Thr3e

by Ted Dekker

He ran his hand through his hair, grunted, and walked to the living room. How could one man wreak so much havoc in the space of one day? Slater was nothing less than a terrorist. If Kevin owned a gun and Slater worked up the stomach to confront him face to face, he was pretty sure he’d have no compunction about putting a slug or two in the man’s face. Especially if he was the boy. Kevin shivered involuntarily. Shoulda gone back and made sure the stinking rat was dead. He would have been within his rights, if not according to the law, then in the eyes of God. Turn the other cheek shouldn’t apply to sick sewer rats with knives in their hands who licked neighborhood girls’ windows. Slater was listening now, right? Kevin looked around the room and settled on the window. “Slater?” His voice bounced back at him. “You hear me, Slater? Listen, you sick scab, I don’t know why you’re stalking me or why you’re too terrified to show your face, but you’re only proving one thing. You’re toilet water. You’re a punk without the guts to face your adversary. Come on, baby! Come and get me!” “Kevin?” He whirled around. Sam stood in the rear sliding-glass doorway, staring at him. He hadn’t heard the door slide open. “You okay?” she whispered. “Sure. Sorry, I was just having a word with our friend, in case he was listening.” Sam shut the door and lifted a finger to her lips. She walked to the front window and pulled the drapes. “What . . .” She motioned him quiet again and led him to the garag...

All dumb.