Thr3e (22 page)

The fact that McConnel had heard nothing resembling a phone call before Kevin’s departure was somewhat comforting, but the call could have come while the agent was adjusting the receiver.

Jennifer had tried to reach Sam at the Howard Johnson hotel, on the whim that she might know Kevin’s whereabouts. No luck. The agent wasn’t picking up her cell and the hotel clerk said that she’d checked out yesterday morning. She remembered Sam because she’d been tipped twenty dollars. Any agent who’d leave a tip for a desk clerk was unusual at the least.

Jennifer only hoped that Slater would have as much difficulty reaching Kevin as she did. If so, the disappearing act might actually offer some benefits. No bombs. So far. Hopefully the statewide bulletin on the Taurus wouldn’t trigger one. She wasn’t sure why Kevin had left—most probably a reaction to the stress—but in doing so he may have inadvertently stalled Slater.

Jennifer called the agent on duty by the house and learned, as expected, nothing new. She decided to try the dean a few minutes early.

Dr. John Francis lived in an old brick house on the edge of Long Beach, two blocks west of Los Alamitos. She knew that he was a widower with doctorates in both psychology and philosophy who’d lived in the same house for twenty-three years. Other than that all she knew was that he had taken Kevin under his wing at the seminary. And that he liked to drive fast, judging by the black Porsche
911
in his driveway.

Five minutes after pulling up to his house, Jennifer sat in a cozy living room, listening to quiet strains of Bach, nursing a hot cup of green tea. Dr. Francis sat opposite her in an armchair, legs crossed, smiling without trying to. He was quite distressed over all the news he’d heard about his student, but she would never guess it with a glance. The professor had one of those faces that couldn’t help but reflect God’s goodness, regardless of what might be happening.

“How well do you know Kevin?” she asked.

“Quite well as far as students go. But you must understand, that doesn’t qualify me to pass any judgment on his past.”

“His past. We’ll come back to that. This may sound like a simple case of revenge based on what the media is pumping over the air, but I think it’s more complicated than that. I think whoever’s after Kevin sees his life as it is now and takes exception to it. That’s where you come in. It appears that Kevin’s a quiet man. Not a lot of friends. In fact, he evidently considers you his best. Maybe his only, other than Sam.”

“Sam? You mean his childhood friend, Samantha? Yes, he’s spoken of her. He seems quite taken with her.”

“Tell me about him.”

“You’re looking for something in his life today that might elicit anger in someone from his past?”

She smiled. The psychologist in him was speaking. “Exactly.”

“Unless Kevin comes forward with his confession, which he did, the man will extract a price.”

“That’s the basic story.”

“But the confession missed the mark. So now you dig deeper, in search of that which so offends this Slater.”

She nodded. Dr. Francis was a quick study. She decided to deal straight with the man. “On the surface it seems obvious. We have a student pursuing a holy vocation. As it turns out, his past is filled with mystery and murder. Someone takes exception to that dichotomy.”

“We all have pasts filled with mystery and murder,” Dr. Francis said.

Interesting way to put it.

“In fact, it’s one of the aspects of the human condition Kevin and I have discussed before.”

“Oh?”

“It’s one of the first things an intelligent man like Kevin, who comes to the church later in life, notices. There is a pervasive incongruity between the church’s theology and the way most of us in the church live.”

“Hypocrisy.”

“One of its faces, yes. Hypocrisy. Saying one thing but doing another. Studying to be a priest while hiding a small cocaine addiction, for example. The world flushes this out and cries scandal. But the more ominous face isn’t nearly so obvious. This is what interested Kevin the most. He was quite astute, really.”

“I’m not sure I follow. What’s not so obvious?”

“The evil that lies in all of us,” the professor said. “Not blatant hypocrisy, but deception. Not even realizing that the sin we regularly commit is sin at all. Going about life honestly believing that we are pure when all along we are riddled with sin.”

She looked at his gentle smile, taken by the simplicity of his words.

“A preacher stands against the immorality of adultery, but all the while he harbors anger toward the third parishioner from the left because the parishioner challenged one of his teachings three months ago. Is anger not as evil as adultery? Or a woman who scorns the man across the aisle for alcoholic indiscretions, while she routinely gossips about him after services. Is gossip not as evil as any vice? What’s especially damaging in both cases is that neither the man who harbors anger nor the woman who gossips seriously considers the evil of their own actions. Their sins remain hidden. This is the true cancer in the church.”

“Sounds like the same cancer that eats away at the rest of society.”

“Exactly. Although in the church it makes every attempt to remain hidden, where it is left alone to grow in the dark. You ever wonder why incidences of divorce and gluttony and virtually all of evil’s fruits are as high in the church as in society at large?”

“Actually, I didn’t know that.”

“Though being freed from sin, most remain slaves, blinded and gagged by their own deception. ‘The good that I would, that I do not do and that which I would not, that I do.’ Welcome to the church in America.”

“And you’re saying you’ve discussed this with Kevin?”

“I discuss this with every class I teach on the subject. Kevin, more than most students, understood it.”

“Based on what you’re saying, what Slater’s doing isn’t so different from what every old lady in the church does when she gossips?”
And killing Roy was no different either,
she almost said.

“Assuming that old ladies have a proclivity for gossip, a false assumption, actually. On the other hand, Saint Paul drew a distinction between some sins and others. Although he did place gossip in the most vile category.”

Jennifer set down her cup on a cherry wood end table. “So you’re suggesting that the Riddle Killer is interested in Kevin confessing his true nature, not necessarily some particular sin. Seems like a stretch. To what end? Why would Slater single out Kevin, unless Kevin somehow wronged him?”

“Now you’re out of my league, I’m afraid.”

“You’re pushing theory way beyond what feels reasonable, Doctor. My brother was murdered. I hardly see any similarities between his killer and an old lady in a church.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” His compassion appeared thoroughly genuine.

“Even naysayers accept the brilliance of the teachings of Jesus,” he said. “You do know what he said on the matter?”

“Tell me.”

“That to hate a man is the same as killing him. Perhaps the gossipers are murderers after all.”

The notion struck her as absurd. Jennifer sighed. “So Slater, who was once wronged by Kevin, studies him today and sees this great inconsistency—that Kevin lives a life of minor sins—anger, resentment, gossip. But Slater believes, as you seem to, that minor sins are no less evil than the greater sins. Kevin decides to become a priest. This upsets Slater and he decides to teach Kevin a lesson. That the gist of it?”

“Who’s to say how a demented mind works?” The professor smiled. “Really, it’s beyond me how anyone could do this to another man, especially a man like Kevin. Regardless of his past sins, Kevin is a walking testimony of God’s grace. You’d think he’s been through his share of difficulties. To have become the man he is today is nothing short of amazing.”

She studied Dr. Francis. “He is quite unusual, isn’t he? I didn’t know his type still lived on the West Coast.”

“His type?” the professor asked. “You mean his innocence?”

“Innocent, genuine. Maybe even naive, in a nonoffensive way.”

“You’re aware of his past?”

“Sketchy. I haven’t exactly had the time to dig past his file these last two days.”

The doctor’s brow went up. “Perhaps you would do well to pay a visit to the home of his childhood. I don’t know the entire story, but from what Father Strong told me, Kevin’s childhood was anything but normal. Not necessarily terrible, mind you, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find more there than Father Strong or any of the rest of us suspects, particularly in light of these recent events.”

“So you don’t know the details of his past. Still, you say he’s been through his share of difficulties.”

“His parents died when he was one. He was raised by an aunt who despises his pursuit of higher education. As you say, he acts like a man who has recently walked off an island to discover that there is a rest-of-the-world. Naive. I think there’s something in Kevin’s past that haunts him. It may shed some light on this man you call Slater.”

“The boy,” she said.

“I’m afraid I don’t know about any boy.”

She would take a trip to Baker Street as soon as she left. “Nothing else comes to mind? No other students or faculty might have any motive to hurt Kevin?”

“Heavens, no. Not unless all of our gossiping students are becoming murderers to flush out the truth.” He grinned.

“You sound like a wonderful teacher, Dr. Francis. Do you mind if I call on you again?”

“Please.” He tapped his chest. “There’s a special place in here for Kevin. I can’t place it or explain why I am so taken by the boy, but I think we all have something to learn from his story.”

She stood. “I pray you’re right.”

“I didn’t know you were a religious woman.”

“I’m not.”

15

T
HE YOUNG MEN WITH THE CHAINS didn’t look like they were carrying any weapons. Not that criminals made a habit of hanging guns around their necks from shoestrings for all to see. Either way, Kevin gave them a pass and pulled back onto Western.

Maybe looking in less obvious spots would fare better. Side streets. Any beer-drinking slug wearing a wife-beater would be packing one, right? Or at least have a piece tucked under the mattress nearby. The fact was, Kevin had no clue what he was doing and the growing realization pushed his nerves into overdrive.

He drove several neighborhoods before working up the courage to park in one particularly seedy-looking lane and take to foot. Wouldn’t it be ironic if he were held up at gunpoint minding his own business? Why play games with a serial killer when you could take a stroll down misery lane and get offed any day of the week? Just like in the movies. Or was the other more like a movie?

He walked down the street, past houses with prying eyes. Maybe now would be a good time to pray. On the other hand, considering his intentions, praying felt inappropriate. A ball rolled out on the sidewalk three feet in front of him. He glanced at the house to his right and saw a boy, maybe three feet tall, staring at him with wide brown eyes. A large, shirtless man covered in tattoos, bald except for a black goatee, stood in the doorway behind the boy, watching him from under bushy eyebrows. Kevin picked up the ball and tossed it awkwardly back into the brown lawn.

“You lost?” the man asked.

That obvious? “No,” he said and turned away.

“You look lost to me, boy.”

Kevin was suddenly too terrified to respond. He walked on, not daring to look back. The man humphed, but made no other comment. Half a block later he glanced back. The man had retreated into his house.

Now, that wasn’t so bad. You go, boy. Kevin the player.

Kevin the fool. Here he was, wandering a strange neighborhood, pretending to have a clue, scheming nondescript plans, while the real game awaited its star player twenty miles south. What if Slater had called in the last couple hours? What if he’d called Jennifer or the police with the next threat? Or what if Sam had awakened, found him gone, turned on the phone, and received a call?

Kevin stopped walking. What on earth did he think he was doing? Sam. Sam had a gun. She’d never shown it to him, but he knew she carried it in her purse. Why not just take her gun? What was she going to do, throw him in jail for—

“Excuse me.”

Kevin spun around. The man from the doorway stood five feet away. He’d pulled on a white T-shirt that barely managed to contain his bulging shoulders.

“I asked you a question.”

Kevin’s heart pounded. “I’m . . . I’m not lost.”

“I don’t believe you. I see a Wall Street punk walking down the sidewalk at ten in the morning and I know he’s lost. You trying to score?”

“Score? No. Gosh, no.”

“Gosh?” The man grinned and savored the word. “Gosh, no. Then what are you doing so far from home?”

“I’m . . . just walking.”

“This look like Central Park to you? Not even the right state, boy. I can hook you up.”

A cool sweat ran down Kevin’s back. Ask him. Just ask him.

He glanced around. “Actually, I’m looking for a weapon.”

The man’s eyebrows went up. “And you think this is where weapons grow on trees, is that it?”

“No.”

The man studied him. “You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?”

“You look like a fool. Is there a difference? What kind of idiot walks around a strange neighborhood looking for a piece?”

“I’m sorry. I should probably leave.”

“I guess so.”

The man was blocking the sidewalk, so Kevin sidestepped to the street. He took three steps before the man spoke again.

“How much you got?”

He stopped and faced the man. “Four hundred dollars.”

“Let me see it.”

What if the man robbed him? Too late now. He pulled out his wallet and spread it open.

“Follow me.” The man turned and walked back toward his house without checking to see if Kevin followed.

He did. Like a puppy. How many prying eyes watched the sucker from Wall Street slinking along behind Biff?

He followed the man up to his porch. “Wait here.” He left Kevin with his hands in his pockets.

Thirty seconds later he was back with something wrapped in an old white T-shirt. “Give me the money.”