“Same. Let’s do our own sweep as well. If you find anything, let me know. I’ll be by your office in a couple hours.”
He nodded. “You think it’s him?”
“Until I find evidence that contradicts it.”
“There are some differences. Could be a copy cat.”
“Could be. But I don’t think so.”
“And I’m assuming Kevin matches the victim profile?”
Jennifer searched Galager’s eyes. Bill was one of the only agents who’d known Roy well enough to call him a friend.
“He could be Roy in another life,” she said. Then she turned toward the coffee shop.
At least five hundred onlookers had gathered behind the police lines now. The news crews were set up, sending live feed across the country. Both Fox News and CNN were undoubtedly running alerts. How many times had the American public seen pictures from Israel of twisted bus wreckage? But this was California. Here, you could count the incidents over the past ten years on one hand.
Milton was giving the vultures an update. Good for him.
11
JENNIFER’S VOICE JARRED KEVIN from his thoughts.
“Hey, cowboy, you want a ride out of here?”
He looked up from the corner table and blinked. “Sure.”
“Let’s go.”
She didn’t take him home. Detectives were still searching the place for anything Slater might have left. It would take them a few hours.
“They’re not going to dump my underwear drawers, are they?”
Jennifer laughed. “Not unless Slater left his shorts.”
“Probably just as well I’m gone.”
“You like things neat, don’t you?”
“Clean, sure.”
“That’s good. A man should know how to do laundry.”
“Where’re we going?”
“You have the phone with you?”
He instinctively felt his pocket. Amazing how small phones could be. He pulled it out and flipped it open. It fit in his palm, open.
“Just checking,” she said, turning onto Willow.
“You think he’ll call again?” he asked.
“Yes, the confession wasn’t what he was looking for.”
“I guess not.”
“But he does want a confession. You’re sure about that, right?”
“That’s what he said. When I confess, he goes away. But confess what?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? What does Slater want you to confess? You have no inkling whatsoever?”
“I just ruined my career and only God knows what else by telling the world that I tried to kill a boy—believe me, if I’d thought of any alternative to that confession, I’d have spilled my guts.”
She nodded and frowned. “The demand for a confession’s the only part of this puzzle that doesn’t fit the Riddle Killer profile. Somehow he dug something up on you that he thinks is significant.”
“Like what? How many sins have you committed, Agent Peters? Can you remember them all?”
“Please, call me Jennifer. No, I guess I can’t.”
“So what does Slater consider significant? You want me to go on television and list every sin I can ever remember committing?”
“No.”
“The only thing that makes sense is the boy,” Kevin said. “But then the confession should have gotten a response, right?”
“With Slater, yes. I think so. Unless, of course, he isthe boy, but he wants you to confess something besides your attempt to kill him.”
“It wasn’t an attempt to kill him. It was more like self-defense. The kid was about to kill me!”
“I can accept that. Why did he want to kill you?”
The question took Kevin off guard. “He . . . he was after Samantha.”
“Samantha. She just keeps cropping up, doesn’t she?”
Jennifer looked out her window and for a few minutes the car remained silent.
Kevin was only eleven when he trapped the boy in the cellar and nearly died of fear. He’d left the boy to die—no matter how badly he tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew he had locked the boy in a tomb.
He couldn’t tell Sam, of course. If she knew, she would surely tell her father, who would set the boy free and maybe send him to jail, and then he would get out, probably within a couple months, and come back and kill Sam. He couldn’t ever tell her.
But he couldn’t nottell her either. She was his bosom buddy. She was his best, best friend, whom he loved more than he loved his mother. Maybe.
On the third night he meant to go in search of the warehouse, just to take a peek; just to see if it had really, really happened. But after an hour pacing outside his window, he climbed back into his house.
“You’re different,” Sam told him the next night. “You’re not looking me in the eyes like you used to. You keep looking off at the trees. What’s wrong?”
“I am not looking off. I’m just enjoying the night.”
“Don’t try to fool me. You think I don’t have a woman’s intuition? I’m almost a teenager, you know. I can tell if a boy’s bothered.”
“Well, I’m not bothered by anything except your insistence that I’m bothered,” he said.
“So then you arebothered. See? But you were bothered before I said you were bothered, so I think you’re not telling me something.”
He felt suddenly angry. “I am not!” he said.
She looked at him for a few seconds and then gazed up into the trees herself. “You are bothered by something, but I can see that you’re not telling me because you think it might hurt me. That’s sweet, so I’m going to pretend you’re not bothered.” She took his arm.
She was giving him a way out. What kind of friend would ever do that? Sam would do that because she was the sweetest girl in the whole world, no exceptions.
It took Kevin four months of agony to finally work up the courage to go in search of the boy’s fate.
Part of him wanted to find the boy’s bones in a rotting pile. But most of him didn’t want to find the boy at all, didn’t want to confirm that the whole thing had really happened.
The first challenge was to find the right warehouse. Guarding a flashlight as closely as he could, he looked through the warehouses for an hour, sneaking from door to door. He began to wonder if he’d ever find it again. But then he opened an old wooden door and there, five feet away, was the dark stairway.
Kevin jerked back and very nearly ran for his life.
But it was only a stairway. What if the boy wasn’t there anymore? He could see the latch on the steel door in the shadows below. Seemed safe enough. You have to do this, Kevin. If you’re anything like a knight or a man or even a boy who’s already eleven, you have to at least find out if he’s in there.
Kevin played his light down the stairwell and forced his feet down the stairs, one step at a time.
No sound. Of course not—it had been four months. The steel door latch was still closed as if he’d thrown it closed yesterday. He stopped in front of the door and stared, unwilling to actually open it. Visions of pirates and dungeons full of skeletons clattered through his mind.
Behind him the moonlight glowed pale gray. He could always run up the stairs if a skeleton took after him, which was incredibly stupid anyway. What would Sam think of him now?
“Hello?” he called.
Nothing.
The sound of his voice helped. He walked forward and knocked. “Hello?” Still nothing.
Slowly, heart thumping in his ears, palms wet with sweat, Kevin eased the latch open. He pushed the door. It creaked open.
Black. Musty. Kevin held his breath and gave the door a shove.
He saw the splotches of blood immediately. But no body.
His bones shook from head to toe. It was real. That was blood all over the floor. Dried and darkened, but exactly where he remembered it should be. He pushed the door again, to make sure no one was behind it. He was alone.