Thr3e

by Ted Dekker

  Jennifer saw the look on his face and stopped. “What is it?”

  “Slater,” he said dumbly.

  “Slater called,” Jennifer said. She rushed up to him. “We’re wrong, aren’t we? This isn’t it!”

  Kevin’s head began to spin. He placed his hands on his temples and closed his eyes. “Think, Jennifer. Think! What wants to be filled but will always be empty? He knew we would come here so he waited for us, but this isn’t it! What wants to be filled? What!”

  “A library,” the agent named Bill said.

  “Did he say how much time?” Jennifer asked.

  “Thirteen minutes. He said he may blow it early because the cops talked to the press.”

  “Milton,” Jennifer said. “I swear I could wring his neck. God help us.” She yanked a notepad from her hip pocket, stared at the page filled with writing, and began to pace. “36933, what else could have a number associated—”

  “A reference number,” Kevin blurted.

  “But from which library?” Jennifer asked. “There’s got to be a thousand—”

  “The school of divinity,” Kevin said. “Augustine Memorial. He’s going to blow up the Augustine Memorial Library.”

  They stared at each other for a moment frozen in time. As one, the three FBI agents ran for the car. “Call Milton!” Bill said. “Evacuate the library.”

  “No cops,” Jennifer said. “Call the school.”

  “What if we can’t get through to the right people fast enough? We need a squad car over there.”

  “That’s why we’re going. What’s the fastest way to the school?”

  Kevin ran for his car across the street. “Down Willow. Follow me.”

  He slid behind the wheel, fired the engine, and squealed away from the curb. Eleven minutes. Could they reach the library in eleven minutes? Depended on traffic. But could they find a bomb in eleven minutes?

  A horrifying thought strung through his mind. Even if they did reach the library, they would have no time to search without risking being caught inside when the bomb blew. There was this matter of seconds again. They could be forty seconds off and not know it.

  A car was one thing. A bus was worse. But the library—God forbid that they were wrong. “You sick coward!”

  They roared down Willow, horns blaring, ignoring the lights completely. This was becoming a bad habit. He swerved out of the path of a blue Corvette and swung onto a smaller surface street to avoid the sea of traffic. Jennifer followed in the big black car. At each intersection the street dips pounded his suspension. He would make Anaheim Street and cut east.

  Seven minutes. They were going to make it. He considered the gun in the trunk. Running into the library waving a gun would accomplish nothing but the confiscation of his hard-earned prize. He only had three bullets left. One for Slater’s gut, one for his heart, and one for his head. Pow, pow, pow. I’m gonna put a slug in your filthy heart, you lying sack of maggot meat. Two can play this game, baby. You picked the wrong kid to tick off. I bloodied your nose once; this time I’m gonna put you down. Six feet under, where the worms live. You make me sick, sick . . .

  Kevin saw the white sedan in the intersection ahead at the last possible moment. He threw his weight back into the seat and shoved the brake pedal to the floor. Tires screeching, his car slid sideways, barely missed the taillight of an ancient Chevy, and miraculously straightened. Hands white on the wheel, he punched the accelerator and sped on. Jennifer followed.

  Focus! There was nothing he could do about Slater now. He had to get to the library in one piece. Interesting how bitter he’d become toward the man in the space of three days. I’m gonna put a slug in your filthy heart, you lying sack of maggot meat? What was that?

  The moment Kevin saw the arched, glass face of Augustine Memorial Library, he knew that Jennifer’s attempts to clear the place had failed. An Asian student ambled by the double doors, lost in thought. They had between three and four minutes. Maybe.

  Kevin crammed the gearshift into park while the car was still rolling. The car bucked and stopped. He burst out and tore for the front doors. Jennifer was already on his heels.

  “No panic, Kevin! We have time. Just get them out as quickly as possible. You hear?”

  He slowed to a jog. She pulled up beside him, then took the lead.

  “How many study rooms are there?” she asked.

  “A few upstairs. There’s a basement.”

  “PA system?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, point the way to the office. I’ll make an announcement; you clear the basement.”

  Kevin pointed out the office, ran for the stairs, and took them in twos. How long? Three minutes? “Get out! Everyone out!” He ran down the hall, spun into the first room. “Out! Get out now!”

  “What’s up, partner?” a middle-aged man asked lazily.

  He couldn’t think of a nonpanicky way to tell the man. “There’s a bomb in the building.”

  The man stared for a second, then bolted to his feet.

  “Clear the hall!” Kevin shouted, breaking for the next room. “Get everyone out!”

  Jennifer’s voice came over the PA, edgy. “This is the FBI. We have reason to suspect that there may be a bomb in the library. Evacuate the building calmly and immediately.” She began to repeat the message, but yells echoed through the basement, drowning out her voice.

  Feet pounded; voices cried out; panic set in. Maybe it was just as well. They didn’t have enough time for order.

  It took a full minute, at least, for Kevin to satisfy himself that the basement was clear. He was putting himself in danger, he realized, but this was his library, his school, his fault. He gritted his teeth, ran for the stairs, and was halfway up when he remembered the supply room. Unlikely anyone would be in there. Unless . . .

  He stopped four paces from the top. Carl. The janitor liked to listen to his Discman while he worked. He liked to joke about how there was more than one way to fill the mind. Books were fine, he said, but music was the higher culture. He took his breaks in the supply room.

  You’re cutting it close, Kevin.

  He whirled and ran back down. The supply closet was to his right, in the back. The building lay in silence now except for the urgent padding of his feet. What was it like to be caught in an explosion? And where would Slater have planted the charges?

  He threw the door open. “Carl!”

  The janitor stood by a stack of boxes with the words New Books written on pink sheets of paper.

  “Carl! Thank God!”

  Carl smiled at him and nodded his head to whatever music pumped into his ears. Kevin ran over to him and pulled the headphones off. “Get out of here! They’ve evacuated the building. Hurry, man! Hurry!”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  Kevin grabbed his hand and shoved him toward the door. “Run! Everyone else is out.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just run!”

  Carl ran.

  Two minutes. There was a second, smaller closet to his right— overflow supplies for administration, Carl had once told him. Mostly empty. Kevin leapt for the closet and pulled the door open.

  How much explosive did it take to blow a building this size? Kevin was staring at the answer. Black wires protruded from five shoe-boxes and met in a contraption that looked like the inside of a transistor radio. Slater’s bomb.

  “Jennifer!” he yelled. He twisted for the door and yelled again, at the top of his lungs. “Jennifer!”

  His voice echoed back. The building was empty. Kevin ran his hands through his hair. Could he carry this thing outside? It’ll blow there. That’s where the people are. You have to stop it! But how? He reached for the wires, paused, and pulled back.

  Pulling the wires would probably set it off, wouldn’t it?

  You’re going to die, Kevin. Any split second it could go. He could set it off early.

  “Kevin!” Jennifer’s scream carried down the stairs. “Kevin, for God’s sake, answer
me! Get out!”

  He fled the supply room in a full sprint. He’d seen the movies a hundred times—the explosion behind, the billows of fire, the diving hero rolling to freedom just out of the blast’s reach.

  But this wasn’t a movie. This was real and this was now and this was him.

  “Kevin—”

  “Get out!” he yelled. “The bomb’s in here!” He cleared the first four steps, and his momentum carried him to the top in two more bounds.

  Jennifer was at the door, holding it open, face white. “What are you thinking?” she snapped at him. “It could go early. You’ll get us both killed!”

  He ran out and tore for the parking lot. Jennifer kept pace.

  A huge arc of onlookers stood a hundred yards off, watching them run. “Get back!” she yelled, sprinting for them. “Farther back! Get—”

  A deep, dull whomp cut her off. Then a louder, sharp blast and the crash of shattering glass. The ground shook.

  Jennifer grabbed Kevin by the waist and pulled him down. They landed together and rolled. She threw her arms over his head. “Stay down!”

  He lay smothered by her for a few long seconds. Screams rolled across the lawn. Jennifer pushed herself halfway up and looked back. Her leg was over the backs of his legs and her hand pressed into his back for support. Kevin twisted and followed her gaze.

  Half of the Divinity School of the Pacific’s crown jewel lay in a heap of smoking rubble. The other half jutted to the sky, stripped of glass, naked.

  “My God, my God, help us all,” Jennifer said. “He blew it early, didn’t he? I could kill Milton.”

  Still breathing hard from the run, Kevin dropped back down and buried his face in the grass.

  19

  Sunday

  Night

  THE LIBRARY EXPLOSION on the heels of the bus bomb put Long Beach at the world’s center stage. All the networks played and replayed live footage of the library being blown to smithereens, courtesy of an alert student. Helicopters circled the hole that had been a building and relayed stunning images to millions of glued viewers. The world had seen this before and everyone had the same question on their minds: Terrorism?

  But the explosion was the work of a madman known only as the Riddle Killer, the networks all said. Miraculously, no one had been hurt in the blast; in fact, no life had been taken by any of the three incidents. Nevertheless, they all knew it was only a matter of time. He’d killed in Sacramento; he would kill in Long Beach. Unless the authorities stopped him first. Unless his intended victim, Kevin Parson, confessed what the killer demanded he confess. Where was Kevin Parson? He’d last been seen running from the building with a woman, an FBI agent by some accounts. They had them on the student’s video. Stunning footage.

  The ATF had entered the fray after the first bomb; now they came in force. The state police, local police, sheriff, a half-dozen other task forces all poured over the library.

  Jennifer did her best to keep Kevin beyond the reach of the media’s long tentacles while making sense of the scene. She avoided Milton, for the simple reason that she didn’t trust herself in his presence. He’d come within a few seconds of killing Kevin and countless others by talking to the press. If she’d been frustrated with him before, the sight of him running to and fro made her seethe now.

  Still, he was an integral part of the investigation, and she couldn’t avoid him once he finished his rounds with the press.

  “You knew this was coming?” he demanded.

  “Not now, Milton.”

  He took her arm and steered her away from the onlookers, squeezing with enough force to hurt her. “You were here. That means you knew. How long did you know?”

  “Let go,” she snapped.

  He released her arm and glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “The word negligence mean anything to you, Agent Peters?”

  “The word carnage mean anything to you, Detective Milton? I knew because he wanted me to know. You didn’t know about the library because he said that if you were told, he’d blow the building early. In fact, he did blow it early, because you had to announce to the world that we’d found Kevin. You, sir, are lucky we got out when we did or you’d have at least two dead bodies on your hands. Don’t ever touch me again.”

  “We could have put a bomb squad in there.”

  “Is there something with the air down here that messes with your hearing? What part of ‘he told us he’d blow the building early’ didn’t penetrate that thick skull of yours? You almost killed us!”

  “You’re posing a danger to my city, and if you think I’m just going to stand by and let you, you’re naive.”

  “And you’re posing a danger to Kevin. Take it up with the bureau chief.”

  His eyes narrowed for a brief second, then he smiled again. “We’re not through with this.”

  “Sure we are.” She walked away. If not for the fact that half the world was watching, she might have taken the man’s tie and shoved it down his throat. It took her thirty seconds to put the man out of her mind. She had more important things to dwell on than an overzealous fool. So she told herself, but in reality Milton sat in her gut like a sour pill.

  Two questions soon preoccupied her mind. First, had anybody seen a stranger enter the library in the past twenty-four hours? And second, had anybody seen Kevin enter the library in the last twenty-four hours? Samantha had raised the question of Kevin’s involvement, and although Jennifer knew the idea was ridiculous, the question raised others. Samantha’s theory that someone on the inside might be somehow tied to Slater bothered her.

  The Riddle Killer was remarkably elusive. The last three days were no exception. Sam was in Texas, flushing out something that had her hopes high. No doubt she’d come waltzing in tomorrow with a new theory that would set them back to square one. Actually, the CBI agent was beginning to grow on her, but jurisdiction had a way of straining the best relationships.

  As it turned out, no one had seen a stranger around the library. And no one had seen Kevin. The front desk receptionist would have remembered Kevin—he was an avid reader. Short of bypassing the security system, of which there was no evidence, the likelihood of anyone entering the library unseen was small. Carl had been in the closet yesterday morning and there’d been no bomb, which meant Slater had found a way in since then, either at night or under their noses, unrecognized. How?

  An hour after the explosion, Jennifer sat across from Kevin in a small Chinese restaurant and tried to distract him with small talk while they ate. But neither of them was good at small talk.

  They went back to the warehouse at nine, this time armed with high-powered halogens that lit up the interior like a football field. Kevin walked through the scene with her. But now it was nearing midnight, and he was half-asleep on his feet. Unlike the library, the warehouse was still silent. No police, no ATF, only FBI.

  She hadn’t bothered to tell Milton about the incident at the warehouse. She would as soon as she was done with it. She’d explained the situation to Frank, and he’d finally agreed to her reasoning, but he wasn’t happy with it. He was getting an earful from a dozen different sources. The governor wanted this tied up now. Washington was starting to apply pressure too. They were running out of time. If another bomb went off, they might take the case from her.

  Jennifer glanced at Kevin, who leaned his head back against the wall in the reception area, eyes closed. She entered a ten-by-ten office storage room where they were compiling evidence for delivery to the lab. Under other circumstances, she would probably be doing this back at her desk, but Milton would be breathing down her neck. Besides, proximity favored the storage room, so Galager had transferred what he needed from the van and set up temporary shop here.

  “Any conclusions, Bill?”

  Galager leaned over a drawing of the warehouse floor plan, on which he’d painstakingly redrawn the footprints as they appeared.

  “Best as I can tell, Slater entered and left through the fire escape. We have a single set of footp
rints coming and going, which correlates with the testimony. He walks up and down the hall a half-dozen times, waiting for Kevin to show, descends the stairs at least twice, springs his trap, and ends up in this room here.” He tapped the room next to Kevin’s hiding place.

  “How did he lock the door? He shut it with the string, but Sam told me it was open when they first arrived.”

  “We can only assume that he had the lock rigged somehow. It’s feasible that with a hard knock the lock could engage.”

  “Seems thin,” Jennifer said. “So we have him entering and leaving through the fire escape. Kevin enters and leaves through the front door. What about the footprints themselves?”

  “When all is said and done, there are only four clear prints, all of which we’ve casted and photographed. Problem is, they’re all from the hallway and the stairs where both Kevin and Slater walked. Same size. Same basic shape. Both hard-soled and similar to what Kevin is wearing—impossible to visually determine which is which. The lab will break it down.”

  Jennifer considered his report. Sam hadn’t entered the building, which was good thinking. But she hadn’t seen Slater come or go either.

  “What about the recording?” Galager had already transferred the data to a tape, which he had in a small recorder on the table.

  “Again, the lab will have to tell us what they can come up with, but it sounds clean to me. This is the first recording from the hotel room.” He punched the play button. Two voices filled the speaker. Slater and Samantha.

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

  Low and gravelly. Breathy. Slater.

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

  She recognized Sam’s voice. The tape played to the end of the conversation and clicked off.

  “Here’s the second recording, made while we were here earlier this evening.” Galager punched it up. This time it was Kevin and Slater.

  Kevin: “H . . . hello?”

  Slater: “H . . . hello? You sound like an imbecile, Kevin. I thought I said no cops.”