Текст книги "Thr3e"

Автор книги: Тед Деккер

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Jennifer filled in the blanks. The abuse wasn’t primarily physical, not necessarily even emotional, although there was some of both of those. It was primarily psychological. She watched Kevin’s chest rise and fall. She desperately wanted to reach out to him. She could see the boy, sitting alone in a bathtub of cold water, shivering in the dark, wondering how to make sense of his horrible world that he’d been brainwashed to think was good.

She fought back tears. Kevin, dear Kevin, I’m so sorry!She reached out her hand and put it on his arm. Who could do such terrible things to a little boy? There was more, details, stories that could undoubtedly fill a book to be studied by universities across the country. But she didn’t want to hear more. If she could only make it all go away. She might be able to stop Slater, but Kevin would live with this past until the day he died.

A brief absurd image of her lying down beside him and holding him gently in her arms ran through her mind.

Kevin suddenly groaned and then chuckled. “She’s a twisted, demented lunatic.”

Jennifer cleared her throat. “Agreed.”

“But you know what?”

“What?”

“Telling you about it makes me feel . . . good. I’ve never told anyone.”

“Not even Samantha?”

“No.”

“Sometimes talking about abuse helps us deal with it. Our tendency is to hide it, and that’s understandable. I’m glad you’re telling me. None of it was your fault, Kevin. It’s not your sin.”

He pushed himself up. His eyes were clearer. “You’re right. That old goat did everything in her power to hold me back.”

“When did you first realize that Balinda’s world wasn’t the only one?”

“When I met Samantha. She came to my window one night and helped me sneak out. But I was trapped, you know. I mean mentally. For a long time I couldn’t accept that Balinda was anything but a loving princess. When Samantha left to study law, she begged me to go with her. Or at least somewhere away from Balinda, but I couldn’t leave. I was twenty-three before I finally worked up the courage to leave. Balinda went ballistic.”

“And you’ve done all this in five years?”

He nodded and grinned softly. “Turns out that I was fairly intelligent. It only took me a year to get my general education papers, and four years to graduate from college.”

It occurred to Jennifer that she was treating him like a patient with these short, probing questions, but he seemed to want it now.

“Which is when you decided to become a minister,” she said.

“That’s a long story. I suppose because of my strange rearing the subject of good and evil held unusual fascination for me. Naturally I gravitated toward the church. Morality became somewhat of an obsession, I guess. I figured the least I could do was spend my life showing some small corner of the real world the way to true goodness.”

“As opposed to what?”

“As opposed to the false reality we all create for ourselves. Mine was extreme, but it didn’t take me long to see that most people live in their own worlds of delusion. Not so different from Balinda’s, really.”

“Observant.” She smiled. “Sometimes I wonder what my delusions are. Is your faith personal?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. The church is a system, a vehicle for me. I wouldn’t say that I know God personally, no. But my faith in a God is real enough. Without an absolute, moral God, there can be no true morality. It’s the most obvious argument for the existence of God.”

“I grew up Catholic,” she said. “Went through all the forms, never did quite understand it all.”

“Well, don’t tell Father Bill Strong, but I can’t say I do either.”

Sitting next to him now, just a few minutes since his confession, Jennifer had difficulty placing Kevin in the context of his youth. He seemed so normal.

He shook his head. “This is incredible. I still can’t believe I just told you all that.”

“You just needed the right person,” she said.

The sound of feet running on the pavement sounded behind them. Jennifer twisted around. It was Galager.

“Jennifer!”

She stood and brushed her skirt.

“We have another riddle!” Galager said. He held a sheet of notebook paper in his hand. “Mickales just found this on the windshield of Kevin’s car. It’s Slater.”

“My car?” Kevin jumped to his feet.

Jennifer took the note. Yellow pad. The scrawling was black, familiar. The milk jug from Kevin’s refrigerator. She read the note quickly.

3+3 = 6.

Four down, two to go. You know how I like threes, Kevin. Time’s running out. Shame, shame, shame. A simple confession would do, but you force my hand.

Who escapes their prison but is captive still?

I’ll give you a hint: It isn’t you.

6 A.M.

Kevin gripped his hair and turned away.

“Okay,” Jennifer said, turning for the street. “Let’s get moving.”

20

SAMANTHA WAS TIRED. The Pakistani had insisted they meet at a Mexican restaurant five miles out of town. The light was too low, the music was too loud, and the place smelled of stale cigarettes. She stared the witness directly in the eye. Chris had sworn that Salman would cooperate and he had. But what he had to say wasn’t exactly what Sam wanted to hear.

“How do you know it was a dagger if you never saw it?”

“He told me it was. I have the tattoo on my back, and he said he had one like it on his forehead.”

“Did you see any scarring or discoloration that might indicate he had the tattoo removed?”

“Perhaps. He wore his hair over his forehead. Didn’t matter—he said he had it removed and I believed him.”

They’d been over all of this at least once; he’d already described the tattooed man with remarkable detail. Salman was a tailor. Tailors notice these things, he said.

“And this was while you were in New York, four months ago. And you saw him five or six times at a bar named Cougars over the course of about a month?”

“That is what I have said. Yes. You may check with the bar owner; he may remember the man as well.”

“So according to you, this man who had a dagger tattoo and who called himself Slater was in New York while the Riddle Killer was killing victims in Sacramento.”

“Yes, definitely. I remember watching the news while I was in New York the very night after I had talked to Slater.”

Salman had spilled enough details in the previous hour to make his testimony credible. Sam had been in New York four months ago. She knew the pub Salman referred to, a low-class joint frequented by your typical mix of unsavory characters. A CIA task force had set up a sting at the joint to flush out an Iranian whom they suspected had ties to a bombing in Egypt. The man had exonerated himself.

“Okay.” She turned to Steve Jules, the agent who’d accompanied her from the Houston office. “I’m done. Thank you for your time, Mr. Salman. It was invaluable.”

“Perhaps I could make you a suit,” he said with a grin. “I have a new shop here. There aren’t so many tailors in Houston as in New York.”

She smiled. “Maybe next time I’m in Houston to escape the heat.”

They left the bar in Steve’s car. This wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. In fact, it was downright dreadful. What if she was right about the rest of it? Dear God, dear God.

She wanted only one thing now: to be with Kevin. Kevin needed her more now than ever. The despondent look on his face as she sped off to the airport haunted her.

Her childhood friend had grown into quite an incredible man, hadn’t he? Tormented by his past, perhaps, but he’d escaped that hellhole he called a home and flourished. Part of her wanted nothing more than to run back to him and throw herself in his arms and beg him to marry her. Sure he had his demons; everyone did. Yes, he had a long struggle ahead of him; didn’t they all? But he was the most genuine man she’d ever known. His eyes shone with the excitement and wonder of a child, and his mind had absorbed the world with stunning capacity. His progress was nearly superhuman.

On the other hand, she could never marry Kevin. Their relationship was too valuable to compromise with romance. He saw that too, otherwise he never would have allowed room for any attraction to Jennifer. Their occasional romantic innuendo was simply teasing. They both knew that.

She sighed.

“Tough interview,” Steve said beside her.

She picked up her cell phone and punched in her boss’s number. It would be late, but she had to get this to him. “I thought it went pretty smoothly,” she said.

Roland picked up the phone on the fourth ring. “It’s midnight.”

“He was two hours late,” Sam said.

“And?”

“And he knew Slater.”

“Our guy?”

“Very possible. Tattoo like that is extremely unusual. But he claims to have known Slater in New York.”

“So.”

“So it was four months ago. Over a period of about a month. The Riddle Killer was in Sacramento then, killing Roy Peters.”

“So Slater’s not the Riddle Killer.”

“That’s right.”

“Copy cat?”

“Could be.”

“And if Slater is the boy, he’s no longer walking around with a dagger tattoo on his forehead because he had it removed.”

“So it seems.”

Roland covered the phone and spoke to someone—probably his wife unless he was in a late meeting, which was entirely possible.

“I want you back in Sacramento tomorrow,” he said. “If Slater isn’t the Riddle Killer, he’s not your concern.”

“I know, sir. I have three days left on my leave, remember?”

“We called you back in, remember?”

“Because we believed that Slater was the Riddle Killer. If he’s not, the trail’s cold.”

Roland considered her argument. He wasn’t the most reasonable man when it came to time off. He put in eighty hours a week and expected his subordinates to do the same.

“Please, sir, I go way back with Kevin. He’s practically family to me. I swear, three more days and I’ll be back in the office. You have to let me do this. And there’s still the chance that I’m wrong about Salman’s testimony.”

“Yes, there is.”

“It’s still possible that Slater knows the Riddle Killer.”

“Possible.”

“Then give me more time.”

“You heard about the library?”

“The whole world heard about the library.”

He sighed. “Three days. I expect to see you at your desk Thursday morning. And please, tread lightly down there. This is unofficial. From what I’ve heard the whole scene is one big snake pit. Every agency in the country has a stake in this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Roland hung up.

Sam considered calling Jennifer but decided it could wait until morning. She could tell her only that Slater wasn’t the Riddle Killer. She needed to satisfy herself as to the rest before she said anything that might do Kevin more harm than good.

She’d already checked on flights back. No red eyes, one at 6 A.M. and one at 9 A.M. She needed sleep. The nine o’clock United flight would have to do. It would take her through the Denver hub and put her in Long Beach at noon.

“Okay . . .” Kevin watched Jennifer pace the warehouse floor. They’d delayed plans to share details of the warehouse with the police and instead decided to use the place as a staging area. It was the only way to keep Milton off her back, Jennifer said.

“Let’s review what we doknow.”

Agents Bill Galager and Brett Mickales straddled chairs by the table, chins in their hands, focused on Jennifer. Kevin leaned against the wall, arms crossed. It was hopeless. They were beat; they were clueless; they were dead. They’d rehashed a hundred ideas in the two hours since Slater’s note had been discovered.

“We know that he’s escalating. Car, bus, building. We know that all of his other threats made reference to damage of some kind. This one did not. We know that we have until 6 A.M. to solve or . . . or what we don’t know. And we know the riddle. Who escapes their prison but is captive still?”

Jennifer spread her hands.

“You’re forgetting the most crucial bit of knowledge,” Kevin said.

“Which is?”

“The fact that we’re toast.”

They stared at him as if he’d just walked in and flashed his pecs. A wry grin crossed Jennifer’s face. “Humor’s good.”

“People,” Mickales said. “He’s gonna do people this time.”

“There were people every time.”

“But he went after a car, a bus, and a building. This time he goes straight after people.”

“Kidnapping,” Kevin said.

“We’ve suggested that. It’s a possibility.”

“If you ask me, it’s the best one,” Mickales said. He stood up. “It fits.”

Jennifer crossed to the table, eyes suddenly wide. “Okay, unless anybody has a better idea, we’ll chase that.”

“Why would Slater kidnap anyone?” Kevin asked.

“For the same reason he threatened to blow up a bus,” Mickales said. “To force a confession.”

Kevin stared at the man, suddenly overwhelmed. They’d been at it ad nauseam and they kept coming up with the same thing, which was essentially nothing. In the end it always came back to his confession.

“Look.” He could feel the heat rising up his spine. He shouldn’t be doing this—he was beyond himself. “If I had the slightest clue as to what this wacko wanted me to confess, you think I would hold out?”

“Easy, man. Nobody’s suggesting—”

“I don’t have the foggiest notion what his crazy confession is! He’s nuts!” Kevin stepped toward them, aware that he’d crossed a line already. “They’re out there screaming bloody murder for Kevin’s confession. Well, I gave them one, didn’t I? I told them I killed someone as a kid. But they want more. They want real blood. They want me to bleed all over their gossip columns! Kevin, the kid killer who brought down Long Beach!”

His fingers were trembling. They looked at him in silence.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Man . . .”

“Nobody’s screaming bloody murder out there,” Jennifer said.

“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I don’t know what to do. This isn’t all my fault.”

“You need rest, Kevin,” Jennifer said. “But if Slater’s planning to kidnap someone, you may be a target. I know he said it wasn’t you, but I’m not sure what that means.” She turned to Galager. “Keep the watch on the house, but I want a transponder on him. Kevin, we’re going to give you a small transmitting device. I want you to tape it where it won’t be found. We’ll leave it inactive—this guy’s into electronics; he may scan for signals. Anything happens, you turn it on. The range is roughly fifty miles. Fair enough?”

He nodded.

She walked toward him. “Let’s get you home.”

Galager headed for the van, which was still parked on the street. Kevin walked outside with Jennifer. The weight of two days without sleep descended on him. He could hardly walk straight, much less think straight.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blow up.”

“No apology needed. Just get some sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

She looked off to the east. The helicopters were down for the night. “He said no cops. We could put a guard on likely targets, but for all we know, he’s planning on kidnapping the mayor. Or it could be another bomb.” She shook her head. “You’re right, we’re pretty much toast.”

They stopped at the car. “It meant a lot,” he said. “Talking to you tonight. Thank you.”

She smiled, but her eyes were tired. How much sleep had she gotten in the last three days? He suddenly felt terrible for her. Flushing out Slater was more than a job for her.

“Go home and get some sleep,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Galager will follow you home. We have someone outside. If Slater makes contact—if anythinghappens—call me.”

Kevin looked up to see Galager pull up in the black car. “Somehow I doubt it’ll be me. That’s not what he wants. I’ll be fine. The question is, who won’t be?”

What if it was Jennifer? Sam was in Houston.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Why would he want to kidnap me?”

Kevin shrugged. “It’s not like I have a lot of friends.”

“I guess that makes me a friend. Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

By the time Kevin finished with Galager’s little lecture on the operational procedures for the transmitter and climbed into bed, the three o’clock hour had come and gone. His head was numb before it hit the pillow. He fell into an exhausted sleep within the minute, lost to the horrors of his new life.

For an hour or three.

Slater stands by the fence, stock-still in the darkness. He’s given them until six, but this time he will be done before six, before the first light grays the sky. He said six because he likes threes, and six is three plus three, but he can’t risk doing this in the light.

No one has stirred in the house since his arrival thirty minutes ago. When he first conceived the plan, he considered just blowing up the house with all its occupants trapped inside. But after thinking very carefully about his ultimate objective, because that’s what Slater does the best, he settled on this plan. Putting this woman in a cage will send the city through the roof. It’s one thing to wonder which unnamed citizens might be the next to discover a bomb under their bed; it’s far more disturbing to know that Mrs. Sally Jane who lives on Stars and Stripes Street and buys her groceries at Albertsons is locked up in a cage, waiting desperately for Kevin Parson to fess up.

Besides, Slater’s never kidnapped anyone before. The thought brings a chill to his spine. The sensation of pleasure so intense that it runs up and down the spine is interesting. It is not boring like teenagers poking holes in their noses.

Slater looks at his watch. 4:46. Is 4:46 divisible by three? No, but 4:47 is. And that’s one minute away. Perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. The pleasure of his brilliance is so intense that Slater now begins to shiver a little. He stands by the fence with perfect discipline, resisting a desperate urge to run for the house and drag her out of bed. He is perfectly disciplined and he is shivering. Interesting.

He’s waited so long. Eighteen years. Six times three. Three plus three times three.

The two minutes crawl by very slowly, but Slater doesn’t mind. He is born for this. He glances at his watch. 4:47. He can’t stand it any longer. It’s one minute early. Three is divisible by one. Close enough.

Slater walks up to the sliding glass door, pulls out the pick with a gloved hand, and disengages the lock in less than ten seconds. His breathing comes thick, and he pauses to still it. If the others wake, he will have to kill them, and he doesn’t want to mess with that. He wants the woman.

He eases into the kitchen and leaves the door open. They have no dogs or cats. One child. The husband is Slater’s only concern. He stands on the tile floor for a full minute, adjusting his eyes to the deeper darkness, breathing in the home’s smells. The senses are the key to living life to its fullest. Tastes, sights, smells, feelings, sounds. Eat what you like, watch what you can, touch who you want. That’s what he wants Kevin to do. To taste and touch and smell his true self. It will destroy him. The plan is perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Slater takes one deep breath, but very slowly.

He walks through the living room and puts his hand on the doorknob to the master bedroom. It opens without a sound. Perfect. The room is dark. Pitch-black. Perfect.

He walks slowly to the bed and stands over the woman. Her breathing is quicker than the man’s. She faces him, mouth slightly parted, hair tangled on the pillow. He reaches out a hand and touches the sheet. Soft and smooth. Two hundred thread count at least. He could stand here over them for an hour and breathe in their smells without being seen. But the light is coming. He doesn’t like the light.

Slater reaches into his shirt pocket and withdraws a note, which he sets on the dresser. For Kevin. He slips his hand into his coat and takes out a roll of gauze and a bottle of chloroform. He unscrews the bottle and dips the roll into the liquid. The smell fills his nostrils and he holds his breath. It has to be strong enough to put her under without a struggle.

He replaces the lid on the bottle, drops it into his pocket, and eases the roll of soaked gauze in front of the woman’s nose, careful not to touch it. For a moment she doesn’t stir, then she whimpers in her dreams. But she doesn’t move. He waits twenty seconds, until her breathing slows enough to persuade him that she’s unconscious. He shoves the roll into his jacket.

Slater settles to his knees, as if bowing before his victim. A sacrifice for the gods. He lifts the sheet and slips his hands under the body until his elbows are directly under her. She lies limp, like a noodle. He gently pulls her toward his chest. She slides off the bed and sags in his arms. The husband rolls half a turn and then settles. Perfect.

Slater stands and carries her out of the house without bothering to shut the doors. The clock in his car reads 4:57 when he settles behind the wheel with the woman breathing slowly in the backseat.

Slater starts the car and drives away. He could have carried her to the hiding on foot and returned later for the car, but he doesn’t want to leave the vehicle in front of the house any longer than absolutely necessary. He’s too smart for that. It occurs to him that this will be the first time he’s ever brought a guest to the hiding. When she awakes, her eyes will be the first besides his own to see his world. The thought brings a moment of panic.

So then, all the more reason not to let her out. It’s what will happen anyway, isn’t it? Even if Kevin confesses, Slater has always known that she will have to die. His exposure to another human being will be temporary. He can live with that. Still, why hasn’t this detail occurred to him earlier? It isn’t a mistake, just an oversight. But oversight can lead to mistakes. He chides himself and turns down the dark street.

Slater doesn’t bother with stealth now. The woman is stirring, so he gives her another healthy dose of chloroform, yanks the body out of the rear seat, and heaves it over his shoulder. He hurries for the door, opens it with a key, and enters the small room. Close door, feel for chain, pull on overhead light.

A dim light exposes the space. Down a flight of steps. Another chain, another light. Through the tunnel. Open the second door with a second key. The hiding. Home, sweet home.

The thought of sharing his home with another person for a little while suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. In fact, it holds its own excitement. Everything he needs is here. Food, water, a bathroom, a bed, clothing, the electronics—of course, she won’t be sharing any of those amenities.

The woman is stirring again.

He crosses to the room he’s prepared. The walk-in closet once stored materials he’s used in his games, but he’s cleared it for her. Can’t take the chance that she knows how to set off dynamite now, can he? The room is seven by seven and solid concrete all around except the ceiling, which is heavily insulated wood. The door is steel.

He places her onto the cement floor and steps back. She groans and rolls to one side. Good enough.

He closes the door, locks it with a deadbolt, and stuffs a rolled-up rug into the crack at the bottom. Lights out.