by Ted Dekker
“I have a theory,” Samantha said, voice unsteady.
“The old Colombo trick,” Slater said. “Let’s stall the nasty man with the I’ve-got-a-theory routine. Can it! Time’s ticking.”
Sam cleared her throat and pressed on. “My theory is that I’m not really real.”
Slater stared at her.
“I’m a childhood friend Kevin created because that’s what he learned to do when he was a child.” She looked into his eyes. “You made things up, Kevin. Only I’m not really made up—I’m part of you. I’m the good part of you.”
“Can it!” Slater said.
“Slater isn’t real either. He’s another personality, and he’s trying to trick you into killing either me or your mother. If you choose me, you’ll be killing the good in you, maybe even yourself. But if you choose Balinda, you’ll be murdering another living person. Your mother, for all practical purposes.”
“That’s a lie, you foul-mouthed, sick . . .” Slater’s tirade sputtered short. His eyes bulged from a red face. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“That’s not possible,” Kevin said, face round in confusion. “That can’t be, Sam! Of course you’re real! You’re the most real thing I’ve ever known.”
“I am real, Kevin. I’m real and I love you desperately! But I’m part of you.” Hearing herself say it, she sounded foolish. How could she possibly not be real? She felt and looked and even smelled real! But it did make sense on some unspeakable level.
“Look at your leg. You’re bleeding because I was shot,” she said. “I’m you. And so is Slater. You have to believe me. You’ve taken the good and the evil in you and turned them into imaginary people. Personalities. It’s not really that strange, Kevin. You’re acting out the struggle between good and evil every human being engages in. Slater and I are only the players in your own mind. But neither of us can do anything unless you give us the power to do it. He can’t pull that trigger unless you do. Do you—”
“Shut up! Shut up, you lying piece of trash!” Slater jumped across the room and shoved a gun into Kevin’s hand. He lifted the hand and pointed it toward Samantha.
“You have fifty seconds, Kevin. Fifty, tick, tick, tick.” He lifted his own pistol and pressed the barrel against Balinda’s temple. “Either you shoot Sam or I shoot Froot Loops.”
“I can’t shoot her!” Kevin cried.
“Then Mommy dies. Of course you can! You pull that trigger, or I swear I’m going to take care of Mommy and then finish you off for being a bad sport, you hear me? Forty seconds, Kevin. Forty, tick, tick, tick.”
Slater’s face glistened in the dim light. Kevin held the gun by his side. His face wrinkled; tears hung in his eyes.
“Point the gun at Samantha, you idiot! Lift it up. Now!”
Kevin lifted it slowly. “Sam? I can’t let him kill Balinda, right?”
“Please don’t get all sentimental on us,” Slater said. “It’s good for the mood, I realize, but it makes my stomach turn. Just put a bullet through her forehead. You heard her, she’s not real. She’s a figment of our imaginations. Of course, so am I; that’s why you have two bullet holes in your leg.” He chuckled.
Sam’s mind hurt. What was really happening? What if she was wrong? Never before had she held a notion to be so utterly impossible and so utterly true at once. And she was now telling Kevin to gamble his very life on that notion. Dear God, give me strength.
“Look at your leg, Kevin,” Sam said. “You shot yourself. Please, I’m begging you. Don’t let Slater kill her. He can’t shoot unless you give him the power. He’s you.”
29
THE DOOR at the end of the tunnel was unlocked. Jennifer could hear Sam’s voice begging inside. She wasn’t sure what she would find when she crashed in, but time was gone. Dr. John Francis breathed raggedly behind her.
They’d come to the house, barged past Eugene to find the stairwell still blocked with books. After frantically searching the perimeter, they found the stairs in the old bomb shelter. No telling how often or how long Kevin had been here over the years thinking he was Slater.
“Here we go.”
She twisted the knob, took a deep breath, and threw her weight forward, gun extended.
The first thing she saw was Balinda, seated in a wooden chair, bound and gagged with gray duct tape. The second was the man standing over her. Kevin.
Kevin had a gun in each hand, one outstretched and pressed into Balinda’s temple, and the other crammed against his own head like a man about to commit suicide. No Samantha, no Slater. Just Kevin.
But she knew that Kevin wasn’t seeing what she saw. His eyes were clenched tight and he was hyperventilating.
“Kevin?”
He jerked his head toward her, eyes wide.
“It’s okay, Kevin,” Jennifer said. “I’m here.” She held out a hand, urging calm. “Don’t do anything. Please, don’t pull that trigger.”
Sweat covered his upper lip and cheeks. He stood, torn, terrified, furious. Blood leaked from wounds on his right thigh and foot. He’d shot himself! Twice.
“Kevin, where is Samantha?” Jennifer asked.
His eyes jerked to his left.
“Shut up,” he snarled. Only it was in Slater’s voice, which she now clearly recognized as Kevin’s voice, but lower and grating.
“You’re not real, Slater,” Jennifer said. “You’re only a personality Kevin created. You have no power on your own. Sam, do you hear me?”
“I hear you, Jennifer,” Sam said—only it wasn’t Sam; it was Kevin speaking in a slightly higher voice. Unlike over the phone, Jennifer heard the resemblance now.
“You don’t see me, do you?” Sam asked.
“No.”
“Listen to her, Kevin,” Sam said. “Listen to me. I would die for you, my knight. I would gladly give my life for you, but it’s Slater you have to kill, not me. Do you understand? We are you. Only you. And now that you’ve flushed him out, you have to kill him.”
Kevin clenched his eyes and began to shake.
“Shut up!” Slater screamed. “Everyone, shut up! Do it! Do it, Kevin, or I swear I’ll put this round in Mommy’s forehead! Time’s up!”
Jennifer felt frantic. “Kevin—”
“Shoot Slater, Kevin,” the professor said, stepping past her. “He can’t kill you. Put the weapon on Slater and kill him.”
“Won’t he shoot himself?” Jennifer demanded.
“You have to separate yourself from Slater, Kevin.”
Kevin’s eyes fluttered open. He’d recognized the professor’s voice. “Dr. Francis?” Kevin’s normal voice.
“There are three natures, Kevin. The good, the bad, and the poor soul struggling between them. Remember? You’re role-playing those three roles. Listen to me. You have to kill Slater. Take your gun off Sam and point it at Slater. He can’t do anything to stop you. Then, when you are sure that you have your gun on Slater, I want you to shoot him. I’ll tell you. You have to trust me.”
Kevin turned his head, staring to his left and then back to his right. From Kevin’s perspective he was looking between Samantha and Slater.
“Don’t be a fool!” Slater said. Kevin swung the gun that was on Balinda toward Jennifer. “Drop the gun! Out!” It was Slater and he was frantic.
“Do what the professor says, Kevin,” Sam said. “Shoot Slater.”
Kevin stared at Slater and wondered why he hadn’t fired. The man had swung his gun from Balinda and aimed it at Jennifer, but he wasn’t pulling the trigger. The time had come and gone and still Slater hadn’t shot.
It occurred to him that he still had the gun in his hand, trained on Sam. He lowered his arm. They wanted him to shoot Slater.
But . . . if Sam and Jennifer were right, that was him over there, threatening Jennifer. And they wanted him to shoot himself? He’d flushed the man out of his hiding and now he was to kill him.
Kevin turned to Sam. She looked so tender, so lovely, eyes drawn with sympathy. Dear
Sam, I love you so. Her eyes reached into his mind, his heart, melting him with their love.
She took a step toward him. “I should go now, Kevin.”
“Go?” The thought frightened him.
“I won’t be gone. I’ll be with you. I am you. Shoot Slater.”
“Stop!” Slater screamed. “Stop!” He stepped out and swung his gun on Samantha.
“I love you, Kevin,” Samantha said. She stepped up to him, smiled gently, knowingly. “Shoot him. His kind is powerless when you understand who holds the true power. I know you’re the one who feels powerless, and on your own, you are. But if you look to your Maker, you’ll find enough power to kill a thousand Slaters, wherever they crop up. He will save you. Listen to Dr. Francis.”
She reached out and touched his hand. Her finger went through his skin, into his hand. Kevin watched, mouth gaping. Samantha stepped into him, her knee into his knee, her shoulder into his shoulder. He couldn’t feel her. Then she was gone.
Kevin gasped for air. She was him! She’d always been him! The realization fell into his mind like an anvil dropped from heaven. And she was gone, wasn’t she? Or maybe closer than ever. A buzz circled his mind.
And if Sam was him, then Slater . . .
Kevin turned to his right. Slater shook from head to foot, gun aimed at Kevin’s head now. But that wasn’t a real person over there; it was only his evil nature, right?
Kevin looked at Jennifer. Her eyes were begging him. She couldn’t stop Slater because she couldn’t see him. She only saw him—Kevin.
If he was Slater, then the gun was really in his hand, wasn’t it? He could force Slater to lower the gun by lowering it himself, in his mind.
Look to your Maker, Sam had said.
Open my eyes.
Kevin looked at the pathetic man who called himself Slater. He closed his eyes. It occurred to him then that he had two guns in his hands—one at his side and one at his temple. That would be Slater. He lowered the gun; now he had two guns by his side, one in each hand. He opened his eyes.
Slater faced him, gun lowered, face twisted with fury. “You’ll never succeed, Kevin. Never! You’re just like me, and nothing will ever change that. You hear me? Nothing!”
“Now, Kevin,” Dr. Francis said. “Now.”
Kevin lifted his right arm, pointed the nine millimeter at Slater’s head, and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed loudly. At this range he could hardly miss.
But he did miss. He missed because suddenly there was no target to hit. Slater was gone.
Kevin lowered the gun. The bullet had buried itself in the metal desk behind the spot where Slater had stood, but it hadn’t penetrated any flesh and blood. Slater wasn’t flesh or blood. He was dead just the same. At least for now.
For a few long seconds the room rang in the aftermath of the detonation. Balinda began to sob. Kevin looked at her and pity, not anger, washed through his mind. She needed help, didn’t she? She was a wounded soul, like him. She needed love and understanding. He doubted she would ever be able to return to the false reality she’d created.
“Kevin?”
The world seemed to collapse at the sound of Jennifer’s voice. He wasn’t certain what had just happened, but if he wasn’t mistaken, he’d blown up a bus and a library and kidnapped his aunt. He needed help. Dear God, he needed help!
“Are you all right, Kevin?” Jennifer’s voice broke.
He lowered his head and began to cry. He couldn’t help it. Dear God, what have I done?
An arm settled on his shoulders. He could smell the musty scent of her perfume as she pulled him close.
“It’s okay, Kevin. Everything’s okay now. I won’t let them hurt you, I promise.”
He dissolved in sobs at her words. He deserved to be hurt. Or was that Slater’s old voice?
Listen to Dr. Francis, Samantha had said. He would. He would listen to Dr. Francis and let Jennifer hold him. It was all he had now. Truth and love.
30
One Week Later
JENNIFER LOOKED THROUGH the glass door at Kevin, who stood by the flowers in the professor’s lawn, touching and smelling the roses as if he’d newly discovered them. Dr. John Francis stood beside her, gazing out. Kevin had spent the last seven days in a prison cell, awaiting an extended bail hearing that had ended three hours earlier. Persuading the judge that Kevin wasn’t a flight risk was a simple matter; convincing her that Kevin wasn’t a threat to society wasn’t. But Chuck Hatters, a good friend to Jennifer and now Kevin’s attorney, had managed.
The press had slaughtered Kevin that first day, but as the details of his childhood leaked out over the next week, their tenor had changed— Jennifer had seen to that. She’d held a news conference and revealed his past in all of its horrifying detail. Kevin was simply role-playing as only a child who’d been severely abused and fractured could role-play. If even a single person had been hurt or killed, the public would probably have continued screaming retribution until another earth-shattering event distracted them. But in Kevin’s case, pity quickly took precedence over a few destroyed buildings. The Slater personality would never have blown up any bus before it had been evacuated, Jennifer argued. She wasn’t sure she believed it, but enough of the public did to swing the tide of outrage. Kevin still had his significant detractors, of course, but they no longer dominated the airwaves.
Was he insane? No, but she couldn’t tell them that yet. The courts would put him through the wringer, and legal insanity was his only defense. In many ways, he had been legally insane, but he seemed to have emerged from the basement with a full grasp of himself, perhaps for the first time in his life. Patients who suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder typically required years of therapy to pull themselves free of their alternate personalities.
For that matter, even the diagnosis would take some time. Kevin’s admittedly enigmatic behavior didn’t fit any classical disorder. Dissociative Identity Disorder, yes, but there were no cases of three personalities carrying on a conversation as she herself had witnessed. Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, perhaps. Or a strange blend of Schizophrenia and DID. The scientific community would undoubtedly argue over this one.
The good news was that Kevin could hardly be better. He would need help, but she’d never seen such a sudden shift.
“I’m curious,” Dr. Francis said. “Have you unraveled Samantha’s part in all this?”
Samantha? He spoke as if she were still a real person. Jennifer looked at him and caught the smile in his eyes. “I think you mean how Kevin managed to play Samantha without tipping his hand, don’t you?”
“Yes. In the public places.”
“You were right—another day or two and we’d have caught on. There were only three places where Sam was supposedly exposed to the public. The Howard Johnson hotel, the hotel in Palos Verdes where they spent the night, and when they cleared the bus. I talked to the clerk at the Howard Johnson where Sam stayed. She did remember Sam, if you recall, but the person who she remembers was a man with brown hair and blue eyes. Sam.”
“Kevin,” the professor said.
“Yes. He actually went over there and checked in as Sam, thinking he really was her. If he’d signed in under Samantha instead of Sam, the clerk would have raised a brow. But to her he was Sam.”
“Hmm. And Palos Verdes?”
“The maître d’ from the restaurant will be a good witness. Evidently some of the customers complained about the strange behavior of the man seated by the window. Kevin. He was staring directly across the table and speaking to an empty chair in hushed tones. Raised his voice a couple times.” Jennifer smiled. “The maître d’ approached and asked if everything was okay, and Kevin assured him it was. But that didn’t stop him from walking to the dance floor a few minutes later and dancing with an invisible partner before leaving the room.”
“Sam.”
“Sam. According to Kevin, the only other time they were together in public was when they cleared the bus that blew up. Kevin insisted
that Sam was in the car, but none of the passengers remember seeing another person in the car. And when I drove by a few minutes after the explosion, Kevin was alone, although he clearly remembers Sam sitting beside him, talking on her phone to her superiors. The California Bureau of Investigation has no record of her, of course.”
“Of course. And I suppose Kevin chose to imitate the Riddle Killer because it offered him a fully fleshed persona.”
“Don’t you mean Slater?”
“Pardon me—Slater.” The professor smiled.
“We found a stack of newspaper clippings on the Riddle Killer in Slater’s desk. Several were addressed to Kevin’s home. He never remembers receiving them. He can’t remember how he got into the library undetected or how he planted the bombs in his car or the bus, although the evidence in the basement leaves no doubt that he built all three bombs.”
Jennifer shook her head. “Kevin himself, as himself, wasn’t aware that he was carrying both Sam’s and Slater’s cell phones most of the time. You’d think when he wasn’t in their personas, he’d be aware of that much, but somehow the alter egos managed to shut off his mind to those realities. Amazing how the mind works. I’ve never heard of such a clear fragmentation.”
“Because the personalities Kevin spun off were so diametrically opposed,” Dr. Francis said. “What falls but never breaks; what breaks but never falls? Night and day. Black and white. Evil and good. Kevin.”
“Night and day. Evil. Some in your camp are calling him possessed, you know?”
“I’ve heard.”
“And you?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If they want to attribute his evil nature to a demonic presence or a stronghold, they may do so without argument or endorsement from me. It sounds quite sensational, but it doesn’t change the fundamental truth. Evil is evil, whether it takes the form of a devil with horns or a demon from hell or the gossip of a bishop. I believe Kevin was merely playing out the natures that reside in all humans from birth. Like a child might play Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West. But Kevin really believed he was both Slater and Samantha, thanks to his own childhood.”