Thr3e

by Ted Dekker

  “Do you have firsthand experience on the subject or are you just spinning this from a sociology text?”

  Kevin blinked, caught off guard. Unless her intuition was misfiring, he had very little experience with women.

  “Well . . .” He ran his hand over his head. “Both, sorta.”

  “This may qualify as new knowledge, Kevin, but there are men who judge a woman by more than her appearance.” She wasn’t sure why she felt obligated to say as much; she’d found no offense in his remark.

  He didn’t bat an eye. “Of course. I see you and you’re beautiful, but my attraction to you is based on your caring. I can tell that you really do care about me.” He broke eye contact again. “I mean, not in the way it sounds. As your case is what I mean. Not as a man—”

  “I understand. Thank you. That was a nice thing to say.”

  The short exchange felt absurd. Kevin sat back down and for a moment neither spoke.

  “But your point is valid,” Jennifer said. “Most serial offenders choose victims based on what they represent, not on personal offenses. It’s the meticulous thought that Slater has put into this case that makes me wonder if we aren’t dealing with personal motivation here. Obsession comes to mind. He’s taken a very personal interest in you.”

  Kevin looked away. “Could be that he’s just a very meticulous person.” He seemed particularly interested in depersonalizing the motive.

  “You’re a profiler—what is my profile?” Kevin asked. “Based on what you know, what is there about me that might set off someone?”

  “I don’t have enough to offer—”

  “No, but based on what you do know?”

  “My first blush? Okay. You’re a seminary student. You take life seriously and have a higher intelligence than most. You’re caring and kind and gentle. You live alone and have very few friends. You’re attractive and carry yourself with confidence, notwithstanding a couple nervous habits.” It occurred to Jennifer as she ran down the list that Kevin was an unusually good person, not merely innocent. “But it’s your genuine innocence that stands out. If Slater has no personal stake in you, he hates you for your innocence.”

  There was more to Kevin than she could see at first glance, much more. How could anyone dislike, much less hate, Kevin Parson?

  “You remind me of my brother,” she said. Then she wished she hadn’t.

  What if the Riddle Killer wanted Jennifer to see the similarities between Roy and Kevin? What if he’d chosen Kevin because he intended to make Jennifer live through the hell once again?

  Pure speculation.

  Jennifer rose. “I have to get back to the lab. The police will be here shortly. If there’s anything you need, or if you think of anything else, call. I’ll have one of our men watch the house. Promise me you will never leave alone. This guy likes to drop his little bombs when they’re least expected.”

  “Sure.”

  He looked lost. “Don’t worry, Kevin. We’ll make it through this.”

  “In one piece, hopefully.” He grinned nervously.

  She put her hand on top of his. “We will. Trust me.” She once said those same words to Roy to calm him down. Jennifer removed her hand.

  They stared at each other for a moment. Say something, Jennifer. “Remember, he wants a game. We’re going to give him a game.”

  “Right.”

  Jennifer left him standing in his doorway looking anything but confident. Trust me. She considered staying until the techs arrived, but she had to get back to the evidence. She’d cornered the Riddle Killer once, before he’d gone after Roy, and she’d done it through careful analysis of the evidence. She did her best work when climbing around in criminals’ minds, not holding their victims’ hands.

  On the other hand, Kevin was no ordinary victim.

  Who are you, Kevin? Whoever he was, she decided that she liked him.

  9

  KEVIN HAD NEVER FELT entirely comfortable around women—because of his mother, Sam insisted—but Jennifer seemed different. As a professional it was her job to engender trust, he knew, but he’d seen more than the expected professional facade in her eyes. He’d seen a real woman who’d warmed to him beyond the demands of her job. He wasn’t sure how that translated to her capability as an investigator, but he felt certain he could trust her sincerity.

  Unfortunately, it did nothing for his confidence.

  Kevin walked to the telephone and dialed Samantha’s number. She answered on the fifth ring.

  “Sam.”

  “Hi, Sam. The FBI was just here.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing new, really. She thinks it’s the Riddle Killer.”

  “She?”

  “The agent. Jennifer Peters.”

  “I’ve heard of her. Listen, there’s a chance I may need to fly back to Sacramento today. Actually, I have my office on the other line. Can I call you right back?”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll explain, okay?”

  He hung up and glanced at the clock. 8:47. Where were the police? He checked the dishwasher. Half full. He dumped in some detergent and turned it on. It would take him a week to fill the thing up, and by that time it would begin to smell sour.

  Slater would have his hands full; that much was good. Surely between Sam, Jennifer, and the Long Beach police he would be safe. Kevin crossed to the refrigerator.

  Jennifer thinks I’m nice. I don’t care if I’m nice—I want to be alive. And I wouldn’t mind if Slater were dead. How nice is that? If a man gossips, is he not nice? The bishop gossips, so he’s not nice. Kevin sighed. Here I am rambling again while the world’s blowing up around me. What would the psychobabblist say about that?

  I don’t know why I do it, Doctor, but I think the strangest things at the oddest times.

  So do all men, Kevin. So do all men. Women don’t, of course. The female tends to be the more intelligent or at least the more stable of the sexes. Turn the country over to them and you’ll wake up to find the potholes down your street filled in like they should have been a year ago. You’re just a man finding his way in a mad world gone madder, madder hatter. We’ll break that down next session if you drop another check in the pay box over there. Two hundred this time. My kids need . . .

  Kevin twitched. He didn’t remember opening the fridge, but now, standing in front of the open door, the milk jug filled his vision. Someone had scrawled a large 3 on the Albertsons jug with a black magic marker, and above it three words:

  It’s so dark

  Slater!

  Kevin released the door and stepped back.

  When? What’s so dark? The fridge is so dark? Was this another riddle? He had to tell Jennifer! No, Samantha. He had to tell Sam!

  Dread crept into his bones. Where is it so dark? In the cellar. The boy! He stood still, unable to breathe. The world began to spin. It’s so dark.

  Dear God, it was the boy!

  The door closed on its own. He backed to the wall. But Slater had said he wasn’t the boy! What boy? he’d said.

  The events of that night so long ago swept over him.

  For a whole week after young Kevin’s encounter with the bully, he waited in agony. Dark circles gathered under his eyes and he caught a cold. He made up a story about falling out of bed to explain the bruises on his face. His mother had put him to bed early in the afternoon to fight the cold. He just lay there, sweating on the sheets. His fear wasn’t for himself, but for Samantha. The boy had promised to hurt her, and Kevin was sick with worry.

  Six days later a tap had finally sounded on his window. He’d eased the blind up, holding his breath. Sam’s smiling face stared at him from the backyard. Kevin nearly hit the ceiling in his excitement. As it turned out, Sam had been away at camp. She was horrified by his haggard features, and only after much urging did she convince him to come out to talk. No one would see them; she swore it. He made her search for the boy all around the yard, just to make sure. When he did sneak ou
t, he went only just beyond his own fence, keeping a watchful eye on the greenway. They sat there, hidden in the shadows, and he told Sam everything.

  “I’ll tell my dad,” she said. “You think if he licked my window we’ll still be able to see it?”

  Kevin shuddered. “Probably. You have to tell your dad. You should go tell him right now. But don’t tell him about me sneaking out to see you. Just tell him I was walking by and saw the boy at your window and he chased me. Don’t even tell him that he . . . did anything to me. Your dad might tell my mom.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then come back and tell me what he says.”

  “You mean tonight?”

  “Right now. Go home by the street and watch out for the boy. He’s going to kill us.”

  By now Sam was scared, despite her typical optimism. “Okay.” She stood and brushed off her shorts. “My dad might not let me back out. In fact, he might even make me stay home for a while if I tell him.”

  Kevin thought about that. “That’s okay. At least you’ll be safe; that’s the main thing. But please, come back as soon as you can.”

  “Okay.” She held out her hand and pulled him up. “Friends for life?”

  “Friends for life,” he said. He gave her a hug and she ran off toward the street.

  Sam didn’t come back to his window that night. Or the next. Or for three weeks. They were the loneliest weeks of Kevin’s life. He tried to convince his mom to let him out, but she wouldn’t hear of it. He tried to sneak out during the day twice, not through the window, of course—he could never risk Mother discovering the screw or the loose board. He went over the back fence, but only got as far as the first tree on the greenway before Bob began to wail. He barely made it back onto the ash heap before Mother hurried out in a tizzy. The other time he went through the front door and made it all the way to Sam’s house only to find, as he had known he would, that she was gone to school. His mom was waiting for him when he tried to sneak back in, and he spent the next two days in his room.

  Then, on the twenty-second day, the tap came at his window. He peeked very carefully, terrified that it might be the boy. He would never be able to describe the warmth that flooded his heart when he saw Sam’s face in the moonlight. He fumbled with the screw and yanked the window open. They threw their arms around each other before he tumbled out and ran with her through the fence.

  “What happened?” he asked, breathless.

  “My dad found him! He’s a thirteen-year-old who lives on the other side of the warehouses. I guess the boy has caused trouble before; Dad knew him when I described him. Oh, you should have seen my dad, Kevin! I’ve never seen him so angry. He told the boy’s parents that they had two weeks to move, or he was going to haul their boy off to jail. Guess what? They moved!”

  “He’s . . . he’s gone?”

  “Gone.” She raised a palm and he absently high-fived it.

  “You sure?”

  “My dad let me out, didn’t he? Yes, I’m sure. Come on!”

  It took Kevin only two outings with Sam to lose his fear of the night again. The boy was indeed gone.

  Two weeks later Kevin decided that it was about time he take the initiative to visit Sam. You could only play white knight so many times without actually flexing your muscle some.

  Kevin snuck along the treelined greenway toward Sam’s house, picking his way carefully. This was his first time out alone in over a month. He made it to her fence easily enough. The light from her window was a welcome sight. He bent down and pulled the loose picket aside.

  “Pssst.”

  Kevin froze.

  “Hello, squat.”

  The horrible sound of the boy’s voice filled Kevin with images of a sick twisted smile. He suddenly felt nauseated.

  “Stand up,” the boy said.

  Kevin stood slowly and pivoted. His muscles had turned to water, all except for his heart, which was slamming into his throat. There, ten feet away, stood the boy, grinning wickedly, turning the knife in his right hand. He wore a bandanna that covered his tattoo.

  “I’ve decided something,” the boy said. “There are three of us on this little totem pole here. But I’m at the bottom and I don’t like that. I’m going to take out the top two. What do you think about that?”

  Kevin couldn’t think clearly about anything.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” the boy said. “First I’m going to cut you in a few places you’ll never forget. I want you to use your imagination for me. Then I’m going to come back here and tap on Samantha’s window like you do. When she opens the shade, I’m going to stick my knife right through the glass.”

  The boy chewed on his tongue; his eyes flashed with excitement. He lifted the knife and touched the blade with his left hand. He glanced down and fixated on the sharp edge. “I’ll be through the glass and in her throat before she can . . .”

  Kevin ran then, while the boy’s eyes were still diverted.

  “Hey!”

  The boy took after him. Kevin had a twenty-foot head start—a fifth of what he needed to outrun the larger boy. At first sheer adrenaline pushed Kevin forward. But behind him the boy began to chuckle and his voice grew closer. Now terror pounded Kevin in unrelenting waves. He screamed, but nothing came out because his throat had frozen shut. The ground seemed to slope upward and then sideways and Kevin lost his sense of direction.

  A hand touched his collar. If the boy caught him, he would use the knife. And then he would go after Sam. He might not kill her, but he would at least cut her face. Probably worse.

  He wasn’t sure where his house was, but it wasn’t where he desperately needed it to be. So Kevin did the only thing he knew to do. He turned to his left and tore across the street.

  The chuckling stopped for a moment. The boy grunted and doubled his efforts—Kevin could hear his feet pounding with a new determination.

  The chuckling started again.

  Kevin’s chest ached and his breath came in huge gasps now. For a terrible moment he considered just falling down and letting the boy cut him up.

  A hand swatted him on the head. “Keep running, squat. I hate it when they just lie there.”

  Kevin had lost his sense of direction completely. They were coming up to one of the old warehouses in the district across the street. He saw a door in the building directly ahead. Maybe . . . maybe if he could get through that door.

  He veered to his right, and then broke for the building. He slammed into the old door, yanked it open, and plunged into the darkness beyond.

  The stairwell five feet inside the door saved his life, or at the very least some of his body parts. He tumbled down the stairs, crying out in pain. When he came to rest at the bottom landing, his head felt as though it had come off. He struggled to his feet and turned back to the stairs.

  The boy stood at the top, backlit by the moonlight, chuckling. “The end,” he said and started down the steps.

  Kevin spun and ran. Right into another door. A steel door. He grasped the handle and twisted, but the bulk refused to budge. He saw the deadbolt, threw it open, and plunged headlong into a pitch-black room. He stumbled forward and smacked into a concrete wall.

  The boy grabbed Kevin’s hair.

  Kevin screamed. His voice echoed crazily about him. He screamed louder. No one would hear them; they were underground.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” The boy hit him in the mouth.

  Kevin summoned all of his fear and struck out blindly into the darkness. His fist connected with something that cracked. The boy hollered and let go of Kevin’s hair. Kevin’s legs gave way and he collapsed.

  It occurred to him in that moment that whatever the boy had initially planned for him could no longer compare to what he would do now.

  Kevin rolled and staggered to his feet. The door was to his right, dull gray in the faint light. The boy faced him, one hand on his nose, the other tight around the knife.

  “You just lost your eyes, boy.”

 
Kevin bolted without thought. He sprang through the open door, spun around, and slammed it shut. He threw his left hand up and rammed the deadbolt home.

  Then it was just him, in the concrete staircase, breathing hard. Silence swallowed him.

  A very soft yell reached beyond the steel door. Kevin held his breath and backed up slowly. He lunged up the steps, got halfway up before the sound of the boy reached him again, just barely. He was yelling and cursing and threatening him with words Kevin could barely understand because they were so quiet.

  There was no way out, was there? If he left, the boy might die in there! No one would hear his screams. He couldn’t leave.

  Kevin turned back and slowly descended the stairs. What if he slipped the bolt open and made a break for it? He could make it, maybe.

  “I swear I’m gonna kill you . . .”

  Kevin knew then that he had only two options. Open the door and get cut, maybe die. Run away and let the boy die, maybe live.

  “I hate you! I hate you!” The scream was eerily distant, but raspy and bitter.

  Kevin whirled around and flew up the steps. He had no choice. He had no choice. For Samantha, that’s what the boy got. It was his own fault anyway.

  Kevin shut the outer door behind him and ran into the night. He didn’t know quite how or exactly when, but sometime while it was still dark, he made it back into his bed.

  Something rattled violently. Kevin jerked up. The tabletop reflected the morning sun at eye level. The cell phone vibrated slowly toward the edge.

  Kevin scrambled to his feet. Dear God, give me strength. He glanced at the clock. 9:00 A.M. Where were the police?

  He reached his hand for the phone, hesitated, and then snatched it off the table. Play the game, Jennifer had said. Play the game.

  “Hello?”

  “How is our chess player doing this morning?” Slater asked.

  So he had been listening! Kevin closed his eyes and focused his mind. His life depended on what he said. Be smart. Outthink him.

  “Ready to play,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound ready.