Thr3e (31 page)

Her childhood friend had grown into quite an incredible man, hadn’t he? Tormented by his past, perhaps, but he’d escaped that hellhole he called a home and flourished. Part of her wanted nothing more than to run back to him and throw herself in his arms and beg him to marry her. Sure he had his demons; everyone did. Yes, he had a long struggle ahead of him; didn’t they all? But he was the most genuine man she’d ever known. His eyes shone with the excitement and wonder of a child, and his mind had absorbed the world with stunning capacity. His progress was nearly superhuman.

On the other hand, she could never marry Kevin. Their relationship was too valuable to compromise with romance. He saw that too, otherwise he never would have allowed room for any attraction to Jennifer. Their occasional romantic innuendo was simply teasing. They both knew that.

She sighed.

“Tough interview,” Steve said beside her.

She picked up her cell phone and punched in her boss’s number. It would be late, but she had to get this to him. “I thought it went pretty smoothly,” she said.

Roland picked up the phone on the fourth ring. “It’s midnight.”

“He was two hours late,” Sam said.

“And?”

“And he knew Slater.”

“Our guy?”

“Very possible. Tattoo like that is extremely unusual. But he claims to have known Slater in New York.”

“So.”

“So it was four months ago. Over a period of about a month. The Riddle Killer was in Sacramento then, killing Roy Peters.”

“So Slater’s not the Riddle Killer.”

“That’s right.”

“Copy cat?”

“Could be.”

“And if Slater is the boy, he’s no longer walking around with a dagger tattoo on his forehead because he had it removed.”

“So it seems.”

Roland covered the phone and spoke to someone—probably his wife unless he was in a late meeting, which was entirely possible.

“I want you back in Sacramento tomorrow,” he said. “If Slater isn’t the Riddle Killer, he’s not your concern.”

“I know, sir. I have three days left on my leave, remember?”

“We called you back in, remember?”

“Because we believed that Slater was the Riddle Killer. If he’s not, the trail’s cold.”

Roland considered her argument. He wasn’t the most reasonable man when it came to time off. He put in eighty hours a week and expected his subordinates to do the same.

“Please, sir, I go way back with Kevin. He’s practically family to me. I swear, three more days and I’ll be back in the office. You have to let me do this. And there’s still the chance that I’m wrong about Salman’s testimony.”

“Yes, there is.”

“It’s still possible that Slater knows the Riddle Killer.”

“Possible.”

“Then give me more time.”

“You heard about the library?”

“The whole world heard about the library.”

He sighed. “Three days. I expect to see you at your desk Thursday morning. And please, tread lightly down there. This is unofficial. From what I’ve heard the whole scene is one big snake pit. Every agency in the country has a stake in this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Roland hung up.

Sam considered calling Jennifer but decided it could wait until morning. She could tell her only that Slater wasn’t the Riddle Killer. She needed to satisfy herself as to the rest before she said anything that might do Kevin more harm than good.

She’d already checked on flights back. No red eyes, one at
6
A.M. and one at
9
A.M. She needed sleep. The nine o’clock United flight would have to do. It would take her through the Denver hub and put her in Long Beach at noon.

“Okay . . .” Kevin watched Jennifer pace the warehouse floor. They’d delayed plans to share details of the warehouse with the police and instead decided to use the place as a staging area. It was the only way to keep Milton off her back, Jennifer said.

“Let’s review what we
do
know.”

Agents Bill Galager and Brett Mickales straddled chairs by the table, chins in their hands, focused on Jennifer. Kevin leaned against the wall, arms crossed. It was hopeless. They were beat; they were clueless; they were dead. They’d rehashed a hundred ideas in the two hours since Slater’s note had been discovered.

“We know that he’s escalating. Car, bus, building. We know that all of his other threats made reference to damage of some kind. This one did not. We know that we have until
6
A.M. to solve or . . . or what we don’t know. And we know the riddle.
Who escapes their prison but is captive still?”

Jennifer spread her hands.

“You’re forgetting the most crucial bit of knowledge,” Kevin said.

“Which is?”

“The fact that we’re toast.”

They stared at him as if he’d just walked in and flashed his pecs. A wry grin crossed Jennifer’s face. “Humor’s good.”

“People,” Mickales said. “He’s gonna do people this time.”

“There were people every time.”

“But he went after a car, a bus, and a building. This time he goes straight after people.”

“Kidnapping,” Kevin said.

“We’ve suggested that. It’s a possibility.”

“If you ask me, it’s the best one,” Mickales said. He stood up. “It fits.”

Jennifer crossed to the table, eyes suddenly wide. “Okay, unless anybody has a better idea, we’ll chase that.”

“Why would Slater kidnap anyone?” Kevin asked.

“For the same reason he threatened to blow up a bus,” Mickales said. “To force a confession.”

Kevin stared at the man, suddenly overwhelmed. They’d been at it ad nauseam and they kept coming up with the same thing, which was essentially nothing. In the end it always came back to his confession.

“Look.” He could feel the heat rising up his spine. He shouldn’t be doing this—he was beyond himself. “If I had the slightest clue as to what this wacko wanted me to confess, you think I would hold out?”

“Easy, man. Nobody’s suggesting—”

“I don’t have the foggiest notion what his crazy confession is! He’s nuts!” Kevin stepped toward them, aware that he’d crossed a line already. “They’re out there screaming bloody murder for Kevin’s confession. Well, I gave them one, didn’t I? I told them I killed someone as a kid. But they want more. They want real blood. They want me to bleed all over their gossip columns! Kevin, the kid killer who brought down Long Beach!”

His fingers were trembling. They looked at him in silence.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Man . . .”

“Nobody’s screaming bloody murder out there,” Jennifer said.

“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I don’t know what to do. This isn’t all my fault.”

“You need rest, Kevin,” Jennifer said. “But if Slater’s planning to kidnap someone, you may be a target. I know he said it wasn’t you, but I’m not sure what that means.” She turned to Galager. “Keep the watch on the house, but I want a transponder on him. Kevin, we’re going to give you a small transmitting device. I want you to tape it where it won’t be found. We’ll leave it inactive—this guy’s into electronics; he may scan for signals. Anything happens, you turn it on. The range is roughly fifty miles. Fair enough?”

He nodded.

She walked toward him. “Let’s get you home.”

Galager headed for the van, which was still parked on the street. Kevin walked outside with Jennifer. The weight of two days without sleep descended on him. He could hardly walk straight, much less think straight.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blow up.”

“No apology needed. Just get some sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

She looked off to the east. The helicopters were down for the night. “He said no cops. We could put a guard on likely targets, but for all we know, he’s planning on kidnapping the mayor. Or it could be another bomb.” She shook her head. “You’re right, we’re pretty much toast.”

They stopped at the car. “It meant a lot,” he said. “Talking to you tonight. Thank you.”

She smiled, but her eyes were tired. How much sleep had she gotten in the last three days? He suddenly felt terrible for her. Flushing out Slater was more than a job for her.

“Go home and get some sleep,” she said, squeezing his arm. “Galager will follow you home. We have someone outside. If Slater makes contact—if
anything
happens—call me.”

Kevin looked up to see Galager pull up in the black car. “Somehow I doubt it’ll be me. That’s not what he wants. I’ll be fine. The question is, who won’t be?”

What if it was Jennifer? Sam was in Houston.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Why would he want to kidnap me?”

Kevin shrugged. “It’s not like I have a lot of friends.”

“I guess that makes me a friend. Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

By the time Kevin finished with Galager’s little lecture on the operational procedures for the transmitter and climbed into bed, the three o’clock hour had come and gone. His head was numb before it hit the pillow. He fell into an exhausted sleep within the minute, lost to the horrors of his new life.

For an hour or three.

Slater stands by the fence, stock-still in the darkness. He’s given them until six, but this time he will be done before six, before the first light grays the sky. He said six because he likes threes, and six is three plus three, but he can’t risk doing this in the light.

No one has stirred in the house since his arrival thirty minutes ago. When he first conceived the plan, he considered just blowing up the house with all its occupants trapped inside. But after thinking very carefully about his ultimate objective, because that’s what Slater does the best, he settled on this plan. Putting this woman in a cage will send the city through the roof. It’s one thing to wonder which unnamed citizens might be the next to discover a bomb under their bed; it’s far more disturbing to know that Mrs. Sally Jane who lives on Stars and Stripes Street and buys her groceries at Albertsons is locked up in a cage, waiting desperately for Kevin Parson to fess up.

Besides, Slater’s never kidnapped anyone before. The thought brings a chill to his spine. The sensation of pleasure so intense that it runs up and down the spine is interesting. It is not boring like teenagers poking holes in their noses.

Slater looks at his watch.
4:46
. Is
4:46
divisible by three? No, but
4:47
is. And that’s one minute away. Perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. The pleasure of his brilliance is so intense that Slater now begins to shiver a little. He stands by the fence with perfect discipline, resisting a desperate urge to run for the house and drag her out of bed. He is perfectly disciplined and he is shivering. Interesting.

He’s waited so long. Eighteen years. Six times three. Three plus three times three.

The two minutes crawl by very slowly, but Slater doesn’t mind. He is born for this. He glances at his watch.
4:47
. He can’t stand it any longer. It’s one minute early. Three is divisible by one. Close enough.

Slater walks up to the sliding glass door, pulls out the pick with a gloved hand, and disengages the lock in less than ten seconds. His breathing comes thick, and he pauses to still it. If the others wake, he will have to kill them, and he doesn’t want to mess with that. He wants the woman.

He eases into the kitchen and leaves the door open. They have no dogs or cats. One child. The husband is Slater’s only concern. He stands on the tile floor for a full minute, adjusting his eyes to the deeper darkness, breathing in the home’s smells. The senses are the key to living life to its fullest. Tastes, sights, smells, feelings, sounds. Eat what you like, watch what you can, touch who you want. That’s what he wants Kevin to do. To taste and touch and smell his true self. It will destroy him. The plan is perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

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.