“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
KEVIN 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.
Kevin swallowed hard and ran on through unsuspecting residential neighborhoods. Helicopters chopped through the sky. He couldn’t quickly differentiate the police from others, so he hid from them all, which slowed his progress even more. Eleven police cars crossed his path, each time forcing him to alter direction. He ran for one hour and still was only halfway there. He grunted and pushed on. The hour stretched into two. With every step, his determination increased until he could almost taste his bitterness toward Slater, the coppery taste of blood on his dry tongue.
The warehouse district dawned on him without warning. Kevin slowed to a walk. His wet shirt clung to his torso. He was close. His heart began to pound, as much from his nerves as from exertion now.
Five P.M. Slater had given them six hours. Three plus three. The ultimate in this sick little game of threes. By now the whole city would be on a desperate manhunt to find Balinda before the nine o’clock deadline. The FBI would have listened to the surveillance from the house and, with Sam, they would be pounding their collective skulls against the wall trying to decode Slater’s cryptic message. You’ll know, Kevin. It’s dark down here.
Would Sam figure it out? He’d never told her about the place.
Kevin crossed railroad tracks and slipped into a patch of trees sequestered away here on the outskirts of the city. Close. So close.
You’re going to die, Kevin. His skin felt like a pincushion. He stopped and looked around. The city noise sounded distant. Birds chirped. A lizard scurried over dead leaves to his right, stopped, craned a bulging eye for a view of him, and then darted for the rocks.
Kevin walked forward. What if he was wrong? It could have been the warehouse where he’d trapped the boy, of course—that was dark down here. But Slater would never be so obvious. Cops would be crawling all over the place, anyway. No, this had to be it.
He caught sight of the old toolshed through the trees and stopped. What little paint remained flaked gray with age. Suddenly Kevin wasn’t sure he could go through with it. Slater was probably hidden behind one of the trees at this very moment, watching. What if he did run, and Slater stepped out from his hiding place and shot him? He couldn’t call for help—he’d dumped the cell phone in an alley behind a 7-Eleven five miles east.
Didn’t matter. He had to do this. The gun dug into his belly where he’d moved it when it rubbed him raw at his back. He touched it through his shirt. Should he pull it out now?
He eased the gun from his belt and walked forward. The shack sat undisturbed, hardly more than an outhouse. Breathing deliberately through his nose, Kevin approached the rear door, eyes glued to the boards, the cracks between them, searching for a sign of movement. Anything.
You’re going to die in there, Kevin.
He crept up to the door. For a moment he stood there, shaking badly. To his right, deep tire marks ran through the soft earth. A rusted Master Lock padlock hung from the latch, gaping. Open. It was never open.