by Ted Dekker
“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 wou
ld 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 your cooperation 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.”
&nbs
p; “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 is the 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.
