by Mary Nealy
“Whichever kid took it away from me might have kept his hands on it when he ran. I could identify most of the gang members I saw, and you could question them.” Paul had been as cooperative as he could, and he’d deliberately waited until the end to ask his own questions. “You don’t have any idea how many of them got out, do you?”
“No,” Detective Collins said briskly.
Paul looked at her under the dust and grit. Both she and O’Shea were so filthy he doubted he’d be able to pick them out of a lineup if his life depended on it. She’d been treating him like a suspect, and he’d had to fight to control his temper. Paul might not have succeeded if he hadn’t seen what looked like the tracks of tears cutting through the dirt on her face.
Detective O’Shea said, “We had a body count of twenty last I knew. Most of them were vagrants living in the adjacent buildings, which also collapsed. The buildings were all condemned, so it didn’t take much to bring them down.”
Paul closed his eyes as he thought about the people he’d come to love. The oddballs, the outcasts. Losing them, some of them before they’d had a chance to turn to God, left him with a crippling feeling of failure.
“There was a little boy, Chico. I carried him away from the building. He was bleeding badly. I think they transported us in the same ambulance … it’s all pretty foggy after the medic came—” Paul’s heavy eyelids dropped closed with the weight of this defeat.
O’Shea interrupted, “We just don’t know, Pastor Morris. We nosed around the ER, looking for you, but we saw a lot of kids—”
“This one was young, early elementary, Hispanic.”
“You just described every child in the place,” Collins said with a dismissive shrug. “It was a Hispanic neighborhood.”
“I know what neighborhood I was in.” Paul clamped his mouth shut to stop yelling. It also helped his control that yelling hurt. He closed his eyes against the pain then found he couldn’t get them open again. “If you could just check.” The sound of his desperation echoed inside his head.
He tried to sit up straighter so he didn’t lose his train of thought. His ribs punished him for the shift of his weight, and his neck sent a razor-sharp jolt of pain all the way down his spine.
“Reverend Morris,” Collins said, “don’t move. You’ll only make it worse.”
A note of compassion had sneaked into her voice, the first she’d shown him. Paul forced his eyes open. Thank You, God, that I’m no longer a cop. Her penetrating look was common to all cops. But he had a sense that there was more to it. She didn’t like him for some reason.
If only he could make her understand. “I know you’re busy. I know you’re tired.” He fumbled for the edge of his mattress. “If I could only get to my feet I could do it myself. These cracked ribs will quit aching once I’m on my feet.”
She caught his hand before he could get a grip on the mattress. “They’ll quit aching unless you breathe or walk or talk. I’ve had cracked ribs. I know how they feel.”
He squeezed her hand until he was afraid he was hurting her, but thinking of Chico was driving him crazy. And what was he doing worrying about one boy when there were so many hurt? What was he doing lying here when there was so much need? What about Juanita?
“It’s just that I felt like God was guiding me when I ran.” Tears burned at Paul’s eyes and he tried to pull away from her. “Surely God didn’t do that and then let the boy die.”
The lady detective had a grip like iron. “You’re near collapse, Reverend. Let me ask the doctor if it’s time for more pain medication. There’s nothing more you can do tonight.”
She wouldn’t let him up, even if he could have managed it, which he doubted. Paul shook his head, or tried to. He wasn’t sure if he got it to move. He had to tell her he wasn’t tired. Sure,
he was banged up, but it was only cuts and bruises and a sprained wrist. The IV drip and the neck collar were all part of the doctor’s fiendish plan to keep him prisoner. He had no internal injuries, no broken bones. He was one of the lucky ones. He had to get out of bed and comfort these people.
He’d tell her that, if only he could get his eyes open.
“We’ll ask around, if you’d like.” She leaned close. “We’ll find out about the little boy.”
Paul’s brain fuzzed but he forced his eyes open. The world seemed to go all soft focused on him, and suddenly the riot of curls swirling around her head fascinated him. She had his right hand held tightly, so he reached his injured left hand unsteadily toward her, lifting the blue sling away from his body. His fingers closed over a handful of corkscrews. He felt the grit, saw how dirty it was, and still it was soft and silky.
He stared at the hair he held. “Pretty.”
He saw something other than compassion flash in her eyes. She pushed his hand away roughly and stepped away from his bedside. He knew it was rough because it made his sprained wrist hurt like crazy. Of course, breathing made his sprained wrist hurt like crazy, too, so he couldn’t be sure if she’d meant any harm.
“We’ve got to let you rest,” she said. “Do you think you can remember the words carved on that sign? It might give us a place to start searching for Juanita. If you can tell us, we’ll get out of here.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, no. I don’t remember the words.” Paul struggled to control himself. His temper had always been his Achilles’ heel. “I think it was Spanish, but I’m not sure. I told you the phone rang before I got a good look at it and, after the call came, all I could think about was getting to that building.”
Something nudged his memory. He hated to admit her badgering had actually shaken loose an answer. “Natio… I remember that word because I thought it meant ‘nation.’ I speak some Spanish, but I don’t read or write it well.”
O’Shea made a movement so sudden it jarred Paul. O’Shea thumbed through his notebook. “It didn’t say, “Pestis ex Sanguis,” did it?”
“Plague of blood?” Paul asked. “Where did you get that?”
O’Shea yanked his head out of his notebook. “Plague of blood? That’s what pestis ex sanguis means?”
“Yeah, it’s Latin.”
“And how would you know that?” Collins demanded. “Have you heard the words ‘plague of blood’? They mean something to you?”
“Well, yeah, sure.” Paul shrugged, which also hurt like crazy. Maybe when Detective Collins had shoved at his sprained wrist, she hadn’t been all that rough.
“We thought it might be some kind of rap group. We didn’t pay much attention to it,” O’Shea said. “We’ve just started investigating Juanita Lopez’s disappearance. She’s been missing almost a week, but she wasn’t reported right away, then we had a forty-eight-hour waiting period. What does it mean?”
“The plague of blood, “Paul said, slightly more alert. “The first plague God sent to Pharaoh when Moses asked him to ‘let my people go’ … that’s it!” Paul sat up straight and his ribs punished him for it. He groaned and sank back onto his bed. “ ‘Eamus Meus Natio Meare.’ It’s not Spanish, it’s Latin. I was so panicked when I got the phone call from Pravus, I didn’t understand what it meant. I learned it in seminary. It means ‘Let my people go.’“
“The message Pravus told you to give to the gang?” O’Shea asked.
Paul nodded.
“You said ‘first plague,’ “ O’Shea mentioned warily. “Weren’t there …?”
Paul spoke into the silence as he saw O’Shea and Collins remembering the Bible story. “Ten.”
“The ten plagues of Egypt.” Detective Collins’s knuckles turned white on her notebook.
Paul arched his eyebrows. “You know the Bible, Detective Collins?”
“I know the Bible.” Her jaw tightened until Paul thought it might crack. “I know it very well.”
Paul tried to control the pounding of his heart as he thought, one by one, of the plagues. “Then you know we need to brace ourselves for a plague of blood.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I s’pose he used the blood to get our attention.” O’Shea crouched down and reached his pen out to lift the hand that lay on the edge of the fountain.
“It worked.” Keren watched the victim bob faceup in a small cemented pond within walking distance of the Lighthouse Mission.
It was the kind of park where you stepped around the discarded condoms and kept a wary eye out for used needles. One of its efforts toward beauty was in this modest fountain, twenty feet around and sunk into the ground like a little pond with its simple joyous spray of water.
The fountain was obviously circulating the same water over and over, because blood spurted into the air in a hundred fiery arcs. The bright crimson rainbows bled down on Juanita Lopez, who lay in some kind of white dress floating on the water. From here they could see the dress was marked with drawings.
“The ME concurred with Morris on the Latin,” Keren said. “She knew from med school that sanguis is “blood” and pestis, “plague.” That covers the carving we found hung over Lopez’s door. The new words”—Keren pointed at the victim—”if Morris is right, mean ‘Let my people go.’“
O’Shea stared at the paintings on the woman’s dress. “Still no sign of that wood carving Morris got?”
“Nope, and we’ve questioned everyone.” Keren had been frantic to track down any clue, hoping there was still time to save Juanita. “We’ve had city crews on that bomb site ever since it happened.”
“That mess is the only reason we aren’t swarmed with press out here. They’d have a field day with this, regardless of its connection to the explosion. But when they connect the two, we won’t be able to take a step without reporters dogging us.”
“Let’s try to keep them away from it if we can.”
“I’ll talk to the ME’s office and the CS unit. They’ll work with us, but headquarters is another story. They can’t keep a secret, and the mayor’s office leaks like a sieve.”
“We can’t keep this under wraps anyway.” Keren looked at the body, the young Hispanic woman, her dress, long sleeves floating out like the wings of an angel, long skirt with no waist, just loose all the way to the gathered neck. “No way this is a onetime deal.”
O’Shea pulled his notebook out of his breast pocket. “Did you interview the gang members who were in that house with Morris?”
“We’ve got detectives and two FBI agents from the local office finishing up questioning them in the hospital. It doesn’t look like any of them know who set that explosive. Their enemies are all more the guns-and-knives type. I talked to a few before you called me over here.” It wasn’t even noon yet and she’d already put in almost a full day. “Now I know how a dentist feels.” Keren pulled her blazer close. “I spent all my time pulling teeth. Not a cop-friendly crowd.”
Keren wished she’d worn a coat instead of her gray wool blazer. It was a warm summer morning, but she couldn’t stop shivering. “If you’re checking for a Latin scholar, try a Catholic priest, an old one who used to do the Latin Mass.”
O’Shea shook his head in disgust. “Yeah, we were slow on that carving above her door.”
This was their case. O’Shea was the primary. Between the two of them they had nearly thirty years on the force, and both of them had missed it.
Keren reviewed the facts. “Juanita Lopez. Missing. Female. No sign of a struggle. No sign of anything wrong at her place, except for a few words carved into a sign, hung over her front door in the hallway. In that ratty building, no one was even sure if the sign was new. Coworkers reported her missing. No one had seen her for four days. Even so, we didn’t list her until forty-eight hours after they called.”
“A lot of them turn up on their own, Collins. Most of them. You know the drill.” O’Shea watched her intently. She suspected it was to check her for any sign she was a wimp.
“And then that call to Morris and the explosion. And now this.” Keren shook her head. They had come up with nothing. Keren had spent Wednesday at the site of the explosion; this morning she’d questioned witnesses, including Morris, who was due for release from the hospital tomorrow. Nothing. She’d hoped some of the gang members had seen something, but they were all clueless and uncooperative. Keren was afraid the trail was ice cold.
And now this morning, they’d gotten this call about a floater. The first cop on the scene hadn’t been able to translate the Latin words painted on the dress, but he’d heard about the missing woman and her connection to this neighborhood. Reverend Morris’s story had circulated through the department like wildfire.
At last the fountain quit bleeding. Someone had figured out how to turn off the recycling water. They both studied the obscene sight in front of them. Dr. Deidre Schaefer, the precinct’s most experienced medical examiner, pulled up in the county van.
Keren and O’Shea stepped away to give the forensics team room to work.
Dr. Schaefer pointed at the body and spoke softly to a photographer, who clicked away casually, as if he were taking pictures at a wedding.
Keren watched the professional behavior of the ME’s team. “In all this craziness let’s don’t forget routine procedure. We could miss something by putting all our faith in the Reverend.”
“You mean see if she’s got an abusive boyfriend or gambling debts?” O’Shea said with thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Yeah, right.” Keren looked at the bobbing corpse. “Routine.”
Keren washed her face, then she washed it again. She scoured her hands until they were red and raw. She was so obsessed with scrubbing, it took her awhile to figure out that she was trying to wash away the sight of Juanita Lopez floating in the crimson fountain. It didn’t make her feel less violated to realize what she was doing. But it did make her shut off the water.
She wasn’t just trying to wash this morning’s crime out of her head, she was also trying to wash away the desperate evil behind Juanita Lopez’s murder. This was a killer driven by his own personal demon in the truest sense of the word. Even after only one death, she was absolutely sure. Another thing she was sure of—there would be more.
When she came out of the bathroom, O’Shea was sitting behind her desk. Reverend Morris was there with him, looking as battered as ever, but a whole lot cleaner. He had on black sweatpants and a dark-red sweatshirt with a white lighthouse and the words, “Jesus is the light of the world” across his chest. His hair was dark and long enough to brush his collar. All his bandages were gone, including the sling. The three lines of stitches on his face made him look like a kinder, gentler Frankenstein.
She tamped down hard on her knee-jerk resentment.
“I’ve found our expert, Collins.” Mick jabbed his pen at Morris. “He’s agreed to work on the Latin stuff for us.”
Keren stopped so suddenly she almost stumbled over her own feet. She’d planned on a white-haired priest. Paul Morris wasn’t even close. She felt again a level of honor in the man and she remembered him whispering “pretty” while he held her filthy hair.
It wasn’t enough to override her hostility. Her antipathy was audible when she said, “You don’t speak Latin, Rev. You thought that sign was Spanish.”
Morris must have caught her caustic attitude. That didn’t exactly make him a genius.
He raised his eyebrows as if he was surprised, even hurt, by her tone.
“He only thought that for a minute,” O’Shea said. “Once Latin occurred to him, he figured it out. He learned it in minister college.”
Morris, apparently a stickler for honesty, what with his vocation and all, said, “They taught me after a fashion. I have a Latin/English dictionary and I know how to use Google. What I can’t translate, I can find.” His gaze narrowed on her face. He studied her for a while. “Have we met?”
Keren ignored his question. “I don’t think that’s good enough, Rev. We need someone who is an expert. We could buy our own Latin/English dictionary.”
“I’m a little better than that
,” Morris said mildly.
“You were supposed to stay in the hospital another day.” Keren whacked O’Shea on the arm and he got out of her chair. “You look like you can barely sit up.”
Morris massaged his left wrist and continued to study her face as if he were sorting around inside his head for a WANTED poster on her.
“The hospital was overwhelmed.” He spoke mildly, pastorishly. “I checked myself out to open up a bed.”
That was generous, courageous, and self-sacrificing. It only made her more annoyed. And knowing that wasn’t fair only made her more annoyed.
“Then you should be at home resting.” Keren slouched back in her chair. “Your translating will slow us down.”
O’Shea gave Keren a look that would have made her squirm a couple of years ago. Now it only irritated her.
“I’m going to make arrangements for a new cell phone, one we can sync with ours and we can more easily record and trace,” O’Shea said to Morris. “It’ll have the same number, in case this nut calls you again.”
O’Shea turned to Keren. “He’s in. We’ve got to figure out why he got the phone call. So, he might as well be our Latin expert while he’s at it. You two work this out.”
He headed for his own desk.
She gave him an angry look that was wasted on his retreating back, but the reverend caught it clearly enough.
“I came in here to help, and Detective O’Shea said you were looking for someone to examine the paintings on …” His voice faltered. “… on Juanita’s dress.” He cleared his throat. “She’s been violated enough. You don’t need to bring strangers in to help if you don’t have to. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be the one.”
Keren opened her mouth to flatly refuse his offer then clamped it shut. She knew she wasn’t being reasonable, although the reverend hadn’t shown that great a skill with Latin. But it was possible that these days no priest spoke Latin, either. Or precious little more than Morris. If they didn’t use the reverend, they’d need to go find a college professor. This was much easier, and the only reason she wanted him gone was because of their past history. A history that he apparently hadn’t cared enough about to remember.
