Текст книги "Thr3e"

Автор книги: Тед Деккер

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23

SAM ROLLED OFF THE BED, closed Kevin’s door, and flew downstairs. She gripped the phone Slater had used to make his calls in her right hand—for now Slater wouldn’t be making those calls, at least not on this phone. She didn’t bother being discreet on her exit but walked right out the back, turned up the street, and ran for her car.

I, Slater, am I, Kevin. And that had been Samantha’s greatest fear. That her childhood friend had a multiple personality disorder as she’d suggested to Jennifer a day earlier, and then immediately rejected because Kevin was in the room when Slater called. But it struck her as she lay trying to sleep last night that Slater had not talkedto her while Kevin was in the room. The phone had only rung while he was in the room. Kevin was in the hall before she picked up and heard Slater. Kevin could have simply pushed the send button in his pocket and then talked to Sam once in the hall. Could multiple personalities work that way?

She’d been with Kevin in the car when Slater called, just before the bus blew. But she had no proof that Slater was actually on the line then. They had no recording of that call.

It was absurd. It was impossible! But try as she might in sleepless fits, Sam couldn’t account for a single definitive situation that necessarily proved they couldn’t be the same man. Not one.

Mere conjecture! It had to be coincidence!

Now this.

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

Sam reached her car, stomach in knots. This might not be enough. She’d been irresponsible to suggest the possibility to Jennifer in the first place. The man you think you might be falling in love with is insane. And she’d said it so calmly for the simple reason that she didn’t believe it herself. She was only doing what she was trained to do. But this . . . this was an entirely different matter.

And Kevin wasn’tinsane! He was merely role-playing, as he had learned to do with Balinda for so many years. He had split into a divergent personality when he first began to comprehend true evil. The boy. He had been the boy! Only he didn’t know that he was the boy. To Kevin at age eleven, the boy was an evil person who needed to be killed. So he killed him. But the boy had never died. Slater had simply remained dormant until now, when somehow this paper on the natures of man had allowed him to resurface.

She could still be wrong. In true cases of multiple personality disorders, the subjects were rarely conscious of their alternate personalities. Slater wouldn’t know that he was Kevin; Kevin would not know that he was Slater. Actually they weren’teach other. Physically, yes, but in no other way. Slater could be living right now as Kevin slept, plotting to kill Balinda, and Kevin wouldn’t have a clue. Some things Slater did would be merely imagined; others, like the bombs and the kidnapping, would be acted out.

She tossed Kevin’s phone on the seat and punched Jennifer’s number into her own.

“Jenn—”

“I need to meet you! Now. Where are you?”

“Sam? I’m down at the PD. What’s wrong?”

“Have you gotten the lab reports on the shoe prints and the recordings yet?”

“No. Why? Where are you?”

“I was just in Kevin’s house and I’m headed your way.” She pulled onto Willow.

“How’s Kevin?”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s asleep. I found a second phone on him, Jennifer. It was the phone used to call the cell with the recording device. I don’t know how else to say this. I think Kevin is Slater.”

“That’s . . . I thought we’d already been over this. He was in the room when Slater—”

“Listen, Jennifer, I’ve come at this from a hundred different angles in the last twelve hours. I’m not saying that I can prove it; God knows I don’t want it to be true, but if it is, he needs help! He needs you. And he’s the only one who can take us to Balinda. Kevin won’t know, but Slater will.”

“Please, Sam, this is crazy. How could he have pulled this off? We’ve had people on the house. We’ve been listening to him in there! How did he get out to kidnap Balinda?”

“It’s his house; he knows how to get out without your boys catching on. Where was he between 3 A.M. and 5 A.M. last night?”

“Sleeping . . .”

“Kevin may have thought he was, but was he? I don’t think he’s had six hours’ sleep in the last four days. Trace it back. He hasn’t gotten any phone calls while you were listening, at least not in the house. I hope I’m wrong, I really do, but I don’t think you’ll find a discrepancy. He’s too intelligent. But he wants the truth out. Subconsciously, consciously, I don’t know, but he’s getting sloppy. He wants the world to know. That’s the answer to the riddle.”

“ What falls but never breaks? What breaks but never falls?Night and day,” Jennifer said. “Opposites. Kevin.”

“Kevin. Kevinwas the boy; that’s why I never saw the boy when we were kids. He was in that warehouse cellar, but only him, no second boy. He hit himself. Check the blood type. The confession Slater wants isn’t that Kevin tried to kill the boy, but that he wasthe boy. That Kevin is Slater.”

“I am my sin,” Jennifer said absently. There was a tremor in her voice.

“What?”

“Something he said last night.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Sam said. “Don’t let Kevin leave the house.”

“But only Slater knows where he has Balinda? Kevin truly doesn’t know?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Then we need Slater to find Balinda. But if we send the wrong signal, Slater may go into remission. If he does and Kevin doesn’t know where Balinda is, we may have our first actual victim in this case. Even if we hold Kevin in a cell, she could starve to death.” Jennifer was suddenly sounding frantic. “He’s not the Riddle Killer; he hasn’t killed anyone yet. We can’t let that happen.”

“So we let him walk out?”

“No. No, I don’t know, but we have to handle this with kid gloves.”

“I’ll be right there,” Sam said. “Just make sure Kevin doesn’t leave that house.”

The sound of his bedroom door closing pulled Kevin from sleep. It was 3:00. He’d slept over four hours. Jennifer had insisted that he not be bothered unless absolutely necessary. So why were they in his house?

Unless theyweren’t in his house. Unless it was someone else. Someone like Slater!

He slid out of bed, tiptoed to the door, eased it open. Someone was opening the sliding glass door to the back lawn! Just ask who it is, Kevin. It’s the FBI, that’s all.

But what if it wasn’t?

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Is anyone here?” he called, louder this time.

Silence.

Kevin descended the stairs and stepped cautiously into the living room. He ran over to the window and peered out. The familiar Lincoln was parked half a block down the street.

Something was wrong. Something had happened. He walked to his kitchen phone and instinctively felt for the cell phone in his right pocket. Still there. But something wasn’t right. What?

The cell phone suddenly vibrated against his leg and he jumped. He shoved his hand back into the pocket and pulled out the silver phone. The other phone, the larger VTech, was in his left hand. For a moment he stared at them, confused. Did I pick that up? So many phones, his mind was playing tricks on him.

The cell vibrated madly. Answer it!

“Hello?”

Slater’s voice ground in his ear. “Who thinks he’s a butterfly but is really a worm?”

Kevin’s breathing smothered the phone.

“You’re pathetic, Kevin. Do you have knowledge of this obvious fact yet, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?” Slater breathed heavily. “I have someone here who wants to hold you and for the life of me I can’t understand why.”

Blood flushed Kevin’s face. His throat felt as though it was locked in a vise. He couldn’t speak.

“How long do you expect me to play tiddlywinks, Kevin? You’re obviously too dense for the riddles, so I’ve decided to up the ante. I know how conflicted you are about Mommy, but by now I have it under reliable advisement that you aren’t so conflicted about me. In fact, you hate me, don’t you, Kevin? You should—I’ve destroyed your life.”

“Stop it!” Kevin screamed.

“Stop it? Stop it? That’s all you can manage? You’re the only one with the power to stop anything. But I don’t think you have the guts. You’re as yellow as the rest of them; you’ve made that abundantly clear. So here’s the new deal, Kevin. Youcome and stop me. Face to face, man to man. This is your big chance to blow away Slater with that peashooter you obtained illegally. Find me.”

“Face me, you coward! Come out and face me!” Kevin shouted.

“Coward? I’m petrified. I can hardly move, much less face you.” Pause. “Do I have to chisel it on your forehead? You find me!Find me, find me! The game ends in six hours, Kevin. Then I kill her. You fess up or I slit her throat. Are we properly motivated now?”

The detail about the six hours hardly registered. Slater wanted to meet him. Kevin shifted on his feet. He actually wanted to meet him. But where?

“How?”

“You know how. It’s dark down here. Alone, Kevin. All alone, the way it was meant to be.”

Click.

For an endless moment Kevin stood glued to the linoleum. Blood throbbed through his temples. The black VTech phone trembled in his left hand. He roared and slammed it on the counter with all of his strength. Black plastic splintered and scattered.

Kevin shoved the cell phone in his pocket, whirled around, and flew up the stairs. He’d hidden the gun under his mattress. Three bullets left. Two days earlier the thought of going after Slater would have terrified him; now he was consumed with the idea.

It’s dark down here.

He shoved his hand under the mattress, pulled out the gun, and crammed it behind his belt. Dark. Down. I’ve got a few ideas about dark and down, don’t I? Where the worms hide their nasty little secrets. He knew, he knew!Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? He had to get out unseen and he had to go alone. This was now between him and Slater. One on one, man on man.

The FBI car was still somewhere down the street. Kevin ran out the back and sprinted east, the opposite way. One block and then he cut south. They would know that he’d left. In fact, they would have recorded Slater’s last call to him through the home surveillance. What if they came after him? He had to tell Jennifer to stay away. He could use the cell phone, but the call would have to be short, or they would triangulate his position.

If darkand downwas where he thought it might be . . . Kevin ground his teeth and grunted. The man was a pervert. And he would kill Balinda—empty threats weren’t part of his character.

What if the FBI sent out helicopters? He turned west and hugged a line of trees by the sidewalk. The gun jutted into his back.

He started to jog.

“Now! I need some facts now, not in ten minutes,” Jennifer snapped.

Reports normally came in from Quantico at intervals established by the agents in charge. The next report window was in ten minutes, Galager had explained.

“I’ll call, but they’ve only had the evidence for a few hours. This stuff can take up to a week.”

“We don’t have a week! Do they know what’s happening down here? Tell them to turn on the television, for heaven’s sake!”

Galager dipped his head and left.

Her world had collapsed with the call from Sam two minutes ago. She still didn’t want to accept the possibility that Kevin could have blown up the bus or the library.

From her corner station Jennifer could see the exit across a sea of desks. Milton barged out of his office, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door. Where was he going? He paused, glancing back, and Jennifer instinctively turned her head to avoid eye contact. When she glanced back, he was gone. An inexplicable rage flashed through her mind. But really none of this was Milton’s fault. He was simply doing his job. Sure he liked the cameras, but he arguably had a responsibility to the public. She was directing her frustration and anger at him without appropriate cause—she knew this but it didn’t seem to calm her.

It wasn’t Kevin, she reminded herself. Even if Kevin was Slater, which hasn’t been established, the Kevin she knew wouldn’t blow anything up. A jury would take one look at his past and agree. If Slater was Kevin, then he was part of a fractured personality, not Kevin himself.

A thought smacked her and she stopped. Could Slater be framing Kevin? What better way to drag the man down than to frame him as the lunatic who tried to blow up Long Beach? She sat behind the desk, grabbed a legal pad, and penciled it out.

Slater is the boy; he wants revenge. He terrorizes Kevin and then convinces the world that he is Kevin, terrorizing himself because he is Slater. Kevin is ruined and Slater escapes. It would raise the bar for perfect crimes.

But how could Slater pull that off? Sam had found twophones. Why would Kevin be carrying around two phones without knowing it? And how could the numbers that Slater called be on that second phone? An electronic relay that duplicated the numbers to make it look like the phone had been used. Possible. And how could Slater have placed the phone in Kevin’s pocket without Kevin’s knowledge? It would have had to be while Kevin slept, this morning. Who had access to Kevin . . .

Her phone rang and she snatched it up without thinking.

“Jennifer.”

“It’s Claude, surveillance. We have a situation at the house. Someone just called Kevin.”

“Who?” Jennifer stood, knocking her chair back.

Static. “Slater. We’re pretty sure. But that’s not all.”

“Hold on. You have the recording from Kevin’s cell phone?”

“No, we have a recording from inside the house. Someone who sounded like Slater called Kevin from insideKevin’s house. I . . . uh, I know it sounds strange, but we have both voices inside the house. I’m sending the recording down now. He threatened to kill the woman in six hours and suggested that Kevin meet him.”

“Did he say where?”

“No. He said Kevin would know where. He said it was dark down here, that’s it.”

“Have you talked to Kevin?”

“We made the decision to enter premises.” He paused. “Kevin was gone.”

Jennifer collapsed in her chair. “You let him walk?”

Claude sounded flustered. “His car’s still in the garage.”

She closed her eyes and took a calming breath. What now? “I want that tape here now. Set up a search in concentric circles. He’s on foot.”

She dropped her phone on the table and closed her fingers to still a bad tremble. Her nerves were shot. Four days and how much sleep? Twelve, fourteen hours? The case had just gone from terrible to hopeless. He was going to kill Balinda. Inevitable. Whowas going to kill Balinda? Slater? Kevin?

“Ma’am?”

She looked up to see one of Milton’s detectives in the door. “I have a call for you. He says he tried your personal line but couldn’t get through. Wouldn’t give his name.”

She nodded at the desk phone. “Put it through.”

The call transferred and she picked up. “Peters.”

“Jennifer?”

It was Kevin. Jennifer was too stunned to respond.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I’m going after him. But I have to do this alone. If you come after me, he’ll kill her. You’re recording the house, right? Listen to the tape. I can’t talk now, because they’ll find me, but I wanted you to know.” He sounded desperate.

“Kevin, you don’t have to do this. Tell me where you are.”

“I dohave to do this. Listen to the tape. It’s not what you think.

Slater’s doing this to me. Don’t bother calling me; I’m throwing this phone away.” He abruptly clicked off.

“Kevin?”

Jennifer slammed the phone in its cradle. She ran her hands through her hair and picked up the phone again. She dialed Samantha’s number.

“Hello?”

“Kevin’s gone, Sam,” Jennifer said. “He just received a call from Slater threatening to kill Balinda in six hours. He baited Kevin to meet him, said he would know where and that it was dark. As far as I know, that’s it. The tape’s on the way down.”

“He’s on foot? How could they let him walk out?”

“I don’t know. The point is, we’re now on a very tight time line and we’ve lost contact.”

“Slater’s cell—”

“He said he was getting rid of it.”

“I’ll go back,” Sam said. “He can’t get far.”

“Assuming you’re right about Kevin, Slater’s drawing him to a place they must both know from their childhood. Any ideas?”

Sam hesitated. “The warehouse?”

“We’ll check it out, but it’s too obvious.”

“Let me think about it. If we’re lucky, we pick him up. Concentrate the search to the west—closer to Baker Street.”

“There’s another possibility, Sam. I know it may sound like a stretch, but what if Slater’s framing Kevin?”

The phone was quiet.

“Forensics will give us a better picture, but the cell could have been planted and the call log duplicated by relay. The objective fits: Kevin is branded a psychopath who terrorized himself, he’s ruined, and Slater skips free. Childhood grudge revenged.”

“What a tangled web we weave,” Sam said quietly. “Get the data on the recordings; hopefully it’ll tell us more.”

“I’m working on it.” Galager walked in and sat down, file in hand. Jennifer stood. “Call me if you think of anything.”

“One last thing,” Sam said. “I talked to Dr. John Francis and he mentioned that you’d spoken to him already, but you might want to consider breaking this down with him. He knows Kevin well and he’s in your field. Just a thought.”

“Thank you, I will.”

She set the phone down. Galager was back. “Well?”

“Like I said, not done. But I do have something. Ever hear of a seismic tuner?”

“A what?”

“Seismic tuner. A device that alters voice patterns.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I could record my voice and program this thing to match it to yours.”

“So? The sample we sent them of Kevin’s voice sounds nothing like Slater’s—what’s your point?”

“I talked to Carl Riggs at the lab. He says that even if they do determine that both Slater’s voice and Kevin’s voice have the same vocal patterns, someone who knew what they were doing could manufacture the effect with a seismic tuner.”

“I’m not following. Bottom line, Galager.” Her frustration was overflowing now.

“Bottom line is that Slater could have altered his voice to make it sound like a derivative of Kevin’s voice. He could have obtained a sample of Kevin’s voice, broken it down electronically, and then reproduced its vocal patterns at a different range and with different inflections. In other words, he could be speaking through a box that makes it sound like he’s Kevin, trying not to be Kevin. Follow?”

“Knowing that we would analyze the recording and conclude that both voices were Kevin’s.” She blinked.

“Correct. Even though they aren’t.”

“As in, if he wanted to frame Kevin.”

“A possibility. Riggs said there’s an open case in Florida where a guy’s wife was kidnapped for a ransom of a million dollars. The community came together in a fund drive and raised the money. But it turns out the kidnapper’s voice was a recording of the husband’s, manipulated by a seismic tuner. He evidently kidnapped his own wife. It’s going to trial next month.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as a seismic tuner.”

“There wasn’t until about a year ago.” Galager stood. “Either way, even if both voiceprints match Kevin’s, we won’t know if both really are his until we rule out the use of a seismic tuner. Riggs won’t have the voice report until tomorrow. They’re on it, but it takes time.”

“And the shoe prints?”

“Should have that this evening, but he doesn’t think it’ll help us either. Not distinctive enough.”

“So what you’re telling me is that none of this matters?”

“I’m telling you none of this may matter. In the end.”

He left and Jennifer sagged into her chair. Milton. She would have to depend on him now. She needed every available patrol car in the city to join the search for Kevin, and she needed the search conducted without risking a leak to the media.

Jennifer closed her eyes. Actually, none of that mattered. What mattered was the fact that Kevin was lost. The boy was lost.

She suddenly wanted to cry.

24

KEVIN KEPT TO THE SIDE STREETS, jogging as naturally as he could despite the pounding in his head.

When cars or pedestrians approached, he either changed directions or crossed the street. At the least lowered his head. If he had the luxury of a direct route, the crosstown jog would be half what it was with all of his side jaunts.

But Slater had said alone, which meant avoiding the authorities at all costs. Jennifer would have the cops out in force this time. She would be desperate to find him before he found Slater because she knew that Kevin didn’t stand a chance against Slater.

Kevin knew it too.

He ran with the dread knowledge that there was no way he could face Slater and survive. Balinda would die; he would die. But he had no choice. Although he thought he’d freed himself, he’d really been slumping around in that dungeon of the past for twenty years. No longer. He would face Slater head-on and live, or die in this last-ditch effort to reach freedom.

What about Jennifer? And Sam? He would lose them, wouldn’t he? The best things in his life—the only things that mattered now– would be ripped away by Slater. And if he found a way to escape Slater this time, the man would be back to hunt him down again. No, he had to end this once and for all. He had to kill or be killed.

Kevin swallowed hard and ran on through unsuspecting residential neighborhoods. Helicopters chopped through the sky. He couldn’t quickly differentiate the police from others, so he hid from them all, which slowed his progress even more. Eleven police cars crossed his path, each time forcing him to alter direction. He ran for one hour and still was only halfway there. He grunted and pushed on. The hour stretched into two. With every step, his determination increased until he could almost taste his bitterness toward Slater, the coppery taste of blood on his dry tongue.

The warehouse district dawned on him without warning. Kevin slowed to a walk. His wet shirt clung to his torso. He was close. His heart began to pound, as much from his nerves as from exertion now.

Five P.M. Slater had given them six hours. Three plus three. The ultimate in this sick little game of threes. By now the whole city would be on a desperate manhunt to find Balinda before the nine o’clock deadline. The FBI would have listened to the surveillance from the house and, with Sam, they would be pounding their collective skulls against the wall trying to decode Slater’s cryptic message. You’ll know, Kevin. It’s dark down here.

Would Sam figure it out? He’d never told her about the place.

Kevin crossed railroad tracks and slipped into a patch of trees sequestered away here on the outskirts of the city. Close. So close.

You’re going to die, Kevin. His skin felt like a pincushion. He stopped and looked around. The city noise sounded distant. Birds chirped. A lizard scurried over dead leaves to his right, stopped, craned a bulging eye for a view of him, and then darted for the rocks.

Kevin walked forward. What if he was wrong? It could have been the warehouse where he’d trapped the boy, of course—that was dark down here. But Slater would never be so obvious. Cops would be crawling all over the place, anyway. No, this had to be it.

He caught sight of the old toolshed through the trees and stopped. What little paint remained flaked gray with age. Suddenly Kevin wasn’t sure he could go through with it. Slater was probably hidden behind one of the trees at this very moment, watching. What if he did run, and Slater stepped out from his hiding place and shot him? He couldn’t call for help—he’d dumped the cell phone in an alley behind a 7-Eleven five miles east.

Didn’t matter. He had to do this. The gun dug into his belly where he’d moved it when it rubbed him raw at his back. He touched it through his shirt. Should he pull it out now?

He eased the gun from his belt and walked forward. The shack sat undisturbed, hardly more than an outhouse. Breathing deliberately through his nose, Kevin approached the rear door, eyes glued to the boards, the cracks between them, searching for a sign of movement. Anything.

You’re going to die in there, Kevin.

He crept up to the door. For a moment he stood there, shaking badly. To his right, deep tire marks ran through the soft earth. A rusted Master Lock padlock hung from the latch, gaping. Open. It was never open.

He eased the lock out of the latch and set it on the ground. Put his hand on the handle and pulled gently. The door creaked. He stopped. A small gap showed pitch-blackness inside.

Dear God, what am I doing? Give me strength.Did the light even work anymore?

Kevin pulled the door open. The shack was empty. Thank God.

You came to find him, and now you’re thanking God that he isn’t here?

But if he’s here, he’s under that trapdoor, down the stairs, through the tunnel. That’s where “dark down here” is, isn’t it?

He stepped in and pulled a chain that hung from a single light bulb. The bulb glowed weakly, like a dim lounge lamp. Kevin closed the door. It took him a full five minutes, trembling in the dim yellow light, to work up enough courage to pull the trapdoor open.

Wood steps descended into black. There were footprints on the steps.

Kevin swallowed.

A mood of pending doom had settled over the conference room and two adjacent offices in the Long Beach police headquarters where Jennifer and the other FBI agents had worked feverishly over the past four days.

Two hours of methodical searching, both on the ground and from the air, had turned up nothing. If Slater’s dark down hereplace was the warehouse cellar, he would walk in to find two uniformed policemen with weapons drawn. Sam had called in twice, the last time after giving up her ground search. She wanted to check into something that she didn’t elaborate on. Said she would call back. That was an hour ago.

The forensic report on the shoe prints had come in—inconclusive. Jennifer had retraced every detail of the past four days, scrutinizing them for clues to which of the two new theories held more water. Either Kevin was Slater, or Slater was framing Kevin by seeding evidence to make it appear that he was Slater.

If Kevin really was Slater, then at least they had their man. No more games for Slater. No more victims. Unless Slater killed Kevin, which would be tantamount to suicide. Or unless Slater killed Balinda. Then they’d have two dead bodies lying in a place that’s dark down here. Even if Slater didn’t kill Balinda, Kevin would have to live with what he did as Slater for the rest of his life. The thought brought a lump to Jennifer’s throat.

If Slater were someone else, Kevin would merely be the poor victim of a horrible plot. Unless he was killed by Slater, in which case he’d be the dead victim of a horrible plot.

The clock ticked on. 5:30. Jennifer picked up the cell phone and called Sam.

“Sam, we’re dead down here. We don’t have a thing. The shoe prints came back inconclusive. Please tell me you have something.”

“I was just going to call. Have you talked to John Francis yet?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ve been at Kevin’s house digging through his writings, papers, books, anything where he might have made reference to his past, a clue to a place that’s dark. I knew Kevin was intelligent, but I never expected quite this—mind blowing. No obvious references at all to Slater or anything that even hints at multiple personalities.”

“Which could support our theory that he was framed,” Jennifer said.

“Maybe. But I did find this in a periodic journal he keeps on his computer. Listen. Written two weeks ago.

“‘The problem with most of the best thinkers is that they dissociate their reasoning from spirituality, as if the two exist in separate realities. Not so. It’s a false dichotomy. No one understands this more than Dr. John Francis. I feel like I can trust him. He alone truly understands me. I told him about the secret today. I miss Samantha. She called . . .”

“It continues about me,” Sam said. “The point is, I think Dr. John Francis may know more than he may realize.”

“The secret,” Jennifer said. “Could be a reference to something he never told you. A place he knew as a child.”

“I want to talk to him, Jennifer.”

It was the only glimmer of light Jennifer had seen in two hours. “You have his address?”

“Yes.”

Jennifer grabbed her coat. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

The descent into the bomb shelter and through the tunnel had wrung a gallon of sweat from Kevin’s glands. The door at the bottom of the stairwell into the basement stood wide open. Kevin leaned forward and peered into the room for the first time in twenty years, numb on his feet.

A shiny black floor with patches of concrete showing through. A chest freezer to the right, next to a white stove and a sink. A metal desk to the left, piled with electronics. Boxes of dynamite, a file cabinet, a mirror. Two doors that led . . . somewhere.

Kevin held the gun out with both hands, breathless. Sweat stung his eyes. This was it! Had to be. But the room was empty! Where was Slater?

Something bumped against the door to his right and Kevin jerked the gun toward it. Gray carpet had been rolled and stuffed into the crack at its base.

Thump, thump, thump. A muffled cry.

Kevin’s body went rigid.

“Is someone there?” He could barely make out the words. “Pleeeease!”

Balinda. The room started to move. He shoved a foot forward and steadied himself. Frantic, he searched the room again. Where was Slater?

“Pleeeease, please.” She sounded like a mouse. Kevin took another step. Then another, gun wavering before him.

“I don’t want to die,” the voice wept. “Please, please, I’ll do anything.”

“Balinda?” Kevin’s voice cracked. The sounds stopped. A thick silence settled.

Kevin struggled to breathe. Slater had left Balinda here for him to find. He wanted Kevin to save his mommy, because that’s what little boys do for their mommies. He had deserted her, and now he would rescue her to make up for the horrible sin. Kevin’s world started to spin.

“Kevin?” The voice whimpered. “Kevin?”

“Mommy?”

Something scraped the concrete behind him. He whirled, gun extended.

A man stepped out of the dark shadows, sneering. Blond hair. No shirt. Beige slacks. White tennis shoes. No shirt. A tattoo of a heart over his left breast with the word Momstenciled in black. He held a large silver gun at his side. No shirt. His naked torso struck Kevin as obscene. Slater, in the flesh.