She’d talked to Jennifer upon waking and heard about the note on Kevin’s windshield. She should have taken an earlier flight! Jennifer suspected kidnapping, but as of seven this morning there had been no evidence of foul play.
Sam told Jennifer about Salman. If the Pakistani Salman had indeed met with Slater in New York, then whoever the FBI had located with a tattoo could not be Slater, because Slater’s had been removed. Furthermore, Slater couldn’t be the Riddle Killer—he’d been in New York at the time of Roy’s murder. Jennifer hadn’t been ready to accept her conclusion out of hand, but the two cases did have a few significant disparities that were obviously weighing on her mind. She talked about objectives. She was beginning to suspect that the Riddle Killer and Slater weren’t similarly motivated.
As for the tattoo, they would know within a few hours.
Sam’s plane landed at LAX at 12:35. She rented a car and headed south for Long Beach. Traffic on 405 was as bad as it got for a weekday. She called Jennifer. The agent answered on the first ring.
“Hi, Jennifer, it’s Sam. Anything?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. The tattoo is a bust. Our man works on an oil rig six months a year. He’s been out on one for the last three weeks.”
“Makes sense. Any word on a kidnapping?”
Jennifer hesitated and Sam sat up. “Balinda was taken from her home last night,” Jennifer said.
“Balinda Parson?” Sam’s pulse spiked.
“One and the same. No contact, no leads, nothing but a note left in Slater’s writing: ‘Fess up, Puke .’Kevin took it pretty hard.”
Sam’s mind was already whirling. Of course! Taking Balinda would force media attention on Kevin’s family. His past. “Does the media know?”
“Yes. But we’re keeping them away from Baker Street under the claim that it could trigger Slater. There’s wall-to-wall coverage on this thing. I’ve spent the last hour handling interagency concerns. The bureaucracy’s enough to drive me nuts. Milton’s ticked off, the ATF wants the evidence from Quantico—it’s a mess. Meanwhile we’re dead in the water.”
Jennifer sounded tired. Sam braked and came to a stop behind a pickup truck billowing black smoke. “How is he?”
“Kevin? He’s dead to the world. I left him at his house about two hours ago, sleeping. God knows we could all use some rest.”
Sam pulled around the truck. “I have some ideas, Jennifer. Is there a chance we could meet sooner?”
“What is it?”
“I . . . I can’t explain right now.”
“Come by the station. Unless something breaks, I’ll be here.”
“Okay. But I have to chase something down first.”
“If you have information that’s pertinent to the investigation, I expect to be told. Please, Sam, I can use all the help I can get here.”
“I promise you I’ll call the second I know anything.”
“Sam. Please, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ll call you,” Sam said and hung up.
Without evidence her fears would have to remain the paranoia of a close friend, desperate for answers. And if she was right? God help them. God help Kevin.
She drove south, ticking off the facts. Slater had been in New York at the same time she’d been there. Slater knew her, a small detail she’d withheld from the CBI. Knowing Roland, he’d yank her from the case.
Slater was obsessed with Kevin’s past; Slater was the boy; Sam had never seen the boy; all of the riddles had to do with opposites; all demanded a confession. Slater was trying to force Kevin back into his past. Who was Slater?
A chill snaked down her arms.
Samantha approached Kevin’s house from the west, parked two blocks down, and took to foot, careful to keep yard fences between herself and the black car parked up the street. She had to do this without causing a fuss, and the last thing she wanted to do was wake Kevin if he was asleep.
Dread swelled in her chest as she neared. The notion that Kevin might indeed be Slater refused to budge from her tired mind.
She had to wait for the agent up the street to turn his head before crossing from the neighbor’s fence into Kevin’s backyard. She hurried up to the sliding glass door and knelt so that Kevin’s picket fence blocked her head from the car’s line of sight. Working quickly above her head, she inserted a thin pick into the lock and worked it with as much precision as she could from the awkward angle. The pin fell and she pried up the latch. She wiped a bead of sweat from her cheek, glanced back at the black car, slid the glass door open a foot, and slipped past the pulled blinds. She reached back through and closed the door.
If they’d seen her, they would be moving already. They hadn’t.
Sam looked around the house. A two-by-four-foot travel poster of a bikini-clad native walking down a white beach said that New Zealand promised paradise. Dear Kevin, you want so much. I should have known how badly you were hurting, even when we were children. Why did you hide it from me? Why didn’t you tell me?
The house’s silence engulfed her. So peaceful, so quiet, asleep while the world crumbled. She crossed to the stairs and took them on her tiptoes. Kevin’s bedroom was to the left. She eased the door open, saw him on the bed, and walked quietly up to him.
He lay sprawled on his belly, arms above his head, as if surrendering to some unknown enemy beyond the mattress. His head rested on its side, facing her, lower cheek bunched, mouth closed. His face didn’t speak of surrender, only sleep. Deep, deep, sweet sleep.
He was dressed in street clothes; his tan Reeboks sat on the floor, nudging the bed skirt.
Sam briefly wondered if Jennifer had stayed with him until he fell asleep. Had she seen him like this? This sweet boy of hers? This stunning man who bore the weight of a hundred worlds on his shoulders? Her champion who’d slain the wicked boy on Baker Street?
What did Jennifer see when she looked at him? She sees the same as you do, Sam. She sees Kevin and she can’t help but to love him as you love him.
Sam reached out, tempted to brush his cheek. No, not as I love him. No one can love him as I love him. I would give my life for this man.She withdrew her hand. A tear broke down her right cheek. Oh, how I love you, dear Kevin. Seeing you these last three days has reminded me how desperately I love you. Please, please tell me that you will slay this dragon. We will, Kevin. Together we will slay this beast, my knight.
The childhood role-playing reference flooded her with warmth. She turned away and walked into his closet. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Something that Slater had left. Something that the FBI missed because they wouldn’t have guessed that it belonged to Slater.
Kevin had ordered his clothes neatly. Slacks and shirts hung in a row, jeans and cargo pants folded and stacked, shoes on a rack. Seminary dress to the right, casual dress to the left. She smiled and ran her fingers through the slacks. She smelled the shirts. His scent lingered. Amazing how she recognized it after so many years. He was still a boy. A man, Sam. A man.
She searched the closet and then slowly worked her way through the rest of his room, walking around him, careful not to make any sound. Other than the rise and fall of his back, Kevin did not move. Sam found nothing.
The bathroom proved no better, and her spirit lightened. She didn’t want to find anything.
His study. Sam shut the door and sat at his desk. She ran a finger over his books: Introduction to Philosophy. Sociology of Religion. Hermeneutics Revealed. Two dozen others. He was in his first semester at the divinity school but he’d bought enough texts for two years, easily.
On the floor beside the desk she saw a small pile of paper, which she picked up. A paper he’d titled “The True Natures of Man.” He was a true man.
Please, Sam, let’s cut the romantic drivel and do what you came to do.
She was less concerned about noise; there were two doors between her and Kevin. She searched the drawers and removed the books one by one. This is where Slater would leave a clue. This was the room of the mind. He was obsessed with numbers and mind games. The mind. Somewhere, somewhere.