the media and the name had stuck with law enforcement. Jennifer’s brother, Roy, had been his last victim.

Two. She had opened an undercover CBI investigation under the premise that the killer had or was an inside man. Nothing indicated that the killer knew of her investigation.

Three. Someone with almost the same MO as the Riddle Killer was now stalking both Kevin and her in a game of riddles.

Four. A concrete connection had been established between this same killer and a boy who’d threatened both her and Kevin twenty years earlier.

On the surface, it all made perfect sense: A boy named Slater takes to torturing animals and terrorizing other children. He’s nearly killed by one of those children, Kevin, when Kevin locks him in a cellar to protect a young girl Slater intends to harm. But Slater escapes the cellar and grows up to become one of society’s worst nightmares—a man void of conscience with a lust for blood. Now, twenty years later, Slater learns that the two children who tormented him so long ago are alive. He stalks them and devises a game to deal with both in one fell swoop. Obvious, right?

No. Not in Sam’s mind. For starters, why had Slater waited so long to go after both her and Kevin? Did the small incident in the cellar just skip his mind for twenty years? And what was the likelihood that she, employed by the CBI, just happened to be assigned to a case involving the same person who tried to kill her twenty years ago?

And now, in the eleventh hour, this new lead from Sacramento– someone in Houston who claimed to know Slater. Or more accurately, the Riddle Killer. If she was right, they were all barking up the wrong tree.

Sam glanced at her watch. Two-thirty and still nothing. She had a plane to catch for Dallas at five. “Come on, Kevin. You’re forcing my hand here.”

She sighed and picked up her cell phone. She reluctantly switched it on and dialed Jennifer Peters’s number.

“Peters.”

“Hello, Agent Peters. Samantha Sheer—”

“Samantha! Where are you? Kevin’s gone. We’ve been trying to track him down all morning.”

“Slow down. I know Kevin’s gone. He’s with me. Or was with me, I should say.”

“With you?This isn’t your investigation. You have no right this side of hell to act without our approval! You trying to get him killed?”

Wrong, Jennifer, I don’t need your approval.“Don’t insult me.”

“Do you have any idea how crazy things are down here? The media’s gotten wind, presumably through that deadhead Milton, that Kevin’s disappeared, and they’re already suggesting Slater kidnapped him. They’ve got cameras on rooftops, waiting for the next bomb, for heaven’s sake! A killer’s loose out there, and the only man who may be able to lead us to him has gone AWOL. Why didn’t you call? Where is he now?”

“Take a breath, Jennifer. I have called, against my better judgment. I’ve put in a request to share what we know with you, but only you, do you understand? What I share with you, no one else hears. Not Milton, not the FBI, no one.”

“Put in a request with whom?”

“With the attorney general. We’ve been working this case from a new angle, you might say. Now you know, but no one else does.”

Silence.

“Agreed?”

“I swear, the way these bureaucracies work, you’d think we still lived in caves. I’ve been busting my butt for a year on this case, and now I learn that some crackpot agency is doing an end run? Do you have any information that might be useful, or is that a secret too?”

“We have reason to suspect an inside link.”

“Inside. As in law enforcement?”

“Maybe. We would have shared files a long time ago if we didn’t suspect that someone inside may be tracking with Slater.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’re not sure who we can trust. For reasons I can’t go into today, I don’t think Slater is who you think he is.”

“You mean the boy? Idon’t even know who I think he is!”

“That’s not what I mean. He probably is the boy. But who’s the boy?”

“You tell us. He threatened you, didn’t he?”

“That was a long time ago, and we have no ID. For all we know, he’s the director of the FBI now.”

“Please, don’t patronize me.”

“You’re right. He’s not the director of the FBI. All I’m saying is that we can’t eliminate the possibility that he’s someone on the inside. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

“This is ridiculous. Where are you now?”

Sam paused. She had no choice now. Withholding information from Jennifer would only hamper her investigation at this point. She needed the FBI to focus on their own investigation, not meddle in hers. And there was this little fact that Kevin was missing.

She explained her rationale for taking Kevin, and Jennifer listened patiently, interrupting occasionally with pointed questions. Sam’s reasoning finally won her a grunt of approval. The news of Kevin’s disappearance didn’t.

“So as far as we know, Slater does have him,” Jennifer said.

“I doubt it. But it does look like I’ve made a mistake. I didn’t expect this.”

Jennifer let the apology go, which from Sam was as good as an acceptance. The FBI agent sighed.

“Let’s hope he comes in. Soon. How well did you know him when he was a boy?”

“We were close. I didn’t have a better friend.”

“I visited his aunt’s house this morning.”

Sam sat on the bed. How much did Jennifer know? Kevin had never shared the details of his life in the house with Sam, but she knew much more than he suspected.

“I never did see the inside of the house,” Sam said. “His aunt wouldn’t allow it. It was hard enough sneaking around the way we did.”

“Was there abuse?”

“Physical, no. Not that I saw. But in my book Kevin suffered severe, systematic psychological abuse from the day he entered that twisted house. You talked to Balinda?”

“Yes. She’s created a sanctuary for herself in there. The only realities that make it past the cutting floor are the ones she decides are real. God only knows what the house was like twenty years ago. Manipulation of a child’s learning process isn’t unheard of—it’s even broadly accepted in some arenas. Military school comes to mind. But I’ve never heard of anything like Balinda’s little kingdom. Judging by Kevin’s reaction to the place, I would tend to agree. He suffered abuse in that house.”

Sam let the phone line remain silent for a while.

“Be careful, Jennifer. This is a case about a hurting man as much as it is a hunt for a killer.”

Jennifer hesitated. “Meaning?”

“There’s more. There are secrets behind the walls of that house.”

“Secrets he hasn’t shared with you, his childhood sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

By the sound of Jennifer’s breathing, Sam knew she felt uncomfortable with the tone of the conversation. She decided to expand the agent’s mind a little.

“I want you to consider something that’s nagged me for the last two days, Jennifer. No one hears, understand? This is between us. Agreed?”

“Go on.”

“I would like you to consider the possibility that Kevin and Slater are really the same person.” She dropped the bomb and let Jennifer respond.

“I . . . I don’t think that’s possible.” Jennifer chuckled nervously. “I mean that would be . . . the evidence doesn’t support that! How could he pull off such a crazy stunt?”

“He’s not pulling anything off. Please, understand me, I’m not suggesting it’s true, and God knows even considering the idea terrifies me, but there are elements to this case that just don’t sit right. I think the possibility is at least worth some thought.”

“He would have to be calling himself. You’re suggesting he was in Sacramento, blowing up victims three months ago?”

“If he is the Riddle Killer. I’m working on that.”

“And if he is Slater, who’s the boy? We found blood in the warehouse, consistent with this story. There was a boy.”

“Unless the boy was really Kevin. Or there was no boy.”

“You were there—”

“I never actually saw the boy, Jennifer.”

“Your father forced the family to leave! What do you mean you never sawthe boy?”

“I mean I told my father the boy was there—there was plenty of evidence at my window and I believed Kevin for the rest. Call it a white lie. Regardless, I actually never saw the boy. We forced the family of a bully to move, but thinking back on it, the boy ran off before my dad could apprehend him. He accused a local bully based on my testimony, and I based my testimony on Kevin’s. But there was no definitive evidence that it was someone otherthan Kevin. I didn’t even know Kevin had locked the boy in the warehouse until yesterday.”

“The physical evidence for Kevin being Slater doesn’t add up. He blew up his own car?”

“I’m not saying that he isSlater. I’m only positing a possibility. Considering his childhood, Multiple Personality Disorder may not be out of the question—the Kevin we know wouldn’t necessarily even know that he’s Slater. Everything that we have so far could fit the scenario; that’s all I’m saying. There are no inconsistencies. Think about it.”

“Neither is there any evidence to support it. Highly unlikely. MPD results only in very limited cases of severe childhood abuse. Almost always physical abuse. Balinda might be a witch, but she doesn’t fit the profile for physical abuse. You said so yourself.”

“You’re right, there wasn’t physical abuse. But there are exceptions.”

“Not any that fit this scenario. At least not that I know of, and it is my field of study.”

Probably right. Highly unlikely, but in cases like this every possibility had to be considered.Something was not what it seemed, and as disturbing as her suggestion was, Sam couldn’t just discard it. If Kevin was Slater, exposing the fact would be the greatest favor she could do for her childhood friend.

On the other hand, hearing herself say it out loud, the notion sounded absurd. A simple voice or handwriting analysis would settle the matter.

“Have the lab run a handwriting comparison from the jug.”

“We already have. Standard procedure. It was negative.”

“It’s technically possible for multiple personalities to have varying motor characteristics.”

“In this case, I don’t think so.”

“Then start comparing it with everyone else connected to the case. Someone on the inside’s working this, Jennifer. Someone’s not who we think they are.”

“Then get me your file.”

“It’s on the way.”

“And if Kevin contacts you, call me. Immediately.” To say that the agent sounded agitated would be like saying the sky was big.

“You have my word.”

“As much as your plan to isolate Kevin may have made sense, having Slater’s voice on tape could be invaluable. Particularly in light of your suggestion. Turn it on and leave it on.”

Sam picked up Slater’s silver phone and switched it on. “Done.”

“The recording device is still active?”

“Yes.”

A knock sounded on the door. Sam started.

“What is it?” Jennifer asked.

“Someone’s at the door.” She walked for the door.

“Who?”

She turned the deadbolt and pulled it open. Kevin stood in the hallway, blinking and haggard.

“Kevin,” Sam said. “It’s Kevin.”

Jennifer lowered the phone and sat hard. The notion that Kevin and the Riddle Killer might be the same man wasn’t only absurd; it was . . . wrong. Sick. Deeply disturbing.

Galager walked by her desk, headed for the lab. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Was it possible?

Her mind spun back to the scene of Roy’s death. Was it possible that Kevin– No! It made no sense.

And why is this such an infuriating prospect, Jennifer? You can’t imagine Kevin killing Roy because you like Kevin. He reminds you of Roy, for heaven’s sake.

Jennifer rehearsed the facts quickly. If Kevin was Slater, then he would have to be calling himself, possible but unlikely. He would also have to have an alter ego of which he was clueless. She had interviewed enough witnesses over the years to recognize sincerity, and Kevin had it in spades. He would have had to plant the bombs long ago, possible, but in both cases he would have had to detonate them without his own knowing.

No. No, this was too much. She began to relax. The man she had comforted in the park yesterday was no killer. The boy, whose blood they’d found in the cellar, on the other hand, could be.

Point was, she had panicked at the thought that Kevin might be the killer, hadn’t she? She should have been ecstatic at the mere prospect of uncovering the killer’s true identity. Which said that she cared far too much for Kevin, an absurdity in itself given the fact that she hardly knew him!

On the other hand, she was bound to him in a way few people ever are. They shared the death of her brother in common—she as the victim’s survivor, he as the next victim.

Jennifer sighed and stood. She was too emotionally wrapped up in this whole thing. The bureau chief was right.

“Galager!”

The man paused at the door across the room. She motioned him back.

“What’s up?”

“We found Kevin.”

Galager pulled up. “Where?”

“Palos Verdes. He’s okay.”

“Should I get Milton?”

He was the last person she wanted to bring in. But she had her marching orders, didn’t she? At least she didn’t have to deal with him directly. She scribbled the information on a notepad, ripped the page off, and handed it to Galager.

“Fill him in. Tell him I’m tied up.”

It was the truth. She was tied up, in knots that refused to loosen.

They sat on the bed in a stalemate. Kevin was hiding something; that much Sam had known since she’d first talked to him. Friday night. Now his lying was more blatant, but try as she may, she could not coax the truth out of him. His story that he’d been wandering through his old neighborhood, thinking, for the past eight hours was simply unbelievable. True, given his circumstances, almost any behavior was possible. But she knew Kevin too well; she could read those clear blue eyes, and they were shifting. Something else was bothering him.

“Okay, Kevin, but I still don’t think you’re telling me everything. I have a plane to catch in a couple hours. With any luck, Slater will take the day to revel in his little victory yesterday. God knows we need the time.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow morning.” She stood, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain. “We’re closing in, Kevin. We’re right on this guy’s tail; I can feel it in my bones.”

“I wish you weren’t going.”

Sam turned back. “Jennifer will be here. She’ll want to talk to you.”

He looked past her out the window. “Yeah.”

Dark circles hung under his eyes. He seemed distracted.

“I need a drink,” he said. “You want one?”

“I’m fine. You’re not going to run off again, are you?”

He grinned. “Come on. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. Hurry back.”

He opened the door to leave.

The beige phone on the nightstand rang shrilly. She glanced at the clock beside it—3 P.M. They had overstayed their checkout.

“Go ahead,” she told Kevin. “It’s probably the front desk.”

Kevin left and she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Samantha.”

Slater! She whirled to the door. So Kevin couldn’tbe Slater! He’d been in the room when the killer had called.

“Kevin!” He was gone.

“Not Kevin. It’s your other lover, dear.”

How had Slater gotten their number? The only person who knew where they were was Jennifer. Jennifer . . .

“They want my voice, Samantha. I want to give them my voice.

Have you turned the cell phone back on, or are you still playing your idiotic cat-and-mouse game?”

“It’s on.”

The line clicked. Slater’s cell began to ring. She grabbed it and answered.

“There, that’s better, don’t you think? The game won’t last forever; we might as well make this more interesting.”

It was the first time she’d actually heard his voice. Low and gravelly.

“What good is a game that you can’t lose?” she asked. “It proves nothing.”

“Oh, but I can lose, Sam. The fact that I haven’t proves that I’m smarter than you.” Short heavy breath. “I came within a single pane of glass of killing you once. This time I won’t fail.”

The boy. She turned and sat on the bed. “So that was you.”

“Do you know why I wanted to kill you?”

“No.” Keep him talking. “Tell me.”

“Because all nice people deserve to die. Especially the pretty ones with bright blue eyes. I despise beauty almost as much as I despise nice little boys. I’m not sure who I hate more, you or that imbecile you call your lover.”

“You make me sick!” Samantha said. “You prey on innocence because you’re too stupid to realize it’s far more fascinating than evil.”

Silence. Only heavy breathing. She’d struck a nerve.

“Kevin confessed, as you demanded,” she said. “He told the whole world about that night. But you can’t live by your own rules, can you?”

“Yes, of course. The boy. Was that me? Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Kevin still hasn’t confessed his sin. He hasn’t even hinted at it. The secret’s much too dark, even for him, I think.”

“What? Whatsin?”

He chuckled.

“The sin, Samantha. Thesin. Riddle time. What wants to be filled but will always be empty?I’ll give you a clue: It’s not your head. It has a number: 36933. You have ninety minutes before the fireworks begin. And please remember, no cops.”

“Why are you so afraid of the cops?”

“It’s not who I’m afraid of; it’s who I want to play with.” The line clicked.

He was gone.

Sam stood still, mind reeling. He’d called on the hotel room phone. Could he have tracked them down so quickly? Or the phone– could he have a way of tracking it once she turned it on? Unlikely. She paced to the end of the bed and back. Think, Sam! Think! Where was Kevin? They had to– “Sam?” Kevin’s muffled voice sounded beyond the door. He knocked.

She ran for the door. Opened it.

“He called,” she said.

“Slater?” His face went white.

“Yes.”

Kevin stepped in, can of 7UP in his hand. “What did he say?”

“Another riddle. What wants to be filled but will always be empty?With some numbers. 36933.” The most obvious solution had already run through her mind. She ran to the coffee table and grabbed the telephone book.

“Call Jennifer.”

“How much time?”

“Ninety minutes. Threes. This guy’s obsessed with threes and progressions of threes. Call her!”

Kevin set his drink down, jumped for the phone, and punched in her number. He relayed the information quickly.

“On the room phone,” he said.

“No, he called back on the cell,” Sam corrected him.

“He called back on the cell,” Kevin relayed.

Sam spread the phone directory map open and searched the streets. Thirty-third. A warehouse district.

“No cops. Remind her no cops. If she has any ideas, call, but keep the others out of it. He was very clear.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was the only answer that made immediate sense. But why would Slater choose such an obvious riddle?

She looked up at Kevin. “Tell Jennifer that I was wrong about Slater. You were in the room when Slater called.”

Kevin looked at her with a raised eyebrow, passed on the message, listened for a moment, and then addressed Sam. “She says she’s on her way. Don’t move.”

Only Jennifer could know specifically where they were. She would have picked up the caller ID when Sam called her on the room phone. How had Slater tracked them down so quickly?

Sam stepped forward and took the phone from Kevin. “Don’t bother coming, Jennifer. We’ll be gone. Work the riddle. I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”

“How will leaving help you? I want Kevin back in my sights where I can work with him. You hear me?”

“I hear you. We’re out of time now. Just work the riddle. I’ll call you.”

“Sam—”

She hung up. She had to think this through.

“Okay, Kevin. Here we go. Slater’s into threes; we know that. He’s also into progressions. Every target is larger than the one before. He gives you three minutes, then thirty minutes, then sixty minutes, and now ninety minutes. And he gives this number, 36933. The 369 follows the natural progression, but the 33 doesn’t. Unless they’re not part of the 369. I think we have an address: 369 Thirty-third Street. It’s in a warehouse district in Long Beach, about ten miles from here. What wants to be filled but will always be empty?A vacant warehouse.”

“That’s it?”

“Unless you can think of anything better. Opposites, remember? All of his riddles have been about opposites. Things that aren’t what they want or seem to be. Night and day. Buses that go around in circles. A warehouse that is designed to hold things but is empty.”

“Maybe.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. They had no choice. She grabbed his hand.

“Come on, let’s go.”