Текст книги "Thr3e"

Автор книги: Тед Деккер

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

21

Monday

Morning

KEVIN HEARD THE RINGING long before he awoke. It sounded like a high-pitched laugh. Or an intermittent scream. Then there was the pounding, a thumping that could be his heart. But it sounded more like banging on the door.

“Sir?” Someone was yelling, calling him sir.

Kevin’s eyes somehow managed to open. Light shone through the window. Where was he? Home. His mind started to drift. He would have to get up eventually and go to class, but at the moment he felt as though he’d met the wrong end of a rhino charge. He closed his eyes.

The muffled voice came again. “Kevin? The phone . . .”

His eyes snapped open. Slater. His life had been turned upside down by a man called Slater who called on the phone. The phone was ringing.

He spilled out of bed. The clock said 7:13. Slater had given them until 6 A.M. He ran to the bedroom door, twisted the lock, and yanked it open. One of the agents watching his house stood there, the cordless phone from the kitchen in hand.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but your phone’s been ringing on and off for fifteen minutes. It’s a pay phone. Jennifer told us to wake you.”

Kevin stood in his pinstriped boxer shorts. “Has . . . has anything happened?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

Kevin took the phone absently. “Okay. I’ll answer it this time.”

The agent hesitated, expressionless, and then walked down the stairs for the door. Kevin didn’t even know his name. He wore a dark navy jacket and tan slacks; black hair. Walked stiffly, like maybe his underwear were too tight. But the man had a name and maybe a wife and some kids. A life. What if Slater had gone after this man instead of Kevin? Or gone after someone in China, unknown to the West? For that matter, how many men or women were facing their own Slaters throughout the world? It was an awkward thought, standing there at the top of his stairs, watching the agent leave through the front door.

Kevin walked back into his bedroom. He had to call Jennifer. Six o’clock had come and gone—something had to have happened.

The phone suddenly rang. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Kevin?” It was Eugene. Kevin felt himself shutting down immediately. The sound of that voice. They didn’t have a phone in the house. He was calling from a pay phone.

“Yes.”

“Thank God! Thank God, boy. I don’t know what to do! I just don’t know what I should do . . .”

You could start by drowning yourself. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just that Princess isn’t home. I woke up and she was gone. She never leaves without telling me. I thought maybe she went down for some dog food because we threw it away, you know, but then I remembered that we burned the dog and—”

“Shut up, Eugene. Please, just shut up and try to make some sense for once. Her name is Balinda. So Balinda left without telling you. I’m sure she’ll be back. You can live without her for a few hours, can’t you?”

“This isn’t like her. I have a very bad feeling, Kevin! And now I’ve gotten Bob worried. He keeps looking in all the rooms, calling for Princess. You have to come—”

“Forget it. Call the police, if you’re so worried.”

“Princess won’t allow that! You know . . .”

He talked on but suddenly Kevin wasn’t hearing. His mind had turned over a stone. What if Slater had kidnapped Balinda? What if the old hag was really gone?

But why would Slater take Balinda?

Because whether you like it or not, she is your mother, Kevin. You need her. You want her to be your mother.

A cold sweat broke out on his temples and he wasn’t sure why. He had to call Jennifer! Where was Samantha? Maybe Jennifer had heard from her.

He interrupted Eugene’s rambling. “I’ll call you back.”

“You can’t call me! I have to go home!”

“Then go home.”

Kevin hung up. Where was Jennifer’s number? He ran downstairs, still in his boxers, snatched her card from the counter with a trembling hand, and dialed the number.

“Good morning, Kevin. I’m surprised you’re not still sleeping.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Caller ID. You’re on your home phone.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“Not yet. I just got off the phone with Samantha. It seems we were wrong about Slater being the Riddle Killer.”

“We may have a problem, Jennifer. I just got a call from Eugene. He says that Balinda’s missing.”

Jennifer didn’t respond.

“I was just thinking, do you think Slater could have—”

“Balinda! That’s it. It makes perfect sense!”

“It does?”

“Stay put. I’ll swing by in ten minutes.”

“What? Where are we going?”

She hesitated. “Baker Street.”

“No, I can’t! Really, Jennifer, I don’t think I can go in there like this.”

“Don’t you see? This could be the break we need! If he took her, then Slater’s tied to Balinda and Balinda is tied to the house. I know this may be hard, but I need you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We can’t risk me being wrong.”

“Why can’t you just go?”

“Because you’re the only one who knows how to beat him. If Slater did take Balinda, then we know that this whole thing goes back to the house. To the past. There has to be a key to it all, and I doubt that I’m the one who’s going to find it.”

He knew what she was saying, and it sounded more like psychobabble than truth. But she could be right.

“Kevin? I’ll be there with you. It’s paper and boards; that’s all it is. I was there yesterday, remember? And Balinda’s gone. Ten minutes?”

Balinda was gone. Bob wasn’t the problem—he was a victim in this mess. Eugene was just an old fool without Balinda. The witch was gone.

“Okay.”

The white house stood as ominously as always. He stared at it through the windshield, feeling silly next to Jennifer. She was looking at him, knowing him. He felt naked.

Balinda wasn’t in the house. Unless she’d come back. If so, he wouldn’t go in. Jennifer might want him to. She seemed pretty convinced that there was more to this than he’d told her, but in all honesty, he couldn’t think of anything. Slater was the boy and the boy had nothing to do with the house.

“When is Sam coming?” he asked, stalling.

“She said noonish, but she has a few errands to run.”

“I wonder why she didn’t call me?”

“I told her you were sleeping. She said she’ll call you as soon as she can.” Jennifer looked at the house. “You didn’t tell Sam about locking the boy in the cellar—how much does Sam really know about your childhood, Kevin? You two have known each other for years.”

“I don’t like to talk about it. Why?”

“Something’s bothering her. She wouldn’t tell me, but she wants to meet later this afternoon. She’s convinced that Slater isn’t the Riddle Killer. I can buy that, but there’s more. She knows something else.” Jennifer hit the steering wheel. “Why do I always feel like I’m the last to know what’s going on here?”

Kevin stared at the house. She sighed. “I had to tell Milton about this. He wants to talk to you this morning.”

“What did you say?”

“I said he would have to take it up with the bureau chief. We still have official jurisdiction. The rest are still running their investigations, but on the ground everything goes through us. The thought of Milton interviewing you gives me the creeps.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Kevin said, distracted. They might as well get this over with. She would never know how much better he felt with her here. On the other hand, she was a psychologist—she probably wouldunderstand. He opened his door.

Jennifer put her hand on his arm. “Kevin, I need you to know something. If we discover that Slater did take Balinda, there’s no way we can keep it from the media. They’ll want to know more. They can be nosy.”

“So then my whole life gets dissected by the press.”

“Pretty much. I’ve done my best this far—”

“That’s what Slater wants. That’s why he took her. It’s his way of exposing me.” He dropped his head and ruffled his hair.

“I’m sorry.”

Kevin stood from the car and slammed the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

Walking across the street and up the steps to the front door, Kevin made a firm decision. Under no circumstances would he blubber or show any more emotion in front of Jennifer. He was leaning on her too much already. The last thing she needed was a basket case. He would walk in, give Bob a hug, slug Eugene, do his I’m-looking-for-the-key-to-Slater routine, and leave without so much as batting an eye.

His foot crossed the threshold for the first time in five years. The tremble started in his fingers. It spread to his knees before the door closed behind him.

Eugene let them in. “I don’t know. I just don’t know where she could have gone. She should have been back by now!”

Bobby stood at the end of the hall, grinning wide, beaming. He started to clap and hop in place without leaving the ground. A lump the size of a boulder filled Kevin’s throat. What had he done to Bob? He’d abandoned him to Princess. He’d been punished his whole life in part because of Bob, but that didn’t make Bob guilty.

“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin! You came to see me?”

Kevin quickly walked to his brother and hugged the man tight. “Yes. I’m sorry, Bob. I’m so sorry.” The tears were leaking already. “Are you okay?”

Eugene watched dumbly; Jennifer wrinkled her brow.

“Yes, Kevin. I’m very good.”

He didn’t seem so concerned about the old bat’s disappearance.

“Princess has gone away,” he said, smile suddenly gone.

“Why don’t you show me your bedroom,” Jennifer said to Eugene.

“My, my, my, my. I don’t know what I’ll do without Princess,” Eugene said, heading off to the left.

Kevin let them go. “Bob, could you show me your room?”

Bob lit up and skipped through the narrow passage between the stacks of newspapers. “You want to see my room?”

Kevin walked down the hall on numb legs. It was surreal, this world he’d escaped. An issue of Timepoked out of the stack to his right. The face on the cover had been replaced by a smiling image of Muhammad Ali. Only God, the devil, and Balinda knew why.

Bob hurried into his room. He snatched something off the floor. It was an old beat-up Game Boy, a monochrome version. Bob had himself a toy. Balinda had softened in her old age. Or was it because Kevin had left?

“It’s a computer!” Bob said.

“Nice. I like it.” Kevin peeked into the room. “Do you still read stories that Bal—Princess gives you to read?”

“Yes. And I like them a lot.”

“That’s good, Bob. Does she . . . make you sleep during the day?”

“Not for a long time. But sometimes she won’t let me eat. She says I’m getting too fat.”

Bobby’s room looked just as it had five years earlier. Kevin turned back into the hall and pushed open the door to his old room.

Unchanged. Surreal. He set his jaw. The flood of emotions he’d expected didn’t come. The window was still screwed down and the bookcases were still full of bogus books. The bed he’d spent half his childhood in was still covered by the same blanket. It was as if Balinda was waiting for him to return. Or maybe his leaving didn’t fit into her reality, so she refused to accept it. With her mind there was no telling.

No keys to Slater here.

A wail—Eugene—carried through the house. Bob turned and ran for the sound. So it was true.

Kevin walked back out to the living room, ignoring the sounds of lament issuing from the back bedroom. He should take a torch to this place. Burn out the rat’s nest. Add a few more ashes to the backyard. The stairwell to the basement was still choked off with a mountain of books and magazines, stacks that hadn’t been touched for years.

Jennifer stepped out of the master bedroom. “He took her.”

“So I gathered.”

“He left a note.” She handed him a blue slip of paper. Three words were scrawled in the familiar handwriting.

Fess up, Puke.

“Or what,” he said. “You’ll dump her in the lagoon?”

Kevin stared at the words, numb from four days of horror. Part of him didn’t care, part of him felt sorry for the old hag. Either way, all of his deepest secrets would soon be on the table for the world to pick through. That was the point. Kevin wasn’t sure how much he cared anymore.

“Can we go now?”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

She looked around. “The health department is going to have a field day once this gets out.”

“They should burn it.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” she said. Her eyes settled on his. “Are you okay?”

“I feel . . . confused.”

“As far as the rest of the world is concerned, she’s your mother. They may wonder why you don’t seem to care. She may be a witch, but she’s still human. Only God knows what he’ll do to her.”

The emotions came from his gut, unexpectedly and in a rush. He suddenly felt suffocated in the small, dark space. She was his mother, wasn’t she? And he was horrified by the fact that he even thoughtof her as a mother, because in reality he hated her more than he hated Slater. Unless they were one and the same and she had kidnapped herself.

A confusing mixture of revulsion and sorrow overcame Kevin. He was falling apart. His eyes swam with tears and his face wrinkled.

Kevin turned for the door. He could feel their stares on his back. Mommy. Fire burned through his throat; a tear spilled from his left eye.

At least they couldn’t see. He would never allow anyone to see this. He hated Balinda and he was crying for her and he hated that he was crying for her.

It was too much. He hurried for the door, crashed through with far more noise than he wanted, and let out a soft sob. He hoped Jennifer couldn’t hear; he didn’t want her to hear him acting this way. He was just a lost boy and he was crying like a lost boy and he really just wanted to be held by Mommy. By the one person who had never held him.

“Kevin?” Jennifer was running after him.

He only wanted to be held by Princess.

22

Monday

Afternoon

THE QUESTIONS HAD NAGGED at Samantha through the night. The scenario fit some unseen hand like a glove; the question was, which hand? Who was Slater?

She’d talked to Jennifer upon waking and heard about the note on Kevin’s windshield. She should have taken an earlier flight! Jennifer suspected kidnapping, but as of seven this morning there had been no evidence of foul play.

Sam told Jennifer about Salman. If the Pakistani Salman had indeed met with Slater in New York, then whoever the FBI had located with a tattoo could not be Slater, because Slater’s had been removed. Furthermore, Slater couldn’t be the Riddle Killer—he’d been in New York at the time of Roy’s murder. Jennifer hadn’t been ready to accept her conclusion out of hand, but the two cases did have a few significant disparities that were obviously weighing on her mind. She talked about objectives. She was beginning to suspect that the Riddle Killer and Slater weren’t similarly motivated.

As for the tattoo, they would know within a few hours.

Sam’s plane landed at LAX at 12:35. She rented a car and headed south for Long Beach. Traffic on 405 was as bad as it got for a weekday. She called Jennifer. The agent answered on the first ring.

“Hi, Jennifer, it’s Sam. Anything?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. The tattoo is a bust. Our man works on an oil rig six months a year. He’s been out on one for the last three weeks.”

“Makes sense. Any word on a kidnapping?”

Jennifer hesitated and Sam sat up. “Balinda was taken from her home last night,” Jennifer said.

“Balinda Parson?” Sam’s pulse spiked.

“One and the same. No contact, no leads, nothing but a note left in Slater’s writing: ‘Fess up, Puke .’Kevin took it pretty hard.”

Sam’s mind was already whirling. Of course! Taking Balinda would force media attention on Kevin’s family. His past. “Does the media know?”

“Yes. But we’re keeping them away from Baker Street under the claim that it could trigger Slater. There’s wall-to-wall coverage on this thing. I’ve spent the last hour handling interagency concerns. The bureaucracy’s enough to drive me nuts. Milton’s ticked off, the ATF wants the evidence from Quantico—it’s a mess. Meanwhile we’re dead in the water.”

Jennifer sounded tired. Sam braked and came to a stop behind a pickup truck billowing black smoke. “How is he?”

“Kevin? He’s dead to the world. I left him at his house about two hours ago, sleeping. God knows we could all use some rest.”

Sam pulled around the truck. “I have some ideas, Jennifer. Is there a chance we could meet sooner?”

“What is it?”

“I . . . I can’t explain right now.”

“Come by the station. Unless something breaks, I’ll be here.”

“Okay. But I have to chase something down first.”

“If you have information that’s pertinent to the investigation, I expect to be told. Please, Sam, I can use all the help I can get here.”

“I promise you I’ll call the second I know anything.”

“Sam. Please, what’s on your mind?”

“I’ll call you,” Sam said and hung up.

Without evidence her fears would have to remain the paranoia of a close friend, desperate for answers. And if she was right? God help them. God help Kevin.

She drove south, ticking off the facts. Slater had been in New York at the same time she’d been there. Slater knew her, a small detail she’d withheld from the CBI. Knowing Roland, he’d yank her from the case.

Slater was obsessed with Kevin’s past; Slater was the boy; Sam had never seen the boy; all of the riddles had to do with opposites; all demanded a confession. Slater was trying to force Kevin back into his past. Who was Slater?

A chill snaked down her arms.

Samantha approached Kevin’s house from the west, parked two blocks down, and took to foot, careful to keep yard fences between herself and the black car parked up the street. She had to do this without causing a fuss, and the last thing she wanted to do was wake Kevin if he was asleep.

Dread swelled in her chest as she neared. The notion that Kevin might indeed be Slater refused to budge from her tired mind.

She had to wait for the agent up the street to turn his head before crossing from the neighbor’s fence into Kevin’s backyard. She hurried up to the sliding glass door and knelt so that Kevin’s picket fence blocked her head from the car’s line of sight. Working quickly above her head, she inserted a thin pick into the lock and worked it with as much precision as she could from the awkward angle. The pin fell and she pried up the latch. She wiped a bead of sweat from her cheek, glanced back at the black car, slid the glass door open a foot, and slipped past the pulled blinds. She reached back through and closed the door.

If they’d seen her, they would be moving already. They hadn’t.

Sam looked around the house. A two-by-four-foot travel poster of a bikini-clad native walking down a white beach said that New Zealand promised paradise. Dear Kevin, you want so much. I should have known how badly you were hurting, even when we were children. Why did you hide it from me? Why didn’t you tell me?

The house’s silence engulfed her. So peaceful, so quiet, asleep while the world crumbled. She crossed to the stairs and took them on her tiptoes. Kevin’s bedroom was to the left. She eased the door open, saw him on the bed, and walked quietly up to him.

He lay sprawled on his belly, arms above his head, as if surrendering to some unknown enemy beyond the mattress. His head rested on its side, facing her, lower cheek bunched, mouth closed. His face didn’t speak of surrender, only sleep. Deep, deep, sweet sleep.

He was dressed in street clothes; his tan Reeboks sat on the floor, nudging the bed skirt.

Sam briefly wondered if Jennifer had stayed with him until he fell asleep. Had she seen him like this? This sweet boy of hers? This stunning man who bore the weight of a hundred worlds on his shoulders? Her champion who’d slain the wicked boy on Baker Street?

What did Jennifer see when she looked at him? She sees the same as you do, Sam. She sees Kevin and she can’t help but to love him as you love him.

Sam reached out, tempted to brush his cheek. No, not as I love him. No one can love him as I love him. I would give my life for this man.She withdrew her hand. A tear broke down her right cheek. Oh, how I love you, dear Kevin. Seeing you these last three days has reminded me how desperately I love you. Please, please tell me that you will slay this dragon. We will, Kevin. Together we will slay this beast, my knight.

The childhood role-playing reference flooded her with warmth. She turned away and walked into his closet. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Something that Slater had left. Something that the FBI missed because they wouldn’t have guessed that it belonged to Slater.

Kevin had ordered his clothes neatly. Slacks and shirts hung in a row, jeans and cargo pants folded and stacked, shoes on a rack. Seminary dress to the right, casual dress to the left. She smiled and ran her fingers through the slacks. She smelled the shirts. His scent lingered. Amazing how she recognized it after so many years. He was still a boy. A man, Sam. A man.

She searched the closet and then slowly worked her way through the rest of his room, walking around him, careful not to make any sound. Other than the rise and fall of his back, Kevin did not move. Sam found nothing.

The bathroom proved no better, and her spirit lightened. She didn’t want to find anything.

His study. Sam shut the door and sat at his desk. She ran a finger over his books: Introduction to Philosophy. Sociology of Religion. Hermeneutics Revealed. Two dozen others. He was in his first semester at the divinity school but he’d bought enough texts for two years, easily.

On the floor beside the desk she saw a small pile of paper, which she picked up. A paper he’d titled “The True Natures of Man.” He was a true man.

Please, Sam, let’s cut the romantic drivel and do what you came to do.

She was less concerned about noise; there were two doors between her and Kevin. She searched the drawers and removed the books one by one. This is where Slater would leave a clue. This was the room of the mind. He was obsessed with numbers and mind games. The mind. Somewhere, somewhere.

A small stack of business cards, topped by a slip of paper bearing her own number, sat by a calculator that looked fresh out of the box, perhaps never used. The first card belonged to John Francis, Ph.D., Academic Dean, Divinity School of the Pacific, South. Kevin had spoken at length about the man. Surely Jennifer had already interviewed him.

And what if she hadn’t? The last four days rushed by without time for standard procedure or a thorough investigation. She picked up the phone and called the number on the card. A receptionist with a nasal voice asked her if she wanted to leave a message. No, thank you. She hung up, turned over the card, and saw that Kevin had scribbled another number with the same prefix. She dialed it.

“Hello, this is John.”

“Hello, Dr. John Francis?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“This is Samantha Sheer with the California Bureau of Investigation. I’m working with an agent Jennifer Peters on the Kevin Parson case. Are you familiar with it?”

“Of course. Agent Peters was here yesterday morning.”

“Kevin speaks highly of you,” Sam said. “You have a doctorate in psychology, isn’t that right?”

“Correct.”

“What is your assessment of Kevin?”

“That’s a bit like asking which animals live in the sea. Kevin’s a wonderful man. I can’t say there’s anyone else I’d rather tangle my wits with. Extraordinary . . . genuine.”

“Genuine. Yes, he is genuine. Nearly transparent. Which is why it’s strange he can’t remember this sin Slater demands he confess, don’t you think? I’m wondering, is there anything that’s occupied him in these last few weeks? Any reoccurring themes, projects, papers?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He was quite interested in the natures of man. You might say consumed with the subject.”

Sam picked up the rough draft of the paper. “The true natures of man,” Sam said. “And what are the natures of man? Or what would Kevin say are the natures of man?”

“Yes, well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it? I’m not sure I can tell you what Kevin would say. He told me he had a new model, but he wanted to present them cohesively in his paper.”

“Hmm. And when is this paper due?”

“He was scheduled to turn it in this Wednesday.”

“For what class?”

“Introduction to Ethics.”

“One more question, Doctor, and I’ll let you go. You’re a religious man with an education in psychology; would you say that the natures of man are primarily spiritual, or psychological?”

“I know that Freud would turn in his grave, but in my mind there’s no doubt. Man is primarily a spiritual being.”

“And Kevin would agree to that?”

“Yes, I’m sure he would.”

“Thank you for your time, Doctor. You sound like a reasonable man.”

He chuckled. “They pay me to be; I do try. Anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

She set the phone down. Ethics. She scanned the paper and saw that it was hardly more than the recitation of several theories on man’s natures. It ended with a new heading: “The True Natures.” She set the pages down. Where would Kevin keep his notes on the natures of man?

She stepped over to the bookcase and reached for a large gray book titled Morality Redefined. The book was used, frayed around the edges, pages yellowing. She lifted the cover, saw that it was a library book. Copyright 1953.

Sam flipped through the pages, but there were no notes. She was about to replace the book when the back cover fell open. Several loose sheets of white paper dropped to the floor. On the top of one in Kevin’s handwriting: The True Natures of Man, an Essay.

Samantha withdrew the pages and sat down at the desk. They were only notes. Three pages of notes. She scanned them, a simple outline with headings that fit the subject. Summaries.

We learn as we live, and we live what we learn, but not so well.

How can a nature be dead and yet live? He is dead in the light, but thrives in the dark.

If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what would they say?

They are all pretenders, who live in the light but hide in the dark.

Insightful. But there was nothing here that Slater would have . . .

Sam froze. There at the bottom of page four, three small words.

I AM I.

Sam recognized the handwriting immediately. Slater! “I am I.”

“Dear God!”

Sam set the pages on Kevin’s desk with a trembling hand. She began to panic.

No. Stop. What does “I am I” even mean, Sam? It means Slater is Slater. Slater snuck in here and wrote this. That proves nothing except that he has his nose in every part of Kevin’s life.

If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what would they say?

Then how had Kevin and Slater talked to each other? The FBI had a recording. How, how? Unless . . .

A second cell. He’s using another cell phone!

Sam ran for Kevin’s room. Dear God, let me be wrong!He hadn’t moved. She crept up to him. Where would he keep the phones? The one Slater had left him was always in his right pocket.

There was only one way to do this. Quickly, before she awakened him. Sam slipped her hand into his right pocket. He wore cargo pants, loose, but his weight pressed her hand into the mattress. She touched the phone, felt the recording device on the back. Slater’s.

She rounded the bed, crawled up for better access, and slid her hand into his left pocket. Kevin grunted and rolled to his side, facing her. She stayed still until his breathing returned to a deep slow rhythm and then tried again, this time with his left pocket exposed.

Her fingers felt plastic. Sam knew then that she was right, but she pulled it out anyway. A cell phone, identical to the one Slater had left for Kevin, except black instead of silver. She flipped it open and scrolled through the call history. The calls were to the other cell phone. One to the hotel room phone. Two to Kevin’s home phone.

This was the cell phone Slater had used. To talk, to detonate the bombs. Sam’s mind throbbed. There could be no doubt about it.

They would crucify him.