Thr3e (35 page)

“Face me, you coward! Come out and face me!” Kevin shouted.

“Coward? I’m petrified. I can hardly move, much less face you.” Pause. “Do I have to chisel it on your forehead? You find
me!
Find me, find me! The game ends in six hours, Kevin. Then I kill her. You fess up or I slit her throat. Are we properly motivated now?”

The detail about the six hours hardly registered. Slater wanted to meet him. Kevin shifted on his feet. He actually wanted to meet him. But where?

“How?”

“You know how. It’s dark down here. Alone, Kevin. All alone, the way it was meant to be.”

Click.

For an endless moment Kevin stood glued to the linoleum. Blood throbbed through his temples. The black VTech phone trembled in his left hand. He roared and slammed it on the counter with all of his strength. Black plastic splintered and scattered.

Kevin shoved the cell phone in his pocket, whirled around, and flew up the stairs. He’d hidden the gun under his mattress. Three bullets left. Two days earlier the thought of going after Slater would have terrified him; now he was consumed with the idea.

It’s dark down here.

He shoved his hand under the mattress, pulled out the gun, and crammed it behind his belt. Dark. Down.
I’ve got a few ideas about dark and down, don’t I? Where the worms hide their nasty little secrets. He knew, he knew!
Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? He had to get out unseen and he had to go alone. This was now between him and Slater. One on one, man on man.

The FBI car was still somewhere down the street. Kevin ran out the back and sprinted east, the opposite way. One block and then he cut south. They would know that he’d left. In fact, they would have recorded Slater’s last call to him through the home surveillance. What if they came after him? He had to tell Jennifer to stay away. He could use the cell phone, but the call would have to be short, or they would triangulate his position.

If
dark
and
down
was where he thought it might be . . . Kevin ground his teeth and grunted. The man was a pervert. And he would kill Balinda—empty threats weren’t part of his character.

What if the FBI sent out helicopters? He turned west and hugged a line of trees by the sidewalk. The gun jutted into his back.

He started to jog.

“Now! I need some facts now, not in ten minutes,” Jennifer snapped.

Reports normally came in from Quantico at intervals established by the agents in charge. The next report window was in ten minutes, Galager had explained.

“I’ll call, but they’ve only had the evidence for a few hours. This stuff can take up to a week.”

“We don’t have a week! Do they know what’s happening down here? Tell them to turn on the television, for heaven’s sake!”

Galager dipped his head and left.

Her world had collapsed with the call from Sam two minutes ago. She still didn’t want to accept the possibility that Kevin could have blown up the bus or the library.

From her corner station Jennifer could see the exit across a sea of desks. Milton barged out of his office, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door. Where was he going? He paused, glancing back, and Jennifer instinctively turned her head to avoid eye contact. When she glanced back, he was gone. An inexplicable rage flashed through her mind. But really none of this was Milton’s fault. He was simply doing his job. Sure he liked the cameras, but he arguably had a responsibility to the public. She was directing her frustration and anger at him without appropriate cause—she knew this but it didn’t seem to calm her.

It wasn’t Kevin, she reminded herself. Even if Kevin was Slater, which hasn’t been established, the Kevin she knew wouldn’t blow anything up. A jury would take one look at his past and agree. If Slater was Kevin, then he was part of a fractured personality, not Kevin himself.

A thought smacked her and she stopped. Could Slater be framing Kevin? What better way to drag the man down than to frame him as the lunatic who tried to blow up Long Beach? She sat behind the desk, grabbed a legal pad, and penciled it out.

Slater is the boy; he wants revenge. He terrorizes Kevin and then convinces the world that he is Kevin, terrorizing himself because he is Slater. Kevin is ruined and Slater escapes. It would raise the bar for perfect crimes.

But how could Slater pull that off? Sam had found
two
phones. Why would Kevin be carrying around two phones without knowing it? And how could the numbers that Slater called be on that second phone? An electronic relay that duplicated the numbers to make it look like the phone had been used. Possible. And how could Slater have placed the phone in Kevin’s pocket without Kevin’s knowledge? It would have had to be while Kevin slept, this morning. Who had access to Kevin . . .

Her phone rang and she snatched it up without thinking.

“Jennifer.”

“It’s Claude, surveillance. We have a situation at the house. Someone just called Kevin.”

“Who?” Jennifer stood, knocking her chair back.

Static. “Slater. We’re pretty sure. But that’s not all.”

“Hold on. You have the recording from Kevin’s cell phone?”

“No, we have a recording from inside the house. Someone who sounded like Slater called Kevin from
inside
Kevin’s house. I . . . uh, I know it sounds strange, but we have both voices inside the house. I’m sending the recording down now. He threatened to kill the woman in six hours and suggested that Kevin meet him.”

“Did he say where?”

“No. He said Kevin would know where. He said it was dark down here, that’s it.”

“Have you talked to Kevin?”

“We made the decision to enter premises.” He paused. “Kevin was gone.”

Jennifer collapsed in her chair. “You let him
walk?”

Claude sounded flustered. “His car’s still in the garage.”

She closed her eyes and took a calming breath. What now? “I want that tape here now. Set up a search in concentric circles. He’s on foot.”

She dropped her phone on the table and closed her fingers to still a bad tremble. Her nerves were shot. Four days and how much sleep? Twelve, fourteen hours? The case had just gone from terrible to hopeless. He was going to kill Balinda. Inevitable.
Who
was going to kill Balinda? Slater? Kevin?

“Ma’am?”

She looked up to see one of Milton’s detectives in the door. “I have a call for you. He says he tried your personal line but couldn’t get through. Wouldn’t give his name.”

She nodded at the desk phone. “Put it through.”

The call transferred and she picked up. “Peters.”

“Jennifer?”

It was Kevin. Jennifer was too stunned to respond.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I’m going after him. But I have to do this alone. If you come after me, he’ll kill her. You’re recording the house, right? Listen to the tape. I can’t talk now, because they’ll find me, but I wanted you to know.” He sounded desperate.

“Kevin, you don’t have to do this. Tell me where you are.”

“I
do
have to do this. Listen to the tape. It’s not what you think.

Slater’s doing this to me. Don’t bother calling me; I’m throwing this phone away.” He abruptly clicked off.

“Kevin?”

Jennifer slammed the phone in its cradle. She ran her hands through her hair and picked up the phone again. She dialed Samantha’s number.

“Hello?”

“Kevin’s gone, Sam,” Jennifer said. “He just received a call from Slater threatening to kill Balinda in six hours. He baited Kevin to meet him, said he would know where and that it was dark. As far as I know, that’s it. The tape’s on the way down.”

“He’s on foot? How could they let him walk out?”

“I don’t know. The point is, we’re now on a very tight time line and we’ve lost contact.”

“Slater’s cell—”

“He said he was getting rid of it.”

“I’ll go back,” Sam said. “He can’t get far.”

“Assuming you’re right about Kevin, Slater’s drawing him to a place they must both know from their childhood. Any ideas?”

Sam hesitated. “The warehouse?”

“We’ll check it out, but it’s too obvious.”

“Let me think about it. If we’re lucky, we pick him up. Concentrate the search to the west—closer to Baker Street.”

“There’s another possibility, Sam. I know it may sound like a stretch, but what if Slater’s framing Kevin?”

The phone was quiet.

“Forensics will give us a better picture, but the cell could have been planted and the call log duplicated by relay. The objective fits: Kevin is branded a psychopath who terrorized himself, he’s ruined, and Slater skips free. Childhood grudge revenged.”

“What a tangled web we weave,” Sam said quietly. “Get the data on the recordings; hopefully it’ll tell us more.”

“I’m working on it.” Galager walked in and sat down, file in hand. Jennifer stood. “Call me if you think of anything.”

“One last thing,” Sam said. “I talked to Dr. John Francis and he mentioned that you’d spoken to him already, but you might want to consider breaking this down with him. He knows Kevin well and he’s in your field. Just a thought.”

“Thank you, I will.”

She set the phone down. Galager was back. “Well?”

“Like I said, not done. But I do have something. Ever hear of a seismic tuner?”

“A what?”

“Seismic tuner. A device that alters voice patterns.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I could record my voice and program this thing to match it to yours.”

“So? The sample we sent them of Kevin’s voice sounds nothing like Slater’s—what’s your point?”

“I talked to Carl Riggs at the lab. He says that even if they do determine that both Slater’s voice and Kevin’s voice have the same vocal patterns, someone who knew what they were doing could manufacture the effect with a seismic tuner.”

“I’m not following. Bottom line, Galager.” Her frustration was overflowing now.

“Bottom line is that Slater could have altered his voice to make it sound like a derivative of Kevin’s voice. He could have obtained a sample of Kevin’s voice, broken it down electronically, and then reproduced its vocal patterns at a different range and with different inflections. In other words, he could be speaking through a box that makes it sound like he’s Kevin, trying not to be Kevin. Follow?”

“Knowing that we would analyze the recording and conclude that both voices were Kevin’s.” She blinked.

“Correct. Even though they aren’t.”

“As in, if he wanted to frame Kevin.”

“A possibility. Riggs said there’s an open case in Florida where a guy’s wife was kidnapped for a ransom of a million dollars. The community came together in a fund drive and raised the money. But it turns out the kidnapper’s voice was a recording of the husband’s, manipulated by a seismic tuner. He evidently kidnapped his own wife. It’s going to trial next month.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as a seismic tuner.”

“There wasn’t until about a year ago.” Galager stood. “Either way, even if both voiceprints match Kevin’s, we won’t know if both really are his until we rule out the use of a seismic tuner. Riggs won’t have the voice report until tomorrow. They’re on it, but it takes time.”

“And the shoe prints?”

“Should have that this evening, but he doesn’t think it’ll help us either. Not distinctive enough.”

“So what you’re telling me is that none of this matters?”

“I’m telling you none of this may matter. In the end.”

He left and Jennifer sagged into her chair. Milton. She would have to depend on him now. She needed every available patrol car in the city to join the search for Kevin, and she needed the search conducted without risking a leak to the media.

Jennifer closed her eyes. Actually, none of that mattered. What mattered was the fact that Kevin was lost. The boy was lost.

She suddenly wanted to cry.

24

K
EVIN KEPT TO THE SIDE STREETS, jogging as naturally as he could despite the pounding in his head.

When cars or pedestrians approached, he either changed directions or crossed the street. At the least lowered his head. If he had the luxury of a direct route, the crosstown jog would be half what it was with all of his side jaunts.

But Slater had said alone, which meant avoiding the authorities at all costs. Jennifer would have the cops out in force this time. She would be desperate to find him before he found Slater because she knew that Kevin didn’t stand a chance against Slater.

Kevin knew it too.

He ran with the dread knowledge that there was no way he could face Slater and survive. Balinda would die; he would die. But he had no choice. Although he thought he’d freed himself, he’d really been slumping around in that dungeon of the past for twenty years. No longer. He would face Slater head-on and live, or die in this last-ditch effort to reach freedom.

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.