He eases into the kitchen and leaves the door open. They have no dogs or cats. One child. The husband is Slater’s only concern. He stands on the tile floor for a full minute, adjusting his eyes to the deeper darkness, breathing in the home’s smells. The senses are the key to living life to its fullest. Tastes, sights, smells, feelings, sounds. Eat what you like, watch what you can, touch who you want. That’s what he wants Kevin to do. To taste and touch and smell his true self. It will destroy him. The plan is perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Slater takes one deep breath, but very slowly.

He walks through the living room and puts his hand on the doorknob to the master bedroom. It opens without a sound. Perfect. The room is dark. Pitch-black. Perfect.

He walks slowly to the bed and stands over the woman. Her breathing is quicker than the man’s. She faces him, mouth slightly parted, hair tangled on the pillow. He reaches out a hand and touches the sheet. Soft and smooth. Two hundred thread count at least. He could stand here over them for an hour and breathe in their smells without being seen. But the light is coming. He doesn’t like the light.

Slater reaches into his shirt pocket and withdraws a note, which he sets on the dresser. For Kevin. He slips his hand into his coat and takes out a roll of gauze and a bottle of chloroform. He unscrews the bottle and dips the roll into the liquid. The smell fills his nostrils and he holds his breath. It has to be strong enough to put her under without a struggle.

He replaces the lid on the bottle, drops it into his pocket, and eases the roll of soaked gauze in front of the woman’s nose, careful not to touch it. For a moment she doesn’t stir, then she whimpers in her dreams. But she doesn’t move. He waits twenty seconds, until her breathing slows enough to persuade him that she’s unconscious. He shoves the roll into his jacket.

Slater settles to his knees, as if bowing before his victim. A sacrifice for the gods. He lifts the sheet and slips his hands under the body until his elbows are directly under her. She lies limp, like a noodle. He gently pulls her toward his chest. She slides off the bed and sags in his arms. The husband rolls half a turn and then settles. Perfect.

Slater stands and carries her out of the house without bothering to shut the doors. The clock in his car reads 4:57 when he settles behind the wheel with the woman breathing slowly in the backseat.

Slater starts the car and drives away. He could have carried her to the hiding on foot and returned later for the car, but he doesn’t want to leave the vehicle in front of the house any longer than absolutely necessary. He’s too smart for that. It occurs to him that this will be the first time he’s ever brought a guest to the hiding. When she awakes, her eyes will be the first besides his own to see his world. The thought brings a moment of panic.

So then, all the more reason not to let her out. It’s what will happen anyway, isn’t it? Even if Kevin confesses, Slater has always known that she will have to die. His exposure to another human being will be temporary. He can live with that. Still, why hasn’t this detail occurred to him earlier? It isn’t a mistake, just an oversight. But oversight can lead to mistakes. He chides himself and turns down the dark street.

Slater doesn’t bother with stealth now. The woman is stirring, so he gives her another healthy dose of chloroform, yanks the body out of the rear seat, and heaves it over his shoulder. He hurries for the door, opens it with a key, and enters the small room. Close door, feel for chain, pull on overhead light.

A dim light exposes the space. Down a flight of steps. Another chain, another light. Through the tunnel. Open the second door with a second key. The hiding. Home, sweet home.

The thought of sharing his home with another person for a little while suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. In fact, it holds its own excitement. Everything he needs is here. Food, water, a bathroom, a bed, clothing, the electronics—of course, she won’t be sharing any of those amenities.

The woman is stirring again.

He crosses to the room he’s prepared. The walk-in closet once stored materials he’s used in his games, but he’s cleared it for her. Can’t take the chance that she knows how to set off dynamite now, can he? The room is seven by seven and solid concrete all around except the ceiling, which is heavily insulated wood. The door is steel.

He places her onto the cement floor and steps back. She groans and rolls to one side. Good enough.

He closes the door, locks it with a deadbolt, and stuffs a rolled-up rug into the crack at the bottom. Lights out.

21

Monday

Morning

KEVIN HEARD THE RINGING long before he awoke. It sounded like a high-pitched laugh. Or an intermittent scream. Then there was the pounding, a thumping that could be his heart. But it sounded more like banging on the door.

“Sir?” Someone was yelling, calling him sir.

Kevin’s eyes somehow managed to open. Light shone through the window. Where was he? Home. His mind started to drift. He would have to get up eventually and go to class, but at the moment he felt as though he’d met the wrong end of a rhino charge. He closed his eyes.

The muffled voice came again. “Kevin? The phone . . .”

His eyes snapped open. Slater. His life had been turned upside down by a man called Slater who called on the phone. The phone was ringing.

He spilled out of bed. The clock said 7:13. Slater had given them until 6 A.M. He ran to the bedroom door, twisted the lock, and yanked it open. One of the agents watching his house stood there, the cordless phone from the kitchen in hand.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but your phone’s been ringing on and off for fifteen minutes. It’s a pay phone. Jennifer told us to wake you.”

Kevin stood in his pinstriped boxer shorts. “Has . . . has anything happened?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

Kevin took the phone absently. “Okay. I’ll answer it this time.”

The agent hesitated, expressionless, and then walked down the stairs for the door. Kevin didn’t even know his name. He wore a dark navy jacket and tan slacks; black hair. Walked stiffly, like maybe his underwear were too tight. But the man had a name and maybe a wife and some kids. A life. What if Slater had gone after this man instead of Kevin? Or gone after someone in China, unknown to the West? For that matter, how many men or women were facing their own Slaters throughout the world? It was an awkward thought, standing there at the top of his stairs, watching the agent leave through the front door.

Kevin walked back into his bedroom. He had to call Jennifer. Six o’clock had come and gone—something had to have happened.

The phone suddenly rang. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Kevin?” It was Eugene. Kevin felt himself shutting down immediately. The sound of that voice. They didn’t have a phone in the house. He was calling from a pay phone.

“Yes.”

“Thank God! Thank God, boy. I don’t know what to do! I just don’t know what I should do . . .”

You could start by drowning yourself. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just that Princess isn’t home. I woke up and she was gone. She never leaves without telling me. I thought maybe she went down for some dog food because we threw it away, you know, but then I remembered that we burned the dog and—”

“Shut up, Eugene. Please, just shut up and try to make some sense for once. Her name is Balinda. So Balinda left without telling you. I’m sure she’ll be back. You can live without her for a few hours, can’t you?”

“This isn’t like her. I have a very bad feeling, Kevin! And now I’ve gotten Bob worried. He keeps looking in all the rooms, calling for Princess. You have to come—”