by Ted Dekker
And he knew that the only hope he had of beating this game was to shut down his emotions entirely so that he could focus on the challenge at hand. Doing so with Ahmed weeping in the chair had been a monumental hurdle, but Ryan had managed for the most part.
The fact that Kahlid had left a clock on the table this time didn’t help. The ticking was a constant reminder that they were in a time lock.
He glanced at the small white alarm clock and saw that three hours had passed. Three to go.
“What’s going to happen?” the boy asked in Arabic for the hundredth time.
Ryan looked at him without expression. If the boy learned that he could speak his language, he would continue as he had for the first half hour, begging for some explanation, asking for his mother, explaining that he was only going out to get wood as his father had asked him to.
None of this was useful information and only weakened Ryan’s resolve to guard his mind.
He closed his eyes and centered his thoughts once again, stepping through the facets of this challenge as he had so many times already.
One: Kahlid’s entire game was built upon the belief that if presented with an edited video of an American officer begging that his wife and daughter die to save the lives of Iraqi children, some of whom were seen broken on the floor, the American public would cry out in outrage and demand that such senseless killing of children be stopped, regardless of whose side it was on. And Ryan thought he had a point. Especially if the video included images of his wife and child being killed. They would be furious at the terrorist, but his point would be made in spades.
Two: To accomplish his mission, Kahlid must coerce an American soldier into the position of making such a plea by presenting him with precisely the kind of threat he’d chosen.
Three: The game assumed that Ryan actually cared whether or not the children died as much as he cared whether his wife or child died.
Four: The game required him to play. If he was incapacitated or killed, he would do Kahlid no good. A dead man could not make a plea on videotape.
Five: The game depended on a camera. The one now eyeing them.
Six: The game depended on whether or not he cared that his wife died.
Ryan stopped to consider this matter again, since it had presented itself to his mind twice now. The fact was, he really wasn’t sure that his loyalty to this one woman was any greater than his loyalty to the American people. Or his loyalty to Ahmed. Especially if Ahmed was joined by another child. A girl named Miriam.
The six primary concerns he’d laid out in his mind represented a total of twenty-seven independent variables, and he’d dwelt on each from every conceivable angle already, but he reapplied himself to some of the more obvious solutions to his conundrum now.
The most obvious solution was to change Kahlid’s mind. Highly unlikely, but in this game of wits, Ryan could play a few cards of his own and at the very least stall the man. Naturally he would try.
He could try to escape. Again, not likely, but he’d considered a dozen possibilities, all of which depended mostly on luck, but he wasn’t exactly brimming with optimism.
He could try to remove himself from the equation by either killing himself or by being killed. In an escape attempt perhaps. It would require some ingenuity and some luck, but he would do it if needed.
He could simply offer up Celine.
Again, the thought stopped him cold.
His mind drifted back to the eighteen years since his marriage to Celine. She’d waltzed into the computer department at Office Depot, one year out of high school, and accepted his help in choosing a new laptop for a job she was taking with an ad agency. The job turned out to be a telemarketing scam that she had quit two weeks later.
The spark ignited between them in Office Depot turned into a whirlwind romance and marriage four months later. Admittedly, the worst mistake he’d ever made.
Within weeks Ryan realized that he’d married an uncommonly needy woman who quickly turned her lack of fulfillment into the belief that having a baby would satisfy her. Unable to have a child due to a botched abortion when she was eighteen, she insisted they adopt. Ryan had agreed, perhaps one of the best choices he’d made in his eighteen years of marriage.
Bethany had entered their lives one year later, and Ryan had never drawn any distinction between her and a daughter they might have had through birth.
Bethany he would never jeopardize for any reason. This he knew. This he refused to even consider, regardless of the reasoning behind it. Maybe it was true that he’d abandoned her when she needed him the most, but he was still her father and he still loved her as a father loved his child. How could a father give up his daughter?
But Celine…
No. No, he could never live with himself.
Then again, who said he had to live with himself? What if giving up Celine, assuming Kahlid would agree, actually saved Bethany as well as Ahmed?
But no. He couldn’t.
Then what?
Then he had to stop wasting time considering options that were impossibilities for him and focus on those that might be viable solutions, however unlikely.
A new thought presented itself to him. What was the true worth of one child?
He opened his eyes and studied Ahmed, who was watching him. His coal black hair was ruffled, and peach fuzz extended down from his sideburns in the earliest showings of facial hair. He wore stained tan shorts, probably one of only a few he owned.
His green T-shirt had an image of Arnold Schwarzenegger wearing dark glasses, with the word Terminator beneath it.
He closed his eyes and shut out the image. Was his life worth more than this one boy’s life? How could you assign worth to human life?
Kahlid was doing all of this because he’d lost a boy like Ahmed and he believed that the only way to save many more like him was to sacrifice this one. He believed that this was the will of God.
Now Kahlid wanted Ryan to play God. So then, assuming there was a God who made such choices, what would God do? Sacrifice one child?
Save Ahmed.
The thoughts began to run together. Dizziness swept over him and his world turned black. What if he couldn’t beat this game? What if there was no way to win?
His heart rate suddenly increased and his breathing thickened in the telltale sign of a panic attack. Ryan sucked deep through his nose and blew the air out slowly several times. This was not good. He had to get a grip, clear his mind, and apply himself to the three options that made the most sense.
Manipulation.
Escape.
Suicide.
THE DOOR SWUNG open four minutes after the six-hour mark and Kahlid walked in with the two men who’d first confronted him in this prison. They had towels, a dozen or more, rolled up. And a sledgehammer.
Ryan’s world faded for the second time in the last six hours. Blood coursed through his veins, pumped by a heavy beat. His chest tightened to restrict his breathing, and his eyes, though open, stopped seeing for a moment.
He’d suffered panic attacks once in Turkey for no outwardly good reason at all. The doctor had said they might be related to diet.
Everything in him suddenly wanted to scream out in rage. But giving in at this point would only undermine any chance he had of beating Kahlid at his own game.
Slowly his vision returned.
The boy was chattering through tears. Three words drummed through Ryan’s mind: Manipulation. Escape. Suicide. In that order, if possible.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said.
“I’ve already offered a deal. It’s the only one I’ll consider.”
“Did I say my deal was different than yours?”
The man cracked his neck slowly. “You are not in a position to be clever, Kent. By now you’ve considered every possible outcome of this scenario and you realize that the only option that makes sense is for you to do as I say. That is my only deal.”
“Then I’ll agree to your deal. I’ll give you the n
ame and address of my wife.”
Kahlid arched his brow. “Really? To save this one boy?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
He would give an entirely false address, of course, one that he knew didn’t exist. A street in San Antonio that he knew ended in the 1200 block. Celine and Bethany had moved to Austin when he’d shipped out for this last tour. He didn’t want Kahlid anywhere near them.
“No, I said wife and child. Not wife.”
The demand was unexpected and Ryan hesitated. And in that hesitation he knew that he’d made a critical mistake. He’d just informed the man that he indeed had a child.
Kahlid smiled. “Thank you. I was hoping you had a child. And I need both.”
“If I give you one I’m giving you both, aren’t I?”
Kahlid walked behind the boy, ripped gray duct tape off a roll, and strapped it around his quivering lips, eyes on Ryan.
“I’m tempted to let you hear him scream, but I don’t think I could stand it.”
“I’ll give them to you!” Ryan snapped, losing himself.
“Emotion. That’s good, Kent. Because I need more than just the name and address of your wife and daughter… it is a daughter, isn’t it?”
“None of your business.” His fingers were shaking now.
“Better.” He nodded at the men, who came over and knelt down on either side of the boy. “I need you to look into the camera, give your true name and your rank, and then beg that I kill your wife and daughter for the sake of this child. I need the world to see it all.”
“I’ll give you their names and—”
“Now, Kent. What is your real name?”
His world started to dim again, and he began to shake. It was involuntary and he made no effort to still himself. He had to keep the man talking.
“Okay. You win. You sick pig. Captain Frank Barnes.”
“Address?”
“1400 Houston Way.”
“City?”
“San Antonio, Texas.”
Kahlid withdrew a radio from his pocket and spoke the address into the mouthpiece.
The men forced the boy to kneel beside the metal chair, positioning his forearm over the edge.
Nausea swept through Ryan’s gut. His mind quickly ran through his remaining options.
Escape was out of the question at this moment.
Suicide would take too much time now, assuming he could really go through with it.
The radio crackled. Soon. Only seconds had passed. They’d planned this down to the last detail.
“The address doesn’t exist,” a voice said in Arabic.
“Please… okay. Just give me a minute!” Ryan cried the words without intending to yield to emotion.
“Watch! I want you to watch what you have done. You can’t hide your head in the sand like the rest of your country! Watch what your decision does!”
“Please…”
Kahlid shifted his eyes to one of his men. “Break his bones.”
Something snapped in Ryan’s mind. He could feel it break loose and fall away like curtains dropping to the stage.
The chains that held him gave him a mere six inches of play, but he didn’t care about that. He had to do something, anything. So he lunged forward with all of his strength, screaming a wordless protest.
His backside barely cleared the seat before the chains stopped him.
He heard the boy screaming through his tape. And above the scream he heard the sound.
It was only a soft pop of bone breaking within flesh, but it was a sound that would haunt even the coldest heart.
The pop chased Ryan into darkness and he slumped into unconsciousness.
WHEN RYAN’S MIND drifted back into the dim light, the first thing he discovered was that the metal chair that had been occupied by the boy Ahmed was empty. He looked left and right and saw no one.
So then he’d imagined it? A flash of relief was immediately followed by reason.
No. He’d heard the pop. Kahlid had simply removed the boy. In what condition, Ryan refused to consider.
An overwhelming sense of remorse flooded his mind. Remorse for the boy, Ahmed, yes. But even more, remorse for his own daughter. For Bethany.
He now knew with very little uncertainty that at the end of this ordeal, Bethany would be either dead or fatherless, and he was surprised by the pain he felt at the latter possibility. Not because he feared death; and in truth he was dead. But because now he realized that Bethany already was fatherless.
He’d abandoned her already.
What had he been thinking?
And Celine? Yes, his wife as well! How could he blame her for needing love if her own husband wasn’t close to love her?
Suicide was his only option now. He had no choice but to take his own life and end this madness. It was the only way to save his family and any more children like Ahmed, whom the butcher named Kahlid put before him.
Something else had changed. His arms.
Ryan looked down and blinked. They’d bound his arms in towels and strapped them tightly to the sides of the chair. His first thought was that they intended to break his bones.
But then he saw that they had taped his legs to the chair as well. They had immobilized him. Crude but effective means to keep him from cutting his wrists on the chains.
They’d put him on suicide watch.
A knot formed in Ryan’s gut. Kahlid knew his psychology. He’d trapped Ryan in a predicament that could not end with an escape into his own death.
A soft whimper sounded behind him. He twisted his head around and saw two things that etched a bitter chill down his neck. The first was Ahmed’s dead, badly bruised, and twisted body on the floor just behind his chair.
The second was a teenaged girl hog-tied in the back corner, staring at him with brown eyes through long stringy hair.
Miriam.
Dear God. Dear God, forgive me…
8
RICKI VALENTINE SLOWLY paced along the two tables on which she’d carefully organized the reams of reports and photographs from BoneMan’s files. Laid out in seven columns, one for each case, in the order they’d been investigated. A map of Texas faced her from the wall behind the tables, showing the path of death BoneMan had carved from El Paso to Austin.
Four days had passed since Kracker asked her to dive back into the case that had consumed her two years earlier, and she’d spent half of that time pacing. Running her hand along the table, examining each piece of data, each field report, each photograph, with the intent of extracting even a whiff of evidence they’d missed before.
Her task was a simple one: Keep Switzer behind bars, because they all knew that Switzer was BoneMan. Save the DA. Prevent a killer from breaking another bone.
Convince the evidence to tell her something new.
But the evidence wasn’t cooperating.
Mark Resner, her partner on the case, leaned against his desk ten feet to her left, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, tapping a pencil on his palm as he watched her.
“The lioness stalks,” he said quietly.
She looked at him and saw that he was smiling.
“Is that what I am? I feel a bit more like a snake at the moment.”
“Now there’s an image.”
“Snaking through all this slimy mess.”
“Give it a break, Ricki. We’ve both been over it a hundred times; there’s nothing new on that table.”
She shifted her gaze to the black picture window. They were three stories up, facing a large brick building that cut out the city’s night lights. Her reflection stared back. Haunting. Her black hair was absorbed by the night, leaving only a face with brown eyes gazing at her.
To think that the fate of BoneMan was held in the grasp of this petite thirty-five-year-old woman. An odd thought.
“Mind closing the blinds?”
Mark walked to the window and lowered the white blinds.
It was more than just BoneMan’s fate. It was the fa
te of other victims, should BoneMan strike again. Of the DA, should Switzer go free. The people when the realization that the killer who’d terrorized Texas was not behind bars.
“I think you’re right, Mark,” she said, turning her attention back to the stacks of files. “There’s nothing new here.” She walked to the end of the table, picked up one file marked Blood Lab, and headed back the way she’d come, drumming her fingers on the file.
“I can’t help but thinking…” But she wasn’t sure quite how to put it.
The thought had run circles through her mind all afternoon and into the evening, but she’d refused to give it much attention, because her task was to find new evidence, not rehash old.
“Blood?” Mark asked, eyeing the file. “The blood work’s been verified in three separate lab workups.”
“I know, Switzer’s blood, both samples apparently from the original sample.”
“But not conclusive.”
“Not conclusive in our way of thinking. But the margin of error is so small, we both know the judge will probably allow the new evidence and declare a mistrial. That’s why we’re here.”
“But…” Mark said expectantly.
Ricki took a deep breath and eased to the middle of the room, eyes on the table all the way. She stopped, held out the blood file, and released it.
The manila file landed on the carpet with a soft plop.
Ricki put her hands on her hips and nodded at the table. “What do you see?”
Mark joined her and stared at the stacks, the map, all that was BoneMan in the FBI files.
“You’re saying Switzer isn’t BoneMan?” he said. “I know how it looks, but—”
“No, Mark. Just tell me what you see. What do you know about the files on that table?”
“They meticulously detail BoneMan’s work in seven murders. Crime scene investigation reports, lab work, evidence gathered and analyzed, interviews, behavior profiles, photographs. You want me to go on?”
“You see BoneMan.”
“I see BoneMan.”
“Do you see Switzer? Just what’s on the table, do you see Switzer?”
“I think I do, yes.”
“Well, I’m not sure I do, Mark.” She paced to her right, propping one arm on the other, turning the silver cross on her breastbone absently. “Standing back, two years after the fact, if I really do pull out the blood work, I just can’t say for sure that the killer on that table is the man we have behind bars.”
