Текст книги "Thr3e"

Автор книги: Тед Деккер

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Twenty-nine minutes.

They flew across Willow toward Alamitos but were stopped by a red light at Walnut. Sam glanced both directions and sped through.

“Now is one time I wouldn’t mind a cop on my tail,” she said. “We could use their help.”

“No cops,” Kevin said.

She looked at him. Two more minutes passed before they hit Alamitos.

“You see a bus, it’s probably number twenty-three. You yell.”

But they passed no buses. They crossed Third Street through a red. Still no bus.

Ocean Boulevard, right; Atlantic, north. No bus. Horns honked at them on several occasions.

“Time?” she asked.

“Nine thirty-seven.”

“Come on! Come on!”

Sam backtracked. When they hit Third again, the light was red and cars blocked the intersection. A bus numbered “6453–17” rumbled by, headed west on Third Street. Wrong bus. The car was stuffy. Sweat beaded their foreheads. The intersection cleared and Sam shoved the accelerator down. “Come on, baby. Where are you?”

She’d cleared the intersection by fifty feet when she slammed on the brakes.

“What?”

She jerked her head around and stared back toward Third Street. She frantically grabbed her cell phone, hit the redial button.

“Yes, could you tell me which bus runs down Third Street?”

Kevin heard the deep male voice from his seat. “The Third Street bus. You need—”

Sam slammed the phone shut, yanked the wheel around, and pulled directly into traffic. She pulled through a screaming U-turn, cutting off a white Volvo and a blue sedan. Horns blared.

“They call the buses by their street names, not their numbers!” Sam said.

“But you don’t know if Slater—”

“We know where the Third Street bus is. Let’s clear it first and then go for twenty-three.” She squealed onto Third Street and honed in on the bus, not a hundred yards ahead. Obviously dispatch hadn’t reached the driver yet.

Nineteen minutes.

Sam pulled directly in front of the bus and braked. The bus blasted its horn and ground to a halt behind them.

“Tell the driver to evacuate and stay clear for at least half an hour. Tell them to spread the word to the other cars on the street. Tell them there’s a bomb—it works every time. I’m calling Agent Peters.”

Kevin ran to the bus. He hammered on the door, but the driver, an older man who must have been three times his recommended weight, refused to open.

“There’s a bomb on board!” he yelled, flinging his hands out like an explosion. “A bomb!” He wondered if any of them recognized him from the television. The kid-killer is now downtown pulling old women off of buses.

A young man who looked like Tom Hanks stuck his head out an open window. “A what?”

“A bomb! Get out! Clear the bus. Clear the street.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door hissed open, and the same young man stumbled out. He yelled back into the bus.

“Get them out, you idiot! He said there’s a bomb on this bus!”

A dozen passengers—half by what Kevin could see—bolted from their seats. The driver seemed to catch the fever. “Okay, everyone out! Watch your step. Just a precaution, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t shove!”

Kevin grabbed the Tom Hanks look-alike. “Clear this street and stay clear for at least thirty minutes, you hear? Get them all out of here!”

“What is it? How do you know?”

Kevin ran for Sam’s car. “Trust me. Just get them clear. The police are on their way.” The passengers didn’t need any encouragement. Cars stopped and then sped past the bus or backed away.

He slid into the car.

“Hold on,” Sam said. She sped off, took an immediate right on the next street, and headed back toward Atlantic.

“One down. Fifteen minutes left.”

“This is nuts,” Kevin said. “We don’t even know if Slater’s—”

The cell phone went berserk in his pocket. Kevin froze and stared at his right thigh.

“What?” Sam asked.

“He . . . he’s calling.”

The phone vibrated again and this time he grabbed it. Samantha slowed.

“Hello?”

“I said no cops, Kevin,” Slater’s soft voice said. “No cops means no cops.”

Kevin’s fingers began to shake. “You mean the FBI?”

“Policemen. From now on it’s you and Sam and Jennifer and me and no one else.”

End call.

Sam had slowed way down. She looked at him with wide eyes. “What did he say?”

“He said no cops.”

The ground suddenly shook. An explosion thundered. They both ducked.

“Turn around! Turn around!”

“That was the bus,” Sam whispered. She spun the car around and sped back the way they’d come.

Kevin stared as they rolled onto Third. Boiling flames and thick black smoke engulfed the surreal scene. Three blackened cars parked next to the bus smoldered. God only knew if anyone was hurt, but the immediate area looked vacant. Books lay scattered among the shattered glass of a used bookstore’s windows. Its “Read It Again” sign dangled over the sidewalk dangerously. The shop owner stumbled out, stunned.

Sam shoved the gearshift into park and stared at the unearthly scene.

Her cell phone screeched and Kevin started. She lifted it slowly. “Sheer.”

She blinked and immediately refocused. “How long ago?” She looked at Kevin and then the bus. A siren wailed. A car Kevin immediately recognized as Jennifer’s squealed around the corner and headed toward them.

“Can Rodriguez question him?” Sam asked into her phone. “I’m in a bit of a pinch here.” She turned away and lowered her voice. “He just blew up a bus. I’m parked in a car, fifty feet away from it. Yes, I am pretty sure.” She listened.

Jennifer roared up and stuck her head out of her car’s window. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. His fingers were numb and his mind dazed, but he was okay.

Samantha acknowledged Jennifer with a nod, turned to the side, and covered her exposed ear. “Yes, sir. Right away. I understand . . .” She glanced at her watch. “The ten-thirty flight?”

Kevin shoved his door open.

Jennifer stopped him. “No, stay put. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.” She drove toward the bus.

Sam finished her conversation and closed the phone.

“Do you think anyone was hurt?” Kevin asked.

She looked at the bus and shook her head. “I don’t know, but we were lucky to find it when we did.”

Kevin groaned and ran both hands through his hair.

“I have to go,” Sam said. “That was the call I thought I might get. They want me to question a witness. His attorney will have him out by midafternoon. Unfortunately, I can’t miss this. I’ll explain it when I get—”

“I can’t believe Slater did this,” Kevin said, staring around again. “He would have killed over twenty people if we hadn’t stumbled onto this bus.”

She shook her head. “This changes the game. Look, I’ll be back on the first flight this evening, okay? I promise. But I have to leave now if I’m going to make the flight.” She rubbed his shoulder and looked in Jennifer’s direction. “Tell her I’ll call and give her my take; she’ll take care of you.” Three marked police cars had arrived and surrounded the charred bus. “We’ll make it, my dear knight. I swear we’ll make it.”

Kevin nodded. “This is insane.”

10

WITHIN FIVE MINUTES OF THE EXPLOSION, a couple dozen law enforcement officials—mostly local police but including some from her own office and several from state agencies—isolated the crime scene and began the forensic investigation. They had quickly located the bomb. By all initial appearances it was the same as the bomb in Kevin’s car, only larger.

Jennifer situated Kevin in a coffee shop four doors down from the bus with strict instructions not to move—she’d be back in twenty minutes.

The parameters of the investigation had just changed. Bill Galager from the Los Angeles office arrived, as well as two junior investigators, John Mathews and Brett Mickales. They would work the case from an evidence angle, freeing her to focus on the psychology of it. One conclusion required no degree in criminal psychology—when Slater said no cops, he meant absolutely no cops. And he had the means to know if cops were involved.

According to Kevin, Slater had mentioned her by name. Jennifer. The maniac was drawing her into another trap, wasn’t he? By the looks of the bus, he’d graduated into a new class.

No cops. No CBI, except Samantha, who happened to be connected to Kevin by his childhood and the boy. No ATF. No sheriff or state police. Just FBI and, specifically, just Jennifer.

“Still eager to take him on?”

Jennifer turned to Milton, who’d walked up behind her. “Eager?”

A touch of defiance glimmered in his eyes, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Why did he blow it early?”

“He said no cops. He obviously learned that your department had been informed—”

“They always say no cops. You’re not a cop?”

“According to Kevin, he said FBI only.”

Milton scoffed.

Jennifer frowned. “No cops. Evidently the history he has with us figures into his game. Bottom line is, he laid down a rule; we broke it; he blew the bus early.”

“And what if he said no FBI? Would you back out? I don’t think so. This is my city. You don’t have the right to cut me out.”

“I’m not cutting you out, Milton. Your men are all over the place.”

“I’m not referring to mopping up. He’s going to call again and the city knows that. They have a right to know.”

“The city? You mean the press. No, Milton. The press has a right to know anything that might lend to the city’s safety. You’re looking at a bus this time; the next time it could be a building. You willing to risk that for the sake of protocol? If you’ll excuse me, I have a case to attend to.”

Milton’s stare grew hot. “This is my city, not yours. I have a personal stake; you don’t. Unfortunately, it seems that I’m powerless to do anything about your jurisdiction, but I was assured by your bureau chief that you would cooperate. Slater so much as coughs and you withhold it, I’ll have your replacement here in five minutes.”

Jennifer was tempted to slap his smug mug. She’d have to call Frank and explain. In the meantime, Milton was a thorn she would have to deal with.

“I don’t like you either, Detective. You’re too interested in your own good for my tastes, but I suppose that’s personal. I’ll keep you updated through Galager and I’ll expect yourcooperation in assisting us in any way you can. We’re not stupid enough to refuse all the help we can get. But you will do nothing without my authorization. If Slater suspects your involvement, he may do ‘your’ city more harm than you’re willing to take the heat for. Agreed?”

He eyed her carefully and then relaxed. Didn’t expect that, did you, Colombo?She had no intention of keeping him materially involved, she realized, and the thought surprised her. In fact, in more ways than one, she welcomed Slater’s restrictions. This was between her and Slater and Kevin, regardless of how personal Slater wanted to get.

“I want to put a full-court press on his house,” Milton said. “Complete electronic surveillance, including wiretaps. You haven’t ordered them?”

“Not wiretaps. Slater’s not using the landline. The cell wizards have been monitoring the frequency on the cell phone he gave Kevin for the past forty minutes—I put in the request as soon as I left his house this morning. Slater called Kevin thirty minutes ago, just before he blew the bomb. Nothing even registered with our wizards. He’s not dumb enough to talk without scrambling. This isn’t your typical hack. I have an order in to fix a recording device, an AP301, to his phone ASAP, but we didn’t have it on this call.”

Milton glared. “I’ll put someone on the house.”

“No. No cops, or didn’t you get that part?”

“For crying out loud, woman! You just chewed me out less than three hours ago for not having someone on him last night!”

“I’ll put my own agents on the house. Keep your men clear. If you want to go head-to-head, I’ll leak this to the press.” She hesitated. “You get anything on the officer I asked about?”

Milton looked away and answered with some reluctance. “Officer Rick Sheer. He moved back to the San Francisco area ten years ago. Died of cancer five years ago. There’s no record that we can find of any incident involving the boy you mentioned. But that doesn’t surprise me. Cops routinely deal with neighbors off the record. You say he threatened the boy’s father—the incident obviously blew over. No official complaint, no arrest.”

Jennifer’s heart sank. That left Kevin. And Samantha. Hopefully one of them would recall something that might give them a clue to the boy’s identity. All they currently had was Kevin’s description, which was practically useless.

“Can you have them look again? What about a personal notebook or—”

“We wouldn’t have anything like that.”

“Cooperation, remember? Have them look again.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. I assume you’ve met Agent Galager. You’ll be dealing primarily with him from here out.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to do what I was trained to do, try to figure out who Slater is. Excuse me, Detective.”

She walked past the bus, found Galager. “What do you have?”

“Same guy who did the car.” Bill Galager was a redhead with too many freckles to count. He glanced at Nancy, who knelt over fragments of twisted metal at the flash point.

“She’s good.”

Jennifer nodded. “Work over the evidence in her lab with her and then send it on to Quantico for more testing. Bring this to Milton’s attention, and please do your best to keep him off my back.”

“Will do. What about any evidence they find at his house?”

A team had arrived at Kevin’s house twenty minutes earlier and was scouring the place for anything Slater might have left. She doubted they would find anything. The victims’ houses in Sacramento had yielded nothing. Slater might have no scruples, but he had plenty of discipline.

“Same. Let’s do our own sweep as well. If you find anything, let me know. I’ll be by your office in a couple hours.”

He nodded. “You think it’s him?”

“Until I find evidence that contradicts it.”

“There are some differences. Could be a copy cat.”

“Could be. But I don’t think so.”

“And I’m assuming Kevin matches the victim profile?”

Jennifer searched Galager’s eyes. Bill was one of the only agents who’d known Roy well enough to call him a friend.

“He could be Roy in another life,” she said. Then she turned toward the coffee shop.

At least five hundred onlookers had gathered behind the police lines now. The news crews were set up, sending live feed across the country. Both Fox News and CNN were undoubtedly running alerts. How many times had the American public seen pictures from Israel of twisted bus wreckage? But this was California. Here, you could count the incidents over the past ten years on one hand.

Milton was giving the vultures an update. Good for him.

11

JENNIFER’S VOICE JARRED KEVIN from his thoughts.

“Hey, cowboy, you want a ride out of here?”

He looked up from the corner table and blinked. “Sure.”

“Let’s go.”

She didn’t take him home. Detectives were still searching the place for anything Slater might have left. It would take them a few hours.

“They’re not going to dump my underwear drawers, are they?”

Jennifer laughed. “Not unless Slater left his shorts.”

“Probably just as well I’m gone.”

“You like things neat, don’t you?”

“Clean, sure.”

“That’s good. A man should know how to do laundry.”

“Where’re we going?”

“You have the phone with you?”

He instinctively felt his pocket. Amazing how small phones could be. He pulled it out and flipped it open. It fit in his palm, open.

“Just checking,” she said, turning onto Willow.

“You think he’ll call again?” he asked.

“Yes, the confession wasn’t what he was looking for.”

“I guess not.”

“But he does want a confession. You’re sure about that, right?”

“That’s what he said. When I confess, he goes away. But confess what?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? What does Slater want you to confess? You have no inkling whatsoever?”

“I just ruined my career and only God knows what else by telling the world that I tried to kill a boy—believe me, if I’d thought of any alternative to that confession, I’d have spilled my guts.”

She nodded and frowned. “The demand for a confession’s the only part of this puzzle that doesn’t fit the Riddle Killer profile. Somehow he dug something up on you that he thinks is significant.”

“Like what? How many sins have you committed, Agent Peters? Can you remember them all?”

“Please, call me Jennifer. No, I guess I can’t.”

“So what does Slater consider significant? You want me to go on television and list every sin I can ever remember committing?”

“No.”

“The only thing that makes sense is the boy,” Kevin said. “But then the confession should have gotten a response, right?”

“With Slater, yes. I think so. Unless, of course, he isthe boy, but he wants you to confess something besides your attempt to kill him.”

“It wasn’t an attempt to kill him. It was more like self-defense. The kid was about to kill me!”

“I can accept that. Why did he want to kill you?”

The question took Kevin off guard. “He . . . he was after Samantha.”

“Samantha. She just keeps cropping up, doesn’t she?”

Jennifer looked out her window and for a few minutes the car remained silent.

Kevin was only eleven when he trapped the boy in the cellar and nearly died of fear. He’d left the boy to die—no matter how badly he tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew he had locked the boy in a tomb.

He couldn’t tell Sam, of course. If she knew, she would surely tell her father, who would set the boy free and maybe send him to jail, and then he would get out, probably within a couple months, and come back and kill Sam. He couldn’t ever tell her.

But he couldn’t nottell her either. She was his bosom buddy. She was his best, best friend, whom he loved more than he loved his mother. Maybe.

On the third night he meant to go in search of the warehouse, just to take a peek; just to see if it had really, really happened. But after an hour pacing outside his window, he climbed back into his house.

“You’re different,” Sam told him the next night. “You’re not looking me in the eyes like you used to. You keep looking off at the trees. What’s wrong?”

“I am not looking off. I’m just enjoying the night.”

“Don’t try to fool me. You think I don’t have a woman’s intuition? I’m almost a teenager, you know. I can tell if a boy’s bothered.”

“Well, I’m not bothered by anything except your insistence that I’m bothered,” he said.

“So then you arebothered. See? But you were bothered before I said you were bothered, so I think you’re not telling me something.”

He felt suddenly angry. “I am not!” he said.

She looked at him for a few seconds and then gazed up into the trees herself. “You are bothered by something, but I can see that you’re not telling me because you think it might hurt me. That’s sweet, so I’m going to pretend you’re not bothered.” She took his arm.

She was giving him a way out. What kind of friend would ever do that? Sam would do that because she was the sweetest girl in the whole world, no exceptions.

It took Kevin four months of agony to finally work up the courage to go in search of the boy’s fate.

Part of him wanted to find the boy’s bones in a rotting pile. But most of him didn’t want to find the boy at all, didn’t want to confirm that the whole thing had really happened.

The first challenge was to find the right warehouse. Guarding a flashlight as closely as he could, he looked through the warehouses for an hour, sneaking from door to door. He began to wonder if he’d ever find it again. But then he opened an old wooden door and there, five feet away, was the dark stairway.

Kevin jerked back and very nearly ran for his life.

But it was only a stairway. What if the boy wasn’t there anymore? He could see the latch on the steel door in the shadows below. Seemed safe enough. You have to do this, Kevin. If you’re anything like a knight or a man or even a boy who’s already eleven, you have to at least find out if he’s in there.

Kevin played his light down the stairwell and forced his feet down the stairs, one step at a time.

No sound. Of course not—it had been four months. The steel door latch was still closed as if he’d thrown it closed yesterday. He stopped in front of the door and stared, unwilling to actually open it. Visions of pirates and dungeons full of skeletons clattered through his mind.

Behind him the moonlight glowed pale gray. He could always run up the stairs if a skeleton took after him, which was incredibly stupid anyway. What would Sam think of him now?

“Hello?” he called.

Nothing.

The sound of his voice helped. He walked forward and knocked. “Hello?” Still nothing.

Slowly, heart thumping in his ears, palms wet with sweat, Kevin eased the latch open. He pushed the door. It creaked open.

Black. Musty. Kevin held his breath and gave the door a shove.

He saw the splotches of blood immediately. But no body.

His bones shook from head to toe. It was real. That was blood all over the floor. Dried and darkened, but exactly where he remembered it should be. He pushed the door again, to make sure no one was behind it. He was alone.

Kevin stepped into the room. A bandanna lay in the corner. The boy’s bandanna. He had definitely locked the boy in this cellar, and there was no way out that he could see. That meant one of two things had happened. Either the boy had died in here and someone had found him, or someone had found him before he’d died.

His mind ran through the possibilities. If he’d been found alive, it would have been in the first couple weeks. Which meant he’d been free for over three months and said nothing to the police. If he’d been found dead, of course, he couldn’t say anything. Either way, he was probably gone for good. Maybe even alive and gone for good.

Kevin hurried out, slammed the door closed, latched it, and ran into the night, determined never, ever to even think about the boy again. He’d saved Sam, hadn’t he? Yes, he had! And he hadn’t been arrested or sent to the gas chamber or even accused of doing anything wrong. Because he had done what was right!

Elated and overcome with relief, he ran straight to Sam’s house, even though it was past her bedtime. It took him fifteen minutes to wake her and convince her to climb out.

“What is it? My father will kill us if he finds us, you know.”

He grabbed her hand and ran for the fence.

“Kevin Parson, I am in my pajamas! What is this all about?”

Yes, what’s this about, Kevin? You’re acting like a maniac!

But he couldn’t help himself. He’d never felt so wonderful in all his life. He loved Sam so much!

He stepped past the fence and she followed him. “Kevin, this is . . .”

He threw his arms around her and hugged her tight, squeezing off her words. “I love you, Sam! I love you so much!”

She stood still in his arms, unmoving. It didn’t matter; he was so overwhelmed with joy. “You are the best friend a boy could ever, ever have,” he said.

She finally put her arms around him and patted his shoulder. It felt a bit polite, but Kevin didn’t care. He pulled back and brushed blonde strands of hair from her face. “I won’t ever let anyone hurt you. Ever. Not if I have to die first. You know that, don’t you?”

She laughed, caught up in his show of affection. “What’s gotten into you? Of course I do.”

He looked away, wishing for a response as enthusiastic as he felt. It didn’t matter; he was a man now.

Her hand touched his chin and turned his face toward her. “Listen to me,” Sam said. “I love you more than anything I can imagine. You really are my knight in shining armor.” She smiled. “And I think that it’s incredibly sweet of you to drag me out here in my pajamas to make sure I know how much you love me.”

Kevin smiled wide, stupidly, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to pretend with Sam.

They hugged tight then, tighter than they had ever hugged before.

“Promise to never leave me,” Kevin said.

“I promise,” Sam said. “And if you ever need me, all you have to do is knock on my window and I’ll come flying out in my pajamas.”

Kevin laughed. Then Sam laughed, and Kevin laughed at Sam’s laughing. It might have been the best night of Kevin’s life.

“—Samantha?”

Kevin faced Jennifer. “Pardon?”

She looked at him. “Why was the boy after Samantha?”

“Because he was a demented wacko who found pleasure in cutting up animals and terrorizing the neighborhood. I didn’t exactly have the time or the presence of mind to sit him down and run a psychological profile on him. I was scared to death.”

Jennifer chuckled. “Touché. Too bad, though. Now we’re sitting twenty years beyond that night, and I have the formidable task of trying to do it myself. Whether you like it or not, you may be my best hope of understanding him. Assuming the boy and Slater are one and the same, you’re the only person we know who’s had any meaningful contact with him, then or now.”

As much as the thought of going back to the past made Kevin nauseated, he knew that she was right. He sighed. “I’ll do whatever I can.” He looked out the side window. “I should have made sure he was dead then.”

“You would have done society a favor. In self-defense, of course.”

“And what if Slater does show up on my doorstep one of these days? Do I have the right to kill him?”

“We have law enforcement for a reason.” She paused. “On the other hand, I might.”

“You might what?”

“Take him out. If I knew for sure it was Slater.”

“What evil is man capable of?” Kevin said absently.

“What?”

“Nothing.” But it was something. It struck Kevin for the first time that he had not only had the capacity to kill Slater, but also the desireto do so, self-defense or not. What would Dr. John Francis say to that?

“So. The boy was taller than you, about thirteen, blond and ugly,” Jennifer said. “Nothing else?”

The sensation that there was something else nagged at Kevin, but he couldn’t remember. “I can’t think of anything.”

They passed a store that Kevin recognized. “Where are we going?”

Suddenly he knew. His foot began to tap. They drove around a deserted park filled with elm trees.

“I thought I’d take you to your aunt’s home. See if we can jog loose a few memories. Visual association can do wonders . . .”

He didn’t hear the rest. A buzz lit through his mind and he felt claustrophobic in her car.

Jennifer looked at him but said nothing. He was sweating; she could surely see that. She turned onto Baker Street and drove under the elms toward his childhood house. Could she hear his thumping heart too?

“So this is where it all happened,” she said absently.

“I . . . I don’t want to go to the house,” he said.

She looked at him again. “We’re not going to the house. Just down the street. Is that okay?”

He couldn’t say no—might as well wave a red flag in front of her. “Sure. I’m sorry. I’m not on the best terms with my aunt. My mother died when I was young and my aunt raised me. We’ve had our differences. Mostly over college.”

“Okay. That’s not uncommon.”

But she saw more in him, didn’t she? And so what if she did? Why did he feel so compelled to hide his upbringing? It was weird but not demented. Samantha said otherwise, but she was biased. It wasn’t like he was a victim of physical abuse or anything so horrifying.

He took a slow breath and tried to relax.

“You think the boy chased you into one of those old warehouses across the tracks, that’s what you said?”

He looked to his right. The memory of that night came back fresh and raw. “Yes, but I was scared out of my mind, and it was dark. I can’t remember which one.”

“Have you ever checked any of them? To see if there even is one with a basement?”

Kevin fought a wave of panic. He couldn’t let her into the past. He shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It was a long time ago.”

She nodded. “There are only a few possibilities. Hopefully nothing’s changed. You know we’ll have to search.”

He nodded. “And what if you find him?”

“Then we know he’s obviously not Slater.”

“And what about me?”

“We’ll know that you killed him. In self-defense.”

They drove past the white house. “This is where your aunt lives?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s the old Sheer residence?”

“Yes.”

“None of this jogs your memory of any details?”

“No.”

She remained silent to the end of the street, where she turned around and headed back.

Kevin’s world felt like it was crumbling around him. Coming here alone was hard enough, but doing it with Jennifer somehow seemed profane. He wanted to tell her what Balinda had really done. He wanted her to comfort him, the little boy who had grown old in this world of madness. Waves of sorrow swept through his mind. His eyes went misty.

“I’m sorry, Kevin,” Jennifer said softly. “I don’t know what happened here, but I can see it left its mark on you. Believe me, if we weren’t up against a clock, I wouldn’t have brought you back here in your present state.”

She cared for him, didn’t she? She really did. A tear slipped from his eye and ran down his cheek. The emotion was suddenly beyond him. He began to cry, and then immediately tried to swallow it, which only made the condition worse. He hid his face in his left hand and started to sob, horribly aware of the foolishness of it all.

She drove out of the neighborhood and then stopped. He looked up through blurred eyes and saw that they were by the park. Jennifer sat still, looking at him with soft eyes.

“I’m . . . sorry,” he managed past a tight throat. “It’s just . . . my life’s falling apart . . .”

“Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay.” Her hand touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, really. You’ve been through hell these last two days. I had no right.”

Kevin put his hands over his face and took a deep breath. “Man. This is crazy. Nothing like making a fool of yourself.”

Her hand rubbed his arm again. “Don’t be silly. You don’t think I’ve seen a grown man cry before? I could tell you some stories. There’s nothing quite like watching a three-hundred-pound, heavily tattooed gorilla sob uncontrollably for an hour. I don’t know any decent man who could go through what you’ve gone through without a good cry.”

He smiled, embarrassed. “Is that so?”

“That’s so.”

Jennifer’s smile softened and she looked away. “The Riddle Killer’s last victim was my brother. His name was Roy. That was three months ago. He was chosen because I was closing in on the killer.”

Kevin wasn’t sure what to say. “Your brother?”

“You remind me of him, you know.” She faced him. “I won’t let this maniac kill you, Kevin. I’m not sure I could survive that.”