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

THE 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.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a thirty-eight. Cleaned and loaded.” Biff glanced up the street. “Worth six, but it’s your lucky day. I need the cash.”

Kevin fished out his wallet with a trembling hand and handed the contents to the man. He took the bundle. Where was he going to put it? He couldn’t just walk down the street with a bundle that had gunwritten all over it. He started to shove it down his pants— too bulky.

The man finished flipping through the bills and saw Kevin’s dilemma. He grinned. “Boy, you are a case, aren’t you? What’re you gonna do, hold up your dog? Give me the shirt.”

Kevin unwrapped a shiny silver pistol with a black handle. He gripped the butt with his fingertips and handed the shirt to the man.

The man looked at the gun and smirked. “What do you think you have there? A pastry? Hold it like a man.”

Kevin snugged the gun in his palm.

“In your belt. Pull your shirt over it.”

Kevin shoved the cold steel barrel past his bellybutton and covered it with his shirt. Still looked pretty obvious to him.

“Suck your gut in. For another hundred I’ll show you how to pull the trigger.” Grin.

“No thanks.”

He turned and walked back out to the sidewalk. He had a gun. What on earth he was going to do with it, he still had no idea. But he had the piece. It was okay to pray now, maybe.

God, help me.

Baker Street. It was the third time in two days Jennifer had driven down the narrow lane under the elms. The warehouse where they’d found the blood couldn’t be seen from the street itself—it was in the second row of buildings. She imagined a young boy racing across the street toward the clustered warehouses with a bully at his heels. Kevin and the boy.