Thr3e

by Ted Dekker

  The recordings were clear and clean. Jennifer nodded. “Get them to the lab with the footprints immediately. Any word yet on the dagger tattoo or the blood work from the warehouse?”

  “Blood’s too old for anything but type. They’re having trouble even with that, though. Twenty years is a long time.”

  “So it is twenty years old?”

  “Best estimate, seventeen to twenty. Follows his confession.”

  “And the type?”

  “They’re having a hard time typing it. On the other hand, we do have something with the tattoo. A parlor in Houston says they have a large man with blond hair who comes in on occasion. Same tattoo as the one Kevin drew us. Says he’s never seen a tattoo like it except on this man.” Galager grinned deliberately. “The report came in about an hour ago. No current address, but the parlor says the man was in last Tuesday around ten o’clock.”

  “In Houston?” That’s where Sam had gone. “Slater was in Houston last week? Doesn’t sound right.”

  “Houston?” Kevin asked behind her. They turned to see him standing in the door. He walked in. “You have a lead in Houston?”

  “The tattoo—”

  “Yeah, I heard. But . . . how could Slater be in Houston?”

  “Three-hour flight or a very long day’s drive,” Galager said. “Possible he’s going back and forth.”

  Kevin’s brow furrowed. “He has a dagger tattoo? What if this guy turns out to be the boy, but not Slater or the Riddle Killer? You pick him up and now he knows about me, where I live. All I need is another wacko after me.”

  “Unless this guy lives in a cave,” Galager said, “he’s heard the confession and seen your face on television. There’s a chance he is Slater. And there’s an even better chance that Slater is the boy. We have a man threatening you who all but admits that he’s the boy; a boy who has reason to threaten you, identified with a very unique tattoo. And now we have a man with the same tattoo. Circumstantial, I realize, but it sounds pretty plausible to me. We make busts on less.”

  “But can you put someone behind bars with that?”

  “Not a chance. That’s where the physical and forensic evidence comes in. As soon as we have a suspect in custody, we measure him up against the evidence we’ve gathered, which is substantial. We have Slater’s voice on tape. We have his shoe print. We have several bombs, all of which were made somewhere. We have six bugs—all this in three days. A virtual windfall in cases like this. I’d say Slater’s getting sloppy.”

  And more so today than yesterday. “He’s at least pushing the pace,” Jennifer said. “Getting caught doesn’t seem to concern him. Which isn’t good.”

  “Why?” Kevin asked.

  She looked at his haggard face. A blade of grass from the library lawn was still stuck in his shaggy hair. His blue eyes looked more desperate than enchanting now. He didn’t tap his foot or rake his hair as frequently. The man needed rest. “Based on his profile, my guess is that he’s closing in on his objective.”

  “Which is what?”

  Jennifer glanced at Galager. “Good work, Bill. Why don’t you wrap it up and call the locals?” She took Kevin’s arm and led him out. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Two of the streetlights nearest the warehouse were either shut down on energy conservation timers or burned out. A cool ocean breeze drifted over Long Beach. She’d shed her jacket and wore a sleeveless gold blouse with a black skirt—it was actually a bit chilly at this hour.

  She crossed her arms. “You okay?”

  “Tired.”

  “Nothing like fresh air to clear the mind. This way.” She led him toward the fire escape in the back.

  “So, what is Slater’s objective?” Kevin asked again, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

  “Well, that’s a problem. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. On the surface it seems simple enough: He wants to terrorize you. Men like Slater do what they do for a variety of reasons, usually to gratify some twisted need they’ve grown into over many years, but almost without exception they prey on the weak. Their focus is on their own need, not on the victim.”

  “Makes sense. And Slater’s different?”

  “I think so. His objective doesn’t seem to be himself as much as you. I mean you specifically.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Take your typical serial offender. Say a pyromaniac bent on burning down houses. He doesn’t care whose house it is as long as it fits his needs. He needs to see the flame engulfing this structure—it excites him and gives him a feeling of power beyond his reach in any other way. The house is important—it has to be a certain size, maybe a certain build, maybe a symbol of wealth. In the same way a sex offender might prey on women he considers appealing. But his focus is on himself, not the victim. The victim is almost incidental.”

  “And you’re saying that Slater hasn’t chosen me for what I can do for him, but for what he can do to me. Like he did with your brother.”

  “Maybe. But this is playing out differently than Roy’s murder. The Riddle Killer filled his thirst for bloodshed by killing Roy and killing him quickly. Slater is playing with you, over three days now. I’m beginning to question our initial assumption that Slater and the Riddle Killer are the same person.” The Riddle Killer didn’t seem to know his victims, other than Roy, whom he’d selected for her benefit. She rubbed her arms against the cold.

  “Unless all that was just a cover-up for what he’s doing now. Unless extracting revenge for what I did to him was the game all along.”

  “That’s the obvious assumption. I’m not sure anymore. Revenge would be a simple matter. Assuming Slater is the boy you locked up, he could have found a hundred opportunities over the years to extract his revenge. His most obvious course would have been to hurt or kill you. I don’t think Slater’s interested in killing you. Not anytime soon, anyway. I think he wants to change you. He wants to force your hand somehow. I don’t think the game’s the device; I think the game’s the objective.”

  “But that’s crazy!” Kevin stopped and put both hands into his hair. “What is there about me? Who? Who would want to . . . to force my hand?”

  “I know it doesn’t all fit yet, but the sooner we narrow down Slater’s true motivation, the higher our chances of getting you out of this mess.”

  They were at the back, by the fire escape. A ladder reached up to the second floor and curved into a window. Jennifer sighed and leaned against the tin siding.

  “Bottom line is that if I’m right, then the only way to understand Slater’s true motivation is to understand you, Kevin. I’ve got to know more about you.” He was pacing, staring at the concrete, hands still in his hair.

  “I want to know about the house,” she said.

  “There’s nothing to know about the house,” he said.

  “Why don’t you let me judge that?”

  “I can’t talk about the house!”

  “I know you don’t think you can, but it may provide our best clues now. I know it’s hard—”

  “I don’t think you have a clue about how hard it is! You didn’t grow up there!” He paced and smoothed his hair frantically, and then flung his arms wide. “You think any of this means anything? You think this is reality? A bunch of ants running around the globe, hiding their secrets in their deep dark tunnels? We all have our secrets. Who’s to say that mine have anything to do with anything? Why don’t the rest of the ants have to crawl out of their tunnels and broadcast their sins to the world?”

  Kevin was baring himself, and Jennifer needed him to do just that. Not because she would ever exploit him, but because she needed to understand his secrets if she hoped to help him.

  And she did hope to help him. More now than a day ago, even if Slater wasn’t her brother’s killer after all.

  “You’re right,” she said. “We’re all fallen, as my priest used to say. I’m not interested in your sin. I wasn’t even in favor of the initial confession, remember? I’m interested in y
ou, Kevin.”

  “And who am I?” He was desperate. “Huh? Answer me that. Who am I? Who are you? Who is anybody? We are what we do! We are our secrets. I am my sin! You want to know me, then you have to know my sin. Is that what you want? Every little dirty secret out on the table so that you can dissect it all and know Kevin, the poor tormented soul?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You might as well have, because it’s true! Why is it fair that I should spill my guts when the pastor next-door has as many nasty secrets as I do? Huh? If we want to know him, we have to know his secrets, is that it?”

  “Stop it!” Her anger surprised her. “You’re not your sin! Who ever told you that lie? Aunt Balinda? I’ve seen you, Kevin. You asked me what my profile for you was. Well, let me be more specific. You are one of the kindest, gentlest, most interesting, appealing men I know. That’s who you are. And don’t insult my intelligence or my feminine discernment by dismissing my opinion.” She took a breath and a guess. “I don’t know what Slater’s up to, or why, but I guarantee you’re doing exactly what he wants you to do when you start to believe that you’re trapped. You’ve come out of that. Don’t go back.”

  She knew by his blink that she was right. Slater was trying to pull him back to the past, and the thought so terrified him that he was breaking down. Which was exactly how Slater would accomplish his objective. He would trap Kevin in his past.

  Kevin stared at her, stunned. It occurred to her then, looking back into his wide eyes, that she didn’t merely like Kevin, she cared for him deeply. She had no business caring for him; she didn’t even want to care for him, not in that way. Her empathy had risen to the surface, unbidden. She’d always been a sucker for the downtrodden. She had always had a soft spot for men who were hurting in some way. Now her soft spot had found Kevin.

  But this didn’t feel like a soft spot. She actually found him appealing, with his ragged hair and his charming smile. And those eyes. That wasn’t empathy, was it?

  She closed her eyes and swallowed. God forbid, Jennifer. And when was the last time you dated a man, anyway? Two years ago? That hillbilly from Arkansas who came from good stock, so says Mom? She’d never known the full meaning of boring until then. She would prefer a man with a goatee who rode a Harley and winked frequently.

  Jennifer opened her eyes. Kevin was seated on the concrete, cross-legged, head in his hands. The man never ceased to surprise her.

  “I’m sorry, I’m not sure where all that came from,” she said.

  He lifted his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Please, don’t be sorry. That was the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time.” His eyes fluttered open, as if he’d just heard himself. “Maybe nicest is the wrong word choice. It was . . . I think you’re right. He’s trying to pull me back, isn’t he? That’s his objective. So who is he? Balinda?”

  Jennifer sat down beside him and folded her legs to the side. Her skirt wasn’t exactly dress of choice for concrete sitting, but she didn’t care.

  “I need to tell you something, Kevin. But I don’t want it to upset you.”

  He stared ahead and then turned to her. “You went to the house, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. This morning. It took a few threats to convince Balinda to let me in, but I saw the place and I met Eugene and Bob.”

  Kevin lowered his head again.

  “I know it’s hard, but I need to know what happened in that house, Kevin. For all we know, Slater could be someone Balinda hired. That would fit the profile. She wants to change you. But without knowing the whole story, I’m floundering here.”

  “You’re asking me to tell you something no one knows. Not because it’s so horrible—I know I’m not the only one who’s had a few challenges along the way. But it’s dead and buried. You want me to bring it back to life? Isn’t that what Slater’s trying to do?”

  “I’m not Slater. And frankly, it doesn’t sound dead and buried to me.”

  “And you really think this whole game has to do with my past?”

  She nodded. “I’m assuming that Slater has an objective that is tied to your past, yes.”

  Kevin remained quiet. The silence stretched, and Jennifer sat beside him feeling his tension, hearing his breathing. She wondered if it would be appropriate to put a hand on his arm but immediately decided it wouldn’t.

  He suddenly groaned and rocked. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “You can’t slay the dragon without luring it out of its hole. I want to help you, Kevin. I need to know.”

  For a long time he just sat there rocking. Then he stilled and his breathing slowed. Maybe it was too much too fast. He’d faced more than most could stomach these last three days and she was pushing him even further. He needed sleep. But she was running out of time. Slater was escalating.

  She was about to suggest that they get some rest and consider it in the morning when he turned his face to the night sky.

  “I don’t think Balinda’s intentions were necessarily evil.” He spoke in a soft monotone. “She wanted a good playmate for Bob. He was eight when they adopted me; I was one. But Bob was retarded. I wasn’t, and Balinda couldn’t accept that reality.”

  He paused and took several deep breaths. Jennifer shifted and leaned on her arm so that she could watch his face. His eyes were closed.

  “Tell me about Balinda.”

  “I don’t know her story, but Balinda creates her own reality. We all do, but Balinda only knows absolutes. She decides what part of the world is real and what part isn’t. If something isn’t real, she makes it go away. She manipulates everything around her to create an acceptable reality.”

  He stopped. Jennifer waited a full thirty seconds before prodding him. “Tell me what it was like to be her son.”

  “I don’t know it yet, because I’m too young, but my mom doesn’t want me to be smarter than my brother. So she decides to make me retarded too because she’s already tried to make Bob smarter but she can’t.”

  Another stall. He was switching tenses, dipping into the past. Jennifer felt her stomach turn.

  “How does she do that? Does she hurt you?”

  “No. Hurting is evil in Balinda’s world. She won’t let me out of the house because the world outside isn’t real. The only real world is the one she makes inside the house. She is the princess. She needs me to read so that she can shape my mind with what she makes me read, but she cuts up stories and makes me read only things she decides are real. I’m nine years old before I know there are animals called cats because Princess thinks cats are evil. I don’t even know there is evil until I’m eleven. There’s only real and unreal. Everything real is good and everything good comes from Princess. I don’t do anything bad; I only do things that aren’t real. She makes the things that aren’t real go away by starving me of them. She never punishes me; she only helps me.”

  “When you do something that’s not real, how does she punish you?”

  He hesitated. “She locks me in my room to learn about the real world or makes me sleep so I’ll forget the unreal world. She takes away food and water. That’s how animals learn, she says, and we are the best animals. I can remember the first time because it made me confused. I was four. My brother and I are playing servant, folding dishtowels for Princess. We have to fold them over and over until they’re perfect. Sometimes it takes all day. We don’t have toys because toys aren’t real. Bob asks me what one plus one is because he wants to give me two towels, but he doesn’t know what to call it. I tell him that I think one plus one is two and Princess overhears me. She locks me in my room for two days. Two towels, two days. If Bob doesn’t know how to add, then I can’t either, because it isn’t real. She wants me to be dumb like Bob.”

  An image of Balinda seated under a stack of clipped newspapers filled Jennifer’s mind and she shivered.

  Kevin sighed and changed tenses again. “She never held me. She hardly even touched me unless it was by mistake. Sometimes I went without food for d
ays. Once a whole week. Sometimes we couldn’t wear clothes if we did unreal things. She deprived us both of anything she thought might feed our minds. Mostly me, because Bob was retarded and he didn’t do as many things that weren’t real. No school. No games. Sometimes no talking for days. Sometimes she made me stay in bed all day. Other times she made me sit in the bathtub in cold water so I couldn’t sleep all night. I could never ask her why, because that wasn’t real. Princess was real, and if she decided to do something, anything else was unreal and couldn’t be talked about. So we couldn’t ask questions. Even questions about real things, because that would question their reality, which was unreal.”

  Jennifer filled in the blanks. The abuse wasn’t primarily physical, not necessarily even emotional, although there was some of both of those. It was primarily psychological. She watched Kevin’s chest rise and fall. She desperately wanted to reach out to him. She could see the boy, sitting alone in a bathtub of cold water, shivering in the dark, wondering how to make sense of his horrible world that he’d been brainwashed to think was good.

  She fought back tears. Kevin, dear Kevin, I’m so sorry! She reached out her hand and put it on his arm. Who could do such terrible things to a little boy? There was more, details, stories that could undoubtedly fill a book to be studied by universities across the country. But she didn’t want to hear more. If she could only make it all go away. She might be able to stop Slater, but Kevin would live with this past until the day he died.

  A brief absurd image of her lying down beside him and holding him gently in her arms ran through her mind.

  Kevin suddenly groaned and then chuckled. “She’s a twisted, demented lunatic.”

  Jennifer cleared her throat. “Agreed.”

  “But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Telling you about it makes me feel . . . good. I’ve never told anyone.”

  “Not even Samantha?”

  “No.”

  “Sometimes talking about abuse helps us deal with it. Our tendency is to hide it, and that’s understandable. I’m glad you’re telling me. None of it was your fault, Kevin. It’s not your sin.”