Novels 11 Adam

by Ted Dekker

  He was dying. This was the final moment of death. Blackness would swallow him now.

  The boy’s lips twisted into a snarl. His voice came out low and gravelly now, slow, cutting to Daniel’s nerves with each crackling syllable.

  “You made me a promise,” he said, and his voice sucked the air from the room.

  Daniel began to scream.

  And with that scream, the darkness was dispelled by white brilliance. The overhead light in the morgue.

  He was back.

  IT TOOK DANIEL SEVERAL minutes to calm down while his body adjusted to the fresh influx of oxygen. His mind had come out of death surprisingly active, but every muscle begged for sleep.

  “Wake me up,” he stammered.

  “I am. Just give the drugs a minute.”

  Slowly the grogginess faded. Only when his brain had satisfied itself that he was out of danger could he dip back into memories of the time under.

  Fifty-six seconds, according to Lori.

  Memories of stray events throughout his life. The dark room. The boy. The checkerboard floor.

  “I remember,” he said into the mask.

  Lori nodded and removed the mask. “Your oxygen saturation is fine.” She seemed surprisingly at ease with his death and resuscitation, he thought. What had they been thinking?

  “I remember it all,” he said.

  “I’m going to have to keep you on some pretty heavy doses of drugs to keep you from . . .”

  A fresh memory blossomed to life.

  Where’s Eve?

  Eve’s in there. The boy had pointed to the door.

  He hadn’t seen Eve?

  Daniel sat up, ignored the throbbing pain.

  Lori put a hand on his chest as if intending to urge him back, then peeled off the electrodes instead. “So? What happened?”

  “Eve’s behind the door.”

  An image of the wax doll filled his mind. Heather.

  Daniel slid from the table, took one step, and crumpled to his knees.

  “Whoa, slow down!” Lori steadied him. “This is going to take some time. We talked about this.”

  “It’s her,” he said, struggling to stand. “Eve has her.”

  She steered him toward the table, but he pulled away and used his right arm to support himself.

  “There was a doll, he was playing with a doll. I think it was her.”

  “Who was? Eve was?”

  “No. The boy. But . . .”

  Daniel spun to her. “The mass spectrometry on the tire sample from the Dodge Caravan recovered in Manitou Springs, what came back?”

  “Wax. Beeswax. Why?”

  Daniel’s pulse thickened. “What else?”

  “I don’t remember. Brit is following it up.”

  “Can you hand me my phone?” He pointed to the counter, where his phone was perched on top of his shirt.

  He took the phone from her, saw that Brit had called several times over the past half hour, trying to track him down. The SAIC answered with a tight voice. “Daniel. You okay?”

  “He has her, Brit. I found a sock in our basement. It’s Eve’s.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind.” How did he say this? “You got the mass spec results on those samples of wax we retrieved from the Caravan’s tires?”

  “Beeswax. Standard garden variety. Could have come from a hundred sources. We haven’t drilled into the analysis yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Phoenix and Montana took priority. We’ll get to it tomorrow.”

  “No. I need you to get to it tonight. Don’t ask me to explain, call it a hunch. We need to locate that beeswax.”

  “Heather?”

  “We know Eve scopes his sites months in advance. Until we get a better lead, we work with the wax.”

  “Coal,” Brit said.

  “What about coal?”

  “There were traces of coal in the wax.”

  Daniel shivered. It wasn’t much, but it was a lead, a sliver of hope. “How soon can you get in here?”

  “You’re at the lab?”

  He glanced at Lori, who was watching him.

  “Yes.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking for my wife.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE DRUGS LORI HAD given him cleared Daniel’s mind and took away most of the pain, and by the time Brit returned to the office, Daniel was feeling well enough to avoid an interrogation about the pallor of death that had grayed his face for the first hour.

  Colleen Hays, a junior agent following up on the wax, accompanied Brit. They joined Lori and Daniel in what had become known as the Eve room, a conference room with Eve-related pictures and reports plastering the walls.

  “Old, but yes, plain beeswax,” Colleen said.

  “Traces?” Daniel demanded.

  She blew out some air and traced her finger down the sheet. “Hydrocarbons, 14 percent; monoesters, 35 percent . . .” She skipped to another section. “Traces of goldenrod pollen.”

  “Goldenrod,” Brit said. “Limited concentrations of the pollen. Northern United States. So we have a Dodge Caravan that drove through a large concentration of wax formed by bees that deposited goldenrod pollen on the wax, placing them anywhere in the upper half of the United States.”

  “And coal,” Daniel said. “What kind of coal?”

  Brit pulled out another report, snapped the paper. “Unwashed coal,” he said. “Striations suggest a short wall mine. Again, could be from anywhere. Mined in Pennsylvania or Virginia, for all we know, and distributed across the United States.”

  He set the report down and looked up. Removed a pair of reading glasses from his face. “I don’t see where this is taking us, Daniel.”

  Daniel stood and dug into his pocket for the Advil Lori had given him. He crossed to the drinking fountain and downed four pills with a single gulp. An hour had passed without fear.

  But it hardly mattered. If his bouts were gone, they’d been replaced by a desperation for Heather’s safety. He could barely stomach the knowledge that she was in Eve’s hole at this very moment. Was she conscious? Cut and bruised? Alive? Praying to whatever forces governed fortune that Daniel would find her?

  He’d failed her so often he couldn’t remember what it felt like to save her.

  He glanced at Lori, who leaned against the far wall with arms crossed, forced back his emotion, and spoke to Brit. “Assume that we know she’s on the bubble.”

  “Heather,” Brit said.

  Daniel looked at him but refused to acknowledge, which was enough acknowledgement by itself. “Eve takes her last night, knowing that we’ll discover her missing within twelve hours. He wants her in place before we can begin a search.” He looked at a large map of the United States dotted with pins that indicated each of the sixteen killings.

  “Let’s give him a twenty-hour drive from Los Angeles.” Brit walked to the map. “As far north as the Canadian border, down into Baja. As far west as the Colorado–Kansas border. That’s a lot of ground.”

  “Cross every known honey farm in the United States with coal production,” Daniel said. “We’re looking for an abandoned coal mine.”

  They all faced him.

  “Just do it, Colleen.”

  She looked at Brit for approval, then nodded and left the room.

  “An abandoned coal mine in the northwest?” Brit asked. “Not exactly confidence inspiring. The coal could have come from anywhere.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we? It’s the honey farm that will tell us if we’re close.”

  Brit didn’t look remotely certain. Daniel couldn’t blame the man. They’d chased a hundred similar leads over the past year, never finding more than frayed ends.

  “I’m going to add this to the bulletin,” Brit said, walking from the room.

  Daniel sat down, leaned back, and closed his eyes, struggling to maintain composure. “We’re missing something,” he breathed.

&nb
sp; “You need to rest,” Lori said. “This is crazy. You have no business leading an investigation in your condition.”

  “What would you suggest? Just let him kill her?”

  “No, but you’re not in any condition—”

  “It’s my condition that got her into this!” he snapped. “It’s my condition that could get her out!”

  “Because your mind associated the beeswax you found on Eve’s tires with Heather’s abduction?”

  Neither had said as much yet, and Daniel had done his best to ignore the implication, but they both knew that what he’d seen while dead was at best his mind’s desperate attempt to draw meaning from loose associations stored in his memory.

  Wax. A doll that looked like Heather. A boy angry at that doll. A classic case of an inner child taking out his frustration on the person who’d wounded him most.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean those associations are wrong.”

  “No, but you’re grasping at straws, Daniel. If there’s a connection between the wax and the coal, they don’t need you to find it.”

  “And if I’m right?”

  She sighed and slipped into a chair. “If you’re right, then we’ll have to reconsider the whole NDE business, won’t we?”

  “Don’t go getting supernatural on me. You’re right, I just made some natural associations, a square room with a door. And behind that door is the elusive face. My biggest mistake was not opening that door.”

  Lori looked away. “Have you ever considered the possibility that you’re discounting the existence of the supernatural too quickly?” Eyes back on him. “I mean, if there was ever a person who lived a week immersed in the supernatural, it’s you.”

  “That’s exactly what the jury needs to hear. Next you’ll suggest that Eve is being driven to kill innocent women by the demons that have possessed him. I’d rather give up the case and let him do what he does than believe any of that drivel!”

  “Lighten up. I’m not saying this has anything to do with Satan worship or demon possession, but you have to at least accept the strong possibility that Eve thinks it does.”

  “I’ve accepted that!” he snapped, leaning forward. “Read the file! That’s exactly what he thinks. But that has nothing to do with me or these ND effects.”

  “Don’t jump down my throat. I don’t exactly believe in God or the devil. This isn’t familiar territory.”

  “It’s as familiar as hell,” he said. “That’s the whole point.”

  “Then maybe it’s too familiar. Take a step back.” She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. You have no business subjecting yourself to this kind of stress so soon.” She forced an encouraging smile and reached for his hand. “I need you to sleep for a few hours; promise me that much.”

  He nodded, forcing back emotions he didn’t know he could succumb to so easily. He’d become a blubbering fool, he thought. Losing a wife and dying in the same day could evidently do that to a man.

  “You’re right, Lori. She’s not my wife. But I feel sick for failing her when she was.”

  Her hand was still on his. “She’s lucky to have someone as loyal as you. It’s not over yet.”

  His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “We both know he’ll kill her.” Tears misted his eyes and he turned away.

  “Don’t say that.” She squeezed his hand.

  “The sad truth is, it wouldn’t have ever worked between us. We loved each other, and heaven knows I’d do anything for her. But it’s too late for us.”

  “Stop talking like this is all in the past,” Lori said, releasing his hand. “She needs you now. And you’re no good in this condition. You need sleep.”

  The door opened and Brit filled the gap, face drawn. “We have a hit. Our ride’s standing by.”

  Daniel stood. “Where?”

  “Wyoming. Medicine Bow Honey Farm, largest in the country until the late fifties, when USGS discovered a rich coal seam. The short wall mine was abandoned in 1978 and declared a hazardous property by the state of Wyoming. It’s one of two locations in the country that match your parameters. The other is in Pennsylvania.”

  “Too far.” Daniel was walking already. “Striations match?”

  “We won’t know without a comparison sample, but the operations manager of Consolidation Coal Company is on his way to check their records of the mine as we speak. He was asleep with his wife in Maryland.”

  “How long’s the flight?”

  “Two hours.”

  Daniel checked his watch. Ten till eight. Wherever Eve had Heather, he would wait for the darkest hour. It was a hopeful thought.

  “Have Wyoming Highway Patrol lock down the access roads and hold tight. We take our own team. God help us.”

  MAN OF SORROW:

  JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS

  by Anne Rudolph

  Crime Today magazine is pleased to present the sixth installment of Anne Rudolph’s narrative account of the killer now known as Alex Price, presented in nine monthly installments.

  1991–1992

  BY THE spring of 1991, Alex Price’s nightmares had become so disturbing and occurred so regularly that he could rarely sleep more than an hour without waking with the sweats, screaming into the gray duct tape that he placed over his mouth before lying down on the couch.

  It was difficult for Jessica to speak about this dark time of her brother’s life without breaking down. She is adamant to this day about her conviction that her own mistakes somehow contributed to Alex’s evils.

  She shouldn’t have left him alone during the day.

  She should have gone to Father Seymour much sooner than she did.

  At the time, however, they both agreed that he had to continue working at the restaurant if for no other reason than to get him out of the house. Between the nightmares, the unrelenting depression, and his lack of purpose, Alex felt trapped. He repeatedly told her that he was afraid he might be losing his mind.

  For reasons neither of them fully understood, the nightmares were much worse at night than during the day. Alex seemed to have a psychosomatic link to darkness dating back to his abuse as a child. Whether it was day or night, his eyes were shut when he slept, he reasoned, so his mind should not know the difference. But it did.

  More and more he chose to stay awake all night and sleep during the day. Without morning classes, he could fall asleep at dawn and get up at noon, in time to make it to work by one. Gradually his daily routine changed, and by the summer he rarely if ever slept at night. After Jessica retired, he would slip into his room where he would spend the next five or six hours without disturbing her.

  When asked why she didn’t press Alex to see what he was doing in his room every night, Jessica said she did on several occasions. “He claimed that he was working on a book. He was going to call it Man of Sorrow. He wanted to keep it a surprise.”

  She repeated her reasoning that Alex deserved his privacy after such a horrible childhood. Apart from his strong bond with Jessica, time in his room seemed to be the only thing that settled his spirit. This and the fact that Jessica was actually asleep for most of the hours Alex spent in his room was enough to ward off any alarm.

  Another benefit resulted from Alex’s decision to sleep only during the day: Jessica could now move out of the living room. It was actually Alex’s idea. He’d always needed her nearby to fall asleep at night. She was like a child’s security blanket to him. But he’d grown accustomed to falling asleep on his own when the sun was up.

  Now in her own room and feeling independent, Jessica took other strong strides on her journey to full adulthood. In July 1991, when she was nearly twenty-six, she became romantically interested in a man two years younger than her named Bruce Halstron, the brother of her best friend, Jenny Gardner, a hostess at the Denny’s restaurant where she still worked as a waitress.

  There could hardly have been a better match for Jessica, and she knew it. For reasons that none of her coworkers could know, she’d turned down numerous men who’d sh
owed interest in her. But in Bruce she recognized a kind, gentle man who was more taken by her own soft-spoken nature than by her face.

  Although Jessica glided through her daily duties at the restaurant with the face of an angel, only she knew that ugly scars covered her body beneath her uniform. Her self-esteem had improved over the years, but the thought of being seen naked terrified her.

  Bruce was the kind of man she thought she might one day trust with her body, and for this reason more than any other, she accepted his invitation to join him for a meal on a Wednesday night.

  Alex was now working a five-hour shift, having added janitorial duties to the dishwashing, and his day ended at six. Jessica left a note on the table that evening, explaining that her shift had been changed and she wouldn’t be home till eleven. Her date was set for seven. She left the apartment at five forty-five, nervous as a mouse, sure that if Alex saw her all jittery, he’d know something was up. Not that her social life was any of his business, but she didn’t want to explain herself.

  Her night with Bruce at the Casablanca Steak House could not have gone more smoothly if she’d dreamed it all. Bruce treated her like a queen, opening the door for her and ordering the rib eye steak she’d chosen from the menu. She was discovering romantic love for the first time, and desires she never knew she had flooded to the surface of her mind.

  She was so taken by the blond Swede, his eyes sparkling in the candlelight, that she decided she had to know sooner rather than later if he would have a problem with her scars. She wouldn’t risk becoming attached to him if he would only reject her later. So she told him she’d been in a car accident that had left her badly scarred and watched for his reaction.

  Handwritten pages recovered from Alex Price’s files

  Without a beat of hesitation, Bruce told her that was good, because his right leg had been badly burned in a gasoline fire at the auto shop where he worked. There was much more to life than physical attraction, he said. Love was about the heart.

  Jessica knew then that she’d found a rare man indeed. One who was as wounded as she, at least physically. One who trusted her with a secret similar to her own. She wanted to see his leg immediately, then chided herself. New at these matters of love and courtship, she would take the relationship slowly, but she already knew where it would go.