by Ted Dekker
What about Jennifer? And Sam? He would lose them, wouldn’t he? The best things in his life—the only things that mattered now— would be ripped away by Slater. And if he found a way to escape Slater this time, the man would be back to hunt him down again. No, he had to end this once and for all. He had to kill or be killed.
Kevin swallowed hard and ran on through unsuspecting residential neighborhoods. Helicopters chopped through the sky. He couldn’t quickly differentiate the police from others, so he hid from them all, which slowed his progress even more. Eleven police cars crossed his path, each time forcing him to alter direction. He ran for one hour and still was only halfway there. He grunted and pushed on. The hour stretched into two. With every step, his determination increased until he could almost taste his bitterness toward Slater, the coppery taste of blood on his dry tongue.
The warehouse district dawned on him without warning. Kevin slowed to a walk. His wet shirt clung to his torso. He was close. His heart began to pound, as much from his nerves as from exertion now.
Five P.M. Slater had given them six hours. Three plus three. The ultimate in this sick little game of threes. By now the whole city would be on a desperate manhunt to find Balinda before the nine o’clock deadline. The FBI would have listened to the surveillance from the house and, with Sam, they would be pounding their collective skulls against the wall trying to decode Slater’s cryptic message. You’ll know, Kevin. It’s dark down here.
Would Sam figure it out? He’d never told her about the place.
Kevin crossed railroad tracks and slipped into a patch of trees sequestered away here on the outskirts of the city. Close. So close.
You’re going to die, Kevin. His skin felt like a pincushion. He stopped and looked around. The city noise sounded distant. Birds chirped. A lizard scurried over dead leaves to his right, stopped, craned a bulging eye for a view of him, and then darted for the rocks.
Kevin walked forward. What if he was wrong? It could have been the warehouse where he’d trapped the boy, of course—that was dark down here. But Slater would never be so obvious. Cops would be crawling all over the place, anyway. No, this had to be it.
He caught sight of the old toolshed through the trees and stopped. What little paint remained flaked gray with age. Suddenly Kevin wasn’t sure he could go through with it. Slater was probably hidden behind one of the trees at this very moment, watching. What if he did run, and Slater stepped out from his hiding place and shot him? He couldn’t call for help—he’d dumped the cell phone in an alley behind a 7-Eleven five miles east.
Didn’t matter. He had to do this. The gun dug into his belly where he’d moved it when it rubbed him raw at his back. He touched it through his shirt. Should he pull it out now?
He eased the gun from his belt and walked forward. The shack sat undisturbed, hardly more than an outhouse. Breathing deliberately through his nose, Kevin approached the rear door, eyes glued to the boards, the cracks between them, searching for a sign of movement. Anything.
You’re going to die in there, Kevin.
He crept up to the door. For a moment he stood there, shaking badly. To his right, deep tire marks ran through the soft earth. A rusted Master Lock padlock hung from the latch, gaping. Open. It was never open.
He eased the lock out of the latch and set it on the ground. Put his hand on the handle and pulled gently. The door creaked. He stopped. A small gap showed pitch-blackness inside.
Dear God, what am I doing? Give me strength. Did the light even work anymore?
Kevin pulled the door open. The shack was empty. Thank God.
You came to find him, and now you’re thanking God that he isn’t here?
But if he’s here, he’s under that trapdoor, down the stairs, through the tunnel. That’s where “dark down here” is, isn’t it?
He stepped in and pulled a chain that hung from a single light bulb. The bulb glowed weakly, like a dim lounge lamp. Kevin closed the door. It took him a full five minutes, trembling in the dim yellow light, to work up enough courage to pull the trapdoor open.
Wood steps descended into black. There were footprints on the steps.
Kevin swallowed.
A mood of pending doom had settled over the conference room and two adjacent offices in the Long Beach police headquarters where Jennifer and the other FBI agents had worked feverishly over the past four days.
Two hours of methodical searching, both on the ground and from the air, had turned up nothing. If Slater’s dark down here place was the warehouse cellar, he would walk in to find two uniformed policemen with weapons drawn. Sam had called in twice, the last time after giving up her ground search. She wanted to check into something that she didn’t elaborate on. Said she would call back. That was an hour ago.
The forensic report on the shoe prints had come in—inconclusive. Jennifer had retraced every detail of the past four days, scrutinizing them for clues to which of the two new theories held more water. Either Kevin was Slater, or Slater was framing Kevin by seeding evidence to make it appear that he was Slater.
If Kevin really was Slater, then at least they had their man. No more games for Slater. No more victims. Unless Slater killed Kevin, which would be tantamount to suicide. Or unless Slater killed Balinda. Then they’d have two dead bodies lying in a place that’s dark down here. Even if Slater didn’t kill Balinda, Kevin would have to live with what he did as Slater for the rest of his life. The thought brought a lump to Jennifer’s throat.
If Slater were someone else, Kevin would merely be the poor victim of a horrible plot. Unless he was killed by Slater, in which case he’d be the dead victim of a horrible plot.
The clock ticked on. 5:30. Jennifer picked up the cell phone and called Sam.
“Sam, we’re dead down here. We don’t have a thing. The shoe prints came back inconclusive. Please tell me you have something.”
“I was just going to call. Have you talked to John Francis yet?”
“No. Why?”
“I’ve been at Kevin’s house digging through his writings, papers, books, anything where he might have made reference to his past, a clue to a place that’s dark. I knew Kevin was intelligent, but I never expected quite this—mind blowing. No obvious references at all to Slater or anything that even hints at multiple personalities.”
“Which could support our theory that he was framed,” Jennifer said.
“Maybe. But I did find this in a periodic journal he keeps on his computer. Listen. Written two weeks ago.
“‘The problem with most of the best thinkers is that they dissociate their reasoning from spirituality, as if the two exist in separate realities. Not so. It’s a false dichotomy. No one understands this more than Dr. John Francis. I feel like I can trust him. He alone truly understands me. I told him about the secret today. I miss Samantha. She called . . .”
“It continues about me,” Sam said. “The point is, I think Dr. John Francis may know more than he may realize.”
“The secret,” Jennifer said. “Could be a reference to something he never told you. A place he knew as a child.”
“I want to talk to him, Jennifer.”
It was the only glimmer of light Jennifer had seen in two hours. “You have his address?”
“Yes.”
Jennifer grabbed her coat. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
The descent into the bomb shelter and through the tunnel had wrung a gallon of sweat from Kevin’s glands. The door at the bottom of the stairwell into the basement stood wide open. Kevin leaned forward and peered into the room for the first time in twenty years, numb on his feet.
A shiny black floor with patches of concrete showing through. A chest freezer to the right, next to a white stove and a sink. A metal desk to the left, piled with electronics. Boxes of dynamite, a file cabinet, a mirror. Two doors that led . . . somewhere.
Kevin held the gun out with both hands, breathless. Sweat stung his eyes. This was it! Had to be. But the room was empty! Where was Sl
ater?
Something bumped against the door to his right and Kevin jerked the gun toward it. Gray carpet had been rolled and stuffed into the crack at its base.
Thump, thump, thump. A muffled cry.
Kevin’s body went rigid.
“Is someone there?” He could barely make out the words. “Pleeeease!”
Balinda. The room started to move. He shoved a foot forward and steadied himself. Frantic, he searched the room again. Where was Slater?
“Pleeeease, please.” She sounded like a mouse. Kevin took another step. Then another, gun wavering before him.
“I don’t want to die,” the voice wept. “Please, please, I’ll do anything.”
“Balinda?” Kevin’s voice cracked. The sounds stopped. A thick silence settled.
Kevin struggled to breathe. Slater had left Balinda here for him to find. He wanted Kevin to save his mommy, because that’s what little boys do for their mommies. He had deserted her, and now he would rescue her to make up for the horrible sin. Kevin’s world started to spin.
“Kevin?” The voice whimpered. “Kevin?”
“Mommy?”
Something scraped the concrete behind him. He whirled, gun extended.
A man stepped out of the dark shadows, sneering. Blond hair. No shirt. Beige slacks. White tennis shoes. No shirt. A tattoo of a heart over his left breast with the word Mom stenciled in black. He held a large silver gun at his side. No shirt. His naked torso struck Kevin as obscene. Slater, in the flesh.
“Hello, Kevin,” Slater said. “I’m so glad you found us.” He edged to his right.
Kevin followed him with the gun, finger tightening. Do it! Shoot. Pull the trigger.
“I wouldn’t shoot just yet, Kevin. Not until I tell you how you can save Mommy. Because I swear if you kill me now, she’s dead meat. Do you want Mommy to be dead meat?” Slater grinned and moved around slowly, gun still at his side. “Well, yes, I suppose you might want Mommy to be dead meat. That would be understandable.”
A fist thumped into the door. “Kevin! Help me!” Balinda’s muffled voice cried.
“Shut up, witch!” Slater yelled, face flushed red. He caught himself and smiled. “Tell her it isn’t real, Kevin. That the darkness isn’t really dark. Tell her that if she’s a good girl, you’ll let her out. Isn’t that what she told you?”
“How do you know me?” Kevin asked, voice cracking.
“You don’t recognize me?” Slater exposed his forehead with his left hand. “I had the tattoo removed.”
He was the boy, but Kevin already knew that. “But . . . how do you know about Balinda? What are you doing?”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” Slater edged closer to the door Balinda was thumping on. “Four days of crystal-clear clues and you still are as stupid as you look. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this? Hmm? Planned for this. It’s brilliant. Even if you think you know, you don’t. Nobody will know. Ever. That’s the beauty of it.”
Slater giggled. His face twitched.
“Drop the gun,” Kevin said. He had to know what Slater meant. He wanted to shoot the man. He wanted to send a piece of lead through his forehead, but he wanted to know what Slater was saying.
“Drop the gun.”
Slater reached for the doorknob, twisted it, pushed the door open. Balinda sat on the floor, hands bound behind her back, foot against the door. Slater calmly pointed his pistol at her white, stricken face.
“Sorry, Kevin,” Slater said. “Toss me the peashooter, or I shoot Mommy.”
What? Kevin felt his face flush with heat. He could still shoot and Slater would be dead before he could kill Balinda.
“Drop it!” Slater said. “I’ve got this trigger milled down to a hair. You shoot me and my finger twitches and she’s dead.”
Balinda started to cry. “Kevin . . . honey . . .”
“Now! Now, now, now!”
Kevin lowered the gun slowly.
“I know how fond you are of it, but when I say drop, I really do mean drop. Now!”
Kevin dropped the gun and stepped back, panicked.
Slater slammed the door shut on Balinda, stepped forward, and scooped up the gun. “Good boy. Mommy will be proud of you.” He shoved Kevin’s gun into his own belt, walked toward the door to the stairwell, and shut it.
“There.”
Balinda’s feet thumped the door again. “Kevin? Pleeeease . . .”
“Ahhhhh!” Slater screamed and ran at the door. He kicked it hard enough to put a dent in the steel. “Shut up! One more peep and I’ll staple your mouth shut!”
Slater stood back, panting. Balinda quieted.
“Don’t you hate these women who don’t know how to keep their yappers shut?” Slater turned around. “Now, where were we?”
A strange resolve settled over Kevin. He was going to die down here after all. He really had nothing to lose. The twisted boy had grown up into a pathetic monster. Slater would kill both him and Balinda without a fleeting thought of remorse.
“You’re sick,” Kevin said.
“Now there’s a novel thought. Actually, you’re the sick one. That’s what they suspect now and, believe me, by the time I’m done here, they won’t have any reason to think differently.” “You’re wrong. You’ve already proved your insanity. You’ve torn this city to shreds and now you’ve kidnapped an innocent—”
“Innocent? Hardly, but that’s not the point. The point is, you kidnapped her.” Slater grinned wide.
“You’re not making sense.”
“Of course not. I’m not making any sense to you because you’re not thinking. You and I both know that I did all those nasty things. That Slater called Kevin, and Slater blew up the bus, and Slater is holding the old witch in a cement box. Problem is, they think that Kevin is Slater. And if they don’t yet, they will soon enough. Kevin is Slater because Kevin is crazy.” Grin. “That’s the plan, puke.” Kevin stared, mind numb. “That’s . . . that’s not possible.”
“Actually, it is. Which is why it’ll work. You don’t think I’d go for something implausible, do you?”
“How could I be you?”
“Multiple Personality Disorder. MPD. You’re me without even knowing that you are me.”
Kevin shook his head. “You’re actually stupid enough to think that Jennifer—”
“Sam believes it.” Slater walked over to the desk and touched a black box that looked like an answering machine. He’d lowered the pistol to his side, and Kevin wondered if he could rush him before he had a chance to lift it and shoot.
“She found the cell phone I used in your pocket—that alone’s enough for most juries. But they’ll find more. The recordings, for instance. They’ll show that my voice is really your voice, manipulated to sound like a terrible killer named Slater.” Slater feigned horror and shivered. “Oooo . . . chilling, don’t you think?”
“There are a thousand holes! You’ll never get away with it.”
“There are no holes!” Slater snapped. Then he grinned again. “And I already am getting away with it.”
He picked up a picture. It was a photograph of Sam, taken at a distance with a telephoto lens. “She’s really quite beautiful,” he said, lost in the image for a moment. He reached up and ripped down a large black sheet that hung on the wall. Behind it, fifty or sixty pictures had been affixed to the concrete.
They were all of Samantha.
Kevin blinked and took a step forward. Slater’s gun came up. “Stay back.”
Pictures of Sam on the street, New York, Sacramento, through a window, in her bedroom . . . Heat spread down Kevin’s neck.
“What are you doing?”
“I wanted to kill her once.” Slater slowly faced Kevin, eyes sagging. “But you know that. You wanted her, so you tried to kill me instead.”
Slater’s lips began to quiver and his breathing came in short quick drags. “Well, now I am going to kill her. And I’m going to show the world who you really are, because you’re no better than
I am. You’re the pretty boy down the street she loves to play with. But does that make you better? No!” He screamed the last word and Kevin jumped.
“Hang out with me for a while and we’ll see how sweet you are.” He leaned forward and tapped Kevin’s chest with the gun barrel. “Deep down inside you’re no different than I am. If you’d met me before you met Samantha, we’d both have been at her window, licking the glass. I know that, because I was just like you once.”
“That’s what this is about?” Kevin demanded. “A jealous schoolboy come back to butcher the boy across the street? You’re pathetic!”
“And so are you! You’re sick like the rest of them.” Slater spat a thimbleful of saliva at the cement. It landed with a smack. “Sick!” He took two steps forward and shoved the gun into Kevin’s cheek. Pain flashed up his jaw. “I should just end this now. You and all the freaks who pretend to be so sweet on Sundays! You may not be me but really you are me, you slug.”
Slater’s body shook against Kevin’s.
Kevin’s mind began to shut down. You’re going to die, Kevin.
Slater fights a desperate urge to pull the trigger. He knows that he can’t do it. This isn’t the plan. Not this way. Not yet.
He stares at Kevin’s round eyes. The smell of fear and sweat wafts through his nostrils. Impulsively he sticks out his tongue and presses it firmly against Kevin’s jaw. He draws it all the way up his cheek to his temple, as if he’s licking an ice-cream cone. Salty. Bitter. Sick, sick, sick.
Slater shoves Kevin and steps back. “Know what I taste? I taste Slater. I’m going to kill her, Kevin. I’m going to kill both of them. But that’s not what the world will think. They’re going to think that you did it.”
Kevin straightens and glares at him. The man has more spunk than Slater estimated. Enough to come here, he’d guessed as much. But he can’t forget that this man also locked him in that cellar once, when he was still a boy. They might be more alike than even Slater realizes.
