by Ted Dekker
“No one knows this case like I do,” she said. The chief wouldn’t actually do this. She was way too valuable on the case!
“One of those reasons is the relationship between agent and critical parties, including victims.”
“I’ve spent a year breathing down this guy’s neck,” Jennifer said. She let the desperation creep into her voice. “For heaven’s sake, Frank. You can’t do this to me.”
“He killed your brother, Jennifer.”
She stared at him. “This suddenly becomes germane? The way I see it, the fact that he killed Roy gives me a right to hunt him down.”
“Please, I know this is hard, but you have to try to look at the situation objectively. Roy was the killer’s last victim. We haven’t heard a peep in the three months since. You ever ask yourself why he chose Roy?”
“It happened,” she said. She had, of course. The answer was patently obvious but unspoken.
“He kills four other people in the Sacramento area before you start to close in. You come within five minutes of apprehending him. He takes offense and chooses someone close to you. Roy. He plays his little game of riddles and then kills Roy when you come up short.”
Jennifer just stared at him.
The chief held up one hand. “No, that didn’t come out like I—”
“You’re saying the Riddle Killer killed my brother because of me? You have the audacity to sit there and accuse me of playing a part in my own brother’s execution?”
“I said that’s not what I meant. But he likely chose Roy because of your involvement.”
“And did that fact affect my performance?”
He hesitated.
Jennifer closed her eyes and drew a careful breath.
“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Frank said. “Look, I’m sorry, really I am. I can only imagine how it was for you. And I can’t think of anyone who is more qualified to go after this nut, but the equation changed when he killed your brother. He has it out for you. You’re a critical party, and frankly your life’s in danger.”
She opened her eyes. “Don’t patronize me with the danger nonsense, Frank. We signed on for danger. This is precisely what the Riddle Killer wants, you realize. He knows I’m his biggest threat. He also knows that you’ll likely pull me for the very reasons you’re citing. He wants me off the case.”
She said it with a strong voice, but only because she’d long ago learned to stuff emotion. For the most part. The bureau did that. The better part of her wanted to scream at Frank and tell him where he could put his objectiveness.
He sighed. “We don’t even know this is the same killer. Could be a copy cat; could be unrelated. We need someone here to piece this together carefully.”
The Riddle Killer had started playing his little games nearly a year ago. He picked his victims for a variety of reasons and then stalked them until he knew their routines intimately. The riddle usually came out of thin air. He gave the victims a specified amount of time to solve the riddle under the threat of death. Inventive and cold-blooded.
Her brother, Roy Peters, had been a thirty-three-year-old attorney newly employed in Sacramento by Bradsworth and Bixx. A brilliant man with a wonderful wife, Sandy, who worked for the Red Cross. More importantly, Roy and Jennifer had been inseparable right up to college when they’d both pursued law. Roy had bought Jennifer her first bicycle, not because her father couldn’t, but because he wanted to. Roy had taught her to drive. Roy had checked out every boy she’d ever dated, often to her feigned chagrin. Her brother had been her soul mate, the standard no other man could measure up to.
Jennifer had replayed the events leading up to his death a thousand times, knowing each time that she could have prevented it. If only she’d pieced the riddle together twenty minutes earlier. If only she’d gotten to him sooner. If only she hadn’t been assigned to the case.
Until this moment, no one had even hinted at blame—to do so would be beneath the Bureau. But her own blame had beaten her raw over the last three months. The fact was, if she had not been on the case, Roy would be alive. Nothing would ever change that. In some way she was personally responsible for the death of her brother.
Her mission in life was now painfully simple. She would stop at nothing to remove the Riddle Killer from the face of the earth.
If Frank knew the depth of her obsession, he might have pulled her from the case long ago. Her survival depended on her ability to remain calm and reasonable.
“Sir, I’m begging you. You have to let me lead the investigation. He hasn’t killed yet. He’s growing bold, but if we let him think he can play the FBI, he’ll grow bolder. Pulling me from the case would send the wrong message.”
The thought dawned on her only as she spoke it. By the look on Frank’s face, he hadn’t considered that angle yet.
She pressed. “I’ve had three months to grieve, Frank. Last time I took inventory I was lucid. You owe it to the public to let me go. No one stands a better chance of stopping him before he kills again.”
Frank looked at her in silence.
“You know I’m right.”
“You’ve got tenacity; I’ll give you that. Tell me that you have no leanings to any kind of personal vendetta.”
“I want him out of circulation. If that’s personally motivated, so be it.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“You think I would compromise justice with a quick trigger?” she said with a bite of sarcasm. “Or withhold information from other agencies to get the collar myself? Do you think so little of me?”
“None of us are exempt from strong emotional pulls. If my brother had been killed, I’m not sure I wouldn’t turn in my badge and go after him outside the law.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. She’d considered the same a dozen times. Nothing would give her more satisfaction than pulling the trigger herself when it came right down to it.
“I’m not you,” she finally said, but she wasn’t so sure.
He nodded. “You don’t see the kind of love you shared with your brother much these days, you know. I’ve always respected you for that.”
“Thank you. Roy was an incredible person. No one will ever replace him.”
“No, I guess not. Okay, Jennifer. You win. You’ll have a half-dozen agencies climbing around; I want you to work with them. I’m not saying you have to spend all day playing footsie with them, but at least give them the respect of keeping them up to date.”
Jennifer stood. “Of course.”
“Detective Paul Milton will be expecting you first thing. He’s not the gun-shy type if you know what I mean. Be nice.”
“I’m incapable of anything less.”
5
KEVIN CLEARED THE FIRST FOUR STAIRS in his first step. He tripped on the last and sprawled on the landing. “Come on!” He grunted and jumped to his feet. Samantha’s phone number was on his desk—please say it was still on his desk. He crashed through the door. His best friend. Who could that possibly be?
He shuffled through papers and knocked a hermeneutics textbook off the desk. He’d left it right here on top; he could swear it! Maybe he should just call Milton. Where was that number!
Slow down, Kevin. Gather yourself. This is a thinking game, not a race. No, a race too. A thinking race.
He took a deep breath and put his hand to his face. I can’t call the cops. Slater will hear the call. He’s got the house bugged or something. Okay. He wants me to call Samantha. This is about her too. I need Samantha. Only two minutes have passed. Twenty-eight left. Plenty of time. First thing, find Sam’s number. Think. You wrote it down on a white piece of paper. You used it to call her last week and you put the paper somewhere safe because it was important to you.
Under the phone.
He lifted the desk phone and saw the white slip. Thank God! He grabbed the receiver and punched in the number with an unsteady hand. It rang. It rang again.
“Please, please pick up—”
“Hello?”
/> “Hello, Sam?”
“Who’s calling?”
“It’s me.”
“Kevin? What’s wrong? You sound—”
“I have a problem, Sam. Oh dear God, I’ve got a problem! Did you hear about the bomb that went off down here today?”
“A bomb? You’re kidding, right? No, I didn’t hear of a bomb; I have this week off, unpacking from the move. What happened?”
“Some guy who calls himself Slater blew up my car.”
Silence.
“Sam?” Kevin’s voice trembled. He suddenly thought he might start to cry. His vision swam. “Sam, please, I need your help.”
“Someone named Slater blew up your car,” she repeated slowly. “Tell me more.”
“He called me on my cell phone and gave me three minutes to confess a sin, which he said I would know by a riddle. What falls but never breaks? What breaks but never falls? I managed to get the car into a ditch by a Wal-Mart and it blew up.”
“Holy . . . You’re serious? Was anyone hurt?”
“No. I just—”
“Is the FBI investigating? Good night, you’re right—I just turned on the television. It’s all over the news up here.”
“Samantha, listen! I just got another call from this guy. He says I have thirty minutes to solve another riddle or he’s going to blow up another bomb.”
Sam seemed to switch into another mode immediately. “Riddles. You’ve got to be kidding. How long ago?”
He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes.”
“You’ve already reported it?”
“No. He said I can’t tell the cops.”
“Nonsense! Call the detective in charge right now. Get off the phone with me and call them, you hear me, Kevin? You can’t let this guy play his game. Take his game away from him.”
“He said that this bomb will kill my best friend, Sam. And I know he can hear me. This guy seems to know everything. For all I know he’s watching me right now!”
“Okay, calm down. Slow down.” She paused, reconsidering. “Okay, don’t call the cops. Who’s Slater talking about? Who are your friends down there?”
“I . . . That’s the problem. I really don’t have any.”
“Sure you do. Just give me three people you would consider friends and I’ll get the local authorities on them. Come on, let’s go.”
“Well, there’s the dean at the school, Dr. John Francis. The priest at my parish—Bill Strong.” He searched his mind for another, but nothing came. He had plenty of acquaintances, but really no one he’d call a true friend, much less a best friend.
“Okay. Good enough. Hold on a second.”
She put the phone down.
Kevin lifted his T-shirt and wiped the sweat from his face. 4:24. He had until 4:45. Come on, Samantha! He stood and paced. In life he’s your friend, but death is the end. What—
“Kevin?”
“Here.”
“Okay, I put in an anonymous call to the Long Beach police warning that Francis and Strong could be in immediate danger. Enough to get them moved from wherever they are, which is all we can do.”
“You talked to Milton?”
“He’s the lead? No, but I’m sure he’ll get the message. How sure are you that this guy will come unglued if you talk to the authorities?”
“He’s already unglued! He said I could only speak when spoken to and he’s doing this because I said something.”
“Okay. You’ll probably get a call any minute from the police, checking on this threat I’ve just reported. You have call waiting?”
“Yes.”
“Ignore the beep. If you talk to the police when they call, Slater will know. What’s the riddle?”
“There’s something else, Sam. Slater knows you. In fact, he suggested I call you. I . . . I think he might be someone we both know.”
The phone sounded hollow for a few breaths.
“He knows me. What’s the sin he wants you to confess?”
“I don’t know!”
“Okay, we can cover this later. We’re running out of time. What’s the riddle?”
“In life he’s your friend, but death is the end.”
“Opposites.”
“Opposites?”
“What falls but never breaks? What breaks but never falls? Answer: Night and day. What in life is your friend, but death is the end, I don’t know. But they’re both opposites. Any ideas?”
“No. I don’t have a clue.” Night falls, day breaks. Clever. “This is crazy!” He ground the last word out between his teeth.
She was quiet for a moment. “If we knew the sin, we could infer the riddle. What sin are you hiding, Kevin?”
He stopped pacing. “None. Lots! What do you want me to do, spill my whole life of sins to the world? That seems to be what he wants.”
“But there must be something you did that sent this guy to the moon. Think of that and think of this riddle. Anything connect?”
Kevin thought about the boy. But there was no connection between the riddles and the boy. Couldn’t be him. Nothing else came to mind.
“No.”
“Then let’s go back to your best friend.”
“You’re my best friend, Sam.”
“Sweet. But this guy wanted you to call me, right? He knows I would be warned, and if he knows me, he also knows that I have the capability of escaping his threat. I think I’m safe for now. There’s another best friend you’re missing. Something more obvious—”
“Wait! What if it’s not a person?” That’s it! He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes to go. Barely enough time to get there. Call waiting sounded in his ear. That would be the police.
“Ignore it,” Sam said. “Such as—”
“I’ll call you back, Sam. I don’t have time to explain.”
“I’m coming down. I’ll be there in five hours.”
“You . . . you are?”
“I’m on leave, remember?”
Kevin felt a surge of gratitude. “I have to go.”
He hung up, nerves buzzing, stomach in knots. If he was right, it meant going back to the house. He hated going back to his aunt’s house. He stood in the office, fists clenched by his sides. But he had to go back. Slater had blown up the car, and now he was going to do worse unless Kevin stopped him.
Slater was forcing him back to the house. Back to the past. Back to the house and back to the boy.
Kevin’s watch read 4:39 when he passed the park at the end of Baker Street and pointed the car toward the white house. The faint sound of children playing on the swing sets faded. Then silence except for the purr of the Taurus. He blinked.
A row of twenty elms lined the left side of the dead-end avenue, one in the front yard of each house, casting a dark shadow over the entire length. Behind the homes, a narrow greenway fed into the park he’d just passed. To his right, warehouses backed up to train tracks. The street had been freshly paved, the lawns were all neatly manicured, the houses modest but clean. By all appearances it was the perfect little street on the edge of town.
He had not visited in over a year, and even then he’d refused to go inside. He needed Balinda’s signature for the seminary application. After four failed attempts to secure it through the mail, he finally dragged himself to the front porch and rang the doorbell. She appeared after several minutes, and he addressed her without making eye contact and told her that he had some evidence in his old bedroom that would interest the authorities and would make the police station his next stop if she refused to sign. It was a lie, of course. She turned up her nose and scribbled her signature.
The last time he’d seen the inside of the house was five years ago, the day he’d finally worked up the courage to leave.
Rolling down the blacktop under the canopy of elms wasn’t so different from driving through a tunnel. One that led to a past he had no desire to visit.
He passed the houses slowly—the green one, the yellow one, another green one, a beige one—all old, all unique in t
heir own way despite the obvious similarities that came from having a common builder. Same gutters, same windows, same shingle roofs. Kevin locked his eyes on the white house, the fifteenth of the twenty on Baker Street.
Here resides Balinda and Eugene Parson with their thirty-six-year-old retarded son, Bob. Here is the childhood home of one Kevin Parson, adopted son, formerly known as Kevin Little until his mommy and daddy went to heaven.
Five minutes. Okay, Kevin, time’s running out.
He parked the car across the street. A two-foot picket fence ran around the front yard and then rose to six feet for its run around the back. Here the fence was painted brilliant white, but once you stepped past that gate to the right, it wasn’t painted at all, except by years of black ash. A flower bed ran the length of the front porch. Fake flowers, pretty and maintenance-free. Balinda replaced them every year— her idea of gardening.
A gray stone statue of some Greek goddess stood on a pedestal to the right of the Parsons’ elm. The front yard was immaculate, the neatest on the street, always had been. Even the beige ’59 Plymouth in the driveway had been recently polished so that you could actually see a reflection of the elm in its rear quarter panel. It hadn’t been moved in years. When the Parsons had reason to leave the house, they favored the ancient blue Datsun parked in the garage.
The shades were drawn and the door had no windows, making it impossible to see inside, but Kevin knew the inside better than he knew his own house. Three doors down stood the smaller brown house that had once belonged to a cop named Rick Sheer, who had a daughter named Samantha. Her family had moved back to San Francisco when Sam went off to college.
Kevin wiped his palms on his jeans and climbed out. The sound of his door slamming sounded obscenely loud on the quiet street. The shade on the front window separated momentarily, and then closed. Good. Come on out, Auntie.
Suddenly the whole notion of coming felt absurd. Slater obviously knew his facts, but how would he have knowledge of Bob’s dog? Or that the dog had indeed been Kevin’s best friend until Samantha had come along? Maybe Slater was after Dr. Francis or the priest. Sam had made the call. Smart.
