by Ted Dekker
“Pakistan.”
“Pakistan. He told me he knew a guy who had a tattoo of a knife on his forehead. He didn’t tell me nothing about this guy except that his name was Slater and he was into explosive devices. That’s it. That’s all I know.”
“And you think the name Slater interests us why?”
“The news of Long Beach. They said it could be a man named Slater.”
“When did your friend know this Slater?”
“I said that’s it. That’s all I know. That’s the deal. If I knew more, I would tell you more. I already wrote down where this Salman guy works last I knew. He’s straight up. Talk to him.”
Sam looked at Roland. He nodded.
“Okay, Chris. I guess your thirty seconds are up. You’re free to go.”
Chris stood, glared at her one last time, and left.
“What do you think?” Roland asked.
“I’m not sure what our man would be doing all the way down in Houston, but I think I’m going to Texas. I want to make contact first. For all we know, Salman doesn’t even exist. It may take a day or two to track him down. Until then I want to go back to Long Beach.”
“Fine. Just keep a low profile down there. If the Riddle Killer’s working with someone inside, we don’t want him suddenly running scared.”
“I’m limiting direct contact to the FBI agent in charge. Jennifer Peters.”
“Just watch what you say. For all we know, Agent Peters is Slater.”
“Unlikely.”
“Just tread lightly.”
The prior twenty-four hours had produced more evidence than the entire year combined, but the leads weren’t pointing to any quick answers. Meticulous lab work took time, a commodity Jennifer wasn’t sure they had enough of. Slater would strike again, and sooner or later they would have bodies to contend with. A car, a bus—what was next?
The city was reeling from news of the bus. Milton had spent half the day preparing and issuing statements to hungry reporters. At least it kept him out of her hair.
She sat at the corner desk Milton had graciously given her and stared at the loose sheets of paper spread before her. It was 4:30, and for the moment she was stuck. A Subway veggie sandwich she’d ordered two hours ago sat on the edge of the desk, and she considered unwrapping it.
Her eyes dropped to the pad under her fingertips. She’d split the page horizontally and then vertically, creating four quadrants, an old technique she used to visually compartmentalize data. Kevin’s house, the warehouse search, the knife tattoo, and forensics from the bus.
“Who are you, Slater?” she mumbled. “You’re here, aren’t you, staring up at me, chuckling behind these words somewhere?”
First quadrant. They’d swept and dusted Kevin’s house and turned up exactly nothing. Hundreds of prints, of course—it would take time to work through all of them. But in the high-probability contact points—the phone, the doorknobs, the window latches, the desk, the wood dinette chairs—they had found only Jennifer’s and Kevin’s prints, and some partials that were unidentifiable. Probably Sam’s. She’d been in the house, but according to Kevin she hadn’t stayed long or handled anything except for the phone, where they’d found the partials. Either way, the chances that Slater had walked around the place pressing uncovered fingers against dense surfaces had been absurd from the beginning.
No eavesdropping devices turned up either, again not surprising. Slater had used the six bugs they’d uncovered because they were convenient at the time. He had other means of listening in—remote laser transmitters, relayed audio scopes—all of which they would eventually track down, but not likely soon enough. They’d found disturbed ground at the oil rig’s base, two hundred yards from Kevin’s house, and taken casts of four different shoe prints. Again, the evidence might help them incriminate Slater, but it wasn’t identifying him— at least not quickly enough.
The writing on the milk jug was in for analysis at Quantico. Same story. Comparisons could and one day would be made, but not before they actually had Slater in their sights.
They’d affixed the AP301 recording device to Slater’s cell phone and were monitoring the house using an IR laser.
Let the games begin.
Jennifer had left Kevin in his house at noon, pleading that he get some sleep. She watched him wander around his living room like a zombie. He’d been pushed beyond himself.
You like him, don’t you, Jenn?
Don’t be stupid! I hardly know him! I feel empathy for him. I’m attributing Roy’s goodness to him.
But you like him. He’s handsome, caring, and as innocent as a butterfly. He has magical eyes and a smile that swallows the room. He’s . . .
Naive and damaged. His reaction to driving through his old neighborhood had been in part precipitated by the stress of Slater’s threats, granted. But there had to be more.
He was similar to Roy in many ways, but the more she thought about it, the more she saw the dissimilarities between this case and the ones in Sacramento. Slater seemed to have a specific, personally motivated agenda with Kevin. He wasn’t a random victim. Neither was Jennifer nor Samantha. What if Kevin had been the Riddle Killer’s prime mark all along? What if the others were just a kind of practice? Warmup?
Jennifer closed her eyes and stretched her neck. She’d made an appointment to see the dean at Kevin’s seminary, Dr. John Francis, first thing tomorrow morning. He attended one of those huge churches that held a service on Saturday evening. Jennifer picked up the sandwich and peeled back the wax paper.
Second quadrant. The warehouse. Milton had somehow convinced the bureau chief to speak to her about his involvement. The man was starting to become a major irritant. She’d reluctantly agreed to give him the warehouse search. The fact was, she could use the manpower and they knew the territory. She made it clear that if he breathed one word of his involvement to the media, she’d personally see to it that he took full responsibility for whatever negative consequences resulted. He’d taken four uniformed officers and a search warrant to the warehouse district. The likelihood that Slater was watching the neighborhood was minimal. He might be a surveillance crackerjack, but he couldn’t have eyes everywhere.
Based on Kevin’s story, he might have stumbled into any of a couple dozen warehouses that night. Milton’s team was searching each one now, looking for any that might have a subterranean storage room, an oil pit, a garbage dump—anything similar. Most warehouses today were built on slabs, but some of the older buildings featured underground units that were cheaper to cool.
She could understand Kevin’s subconscious erasure of such a traumatic location. It would either be stamped indelibly on his brain or gone, and there was no reason for him to hide any knowledge at this point. Discovery of the basement would be a windfall. If indeed the boy was Slater.
Third quadrant. The knife tattoo. Jennifer took a bite out of the sandwich. Hunger swarmed her with the first taste of tomato. She’d missed breakfast, hadn’t she? Seemed like a week ago.
She stared at the third quadrant. Again, assuming the boy was Slater, and assuming he hadn’t removed the tattoo, they now had their first bona fide identifier. A tattoo of a knife on the forehead—not exactly something you see on every corner. Twenty-three agents and policemen were quietly working the search. Tattoo parlors that had existed twenty years earlier in the immediate vicinity were first to be scrutinized, but finding one that had any records was near impossible. They were working in concentric circles. More likely was finding a tattoo parlor that remembered a man with a knife tattoo on his forehead. Not all tattoo bearers frequented parlors, but ones with Slater’s profile might. For all they knew, he was now covered in tattoos. All he needed was one—a knife in the center of his forehead.
Fourth quadrant. The bus. Another bite. The sandwich was like a slice of heaven.
Same guy, no doubt. Same device: a suitcase bolted behind the gas tank, loaded with enough dynamite to shred a bus, detonated using tungsten leads stripped from a
n incandescent bulb on a simple five-dollar, battery-operated alarm clock. A mechanical servo could override the clock and either terminate or trigger the detonation. The bomb had been planted days, even weeks ago, based on the dust they’d lifted off one of its bolts. If they could ID what was left of the servo, they might have a shot of tracing its origins. Unlikely.
How long had Slater been planning this?
The phone chirped. Jennifer wiped her mouth, took a quick swallow from a bottle of Evian, and picked up the phone. “Jennifer.”
“We think we found it.”
Milton. She sat up. “The warehouse.”
“We have some blood here.”
She tossed the rest of the sandwich in the waste bin and grabbed her keys. “I’m on my way.”
Kevin looked out between the blinds for the fourth time in two hours. They’d decided to place one unmarked car a block up the street—FBI. Slater seemed ambiguous about the FBI. Either way, the agent behind the wheel would watch only. He would not follow if or when Kevin left at Slater’s next beckoning. Static surveillance only.
Kevin released the slats and paced back into the kitchen. In the park, Jennifer had reached out to him and he’d let her. He found her fierce nature compelling. It reminded him of Samantha.
Where was Samantha? He’d called her twice and gotten only her voice mail. He desperately wanted to talk to her about the visit to Baker Street with Jennifer. She would understand. Not that Jennifer didn’t, but Sam might be able to help him sort out these new feelings.
He walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out a liter of 7UP. Feelings. Extremes. The hatred toward Slater that had begun to swell in his gut wasn’t so strange. How was he supposed to feel toward someone who had come within a few seconds of taking not only his life, but countless others for undisclosed reasons? If Slater would just quit being so idiotic and tell him what the deal was, Kevin could handle the man. As it was, the imbecile was hiding behind these stupid games, and Kevin was losing patience. Yesterday he’d been too shocked to process his anger. A common form of denial, Jennifer had said. Shock breeds denial, which in turn tempers anger. But now the denial was giving way to this bitterness toward an enemy who refused to show his hand.
Kevin poured half a glass, swallowed the 7UP in several long drafts, and slammed the empty glass on the counter.
He ran his hand through his hair, grunted, and walked to the living room. How could one man wreak so much havoc in the space of one day? Slater was nothing less than a terrorist. If Kevin owned a gun and Slater worked up the stomach to confront him face to face, he was pretty sure he’d have no compunction about putting a slug or two in the man’s face. Especially if he was the boy. Kevin shivered involuntarily. Shoulda gone back and made sure the stinking rat was dead. He would have been within his rights, if not according to the law, then in the eyes of God. Turn the other cheek shouldn’t apply to sick sewer rats with knives in their hands who licked neighborhood girls’ windows.
Slater was listening now, right? Kevin looked around the room and settled on the window.
“Slater?” His voice bounced back at him.
“You hear me, Slater? Listen, you sick scab, I don’t know why you’re stalking me or why you’re too terrified to show your face, but you’re only proving one thing. You’re toilet water. You’re a punk without the guts to face your adversary. Come on, baby! Come and get me!”
“Kevin?”
He whirled around. Sam stood in the rear sliding-glass doorway, staring at him. He hadn’t heard the door slide open.
“You okay?” she whispered.
“Sure. Sorry, I was just having a word with our friend, in case he was listening.”
Sam shut the door and lifted a finger to her lips. She walked to the front window and pulled the drapes.
“What . . .”
She motioned him quiet again and led him to the garage. “If we talk quietly here, we won’t be heard.”
“Slater? The car up the street’s FBI.”
“I know. Which is why I parked two blocks up and came in the back. You don’t think Slater’s going to see them?”
“He didn’t say no FBI.”
“Maybe because he is FBI,” she said.
“What?”
“We haven’t ruled it out.”
“We? Who’s we?”
She held his gaze for a moment. “Just an expression. They find anything else here?”
“No. Some footprints by the oil rig up the hill. They took a bunch of fingerprints, the milk jug. Jennifer didn’t think any of it would help them much.”
Sam nodded. “She told me about the tattoo. You never told me about the tattoo.”
“I didn’t tell you anything about him after that night, remember? He was gone. End of story.”
“Not anymore. They’ll find the warehouse, and when they do, they’ll find more—who knows, maybe the boy.”
“Actually, I went back four months later.”
“What?”
“He was gone. There was blood on the floor and his bandanna, but he was gone. They won’t find him.”
Sam looked at him for a few moments. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking, but something wasn’t quite right.
“You said, we haven’t ruled it out,” he said. “You’ve always been straight with me, Sam. Who is we?”
She looked into his eyes and put a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Kevin, I can’t tell you everything—not now, not yet. Soon. You’re right, I have always been straight with you. I’ve been more than a friend. I’ve loved you like a brother. A day hasn’t gone by these past ten years that I haven’t thought about you at least once. You’re part of me. And now I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
The revelation made his head spin. She was somehow involved, wasn’t she? She’d been onto Slater before yesterday. It was why Slater knew her!
“What . . . what’s going on?”
Her hand slid down his arm and took his fingers. “Nothing’s changed. Slater’s the same person he was yesterday, and I’m going to do my best to get to him before he hurts anyone. I’m just not at liberty to tell you what we know. Not yet. It wouldn’t make any difference to you anyway. Trust me. For old time’s sake.”
He nodded. Actually, this was better, wasn’t it? The fact that she had some inside track and wasn’t just blindly feeling her way around this case—that was good.
“But you think the FBI is involved?”
She put her finger on his lips to seal them. “I can’t talk about it. Forget I said it. Nothing’s changed.” She reached up, kissed him on the cheek, and released his hand.
“Can I trust Jennifer?”
She turned. “Sure—trust Jennifer. But trust me first.”
“What do you mean, first?”
“I mean if you have to choose between me and Jennifer, choose me.”
He felt his pulse thicken. What was she saying? Choose me. Did she think he would ever choose Jennifer over her? He wasn’t even sure what he felt for Jennifer. She had offered to ease his pain and confusion in a time of vulnerability and he had let her. That was all.
“I would always choose you. I owe my life to you.”
She smiled and for a moment he imagined that they were kids again, sitting under an elm with a full moon on their faces, laughing at a squirrel’s inquisitive head poking through the branches.
“Actually, I think it’s the other way around. I owe you my life,” she said. “Literally. You saved me from Slater once, didn’t you? Now it’s my turn to return the favor.”
In a strange way, it all made perfect sense.
“Okay,” she said. “I have a plan. I mean to flush the snake from his hole.” She winked at him and glanced at her watch. “The sooner we get out of here the better. Grab your toothbrush, a change of clothes, and some deodorant if you want. We’re taking a trip.”
“We are? Where? We can’t just leave. Jennifer told me to stay here.”
“Until what? Did Slater
tell you not to leave?”
“No.”
“Let me see the phone.”
He fished out the cell phone Slater had left him and handed it to her.
“Did Slater tell you to keep this on?”
Kevin considered the question. “He said to keep it with me at all times.”
Sam pushed the power off button. “Then we’ll take it.”
“Jennifer will have a cow. This wasn’t the plan.”
“Change of plans, my dear knight. It’s time for a little cat and mouse of our own.”
13
THE WAREHOUSE was less than a hundred yards from Kevin’s old house, two rows back from the road, an old wooden storage facility that had been white before flaking paint revealed its gray underbelly. From the side entrance, none of the houses on Baker Street was visible.
“This it?”
“It’s abandoned. Looks like it has been for a while,” Milton said.
“Show me.”
Two uniforms stood by the door, watching her. One of them handed her a flashlight. “You’ll need this.”
She took it and turned it on.
The warehouse smelled of a decade’s worth of undisturbed dust. Beyond the side door was a single stairwell descending into blackness. The rest of the three-thousand-or-so square feet of concrete sat vacant in dim light filtered by a dozen cracks in the walls.
“Don’t they tear these things down?” she asked.
“They used to hold all kinds of goods in these warehouses before the navy moved in just south of here. The government bought this land and hasn’t seen fit to rebuild yet. I’m sure they’ll get around to it.”
A lone cop stood at the bottom of the stairs, shining his flashlight on the threshold. “The door was locked from the outside—took some jarring to get it loose.”
Jennifer descended. A steel door led into a ten-by-ten room, concrete, empty. She played her torch over the pitted walls. Exposed floor joists held the ceiling. Most of it. One small section had rotted through.
