Thr3e

by Ted Dekker

  On the other hand, she was bound to him in a way few people ever are. They shared the death of her brother in common—she as the victim’s survivor, he as the next victim.

  Jennifer sighed and stood. She was too emotionally wrapped up in this whole thing. The bureau chief was right.

  “Galager!”

  The man paused at the door across the room. She motioned him back.

  “What’s up?”

  “We found Kevin.”

  Galager pulled up. “Where?”

  “Palos Verdes. He’s okay.”

  “Should I get Milton?”

  He was the last person she wanted to bring in. But she had her marching orders, didn’t she? At least she didn’t have to deal with him directly. She scribbled the information on a notepad, ripped the page off, and handed it to Galager.

  “Fill him in. Tell him I’m tied up.”

  It was the truth. She was tied up, in knots that refused to loosen.

  They sat on the bed in a stalemate. Kevin was hiding something; that much Sam had known since she’d first talked to him. Friday night. Now his lying was more blatant, but try as she may, she could not coax the truth out of him. His story that he’d been wandering through his old neighborhood, thinking, for the past eight hours was simply unbelievable. True, given his circumstances, almost any behavior was possible. But she knew Kevin too well; she could read those clear blue eyes, and they were shifting. Something else was bothering him.

  “Okay, Kevin, but I still don’t think you’re telling me everything. I have a plane to catch in a couple hours. With any luck, Slater will take the day to revel in his little victory yesterday. God knows we need the time.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” She stood, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain. “We’re closing in, Kevin. We’re right on this guy’s tail; I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I wish you weren’t going.”

  Sam turned back. “Jennifer will be here. She’ll want to talk to you.”

  He looked past her out the window. “Yeah.”

  Dark circles hung under his eyes. He seemed distracted.

  “I need a drink,” he said. “You want one?”

  “I’m fine. You’re not going to run off again, are you?”

  He grinned. “Come on. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are. Hurry back.”

  He opened the door to leave.

  The beige phone on the nightstand rang shrilly. She glanced at the clock beside it—3 P.M. They had overstayed their checkout.

  “Go ahead,” she told Kevin. “It’s probably the front desk.”

  Kevin left and she picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Samantha.”

  Slater! She whirled to the door. So Kevin couldn’t be Slater! He’d been in the room when the killer had called.

  “Kevin!” He was gone.

  “Not Kevin. It’s your other lover, dear.”

  How had Slater gotten their number? The only person who knew where they were was Jennifer. Jennifer . . .

  “They want my voice, Samantha. I want to give them my voice.

  Have you turned the cell phone back on, or are you still playing your idiotic cat-and-mouse game?”

  “It’s on.”

  The line clicked. Slater’s cell began to ring. She grabbed it and answered.

  “There, that’s better, don’t you think? The game won’t last forever; we might as well make this more interesting.”

  It was the first time she’d actually heard his voice. Low and gravelly.

  “What good is a game that you can’t lose?” she asked. “It proves nothing.”

  “Oh, but I can lose, Sam. The fact that I haven’t proves that I’m smarter than you.” Short heavy breath. “I came within a single pane of glass of killing you once. This time I won’t fail.”

  The boy. She turned and sat on the bed. “So that was you.”

  “Do you know why I wanted to kill you?”

  “No.” Keep him talking. “Tell me.”

  “Because all nice people deserve to die. Especially the pretty ones with bright blue eyes. I despise beauty almost as much as I despise nice little boys. I’m not sure who I hate more, you or that imbecile you call your lover.”

  “You make me sick!” Samantha said. “You prey on innocence because you’re too stupid to realize it’s far more fascinating than evil.”

  Silence. Only heavy breathing. She’d struck a nerve.

  “Kevin confessed, as you demanded,” she said. “He told the whole world about that night. But you can’t live by your own rules, can you?”

  “Yes, of course. The boy. Was that me? Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Kevin still hasn’t confessed his sin. He hasn’t even hinted at it. The secret’s much too dark, even for him, I think.”

  “What? What sin?”

  He chuckled.

  “The sin, Samantha. The sin. Riddle time. What wants to be filled but will always be empty? I’ll give you a clue: It’s not your head. It has a number: 36933. You have ninety minutes before the fireworks begin. And please remember, no cops.”

  “Why are you so afraid of the cops?”

  “It’s not who I’m afraid of; it’s who I want to play with.” The line clicked.

  He was gone.

  Sam stood still, mind reeling. He’d called on the hotel room phone. Could he have tracked them down so quickly? Or the phone— could he have a way of tracking it once she turned it on? Unlikely. She paced to the end of the bed and back. Think, Sam! Think! Where was Kevin? They had to— “Sam?” Kevin’s muffled voice sounded beyond the door. He knocked.

  She ran for the door. Opened it.

  “He called,” she said.

  “Slater?” His face went white.

  “Yes.”

  Kevin stepped in, can of 7UP in his hand. “What did he say?”

  “Another riddle. What wants to be filled but will always be empty? With some numbers. 36933.” The most obvious solution had already run through her mind. She ran to the coffee table and grabbed the telephone book.

  “Call Jennifer.”

  “How much time?”

  “Ninety minutes. Threes. This guy’s obsessed with threes and progressions of threes. Call her!”

  Kevin set his drink down, jumped for the phone, and punched in her number. He relayed the information quickly.

  “On the room phone,” he said.

  “No, he called back on the cell,” Sam corrected him.

  “He called back on the cell,” Kevin relayed.

  Sam spread the phone directory map open and searched the streets. Thirty-third. A warehouse district.

  “No cops. Remind her no cops. If she has any ideas, call, but keep the others out of it. He was very clear.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was the only answer that made immediate sense. But why would Slater choose such an obvious riddle?

  She looked up at Kevin. “Tell Jennifer that I was wrong about Slater. You were in the room when Slater called.”

  Kevin looked at her with a raised eyebrow, passed on the message, listened for a moment, and then addressed Sam. “She says she’s on her way. Don’t move.”

  Only Jennifer could know specifically where they were. She would have picked up the caller ID when Sam called her on the room phone. How had Slater tracked them down so quickly?

  Sam stepped forward and took the phone from Kevin. “Don’t bother coming, Jennifer. We’ll be gone. Work the riddle. I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”

  “How will leaving help you? I want Kevin back in my sights where I can work with him. You hear me?”

  “I hear you. We’re out of time now. Just work the riddle. I’ll call you.”

  “Sam—”

  She hung up. She had to think this through.

  “Okay, Kevin. Here we go. Slater’s into threes; we know that. He’s also into progressions. Every target is
larger than the one before. He gives you three minutes, then thirty minutes, then sixty minutes, and now ninety minutes. And he gives this number, 36933. The 369 follows the natural progression, but the 33 doesn’t. Unless they’re not part of the 369. I think we have an address: 369 Thirty-third Street. It’s in a warehouse district in Long Beach, about ten miles from here. What wants to be filled but will always be empty? A vacant warehouse.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Unless you can think of anything better. Opposites, remember? All of his riddles have been about opposites. Things that aren’t what they want or seem to be. Night and day. Buses that go around in circles. A warehouse that is designed to hold things but is empty.”

  “Maybe.”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds. They had no choice. She grabbed his hand.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  17

  THE WAREHOUSE IDENTIFIED AS 369 on Thirty-third Street stood among a dozen others in northern Long Beach, all constructed from the same corrugated tin, all two stories high, all addressed with the same large black numbers above the doors. Years of neglect had worn most of them down to a dull gray. The 369 was hardly more than a shadow. No sign identifying a business name. Looked vacant.

  Kevin slowed the car and peered ahead at the looming structure. Dust blew across the sidewalk. A faded Mountain Dew bottle, the two-liter plastic variety, bumped up against a single-entry door to the right of the loading bay.

  He stopped the car thirty yards from the corner and eased the gearshift into park. He could hear several sounds—the purring of the engine, the blower blasting air over their feet, the thumping in his chest. They all sounded too loud.

  He glanced at Sam, who stared at the structure, searching.

  “What now?”

  He had to get the gun out of the trunk; that was what now. Not because he thought Slater would be here, but because he wasn’t going anywhere without his new purchase.

  “Now we go in,” she said. “Unless the fire codes were nonexistent twenty years ago, the building will have a rear entrance.”

  “You take the back,” Kevin said. “I’ll take the front.”

  Sam’s right eyebrow lifted. “I think you should wait here.”

  “No. I’m going in.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “I can’t sit around and play dumb, Sam!” The aggression in his tone surprised him. “I have to do something.”

  She faced 369 Thirty-third Street again. Time was ticking. Sixty-two minutes. Kevin wiped a trickling line of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand.

  “Doesn’t seem right,” Sam said.

  “Too easy.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “We don’t have a key—how are we getting in?” he asked.

  “Depends. Getting in isn’t the concern. What if he’s rigged it to blow upon entry?”

  “That’s not his game,” Kevin said. “He said ninety minutes. Wouldn’t he stick to his own rules?”

  She nodded. “Has so far. Blew the bus ahead of schedule but only because we broke the rules. Still doesn’t seem right.” She cracked her door. “Okay, let’s see what we have here.”

  Kevin got out and followed Sam toward the building. As far as he could see in both directions, the street was empty. A warm late afternoon breeze lifted dust from the pavement in a small dust devil twenty feet to his right. The plastic Mountain Dew bottle thumped quietly against the entry door. Somewhere a crow cawed. If Jennifer had figured out the riddle, at least she wasn’t making the mistake of swarming in with the cops. They walked up to a steel door with a corroded deadbolt.

  “So how are we getting in?” Kevin whispered.

  Sam eased the plastic bottle aside with her foot, put a hand on the doorknob, and twisted. The door swung in with a creak. “Like that.”

  They exchanged stares. Sam stuck her head into the black opening, looked around briefly, and pulled back. “You sure you’re up to this?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “I could go in alone.”

  Kevin looked at the dark gap and squinted. Black. The gun was still back in the trunk.

  “Okay, I’m going around back to see what we have,” Sam said. “Wait for me to signal you. When you go in, find lights and turn them on, but otherwise touch nothing. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Could be a suitcase, a box, anything not covered in dust. I’ll work my way through the warehouse in the dark just in case someone’s in there. Unlikely, but we’ll take the precaution. Clear?”

  “Yes.” Kevin wasn’t sure how clear it was. His mind was still on the gun in the trunk.

  “Go easy.” She edged to the corner, looked around, and then disappeared.

  Kevin ran for the car on his tiptoes. He found the shiny silver pistol where he’d hidden it under the carpet behind the spare tire. He shoved it into his belt, closed the trunk as quietly as he could, and hurried back to the warehouse.

  The gun handle stuck out from his belly like a black horn. He pulled his shirt over the butt and flattened it as best he could.

  Darkness shrouded the warehouse interior. Still no signal from Sam. Kevin poked his head in and peered through the oil-thick blackness. He reached in and felt for a light switch along the wall. His fingers touched a cool metal box with a plastic switch on its face. He flipped the switch.

  A loud hum. Light flooded the warehouse. He grabbed at his midsection and withdrew the gun. Nothing stirred.

  He peeked again. A vacant foyer with a receiving desk. Lots of dust. The smell of mildewing rags filled his nostrils. But nothing like a bomb that he could see. Beyond the receiving area, stairs led up to a second floor. Offices. A panel of switches was mounted to the wall at the foot of the stairs. Marks broke the dust directly up the middle of the steps. Footprints.

  He instinctively pulled his head from the door. Slater! Had to be. Sam was right; this was it!

  Still no signal from her. Unless she’d called him and he’d missed it. With all these walls it was possible.

  Kevin held his breath and slipped through the door. He stood still for a moment and then walked on the balls of his feet toward the receiving desk. Behind the desk—could be a place for a bomb. No, the footprints went up . . .

  Clunk!

  Kevin whirled around. The door had swung shut! The wind? Yes, the wind had—

  Click. The lights went out.

  Kevin started in the direction of the door, blinded by darkness. He took several quick steps, stuck out a hand, and groped for the door. His knuckles smashed into steel. He fumbled for the handle, found it, and twisted.

  But it refused to turn. He gripped hard and jerked the handle first to the left and then to the right. Locked.

  Okay, Kevin, stay calm. It’s one of those doors that stays locked. Except that it had opened for Sam. Because she was on the outside.

  Wasn’t it normally the other way around?

  He turned and yelled. “Sam?” His voice sounded muted.

  “Sam!” This time the word echoed from beyond the stairs.

  He’d seen a light panel by the stairs. Maybe they operated other lights? Kevin turned and walked toward the stairs, but his knees found the reception desk first. The crash sent a bolt of electricity through his nerves and he nearly dropped the gun. He stepped to the side and shuffled up to where he remembered the light switches.

  “Samantha!”

  He slapped the wall, found the switches, and palmed them on. No lights.

  The floor above him creaked. “Sam?”

  “Kevin!” Sam! Her voice sounded distant, from the back, as if she was still outside the building.

  “Sam, I’m in here!”

  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Light glowed from the upper level. Kevin glanced back toward the door, saw only darkness, and mounted the stairs. Light glowed faintly above him, a window maybe.

  “Sam?”

  She didn’t respond.

  He had to get to some light
! Another floorboard creaked and he whipped around, gun extended. Was the weapon cocked? He snugged his thumb over the hammer and pulled it back. Click. Easy, Kevin. You’ve never shot a gun in your life. You shoot at a shadow and it might be Sam. And what if the gun doesn’t even work?

  He headed up the stairs on weak legs.

  “Kevin!”

  Sam’s voice came from his right and forward, definitely outside. He paused halfway up the steps, tried to still his breathing so that he could hear better, but finally gave up and hurried toward the light at the top.

  The glow came from a doorway at the end of a barely visible hallway. His breathing came hushed and low now. Something thumped down the hall. He held his breath. There it was again, a step. Boots. Directly ahead and to his right. From one of the other rooms along the hall. Sam? No, Sam was still outside! Dear God, give me strength. He felt exposed standing in the hall. What was he thinking, waltzing up the stairs as if he were some kind of gunslinger?

  Frantic, Kevin stepped to the faint outline of a doorway on his right. The floorboards protested under his feet. He cleared the doorway and slid back against the wall on his left.

  Boots. There was definitely someone else on the upper floor with him. Could be Sam if the acoustics had misdirected her voice. Could it be her? Sure it could.

  It is, Kevin. It’s Sam. She’s in the next room, and she’s found the bomb. No, her voice had been distant. And she didn’t walk like that. No way.

  Her voice suddenly came again, faint. “Kevin!”

  This time there was no mistake, Sam was yelling at him from below, out near the front door now. Her fist pounded on the steel door.

  “Kevin, are you in there?”

  He took one step back toward the doorway. The boot again. Thumping in the next room.

  Someone was in there! Slater. He gripped the pistol tightly. Slater had lured him in. That’s why the riddle was so simple. A dread spread through his bones.

  Sam was at the front door. The deadbolt wasn’t engaged—she should be able to either break it or pick it.

  Another thought occurred to him. The bomb was probably set to go off—what if he was trapped in here when it did? What if the cops came and Slater detonated the bomb early? But Sam would never allow the cops anywhere near the warehouse now.