Thr3e

by Ted Dekker

  “Kevin?” Jennifer was running after him.

  He only wanted to be held by Princess.

  22

  Monday

  Afternoon

  THE QUESTIONS HAD NAGGED at Samantha through the night. The scenario fit some unseen hand like a glove; the question was, which hand? Who was Slater?

  She’d talked to Jennifer upon waking and heard about the note on Kevin’s windshield. She should have taken an earlier flight! Jennifer suspected kidnapping, but as of seven this morning there had been no evidence of foul play.

  Sam told Jennifer about Salman. If the Pakistani Salman had indeed met with Slater in New York, then whoever the FBI had located with a tattoo could not be Slater, because Slater’s had been removed. Furthermore, Slater couldn’t be the Riddle Killer—he’d been in New York at the time of Roy’s murder. Jennifer hadn’t been ready to accept her conclusion out of hand, but the two cases did have a few significant disparities that were obviously weighing on her mind. She talked about objectives. She was beginning to suspect that the Riddle Killer and Slater weren’t similarly motivated.

  As for the tattoo, they would know within a few hours.

  Sam’s plane landed at LAX at 12:35. She rented a car and headed south for Long Beach. Traffic on 405 was as bad as it got for a weekday. She called Jennifer. The agent answered on the first ring.

  “Hi, Jennifer, it’s Sam. Anything?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. The tattoo is a bust. Our man works on an oil rig six months a year. He’s been out on one for the last three weeks.”

  “Makes sense. Any word on a kidnapping?”

  Jennifer hesitated and Sam sat up. “Balinda was taken from her home last night,” Jennifer said.

  “Balinda Parson?” Sam’s pulse spiked.

  “One and the same. No contact, no leads, nothing but a note left in Slater’s writing: ‘Fess up, Puke.’ Kevin took it pretty hard.”

  Sam’s mind was already whirling. Of course! Taking Balinda would force media attention on Kevin’s family. His past. “Does the media know?”

  “Yes. But we’re keeping them away from Baker Street under the claim that it could trigger Slater. There’s wall-to-wall coverage on this thing. I’ve spent the last hour handling interagency concerns. The bureaucracy’s enough to drive me nuts. Milton’s ticked off, the ATF wants the evidence from Quantico—it’s a mess. Meanwhile we’re dead in the water.”

  Jennifer sounded tired. Sam braked and came to a stop behind a pickup truck billowing black smoke. “How is he?”

  “Kevin? He’s dead to the world. I left him at his house about two hours ago, sleeping. God knows we could all use some rest.”

  Sam pulled around the truck. “I have some ideas, Jennifer. Is there a chance we could meet sooner?”

  “What is it?”

  “I . . . I can’t explain right now.”

  “Come by the station. Unless something breaks, I’ll be here.”

  “Okay. But I have to chase something down first.”

  “If you have information that’s pertinent to the investigation, I expect to be told. Please, Sam, I can use all the help I can get here.”

  “I promise you I’ll call the second I know anything.”

  “Sam. Please, what’s on your mind?”

  “I’ll call you,” Sam said and hung up.

  Without evidence her fears would have to remain the paranoia of a close friend, desperate for answers. And if she was right? God help them. God help Kevin.

  She drove south, ticking off the facts. Slater had been in New York at the same time she’d been there. Slater knew her, a small detail she’d withheld from the CBI. Knowing Roland, he’d yank her from the case.

  Slater was obsessed with Kevin’s past; Slater was the boy; Sam had never seen the boy; all of the riddles had to do with opposites; all demanded a confession. Slater was trying to force Kevin back into his past. Who was Slater?

  A chill snaked down her arms.

  Samantha approached Kevin’s house from the west, parked two blocks down, and took to foot, careful to keep yard fences between herself and the black car parked up the street. She had to do this without causing a fuss, and the last thing she wanted to do was wake Kevin if he was asleep.

  Dread swelled in her chest as she neared. The notion that Kevin might indeed be Slater refused to budge from her tired mind.

  She had to wait for the agent up the street to turn his head before crossing from the neighbor’s fence into Kevin’s backyard. She hurried up to the sliding glass door and knelt so that Kevin’s picket fence blocked her head from the car’s line of sight. Working quickly above her head, she inserted a thin pick into the lock and worked it with as much precision as she could from the awkward angle. The pin fell and she pried up the latch. She wiped a bead of sweat from her cheek, glanced back at the black car, slid the glass door open a foot, and slipped past the pulled blinds. She reached back through and closed the door.

  If they’d seen her, they would be moving already. They hadn’t.

  Sam looked around the house. A two-by-four-foot travel poster of a bikini-clad native walking down a white beach said that New Zealand promised paradise. Dear Kevin, you want so much. I should have known how badly you were hurting, even when we were children. Why did you hide it from me? Why didn’t you tell me?

  The house’s silence engulfed her. So peaceful, so quiet, asleep while the world crumbled. She crossed to the stairs and took them on her tiptoes. Kevin’s bedroom was to the left. She eased the door open, saw him on the bed, and walked quietly up to him.

  He lay sprawled on his belly, arms above his head, as if surrendering to some unknown enemy beyond the mattress. His head rested on its side, facing her, lower cheek bunched, mouth closed. His face didn’t speak of surrender, only sleep. Deep, deep, sweet sleep.

  He was dressed in street clothes; his tan Reeboks sat on the floor, nudging the bed skirt.

  Sam briefly wondered if Jennifer had stayed with him until he fell asleep. Had she seen him like this? This sweet boy of hers? This stunning man who bore the weight of a hundred worlds on his shoulders? Her champion who’d slain the wicked boy on Baker Street?

  What did Jennifer see when she looked at him? She sees the same as you do, Sam. She sees Kevin and she can’t help but to love him as you love him.

  Sam reached out, tempted to brush his cheek. No, not as I love him. No one can love him as I love him. I would give my life for this man. She withdrew her hand. A tear broke down her right cheek. Oh, how I love you, dear Kevin. Seeing you these last three days has reminded me how desperately I love you. Please, please tell me that you will slay this dragon. We will, Kevin. Together we will slay this beast, my knight.

  The childhood role-playing reference flooded her with warmth. She turned away and walked into his closet. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Something that Slater had left. Something that the FBI missed because they wouldn’t have guessed that it belonged to Slater.

  Kevin had ordered his clothes neatly. Slacks and shirts hung in a row, jeans and cargo pants folded and stacked, shoes on a rack. Seminary dress to the right, casual dress to the left. She smiled and ran her fingers through the slacks. She smelled the shirts. His scent lingered. Amazing how she recognized it after so many years. He was still a boy. A man, Sam. A man.

  She searched the closet and then slowly worked her way through the rest of his room, walking around him, careful not to make any sound. Other than the rise and fall of his back, Kevin did not move. Sam found nothing.

  The bathroom proved no better, and her spirit lightened. She didn’t want to find anything.

  His study. Sam shut the door and sat at his desk. She ran a finger over his books: Introduction to Philosophy. Sociology of Religion. Hermeneutics Revealed. Two dozen others. He was in his first semester at the divinity school but he’d bought enough texts for two years, easily.

  On the floor beside the desk she saw a small pile of paper, which she picked up. A paper he’d tit
led “The True Natures of Man.” He was a true man.

  Please, Sam, let’s cut the romantic drivel and do what you came to do.

  She was less concerned about noise; there were two doors between her and Kevin. She searched the drawers and removed the books one by one. This is where Slater would leave a clue. This was the room of the mind. He was obsessed with numbers and mind games. The mind. Somewhere, somewhere.

  A small stack of business cards, topped by a slip of paper bearing her own number, sat by a calculator that looked fresh out of the box, perhaps never used. The first card belonged to John Francis, Ph.D., Academic Dean, Divinity School of the Pacific, South. Kevin had spoken at length about the man. Surely Jennifer had already interviewed him.

  And what if she hadn’t? The last four days rushed by without time for standard procedure or a thorough investigation. She picked up the phone and called the number on the card. A receptionist with a nasal voice asked her if she wanted to leave a message. No, thank you. She hung up, turned over the card, and saw that Kevin had scribbled another number with the same prefix. She dialed it.

  “Hello, this is John.”

  “Hello, Dr. John Francis?”

  “Yes, this is he.”

  “This is Samantha Sheer with the California Bureau of Investigation. I’m working with an agent Jennifer Peters on the Kevin Parson case. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Of course. Agent Peters was here yesterday morning.”

  “Kevin speaks highly of you,” Sam said. “You have a doctorate in psychology, isn’t that right?”

  “Correct.”

  “What is your assessment of Kevin?”

  “That’s a bit like asking which animals live in the sea. Kevin’s a wonderful man. I can’t say there’s anyone else I’d rather tangle my wits with. Extraordinary . . . genuine.”

  “Genuine. Yes, he is genuine. Nearly transparent. Which is why it’s strange he can’t remember this sin Slater demands he confess, don’t you think? I’m wondering, is there anything that’s occupied him in these last few weeks? Any reoccurring themes, projects, papers?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. He was quite interested in the natures of man. You might say consumed with the subject.”

  Sam picked up the rough draft of the paper. “The true natures of man,” Sam said. “And what are the natures of man? Or what would Kevin say are the natures of man?”

  “Yes, well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it? I’m not sure I can tell you what Kevin would say. He told me he had a new model, but he wanted to present them cohesively in his paper.”

  “Hmm. And when is this paper due?”

  “He was scheduled to turn it in this Wednesday.”

  “For what class?”

  “Introduction to Ethics.”

  “One more question, Doctor, and I’ll let you go. You’re a religious man with an education in psychology; would you say that the natures of man are primarily spiritual, or psychological?”

  “I know that Freud would turn in his grave, but in my mind there’s no doubt. Man is primarily a spiritual being.”

  “And Kevin would agree to that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he would.”

  “Thank you for your time, Doctor. You sound like a reasonable man.”

  He chuckled. “They pay me to be; I do try. Anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

  She set the phone down. Ethics. She scanned the paper and saw that it was hardly more than the recitation of several theories on man’s natures. It ended with a new heading: “The True Natures.” She set the pages down. Where would Kevin keep his notes on the natures of man?

  She stepped over to the bookcase and reached for a large gray book titled Morality Redefined. The book was used, frayed around the edges, pages yellowing. She lifted the cover, saw that it was a library book. Copyright 1953.

  Sam flipped through the pages, but there were no notes. She was about to replace the book when the back cover fell open. Several loose sheets of white paper dropped to the floor. On the top of one in Kevin’s handwriting: The True Natures of Man, an Essay.

  Samantha withdrew the pages and sat down at the desk. They were only notes. Three pages of notes. She scanned them, a simple outline with headings that fit the subject. Summaries.

  We learn as we live, and we live what we learn, but not so well.

  How can a nature be dead and yet live? He is dead in the light, but thrives in the dark.

  If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what would they say?

  They are all pretenders, who live in the light but hide in the dark.

  Insightful. But there was nothing here that Slater would have . . .

  Sam froze. There at the bottom of page four, three small words.

  I AM I.

  Sam recognized the handwriting immediately. Slater! “I am I.”

  “Dear God!”

  Sam set the pages on Kevin’s desk with a trembling hand. She began to panic.

  No. Stop. What does “I am I” even mean, Sam? It means Slater is Slater. Slater snuck in here and wrote this. That proves nothing except that he has his nose in every part of Kevin’s life.

  If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what would they say?

  Then how had Kevin and Slater talked to each other? The FBI had a recording. How, how? Unless . . .

  A second cell. He’s using another cell phone!

  Sam ran for Kevin’s room. Dear God, let me be wrong! He hadn’t moved. She crept up to him. Where would he keep the phones? The one Slater had left him was always in his right pocket.

  There was only one way to do this. Quickly, before she awakened him. Sam slipped her hand into his right pocket. He wore cargo pants, loose, but his weight pressed her hand into the mattress. She touched the phone, felt the recording device on the back. Slater’s.

  She rounded the bed, crawled up for better access, and slid her hand into his left pocket. Kevin grunted and rolled to his side, facing her. She stayed still until his breathing returned to a deep slow rhythm and then tried again, this time with his left pocket exposed.

  Her fingers felt plastic. Sam knew then that she was right, but she pulled it out anyway. A cell phone, identical to the one Slater had left for Kevin, except black instead of silver. She flipped it open and scrolled through the call history. The calls were to the other cell phone. One to the hotel room phone. Two to Kevin’s home phone.

  This was the cell phone Slater had used. To talk, to detonate the bombs. Sam’s mind throbbed. There could be no doubt about it.

  They would crucify him.

  23

  SAM ROLLED OFF THE BED, closed Kevin’s door, and flew downstairs. She gripped the phone Slater had used to make his calls in her right hand—for now Slater wouldn’t be making those calls, at least not on this phone. She didn’t bother being discreet on her exit but walked right out the back, turned up the street, and ran for her car.

  I, Slater, am I, Kevin. And that had been Samantha’s greatest fear. That her childhood friend had a multiple personality disorder as she’d suggested to Jennifer a day earlier, and then immediately rejected because Kevin was in the room when Slater called. But it struck her as she lay trying to sleep last night that Slater had not talked to her while Kevin was in the room. The phone had only rung while he was in the room. Kevin was in the hall before she picked up and heard Slater. Kevin could have simply pushed the send button in his pocket and then talked to Sam once in the hall. Could multiple personalities work that way?

  She’d been with Kevin in the car when Slater called, just before the bus blew. But she had no proof that Slater was actually on the line then. They had no recording of that call.

  It was absurd. It was impossible! But try as she might in sleepless fits, Sam couldn’t account for a single definitive situation that necessarily proved they couldn’t be the same man. Not one.

  Mere conjecture! It had to be coincidence!

  Now this.

  If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what
would they say?

  Sam reached her car, stomach in knots. This might not be enough. She’d been irresponsible to suggest the possibility to Jennifer in the first place. The man you think you might be falling in love with is insane. And she’d said it so calmly for the simple reason that she didn’t believe it herself. She was only doing what she was trained to do. But this . . . this was an entirely different matter.

  And Kevin wasn’t insane! He was merely role-playing, as he had learned to do with Balinda for so many years. He had split into a divergent personality when he first began to comprehend true evil. The boy. He had been the boy! Only he didn’t know that he was the boy. To Kevin at age eleven, the boy was an evil person who needed to be killed. So he killed him. But the boy had never died. Slater had simply remained dormant until now, when somehow this paper on the natures of man had allowed him to resurface.

  She could still be wrong. In true cases of multiple personality disorders, the subjects were rarely conscious of their alternate personalities. Slater wouldn’t know that he was Kevin; Kevin would not know that he was Slater. Actually they weren’t each other. Physically, yes, but in no other way. Slater could be living right now as Kevin slept, plotting to kill Balinda, and Kevin wouldn’t have a clue. Some things Slater did would be merely imagined; others, like the bombs and the kidnapping, would be acted out.

  She tossed Kevin’s phone on the seat and punched Jennifer’s number into her own.

  “Jenn—”

  “I need to meet you! Now. Where are you?”

  “Sam? I’m down at the PD. What’s wrong?”

  “Have you gotten the lab reports on the shoe prints and the recordings yet?”

  “No. Why? Where are you?”

  “I was just in Kevin’s house and I’m headed your way.” She pulled onto Willow.

  “How’s Kevin?”

  Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s asleep. I found a second phone on him, Jennifer. It was the phone used to call the cell with the recording device. I don’t know how else to say this. I think Kevin is Slater.”