Thr3e

by Ted Dekker

  Slater takes one deep breath, but very slowly.

  He walks through the living room and puts his hand on the doorknob to the master bedroom. It opens without a sound. Perfect. The room is dark. Pitch-black. Perfect.

  He walks slowly to the bed and stands over the woman. Her breathing is quicker than the man’s. She faces him, mouth slightly parted, hair tangled on the pillow. He reaches out a hand and touches the sheet. Soft and smooth. Two hundred thread count at least. He could stand here over them for an hour and breathe in their smells without being seen. But the light is coming. He doesn’t like the light.

  Slater reaches into his shirt pocket and withdraws a note, which he sets on the dresser. For Kevin. He slips his hand into his coat and takes out a roll of gauze and a bottle of chloroform. He unscrews the bottle and dips the roll into the liquid. The smell fills his nostrils and he holds his breath. It has to be strong enough to put her under without a struggle.

  He replaces the lid on the bottle, drops it into his pocket, and eases the roll of soaked gauze in front of the woman’s nose, careful not to touch it. For a moment she doesn’t stir, then she whimpers in her dreams. But she doesn’t move. He waits twenty seconds, until her breathing slows enough to persuade him that she’s unconscious. He shoves the roll into his jacket.

  Slater settles to his knees, as if bowing before his victim. A sacrifice for the gods. He lifts the sheet and slips his hands under the body until his elbows are directly under her. She lies limp, like a noodle. He gently pulls her toward his chest. She slides off the bed and sags in his arms. The husband rolls half a turn and then settles. Perfect.

  Slater stands and carries her out of the house without bothering to shut the doors. The clock in his car reads 4:57 when he settles behind the wheel with the woman breathing slowly in the backseat.

  Slater starts the car and drives away. He could have carried her to the hiding on foot and returned later for the car, but he doesn’t want to leave the vehicle in front of the house any longer than absolutely necessary. He’s too smart for that. It occurs to him that this will be the first time he’s ever brought a guest to the hiding. When she awakes, her eyes will be the first besides his own to see his world. The thought brings a moment of panic.

  So then, all the more reason not to let her out. It’s what will happen anyway, isn’t it? Even if Kevin confesses, Slater has always known that she will have to die. His exposure to another human being will be temporary. He can live with that. Still, why hasn’t this detail occurred to him earlier? It isn’t a mistake, just an oversight. But oversight can lead to mistakes. He chides himself and turns down the dark street.

  Slater doesn’t bother with stealth now. The woman is stirring, so he gives her another healthy dose of chloroform, yanks the body out of the rear seat, and heaves it over his shoulder. He hurries for the door, opens it with a key, and enters the small room. Close door, feel for chain, pull on overhead light.

  A dim light exposes the space. Down a flight of steps. Another chain, another light. Through the tunnel. Open the second door with a second key. The hiding. Home, sweet home.

  The thought of sharing his home with another person for a little while suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. In fact, it holds its own excitement. Everything he needs is here. Food, water, a bathroom, a bed, clothing, the electronics—of course, she won’t be sharing any of those amenities.

  The woman is stirring again.

  He crosses to the room he’s prepared. The walk-in closet once stored materials he’s used in his games, but he’s cleared it for her. Can’t take the chance that she knows how to set off dynamite now, can he? The room is seven by seven and solid concrete all around except the ceiling, which is heavily insulated wood. The door is steel.

  He places her onto the cement floor and steps back. She groans and rolls to one side. Good enough.

  He closes the door, locks it with a deadbolt, and stuffs a rolled-up rug into the crack at the bottom. Lights out.

  21

  Monday

  Morning

  KEVIN HEARD THE RINGING long before he awoke. It sounded like a high-pitched laugh. Or an intermittent scream. Then there was the pounding, a thumping that could be his heart. But it sounded more like banging on the door.

  “Sir?” Someone was yelling, calling him sir.

  Kevin’s eyes somehow managed to open. Light shone through the window. Where was he? Home. His mind started to drift. He would have to get up eventually and go to class, but at the moment he felt as though he’d met the wrong end of a rhino charge. He closed his eyes.

  The muffled voice came again. “Kevin? The phone . . .”

  His eyes snapped open. Slater. His life had been turned upside down by a man called Slater who called on the phone. The phone was ringing.

  He spilled out of bed. The clock said 7:13. Slater had given them until 6 A.M. He ran to the bedroom door, twisted the lock, and yanked it open. One of the agents watching his house stood there, the cordless phone from the kitchen in hand.

  “I’m sorry to wake you, but your phone’s been ringing on and off for fifteen minutes. It’s a pay phone. Jennifer told us to wake you.”

  Kevin stood in his pinstriped boxer shorts. “Has . . . has anything happened?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Kevin took the phone absently. “Okay. I’ll answer it this time.”

  The agent hesitated, expressionless, and then walked down the stairs for the door. Kevin didn’t even know his name. He wore a dark navy jacket and tan slacks; black hair. Walked stiffly, like maybe his underwear were too tight. But the man had a name and maybe a wife and some kids. A life. What if Slater had gone after this man instead of Kevin? Or gone after someone in China, unknown to the West? For that matter, how many men or women were facing their own Slaters throughout the world? It was an awkward thought, standing there at the top of his stairs, watching the agent leave through the front door.

  Kevin walked back into his bedroom. He had to call Jennifer. Six o’clock had come and gone—something had to have happened.

  The phone suddenly rang. He picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Kevin?” It was Eugene. Kevin felt himself shutting down immediately. The sound of that voice. They didn’t have a phone in the house. He was calling from a pay phone.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God! Thank God, boy. I don’t know what to do! I just don’t know what I should do . . .”

  You could start by drowning yourself. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just that Princess isn’t home. I woke up and she was gone. She never leaves without telling me. I thought maybe she went down for some dog food because we threw it away, you know, but then I remembered that we burned the dog and—”

  “Shut up, Eugene. Please, just shut up and try to make some sense for once. Her name is Balinda. So Balinda left without telling you. I’m sure she’ll be back. You can live without her for a few hours, can’t you?”

  “This isn’t like her. I have a very bad feeling, Kevin! And now I’ve gotten Bob worried. He keeps looking in all the rooms, calling for Princess. You have to come—”

  “Forget it. Call the police, if you’re so worried.”

  “Princess won’t allow that! You know . . .”

  He talked on but suddenly Kevin wasn’t hearing. His mind had turned over a stone. What if Slater had kidnapped Balinda? What if the old hag was really gone?

  But why would Slater take Balinda?

  Because whether you like it or not, she is your mother, Kevin. You need her. You want her to be your mother.

  A cold sweat broke out on his temples and he wasn’t sure why. He had to call Jennifer! Where was Samantha? Maybe Jennifer had heard from her.

  He interrupted Eugene’s rambling. “I’ll call you back.”

  “You can’t call me! I have to go home!”

  “Then go home.”

  Kevin hung up. Where was Jennifer’s number? He ran downstairs, s
till in his boxers, snatched her card from the counter with a trembling hand, and dialed the number.

  “Good morning, Kevin. I’m surprised you’re not still sleeping.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Caller ID. You’re on your home phone.”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “Not yet. I just got off the phone with Samantha. It seems we were wrong about Slater being the Riddle Killer.”

  “We may have a problem, Jennifer. I just got a call from Eugene. He says that Balinda’s missing.”

  Jennifer didn’t respond.

  “I was just thinking, do you think Slater could have—”

  “Balinda! That’s it. It makes perfect sense!”

  “It does?”

  “Stay put. I’ll swing by in ten minutes.”

  “What? Where are we going?”

  She hesitated. “Baker Street.”

  “No, I can’t! Really, Jennifer, I don’t think I can go in there like this.”

  “Don’t you see? This could be the break we need! If he took her, then Slater’s tied to Balinda and Balinda is tied to the house. I know this may be hard, but I need you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “We can’t risk me being wrong.”

  “Why can’t you just go?”

  “Because you’re the only one who knows how to beat him. If Slater did take Balinda, then we know that this whole thing goes back to the house. To the past. There has to be a key to it all, and I doubt that I’m the one who’s going to find it.”

  He knew what she was saying, and it sounded more like psychobabble than truth. But she could be right.

  “Kevin? I’ll be there with you. It’s paper and boards; that’s all it is. I was there yesterday, remember? And Balinda’s gone. Ten minutes?”

  Balinda was gone. Bob wasn’t the problem—he was a victim in this mess. Eugene was just an old fool without Balinda. The witch was gone.

  “Okay.”

  The white house stood as ominously as always. He stared at it through the windshield, feeling silly next to Jennifer. She was looking at him, knowing him. He felt naked.

  Balinda wasn’t in the house. Unless she’d come back. If so, he wouldn’t go in. Jennifer might want him to. She seemed pretty convinced that there was more to this than he’d told her, but in all honesty, he couldn’t think of anything. Slater was the boy and the boy had nothing to do with the house.

  “When is Sam coming?” he asked, stalling.

  “She said noonish, but she has a few errands to run.”

  “I wonder why she didn’t call me?”

  “I told her you were sleeping. She said she’ll call you as soon as she can.” Jennifer looked at the house. “You didn’t tell Sam about locking the boy in the cellar—how much does Sam really know about your childhood, Kevin? You two have known each other for years.”

  “I don’t like to talk about it. Why?”

  “Something’s bothering her. She wouldn’t tell me, but she wants to meet later this afternoon. She’s convinced that Slater isn’t the Riddle Killer. I can buy that, but there’s more. She knows something else.” Jennifer hit the steering wheel. “Why do I always feel like I’m the last to know what’s going on here?”

  Kevin stared at the house. She sighed. “I had to tell Milton about this. He wants to talk to you this morning.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said he would have to take it up with the bureau chief. We still have official jurisdiction. The rest are still running their investigations, but on the ground everything goes through us. The thought of Milton interviewing you gives me the creeps.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” Kevin said, distracted. They might as well get this over with. She would never know how much better he felt with her here. On the other hand, she was a psychologist—she probably would understand. He opened his door.

  Jennifer put her hand on his arm. “Kevin, I need you to know something. If we discover that Slater did take Balinda, there’s no way we can keep it from the media. They’ll want to know more. They can be nosy.”

  “So then my whole life gets dissected by the press.”

  “Pretty much. I’ve done my best this far—”

  “That’s what Slater wants. That’s why he took her. It’s his way of exposing me.” He dropped his head and ruffled his hair.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Kevin stood from the car and slammed the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Walking across the street and up the steps to the front door, Kevin made a firm decision. Under no circumstances would he blubber or show any more emotion in front of Jennifer. He was leaning on her too much already. The last thing she needed was a basket case. He would walk in, give Bob a hug, slug Eugene, do his I’m-looking-for-the-key-to-Slater routine, and leave without so much as batting an eye.

  His foot crossed the threshold for the first time in five years. The tremble started in his fingers. It spread to his knees before the door closed behind him.

  Eugene let them in. “I don’t know. I just don’t know where she could have gone. She should have been back by now!”

  Bobby stood at the end of the hall, grinning wide, beaming. He started to clap and hop in place without leaving the ground. A lump the size of a boulder filled Kevin’s throat. What had he done to Bob? He’d abandoned him to Princess. He’d been punished his whole life in part because of Bob, but that didn’t make Bob guilty.

  “Kevin, Kevin, Kevin! You came to see me?”

  Kevin quickly walked to his brother and hugged the man tight. “Yes. I’m sorry, Bob. I’m so sorry.” The tears were leaking already. “Are you okay?”

  Eugene watched dumbly; Jennifer wrinkled her brow.

  “Yes, Kevin. I’m very good.”

  He didn’t seem so concerned about the old bat’s disappearance.

  “Princess has gone away,” he said, smile suddenly gone.

  “Why don’t you show me your bedroom,” Jennifer said to Eugene.

  “My, my, my, my. I don’t know what I’ll do without Princess,” Eugene said, heading off to the left.

  Kevin let them go. “Bob, could you show me your room?”

  Bob lit up and skipped through the narrow passage between the stacks of newspapers. “You want to see my room?”

  Kevin walked down the hall on numb legs. It was surreal, this world he’d escaped. An issue of Time poked out of the stack to his right. The face on the cover had been replaced by a smiling image of Muhammad Ali. Only God, the devil, and Balinda knew why.

  Bob hurried into his room. He snatched something off the floor. It was an old beat-up Game Boy, a monochrome version. Bob had himself a toy. Balinda had softened in her old age. Or was it because Kevin had left?

  “It’s a computer!” Bob said.

  “Nice. I like it.” Kevin peeked into the room. “Do you still read stories that Bal—Princess gives you to read?”

  “Yes. And I like them a lot.”

  “That’s good, Bob. Does she . . . make you sleep during the day?”

  “Not for a long time. But sometimes she won’t let me eat. She says I’m getting too fat.”

  Bobby’s room looked just as it had five years earlier. Kevin turned back into the hall and pushed open the door to his old room.

  Unchanged. Surreal. He set his jaw. The flood of emotions he’d expected didn’t come. The window was still screwed down and the bookcases were still full of bogus books. The bed he’d spent half his childhood in was still covered by the same blanket. It was as if Balinda was waiting for him to return. Or maybe his leaving didn’t fit into her reality, so she refused to accept it. With her mind there was no telling.

  No keys to Slater here.

  A wail—Eugene—carried through the house. Bob turned and ran for the sound. So it was true.

  Kevin walked back out to the living room, ignoring the sounds of lament issuing from the back bedroom. He should take a torch to this place. Burn out the rat’s
nest. Add a few more ashes to the backyard. The stairwell to the basement was still choked off with a mountain of books and magazines, stacks that hadn’t been touched for years.

  Jennifer stepped out of the master bedroom. “He took her.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “He left a note.” She handed him a blue slip of paper. Three words were scrawled in the familiar handwriting.

  Fess up, Puke.

  “Or what,” he said. “You’ll dump her in the lagoon?”

  Kevin stared at the words, numb from four days of horror. Part of him didn’t care, part of him felt sorry for the old hag. Either way, all of his deepest secrets would soon be on the table for the world to pick through. That was the point. Kevin wasn’t sure how much he cared anymore.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked around. “The health department is going to have a field day once this gets out.”

  “They should burn it.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” she said. Her eyes settled on his. “Are you okay?”

  “I feel . . . confused.”

  “As far as the rest of the world is concerned, she’s your mother. They may wonder why you don’t seem to care. She may be a witch, but she’s still human. Only God knows what he’ll do to her.”

  The emotions came from his gut, unexpectedly and in a rush. He suddenly felt suffocated in the small, dark space. She was his mother, wasn’t she? And he was horrified by the fact that he even thought of her as a mother, because in reality he hated her more than he hated Slater. Unless they were one and the same and she had kidnapped herself.

  A confusing mixture of revulsion and sorrow overcame Kevin. He was falling apart. His eyes swam with tears and his face wrinkled.

  Kevin turned for the door. He could feel their stares on his back. Mommy. Fire burned through his throat; a tear spilled from his left eye.

  At least they couldn’t see. He would never allow anyone to see this. He hated Balinda and he was crying for her and he hated that he was crying for her.

  It was too much. He hurried for the door, crashed through with far more noise than he wanted, and let out a soft sob. He hoped Jennifer couldn’t hear; he didn’t want her to hear him acting this way. He was just a lost boy and he was crying like a lost boy and he really just wanted to be held by Mommy. By the one person who had never held him.