BoneMan's Daughters

by Ted Dekker

  “I’m sure your daughter loves you very much. Teenagers are terrible at knowing how to express themselves.”

  Her mind bounced back to her own youth, a time when her father, then a cop, had been killed in a motorcycle accident. He’d never been one for words of encouragement and he’d recorded his regret in a journal that her mother had found after his death.

  The memory of reading those two pages from his computer had been seared into her mind for all time. She’d sat there in silence, alone in the house a full month after his funeral, and wept uncontrollably for the first time since his death.

  I swear I’d kill the man who laid a hand on Ricki. And at times I feel like I deserve no more. I’ve been such a bad father. Dear God, I hate myself.

  The pain had haunted her for years, and sitting here next to another broken father, the memory threatened to tear her apart again.

  She spoke very softly. “Listen to me, Ryan. I know what it’s like. She loves you. She has to; every daughter loves her father. It’s hard at times, but in the end they feel different.”

  He didn’t react.

  “I spoke to your wife and daughter this morning. She seems like a reasonable woman. And your daughter’s angry; none of this makes any sense to her. You have to admit, your reactions have been a bit erratic. But she’s only sixteen; in time she’ll forgive whatever stands between you.”

  Captain Ryan Evans suddenly rolled off the bed and stood on the far side, looking disoriented for a moment before fixing her in his sight. His behavior was strange, she thought, even for a distraught man. She didn’t know much about him, but his commanding officer had made one thing very clear: Captain Evans had a unique and very intelligent mind. What she would give to know what was going through that mind now.

  “BoneMan?” he asked, crossing to the room to the television and flipping it off. “BoneMan, or whatever you would like to call him, was only doing what he felt needed to be done, Agent Valentine. He followed his instincts, just like we did when we bombed Iraq to smithereens. That’s what I learned in the desert from BoneMan’s work. Beyond that, I’m afraid it’s all classified.”

  He stood calm and thoughtful, as if the father in him had flipped a switch and become the captain.

  “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can tell you that will help you.”

  “Seven girls lost their lives to a sadistic killer who may be out there right now, stalking an eighth. And you say you can’t help me?”

  “I’m saying that nothing I have to say will help you stop the man, assuming he’s still active.”

  “You of all people should know what it means to make sure BoneMan never kills again.”

  For a moment she thought he might yell at her. But if the impulse tempted him, he covered it well.

  “Unless you don’t realize that Muslim fundamentalists think of us as no better than the BoneMan, I have nothing to add to your profile of the man,” he said.

  “What happened to you in the desert, Captain Ryan?”

  “A group of insurgents tried to take out my convoy in retaliation for the coalition forces bombing Iraqi women and children. Before I escaped they made it clear that I was no better than BoneMan. So while there is a very loose connection between your investigation and myself, it will hardly deliver you new evidence to solve the case. I’m sorry for your frustration, Agent Valentine, but I’m useless to you. Really.”

  He was probably right, but the ease with which the man righted himself and faced her with such a reasoned conclusion struck her as uncanny.

  She studied him for a moment, then rose, withdrew her card from her purse, and set in on the table.

  “I’m sorry for your troubles, Captain Evans. It sounds like you’ve had a rough few weeks. If I think we need it, we’ll get a subpoena that will allow you to tell me what happened in the desert. In the meantime, if you wouldn’t mind keeping me apprised of your movements?”

  He nodded once.

  “Are you headed back any time soon?”

  “No. I’ll be stateside for a while.”

  “End of tour?”

  “Something like that.”

  She wondered about that.

  “Word of advice, Ryan. I really would steer clear of Burton Welsh. He can be an animal if he gets backed into a corner. You picked the wrong guy to drop your knee into.”

  “I understand.”

  “I was serious when I said you might want to get out of town.”

  “Yes.”

  She picked up her heels. “You have my card. Call me.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  But she doubted he would.

  14

  Two Months Later

  HE WENT BY the name Alvin Finch, not because that was his real name, although it was, but because he went by the name Alvin Finch.

  Some called him BoneMan.

  Some called him by other names, depending on where he was or what he was doing, none of which he found interesting enough to think about when he was alone in the place of complete peace and fear, as he was now. That wonderful, terrible state when heaven and hell collided here, in his mind.

  After almost two years of peaceful nights, resting in the full knowledge that he’d executed and survived his crusade without so much as one scratch to his lily-white skin, Alvin had begun to grow restless.

  His mission had always been painfully clear. On the one hand he was punishing fathers, all fathers, because all fathers were the fathers of lies. None knew how to truly love their daughters the way he could.

  On the other hand, Alvin was looking for the perfect daughter who would love him with complete devotion, the way he loved himself. Unable to find such a daughter, he’d killed all of the girls, satisfied that he was at least punishing the fathers.

  Then the authorities had blamed another man for his mission and he’d taken a sabbatical, always knowing that he would resume his quest at the right time.

  But his growing restlessness had turned to the place of complete peace and fear three weeks ago when he’d made the one discovery that would now haunt him until he either possessed a daughter or died.

  Alvin Finch opened the red robe he’d been wearing all morning and watched it fall around his feet in a heap. The new him, thinner by twenty pounds as a result of rigorous exercise, prompted by the incessant news of how the country was growing fatter by the day, stood naked in the full-length bathroom mirror. His brilliant blue eyes stared lovingly at himself, beautiful next to his white skin. They were his window into heaven itself, reminding him often of his angelic nature. Short-cropped blond hair hugged his skull, easier to keep clean that way.

  He trimmed his hair every morning. Included in his routine were a shave of his neck, chin, and cheeks, as well as the plucking of any stray hairs from his nostrils, ears, and eyebrows. Above the neck he was as neatly groomed as was humanly possible.

  Below the neck, he was perfect. Absolutely exquisite.

  The FBI’s physical profile published in the papers had been nearly perfect, but he’d expected nothing less. He’d run the full stats on white men who weighed roughly a hundred and ninety pounds, stood six feet, wore size-thirteen shoes, and drove pickups, and found similar redneck males to be numerous.

  Satan.

  BoneMan, Alvin Finch, and Satan—these were the three names that awakened the place of peace and fear in his mind. His names.

  The odd thing about hell was that it contained a piece of heaven, or at the very least what felt like heaven. Peace was there, in the place of perfect fear. Or to be more precise, his peace was found in their perfect fear. This alone was Alvin Finch’s piece of heaven on earth.

  Alvin Finch had milky white skin, nearly perfect in every conceivable way. Soft and subtle like a young woman’s, but smoother because he allowed no hair growth, preferring to shave and wax regularly, and because he’d always applied lotion, ever since his mother had given him his first jar of the white Noxzema skin lotion over thirty years earlier.

  There were two th
ings that Alvin loved; three that he cherished. He loved unblemished skin because it made all things perfect on the outside. He loved butterflies because they had perfect skin.

  He loved soap, lots and lots of soap.

  Alvin stepped into the shower, took his time, using six liquid ounces of unscented soap to lather his entire body four times between rinses. He washed his hair three times, as was his custom when he was in the place of peace and fear, as he was now. When the hot water in his one-hundred-gallon tank ran lukewarm, he shut it off and dried himself before stepping onto the tile floor.

  Steam had blanketed the mirrors and he wanted to see his clean, smooth skin again, so he wiped the glass with a fresh towel and then used a hair dryer to clear the mirror of all moisture.

  He studied his image again, paying special attention to his white belly, which, no matter how many sit-ups he did, persisted in showing a small roll of fat. So-called love handles. But otherwise he was quite pleased.

  He took one of the blue jars of Noxzema from the vanity, dipped four fingers deep into the cream, and smeared the luxurious balm over both hands as he watched himself in the mirror. His skin bristled with excitement as he smoothed it on, starting at his chest, working down until he softened his ankles and the soles of his feet.

  Fully moisturized, he next clipped his toenails as he did every day, taking his time to clear the slightest trace of toe jam from under each nail. Using a tissue, he swept up the clippings, rolled them into a ball, and flushed them down the toilet.

  Satisfied that he was clean, he dressed in a pair of loose cargo pants and slipped into a brown plaid button-down shirt. In El Paso and other parts west, he’d worn a hat, but here in the city he found that whatever impression the community had of itself, very few people actually wore hats. They wore work boots and cargo pants and brown plaid, buttoned shirts.

  Alvin stepped into his bedroom and stopped next to the bed. He never opened the blinds, preferring table lamps to the bright sun, which damaged the skin. Now both bedside lamps were off, but he could still see the faces on the wall peering, and he paused to let them stare at him.

  The photographs on his wall numbered well over a hundred now, all faces of younger girls and teenagers, all staring at the camera lens, all without a single pimple or blemish.

  All had all been candidates at one time or another. Potential daughters. Alvin required a daughter, this was his one obsession. A perfect daughter who could love him the way he deserved to be loved. Not sexually, of course. Only sick men stooped so low. They, more than flies and mosquitoes, deserved to be crushed.

  His method was simple: upon searching the world for the candidates who might make him a perfect daughter, he selected only the very best.

  From the very best candidates, he had taken those very few who, after considerable clandestine examination, appeared both accessible and worthy of his standards. Seven. He’d taken seven, and under pressure none had measured up.

  Confronted by their failure, he’d killed all seven. Once having been exposed to him, they simply could not live. But more than this, he knew that he deserved at least some pleasure for all of his hassle.

  Their bones had to be broken, one by one, until their internal bleeding eventually forced them to give up the ghost.

  He’d marked the photographs of the seven he’d killed with a small red dot in the upper right-hand corner. Although none was qualified any longer, he enjoyed their stares and he now considered removing his shirt.

  The new daughter’s face filled his mind, and he turned from the wall of fakes. Alvin was a reasonable man, fully able to control his needs, even the need for a daughter, and when the police had pinned his victims on another man, he’d decided to take an extended break.

  But three weeks ago his hiatus had been dramatically interrupted by a single photograph, like a flash grenade that had been dropped into his world. Welsh, that pretender of the worst sort, had reopened the case after they’d released Phil Switzer.

  Naturally, Alvin had taken a new interest in their every move. He’d learned a great deal, not the least regarding a man who’d claimed to have tangled with a killer tied to the BoneMan in Iraq. A Captain Ryan Evans, who seemed to have lost his head in the incident. A father.

  But that was only a fraction of what Alvin had learned. Ryan Evans was no ordinary father. He was the father of a most extraordinary daughter who no more belonged in Ryan’s heart, mind, or house than did a devil.

  Within the day of stumbling across the girl, Alvin knew that his hiatus was over. He had found the girl who would love him as a father, and no amount of restraint could dissuade him.

  He walked to the head of his bed, lifted his pillow, and withdrew the photograph. This girl would be Alvin Finch’s daughter. Nothing else mattered now besides this stunning creature staring back at him from the 5 x 7 inch glossy photograph in his right hand. He would take her and he would crush any imposter who called himself her father and he would either win her devotion or he would kill her.

  Alvin tucked the photograph back under his pillow and left the room, stilling a tremor in his hands.

  The living room was dark although it was day outside the apartment. He switched on the lamp beside his computer and saw that it was just past noon. The trip would take an hour and a half and he would need to arrive when the sun was down. There was no rush. He’d waited over two years; he would wait another hour.

  There were two things Alvin hated. Nay, three that were an abomination to him. He hated humans. He especially hated ugly skanks with perfect, beautiful faces and skin.

  He hated mothers and fathers.

  Mothers because he hated his own mother who’d made him the way he was and although he cherished himself he also hated himself.

  Fathers because they were all pretenders who could not love their daughters the way he would. The way his mother should have loved him.

  If Alvin had his way, he would line up all the mothers and fathers in the world and break their bones to teach them a lesson.

  Alvin made himself a cheese sandwich and ate it slowly with a large glass of cold milk. He’d been in this particular apartment for just under two months but he’d paid the lease for a full six months, explaining to the landlord that he traveled often and didn’t want to make the mistake of missing a rent check.

  He wasn’t sure how long he would be gone when he left tomorrow. A week, a month, maybe longer. What he did know was that all the waiting would soon be over. All his preparations at each location, the trailer, the truck, the manner in which he would abduct his next victim.

  Alvin washed the last of the cheese sandwich down, rinsed out the glass, and checked the front door to make sure it was locked. Then he walked once around the dark apartment, making sure that everything was in order before stepping out the back door and descending to the garage.

  He’d sold the Ford truck two years earlier, when they’d pinned his work on Phil Switzer, who didn’t have the brains to eat a bowl of cereal without spilling milk down his chin much less kill seven women without breaking their skin. The Ford F-150 parked in the garage now was a blue king cab, identical to the one he’d used before. They should know that the father was back, taking his daughter from under their noses. Nothing would make the statement as much as the tires on this truck and his boot impressions.

  It took Alvin an hour and forty-five minutes to reach the outskirts of the city. He parked in an H-E-B grocery parking lot at the corner of Highway 71 and Bee Cave Road, lay down on his side, and tried to rest.

  But the anticipation was too great and he spent the next two hours fighting off chills of excitement rather than sleep. This particular trip was only a dry run, but he took his dry runs very seriously. If all went well, he would return tomorrow and execute the mission flawlessly. He’d learned a few things in the military that came in very handy now, planning being the most important of them all.

  At six o’clock he went into the store and purchased two lemons, a box of prepared sushi, and two
liters of Mug root beer.

  The sun slowly sank into the western horizon, and unwilling to wait another hour, Alvin started up the Ford and headed down Highway 71 toward Southwest Parkway. By the time he pulled onto Barton Creek Boulevard, he was tingling with anticipation.

  And by the time he’d parked the truck and hiked into his position near the house, where he had a clear view of the girl’s bedroom, he was covered in sweat. He’d learned long ago that applying lotion to sweaty skin was nasty business that turned one into a fish. So he withdrew the towel he’d brought in his knapsack, carefully removed his shirt, applied some lotion to his cooling skin, and feeling refreshed, shrugged back into his shirt.

  Now he could settle down and wait until midnight before walking up to the window to peer inside.

  He’d been watching the house ever since he’d decided he must take her, three weeks ago. The fact that the district attorney, Burt Welsh, was evidently making a play for Bethany’s whore mother was a pleasant surprise that would complicate Alvin’s plans but only in the best of ways.

  The fact that still another man claimed to be her father was even more compelling. The time had come. This was it; he knew this was it in his very bones.

  There were two things that excited BoneMan more than he could possibly express with mere words; nay, three things that sent shivers up his spine.

  A young girl’s cries for mercy.

  Noxzema skin lotion.

  The sound of bones breaking beneath skin.

  15

  “GOOD.” FATHER HORTENSE smiled and sipped his tea. The man reminded Ryan of Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof, a thick man who always dressed in black with a heavy beard that he enjoyed stroking as he contemplated life.

  “Very good, Ryan. I think we could call that a breakthrough.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The last sixty days had perhaps been the most difficult months in his life—a long, dark tunnel without a light to guide him other than his weekly visits with Father Hortense who, in addition to being a priest, was also a board-certified psychiatrist. Under the rather unique circumstances the navy had agreed to give Hortense full supervisory authority over Ryan’s case, including all recommendations as to how his career may or may not continue with the navy.