A small stack of business cards, topped by a slip of paper bearing her own number, sat by a calculator that looked fresh out of the box, perhaps never used. The first card belonged to John Francis, Ph.D., Academic Dean, Divinity School of the Pacific, South. Kevin had spoken at length about the man. Surely Jennifer had already interviewed him.
And what if she hadn’t? The last four days rushed by without time for standard procedure or a thorough investigation. She picked up the phone and called the number on the card. A receptionist with a nasal voice asked her if she wanted to leave a message. No, thank you. She hung up, turned over the card, and saw that Kevin had scribbled another number with the same prefix. She dialed it.
“Hello, this is John.”
“Hello, Dr. John Francis?”
“Yes, this is he.”
“This is Samantha Sheer with the California Bureau of Investigation. I’m working with an agent Jennifer Peters on the Kevin Parson case. Are you familiar with it?”
“Of course. Agent Peters was here yesterday morning.”
“Kevin speaks highly of you,” Sam said. “You have a doctorate in psychology, isn’t that right?”
“Correct.”
“What is your assessment of Kevin?”
“That’s a bit like asking which animals live in the sea. Kevin’s a wonderful man. I can’t say there’s anyone else I’d rather tangle my wits with. Extraordinary . . . genuine.”
“Genuine. Yes, he is genuine. Nearly transparent. Which is why it’s strange he can’t remember this sin Slater demands he confess, don’t you think? I’m wondering, is there anything that’s occupied him in these last few weeks? Any reoccurring themes, projects, papers?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. He was quite interested in the natures of man. You might say consumed with the subject.”
Sam picked up the rough draft of the paper. “The true natures of man,” Sam said. “And what are the natures of man? Or what would Kevin say are the natures of man?”
“Yes, well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it? I’m not sure I can tell you what Kevin would say. He told me he had a new model, but he wanted to present them cohesively in his paper.”
“Hmm. And when is this paper due?”
“He was scheduled to turn it in this Wednesday.”
“For what class?”
“Introduction to Ethics.”
“One more question, Doctor, and I’ll let you go. You’re a religious man with an education in psychology; would you say that the natures of man are primarily spiritual, or psychological?”
“I know that Freud would turn in his grave, but in my mind there’s no doubt. Man is primarily a spiritual being.”
“And Kevin would agree to that?”
“Yes, I’m sure he would.”
“Thank you for your time, Doctor. You sound like a reasonable man.”
He chuckled. “They pay me to be; I do try. Anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
She set the phone down. Ethics. She scanned the paper and saw that it was hardly more than the recitation of several theories on man’s natures. It ended with a new heading: “The True Natures.” She set the pages down. Where would Kevin keep his notes on the natures of man?
She stepped over to the bookcase and reached for a large gray book titled Morality Redefined. The book was used, frayed around the edges, pages yellowing. She lifted the cover, saw that it was a library book. Copyright 1953.
Sam flipped through the pages, but there were no notes. She was about to replace the book when the back cover fell open. Several loose sheets of white paper dropped to the floor. On the top of one in Kevin’s handwriting: The True Natures of Man, an Essay.
Samantha withdrew the pages and sat down at the desk. They were only notes. Three pages of notes. She scanned them, a simple outline with headings that fit the subject. Summaries.
We learn as we live, and we live what we learn, but not so well.
How can a nature be dead and yet live? He is dead in the light, but thrives in the dark.
If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what would they say?
They are all pretenders, who live in the light but hide in the dark.
Insightful. But there was nothing here that Slater would have . . .
Sam froze. There at the bottom of page four, three small words.
I AM I.
Sam recognized the handwriting immediately. Slater! “I am I.”
“Dear God!”
Sam set the pages on Kevin’s desk with a trembling hand. She began to panic.
No. Stop. What does “I am I” even mean, Sam? It means Slater is Slater. Slater snuck in here and wrote this. That proves nothing except that he has his nose in every part of Kevin’s life.
If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what would they say?
Then how had Kevin and Slater talked to each other? The FBI had a recording. How, how? Unless . . .
A second cell. He’s using another cell phone!
Sam ran for Kevin’s room. Dear God, let me be wrong!He hadn’t moved. She crept up to him. Where would he keep the phones? The one Slater had left him was always in his right pocket.
There was only one way to do this. Quickly, before she awakened him. Sam slipped her hand into his right pocket. He wore cargo pants, loose, but his weight pressed her hand into the mattress. She touched the phone, felt the recording device on the back. Slater’s.
She rounded the bed, crawled up for better access, and slid her hand into his left pocket. Kevin grunted and rolled to his side, facing her. She stayed still until his breathing returned to a deep slow rhythm and then tried again, this time with his left pocket exposed.
Her fingers felt plastic. Sam knew then that she was right, but she pulled it out anyway. A cell phone, identical to the one Slater had left for Kevin, except black instead of silver. She flipped it open and scrolled through the call history. The calls were to the other cell phone. One to the hotel room phone. Two to Kevin’s home phone.
This was the cell phone Slater had used. To talk, to detonate the bombs. Sam’s mind throbbed. There could be no doubt about it.
They would crucify him.
23
SAM ROLLED OFF THE BED, closed Kevin’s door, and flew downstairs. She gripped the phone Slater had used to make his calls in her right hand—for now Slater wouldn’t be making those calls, at least not on this phone. She didn’t bother being discreet on her exit but walked right out the back, turned up the street, and ran for her car.
I, Slater, am I, Kevin. And that had been Samantha’s greatest fear. That her childhood friend had a multiple personality disorder as she’d suggested to Jennifer a day earlier, and then immediately rejected because Kevin was in the room when Slater called. But it struck her as she lay trying to sleep last night that Slater had not talkedto her while Kevin was in the room. The phone had only rung while he was in the room. Kevin was in the hall before she picked up and heard Slater. Kevin could have simply pushed the send button in his pocket and then talked to Sam once in the hall. Could multiple personalities work that way?
She’d been with Kevin in the car when Slater called, just before the bus blew. But she had no proof that Slater was actually on the line then. They had no recording of that call.
It was absurd. It was impossible! But try as she might in sleepless fits, Sam couldn’t account for a single definitive situation that necessarily proved they couldn’t be the same man. Not one.
Mere conjecture! It had to be coincidence!
Now this.
If Good and Evil could talk to each other, what would they say?